At half past eight that same evening the Raleigh Reds, with fife and drum silent, marched through the lane leading to Mr. Scott's field.
"Squad, halt!" was the command when they reached the fence. Then after a whispered consultation and a stealthy glance round, lest the enemy might attack them in the rear, they climbed carefully over the rails, and came down cautiously on the other side.
"Forward, march!" ordered the Sergeant, and his squad started by twos up the field.
The cannon was mounted at the other end, and the shadows which the moon cast across their path looked to the boys' excited fancy like figures rising from the ground.
"A little faster step—hep, hep!" urged the Sergeant, as they lagged. "Double time!" he commanded; but alas! a low ferocious growl, followed by a loud bark, caused a sudden panic in the dauntless Reds.
"The mastiff!" cried Joe Morris; "cut for your lives!"
"Don't you do it! Charge bayonets!" shouted Tom, dismayed by this breaking of the close-locked ranks.
"About face!" yelled Fatty Simmons, assuming the command in his terror: "quick to the fence, fellows—run!" and as the big dark object bounded towards them, the squad for the second time in its short history took to its heels without waiting further orders. Before the Sergeant could collect his scattered wits, a rough hand seized him by the collar, and a grim voice said, "I've caught you, hev I? You'll just come to Mr. Scott, young man; he's waitin' for you."
"Call that dog off; he'll chew them fellows up," gasped Tommy, trying to wriggle away from the tight grip.
"Sarve 'em right for sneaking in after dark and stealing the old cannon that's stood here over a hundred years."