The enemy seemed to have no fears of being pursued, and were quite boisterous and regardless of danger.
“I don’t understand it,” said Old Tumult, when he and Town. had crawled within easy earshot of the camp.
“What?” questioned Town., in an undertone.
“The hilarity o’ them ’ere red pups. Inguns ’re generally more keerful.”
“Ah! that’s the cause!” whispered Town., on seeing the gray-haired hypocrite, Israel Ainesley, draw from his bosom a flask containing some kind of spirits, place it to his lips, and drink, then pass it on to his companions; “the damnable wretch!”
“Smoke o’ torture! wuss then that!” exclaimed the old scout; “the dubble-distilled essence o’ the brimstone-pit.”
“Well, what’s the programme now?” asked Town., growing impatient, as he feasted his eyes upon the sweet, fair face of Madge.
“We must git the gals to wunst. It’d be a easy matter, too, to sour their captors’ red ca’casses by dashin’ in onto ’em full tilt, but, maybe thar’s several guards skulkin’ ’bout, and sich a drive might git us inter trubble; but I’ll tell ye what I’ll do.”
“Well?” said Town., growing more impatient.
“I’ll string them ’ere two Ingins on a thread o’ fire-light, and punch the hole with a chunk o’ lead spit from the black jaws o’ ole Vibrator, then we’ll dash in and settle dad Ainesley’s hash for ’im.”