"But supposing," he argued, "they see you first, will they shoot?"
The scout waved his hand carelessly.
"Of course," he cried.
"Then," said the baker, "my horse will run away!"
"What of it?" demanded the scout. "Are Middleboro, South Middleboro, Rock, Brockton, and Boston to fall? Are they to be captured because you're afraid of your own horse? They won't shoot real bullets! This is not a real war. Don't you know that?"
The baker's boy flushed with indignation.
"Sure, I know that," he protested; "but my horse—he don't know that!"
Lathrop slung his rifle over his shoulder and his leg over his bicycle.
"If the Reds catch you," he warned, in parting, "they'll take everything you've got."
"The Blues have took most of it already," wailed the boy. "And just as they were paying me the battle begun, and this horse run away, and I couldn't get him to come back for my money."