Kitty Bartlett, her gayety gone and her eyes red, waited on the prisoners, but absolutely refused to serve Sam Stoliker, on whom she looked with the utmost contempt, not taking into account the fact that the poor young man had been merely doing his duty, and doing it well.
“Take off these handcuffs, Sam,” said Mrs. Bartlett, “until they have breakfast, at least.”
Stoliker produced a key and unlocked the manacles, slipping them into his pocket.
“Ah, now!” said Yates, looking at his red wrist, “we can breathe easier; and I, for one, can eat more.”
The professor said nothing. The iron had not only encircled his wrist, but had entered his soul as well. Although Yates tried to make the early meal as cheerful as possible, it was rather a gloomy festival. Stoliker began to feel, poor man, that the paths of duty were unpopular. Old Hiram could always be depended upon to add somberness and taciturnity to a wedding feast; the professor, never the liveliest of companions, sat silent, with clouded brow, and vexed even the cheerful Mrs. Bartlett by having evidently no appetite. When the hurried meal was over, Yates, noticing that Miss Kitty had left the room, sprang up and walked toward the kitchen door. Stoliker was on his feet in an instant, and made as though to follow him.
“Sit down,” said the professor sharply, speaking for the first time. “He is not going to escape. Don’t be afraid. He has done nothing, and has no fear of punishment. It is always the innocent that you stupid officials arrest. The woods all around you are full of real Fenians, but you take excellent care to keep out of their way, and give your attention to molesting perfectly inoffensive people.”
“Good for you, professor!” cried Mrs. Bartlett emphatically. “That’s the truth, if ever it was spoken. But are there Fenians in the woods?”
“Hundreds of them. They came on us in the tent about three o’clock this morning,—or at least an advance guard did,—and after talking of shooting us where we stood they marched us to the Fenian camp instead. Yates got a pass, written by the Fenian general, so that we should not be troubled again. That is the precious document which this man thinks is deadly evidence. He never asked us a question, but clapped the handcuffs on our wrists, while the other fools held pistols to our heads.”
“It isn’t my place to ask questions,” retorted Stoliker doggedly. “You can tell all this to the colonel or the sheriff; if they let you go, I’ll say nothing against it.”
Meanwhile, Yates had made his way into the kitchen, taking the precaution to shut the door after him. Kitty Bartlett looked quickly round as the door closed. Before she could speak the young man caught her by the plump shoulders—a thing which he certainly had no right to do.