“Danger, Ben—danger! Pilot is trying to tell us.”
Even as these words were uttered they heard the voices of men and the tramp of heavy feet. One of Jerry’s hands found Pilot’s collar, and beneath that touch the dog crouched upon the hay and was still.
There seemed to be two men. “The critter sartainly come right in here,” said one of them. “Mebbe ’tain’t the same dorg, but he answers the deescription the Widder Jones give; and it’s mighty queer a dorg should be hookin’ it round here, where there ain’t no houses nigher than a quarter of a mile.”
“Where’s the beast dodged to, sheriff?” questioned the other man. “I heared him bark arter he skipped in through the open door.”
Sheriff! Ben Stone’s heart leaped into his throat at that word, and a shuddering sickness overcame him. He felt Jerry trembling violently at his side. Both lay perfectly still, scarcely breathing, but unable to repress the heavy beatings of their hearts. The men searched below, and after a time one of them climbed upon the mow. In a few moments he nearly trod upon them, halting to utter a shout:
“Here they be!”
As the other man came scrambling to the mow, Ben threw aside the hay and sat up.
“What do you want?” he asked huskily.
One man, tall and thin, with a bunch of tobacco-stained whiskers on his chin, answered immediately:
“We want you, and, by hokey, we’ve got ye!”