"Sure, we got a right to capture anything from the enemy."
"He's got some papers, too."
"All right, take 'em. Come on out through the kitchen way—hurry up. Don't make any noise. You look for some food—I'll be with you right away."
Tom crept cautiously out to the road and, kneeling, placed his ear to the ground. There was no sound, and he hurried back to the stone kitchen where Archer was stuffing his pockets with such dry edibles as he could gather.
"All right, come on," he whispered hurriedly. "What have you got?"
"Some hard bread and a couple of salt fish——"
"Give me one of those," Tom interrupted: "and hand me that tablecloth. Come on. Got some matches?"
"Yes, and a candle, too."
"Good. Don't strike a light. You go ahead, along the plank walk."
Leaving the scene of the tragedy, they hurried along the board walk under the trellis, Tom dragging the tablecloth so that it swept both of the narrow planks and obliterated any suggestion of footprints. When they had gone about fifty yards he stooped and flung the salt fish from him so that it barely skimmed the earth and rested at some distance from the path.