CHAPTER XV.
THE PRISONER IN THE CORN-CRIB.
JERRY and Ardmore sat at a long table in the commodious Ardsley library, which was a modification of a Gothic chapel. It was on the upper floor, with broad windows that had the effect of bringing the landscape indoors, and the North Carolina sky is, we must concede, a pleasant thing to have at one’s elbow. A large accumulation of mail from the governor’s office at Raleigh had been forwarded, and Jerry insisted that it must be opened and disposed of in some way. Governor Dangerfield was, it appeared, a subscriber to a clipping bureau, and they had been examining critically a batch of cuttings relating to the New Orleans incident. Most of them were in a frivolous key, playfully reviving the ancient query as to what the governor of North Carolina really said to the governor of South Carolina. Others sought causes for the widely-reported disappearance of the two governors; and still other reports boldly maintained that Governors Dangerfield and Osborne were at their capitals engaged in the duties of their respective offices.
“It’s a good thing we got hold of Collins,” observed Ardmore, putting down a clipping from a New York paper in which the reports of Governor Dangerfield’s disappearance were analyzed and tersely dismissed; “for he knows how to write, and he’s done a splendid picture of your father on his throne attending to business; and his little stingers for Osborne are the work of genius.”
“There’s a certain finish about Mr. Collins’s lying that is refreshing,” replied Jerry, “and I cannot help thinking that he has a brilliant future before him if he enters politics. Nothing pains me more than a careless, ill-considered, silly lie, which is the best that most people can do. But it would be very interesting to know whether Governor Osborne has really disappeared, or just how your friend the Virginia professor has seized the reins of state. Do you suppose he got a jug from somewhere, and met Miss Osborne and——”
“Do you think—do you think—she may have—er—possibly—closed one eye in his direction?” asked Ardmore dubiously.
“Mr. Ardmore”—and Jerry pointed at him with a bronze paper-cutter to make sure of his attention—“Mr. Ardmore, if you ever imply again by act, word, or deed that I winked at you I shall never, never speak to you again. I should think that a man with a nice sister like Mrs. Atchison would have a better opinion of women than you seem to have. I never saw you until you came to my father’s house to tell me about the jug—and you know I didn’t. And as for that Barbara Osborne, while I don’t doubt that even in South Carolina a Daughter of the Seminole War might wink at a gentleman in a moment of extreme provocation, I doubt if she did, for she lacks animation, and has no more soul than a gum overshoe.”
The obvious inconsistency of this pronouncement caused Ardmore to frown in the stress of his thought; and he stared helplessly along the line of the accusing paper-cutter into Jerry’s eyes.
“Oh, cheer up!” she cried in her despair of him; “and forget it, forget it, forget it! I’ll say this to you, Mr. Ardmore, that if I ever winked at you—and I never, never did—I’m sorry I did it! Some time when you haven’t so much work on your hands as you have this morning just think that over and let me know where you land. And now, look at these things, please.”
“What is all this stuff?” he demanded, as she tossed him a pile of papers.
“They refer to the application for pardon of a poor man who’s going to be hanged for murder to-morrow unless we do something for him; and he has a wife and three little children, and he has never committed any other crime but to break into a smoke-house and steal a side of bacon.”
“Did he shoot in self-defence, or how was it?” asked Ardmore judicially.
“He killed a painless dentist who pulled the wrong tooth,” answered Jerry, referring to the papers.
“If that’s all I don’t think we can stand for hanging him. I read a piece against capital punishment in a magazine once, and the arguments were very strong. The killing of a dentist should not be a crime anyhow, and if you know how to pardon a man, why let’s do it; but we’d better wait until the last minute, and then send a telegram to the sheriff to stop the proceedings just before he pulls the string, which makes it most impressive, and gives a better effect.”
“I believe you are right about it,” said Jerry. “There’s an old pardon right here in this bundle which we can use. It was made out for another man who stole a horse that afterwards died, which papa said was a mitigating circumstance; but the week before his execution the man escaped from jail before papa could pardon him.”
“Suppose we don’t let them hang anybody while we’re running the state,” suggested Ardmore; “it’s almost as though you murdered a man yourself, and I couldn’t tie my neckties afterwards without a guilty feeling. I can’t imagine anything more disagreeable than to be hanged. I heard all of Tristan und Isolde once, and I have seen half an Ibsen play, and those were hard things to bear, but I suppose hanging would be just as painful, and there would be no supper afterwards to cheer you up.”
“You shouldn’t speak in that tone of Afterwards, Mr. Ardmore,” said Jerry severely. “It isn’t religious. And while we’re on the subject of religion, may I ask the really, truly wherefore of Miss Daisy Waters’s sudden return to Newport?” and Jerry’s tone and manner were carelessly demure.
“She went home,” replied Ardmore, grinning; “she left Ardsley for two reasons, one of which she stated at the breakfast-table and the other she handed me privately.”
“She said at the breakfast-table that she was called home by incipient whooping-cough in the household of her brother-in-law’s cousin’s family.”
“As she has no brother-in-law, that cannot be true. What she said to me privately was that the house party had grown very much larger than Mrs. Atchison had originally planned it, and that I am so busy that so many guests must be a burden.”
Jerry stroked her cheek reflectively.
“I thought Miss Waters wouldn’t last long after I asked her if rusty-nail water really would remove freckles. My own freckles are exactly seven in number, and I am not ashamed of them; but Miss Waters seemed very sensitive on the subject, though I thought her freckles useful in diverting attention from her drug-store hair.”
“Did you say seven?” inquired Ardmore, gazing eagerly into Jerry’s face. “I make it only six, and there’s one away over there under your left eye that seems very lonesome, as though it suffered keenly from being so far away from its brothers and sisters on the other side of your nose.”
“Mr. Ardmore”—and Jerry again indicated the person addressed by pointing with the paper-cutter—“Mr. Ardmore, it is downright impudent of you to talk to me about my appearance in any terms, but when you speak of my face as though it were a map in a geography and of my freckles as though they were county seats, or lakes, or strange places in China, then I must protest with all my strength. If you don’t change the subject immediately I shall refuse to pardon this person who killed the painless dentist, and he shall be hanged by the neck till he be dead; and you, Mr. Thomas Ardmore, will be guilty of his murder.”
The discussion of Miss Jerry Dangerfield’s freckles ceased abruptly on the appearance of Big Paul, the forester.
“A body of South Carolina militia is marching across country from the south. One of my men heard of it down at Turner Court House last night, and rode to where the troops were encamped. He learned that it was a practice march for the militia. There’s several companies of infantry, so he reports, and a piece of artillery.”
“Bully for old Grissy!” exclaimed Ardmore. “They’re coming this way, are they, Paul?” And the three bent over the map.
“That is the place, sir. They seem to be planning to get around Turner’s without stirring up the town. But it would take a good deal to wake up Turner’s,” laughed the big German.
Jerry placed her finger on the state line.
“If they dare cross that—if they as much as dare!”
“If they dare we shall show them a few things.—Take all the men you need, Paul, to watch their movements. That will do.”
The forester lingered.
“You remember that we spoke the other day of the log house on Raccoon Creek, where the Appleweights had driven off our man?”
“Yes, Paul. It is where the state line crosses the heavy woods and the farthest outpost, so to speak, on my property. When you cross the little creek, you’re in South Carolina. You said some of these Appleweight fellows had been cutting off the timber down there, if I remember rightly.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the forester, twirling his cap awkwardly. “But some of the people on the estate have said——”
He broke off in an embarrassment so unlike him that Jerry and Ardmore looked at him curiously.
“Well, Paul, what’s the matter? If the cabin has been burned down it’s no serious matter.”
“Why, sir; some of the men passing there at night say they see lights and hear sounds in the cabin, though no one from the estate goes there. A child died in the house last spring, and—well, you know how some of these people are!”
“Ghosts!” cried Ardmore. “The property is growing more valuable all the time! Tell them that whoever captures the ghost and brings it here shall have a handsome present. So far it’s only a light in an abandoned house—is that it?”
“Well, they say it’s very strange,” and it was clear that the German was not wholly satisfied to have his employer laugh off the story.
“Cheer up, Paul. We have bigger business on hand than the chasing of ghosts just now. When we get through with these other things I’ll go over there myself and take a look at the spook.”
As Paul hurried away, Jerry seized a pen and wrote this message:
Rutherford Gillingwater,
Adjutant-General, Camp Dangerfield,
Azbell, N. C.:
Move all available troops by shortest route to Kildare at once and report to me personally at Ardsley. Make no statements to newspapers. Answer.
DANGERFIELD,
Governor.
“I guess that will bring him running,” said Ardmore, calling a servant and ordering the message despatched immediately. “But when he comes, expecting to report to the governor and finds that he isn’t here, what do you suppose he will do?”
“Mr. Ardmore,” began Jerry, in the tone of sweet tolerance with which one arraigns a hopeless child—“Mr. Ardmore, there are times when you tax my patience severely. You don’t seem to grasp the idea that we are not making explanations to inferiors in our administration. Colonel Gillingwater will undoubtedly be a good deal surprised to get that message, but when the first shock is over he will obey the orders of his commander-in-chief. And the fact that he is ordered to report to Ardsley will not be lost on him, for he will see in that a possible social opportunity, and a chance to wear some of his uniforms that he has never worn before. He will think that papa is really here to test the efficiency of the troops, and that as papa is a guest at Ardsley, which we know he isn’t, there will probably be some great social functions in this house, with papa’s staff dressed up and all shiny in gold braid. Since Rutherford Gillingwater had the typhoid fever during the Spanish War I have not been sure that he is as much interested in fighting as he is in the purely circus work of being a soldier. I just now recall that when papa was about to order out the troops to stop a railroad strike last spring, Rutherford Gillingwater went to all the trouble of having tonsilitis, and was so ill that he could hardly leave his room even after the strike had been settled by arbitration. If he knew that there was likely to be a terrible battle over here instead of nice long dinners and toasts to ‘The Old North State,’ ‘Our Governor,’ and ‘The Governor’s Daughter,’ his old wounds, that he never had, might trouble him so that they’d have to wrap him up in cotton and carry him home.”
Before luncheon a message was received from Gillingwater, to this effect:
Governor William Dangerfield.
Ardsley, N. C.:
En route with our entire available force in the field. I am riding ahead with all speed, and will report at Ardsley at nine o’clock. Is full military dress de rigueur?
GILLINGWATER, Adjutant-General.
“Isn’t that just like Rutherford! He’s afraid he won’t be dressy enough; but if he knew that the South Carolina troops might shoot holes in his uniform he wouldn’t be due here for a couple of weeks, instead of at nine o’clock to-night;” and Jerry laughed merrily.
They debated more seriously this telegram from Collins at Raleigh sent the previous evening:
Can’t maintain this bluff much longer. Even the friendly newspapers are growing suspicious. State credit jeopardized by disappearance of Treasurer Foster. Billings, of Bronx Loan and Trust, here in a great fury over bond matter. Do you know governor’s whereabouts?
“Things are certainly growing more exciting,” was Ardmore’s comment. “I suppose even a gifted liar like Collins can’t muzzle the press for ever.”
“You can’t go on fooling all North Carolina all the time, either,” said Jerry, “and I suppose when papa gets tired of being scared he will turn up in Raleigh and tell some plausible story about where he has been and what has happened. When it comes to being plausible no one can touch papa.”
“Maybe he’s dead,” suggested Ardmore gloomily.
“That’s a real inspiration on your part, Mr. Ardmore; and it’s very sweet of you to mention it, but I have no idea that any harm has come to papa. It’s too much trouble to get elected governor, without dying in office, and besides, papa is none too friendly with the lieutenant-governor, and would never think of allowing such a person to succeed him. But those bonds seem rather serious, and I don’t like the idea of your Mr. Billings making a fuss at Raleigh.”
“That will be all right,” remarked Ardmore, blotting the last of a number of telegrams which he had been writing, and pressing a button. “It’s much more important for us to get Appleweight into a South Carolina jail; and it’s not going to be so easy to do, now that Grissy is working on the other side, and angry at me about that scarlet fever telegram.
“There may be trouble,” said Ardmore to his guests as they sat at luncheon. “But I should hate to have it said that my guests could not be taken care of here perfectly. I beg that you will all remain.”
“If there’s to be a row, why don’t you call the police and be done with it?” asked a sad young member of the company. His motor number had so often figured in reports of speed law violations that he was known as Eighteen Eighty. “I thought you came down here for quiet and not to get into trouble, Ardy.”
“If I miss my steamer nine days from to-day, and meanwhile have to eat horse meat, just as they did in the siege of Paris, I shall be greatly provoked, to say the least,” remarked Mrs. Atchison pleasantly; for her brother’s amazing awakening delighted her, and it was a cheering experience that he promised, of civil war, battle, murder, and sudden death.
“I think I shall spend more time in America after this,” remarked Eighteen Eighty. “I did not know that amusing things ever happened over here. What did you say the name of this state is?”
“The name of this state,” replied Miss Dangerfield, “is North Carolina, and I have my opinion of any native American who runs around Europe all the time, and who can visit a place in this country without even knowing the name of the state he is in.”
“But there’s really no difference between North and South Carolina, is there?” persisted Eighteen Eighty.
Jerry put down her fork, and folded her hands beside her plate, while she addressed the offender.
“Mr. Number Something, the difference between the Old North State and South Carolina is not merely geographical—it is also intellectual, ethical, and spiritual. But may I ask you whether you know of which state you are a citizen?”
A laugh rose as the sad young man flushed and looked inquiringly about.
“I voted you in my precinct that time I ran for alderman in New York,” said Ardmore, “but that’s no sign you had a right to vote there. I shot Ballywinkle through the booth at the same time. I was a reform candidate and needed votes, but I hoped Bally would get arrested and be sent to jail. My impression is that you are really a citizen of Rhode Island, which is where Newport is.”
The debate as to Eighteen Eighty’s legal residence was interrupted by the arrival of a summons for Ardmore, who hurriedly left the table.
Big Paul awaited him below, mounted and holding a led-horse.
“There’s a line of the South Carolina militia crawling through the woods toward Raccoon Creek. They insist that it’s a practice skirmish, and that they’ve come over here because the landscape is naturally adapted to their purposes.”
“It’s awfully nice of them to like my scenery. You’d better send your best man out to meet Colonel Gillingwater of the North Carolina militia, and tell him to march all his troops into the estate by the north gates, and to be in a hurry. Tell him—tell him Governor Dangerfield is anxious to have the staff present in full uniform at a grand ball at Ardsley to-night.”
Ardmore rode off alone toward Raccoon Creek to catch a view of the enemy. How far would Griswold go? This question he kept debating with himself. His late friend was a lawyer and a serious one whom he had not believed capable of seizing the militia of one state and using it to make a military demonstration against another. Ardmore could go as far as Griswold; yet he was puzzled to know why Griswold was in the field at all. Miss Dangerfield’s suggestion that Griswold’s interest in the daughter of the governor of South Carolina accounted for his presence on the border seemed plausible at first; and yet the more he thought about it the less credible it seemed, for he was sure that Griswold had talked to him about women with the frankness that had characterized all their intercourse, and Ardmore racked his brains in his effort to recall the few affairs to which the associate professor of admiralty had pleaded guilty. Memory brought these back to him slowly. There was an Old Point Comfort affair, dating back to Griswold’s student days, and to which he had referred with no little feeling once or twice; and there was a York Harbour affair, that came a little later; and there was the girl he had met on a steamer, about whom Griswold had shown sensitiveness when Ardmore had made bold to twit him. But Ardmore could not account for Miss Osborne, unless his friend had been withholding his confidence while seemingly wholly frank; and the thought that this must be true widened the breach between them. And when he was saying to himself that the daughters of governors are not in the habit of picking up cavaliers and entrusting state affairs to them, and that it was almost inconceivable that the conscientious Griswold, at the busiest season at the university, should have taken employment from the governor of South Carolina, he found that he had struck a stone wall, and he confessed to himself that the situation was beyond him.
These reflections carried him far toward Raccoon Creek, and when he had reached that tortuous stream he dismounted and tied his horse, the more freely to examine the frontier. The Raccoon is never more than eighty feet wide, but filled with boulders round which the water foams in many curves and splashes, running away in the merriest ripples, so that it is never wholly tranquil. By jumping from boulder to boulder he crossed the turbulent tide and gained the other side with a sense of entering the enemy’s country.
“Now,” he muttered, “I am in South Carolina.”
He drew out his map and held it against a tree the better to study it, reassuring himself that his own property line embraced several sections of the forest on the south side of the state boundary.
“If Grissy shoots me, it will be on my own land,” he said aloud.
He cautiously followed the stream until, several hundred yards farther on, and overhanging the creek, he came upon the log cabin in which big Paul had reported the presence of a ghost. Paul’s story had not interested him particularly, but now that he was in the neighbourhood he resolved to visit the cabin and learn if possible how ghosts amuse themselves by day. He had thrust a revolver into his pocket before leaving the house, and while he had no idea that ghosts may be shot, he now made sure that the weapon was in good order. As he sat on a log slipping the cylinder through his fingers he heard whistling farther along the creek, followed quickly by the snapping of twigs under a heavy tread, and a moment later a tall, slender man broke into view.
The stranger was dressed like a countryman, but he was unmistakably not of the Ardsley force of workmen, for these wore a rough sort of uniform. His hands were thrust carelessly into the side pockets of a gray jeans coat. They were thrust in deep, so that the coat sagged at the pockets. His trousers were turned up from a pair of rough shoes, and he wore a gray flannel shirt, the collar of which was guiltless of a tie. He was smooth shaven, and carried in his mouth a short pipe, which he paused to relight when about a dozen yards from Ardmore. Then, as he held the lighted match above the pipe bowl for an instant to make sure his tobacco was burning, Ardmore jumped up and covered him with the pistol.
“I beg your pardon,” said the master of Ardsley, “but you’re my prisoner!”
The stranger shook the flame out of the match-stick carefully and threw it away before turning toward his captor.
“Young man,” he said with perfect self-possession, “don’t fool with that gun; it might go off.”
His drawl was characteristic of the region; his tone was one of amused tolerance. Ardmore was short of stature, and his knickerbockers, leggings, and Norfolk jacket were not wholly consonant with the revolver, which, however, he levelled very steadily at the stranger’s head.
“You are an intruder on my property,” said the master of Ardsley, “and unless I’m much mistaken you have been playing ghost in that cabin. I’ve heard about you. Your gang has been cutting off my timber about long enough, and this game of playing ghost to scare my men won’t do.”
“Stealing your timber?” And the stranger was clearly surprised. He held his pipe in his hand with his thumb over the bowl and seemed to take a more serious interest in his captor.
“And now,” continued Ardmore, “I’m about tired of having this end of the country run by the Appleweights, and their disreputable gang, so I’m going to lock you up.”
The stranger turned toward the cabin, one corner of which was plainly visible, and shrugged his shoulders.
“I have nothing to do with the Appleweights, and I assure you I am not a timber thief.”
“Then you must be the one who has lifted a few steers out of my herd. It makes no difference just what branch of the business you are engaged in, for we’re picking up all the gang and you’ve got to come along with me.”
The captive showed signs of anger for the first time. His face flushed, and he took a step toward Ardmore, who immediately threw up the revolver so that it pointed at the man’s head.
“Stop right there! We’ve got old man Appleweight, so you’ve lost your leader, and I tell you the jig’s up. We’ll have you all in jail before another twenty-four hours has passed.”
“I judge from the tone of your remarks that you are Ardmore, the owner of Ardsley. Am I right?”
“You are quite right. And you are a member of a disreputable gang of outlaws that has been bringing shame upon the state of North Carolina. Now, I want you to march straight ahead of me. Step lively now!” And Ardmore flourished the pistol menacingly. “March!”
The man hesitated, flung up his head defiantly, then moved slowly forward. The flush in his face had deepened and his eyes flashed angrily; but Ardmore, his cap on the back of his head, himself presented a figure so severe, so eloquent of righteous indignation, that the stranger tamely obeyed him.
“We will cross the creek right here,” he ordered; “it’s a pretty jump there from that boulder—there, that was bully! Now right along there over the log—see the trail! Good!”
It was warm and the captive was perspiring freely. He moved along docilely, and finding that he manifested no inclination to bolt, Ardmore dropped the revolver to his side, but with his finger on the trigger. He was very proud of himself; for while to Miss Jerry Dangerfield undoubtedly belonged the honour of capturing the thief Appleweight, yet he had single-handed arrested a member of the famous gang, and he had already resolved upon a convenient method of disposing of his prisoner. They paused while Ardmore mounted his horse, silencing the captive, who took the opportunity to break out protestingly against what he termed an infamous outrage upon personal liberty.
“You’ve taken me from one state into another without due process of law,” declared the stranger, thinking to impress Ardmore, as that young gentleman settled himself in his saddle.
“Go right on now; that’s a good fellow,” replied the master of Ardsley, lifting the revolver warningly. “Whether it’s North Carolina or South Dakota—it doesn’t make a particle of difference to me. As I remarked before, it’s my property, I tell you, and I do what I please here.”
“I’ll show you whether you do or not,” snorted the prisoner, who was trudging along doggedly with the nose of Ardmore’s horse occasionally poking his back.
They soon reached a field where some labourers were at work, and Ardmore called them to him for instructions.
“Boys, this is one of the timber thieves; put him in that corn-crib until I come back for him. The nights are warm; the sky is perfectly clear; and you will kindly see that he does not lack for food.”
Two of the men jumped forward and seized Ardmore’s prisoner, who now broke forth in a torrent of wrath, struggling vigorously in the hands of the sturdy fellows who had laid violent hands on him.
“That’s right, boys; that’s right; easy there! Now in he goes.”
A series of corn-cribs fringed the field, and into one of these, from which half the corn had been removed, the prisoner was thrust sprawling upon the yellow ears, and when he rose and flung himself round, the door of the corn-crib slammed in his face. He bellowed with rage now, seeing that his imprisonment was a serious matter, and that it seemed likely to be prolonged indefinitely.
“They always told me you were a fool,” he howled, “but I didn’t know that anything as crazy as you are was loose in the world.”
“Thank you. The head of your gang is much more polite. He’s sitting on his case of Chateau Bizet in my wine cellar, playing solitaire.”
“Appleweight in your wine cellar!” bawled the captive in astonishment.
“Certainly. I was afraid to lock him in a room with bath for fear it might give him hydrophobia; but he’s perfectly content in the wine cellar.”
“What are you going to do with him?”
“I haven’t decided yet just what to do with him, but the scoundrel undoubtedly belongs in South Carolina, and I have every intention of making his own state punish him.”
The prisoner leaned heavily against his prison door, and glared out upon his jailer with a new, fierce interest.
“I tell you I’ve nothing to do with the Appleweights! I don’t want to reveal my identity to you, you young beggar; but I demand my legal rights.”
“My dear sir,” retorted Ardmore, “you have no legal rights, for the writ of habeas corpus doesn’t go here. You seem rather intelligent for a barn burner and timber thief. Come now, what is your name?”
The prisoner gazed down upon the imperturbable figure of his captor through the slats of the corn-crib. Ardmore returned his gaze with his most bland and child-like air. Many people had been driven to the point of madness by Ardmore’s apparent dullness. The prisoner realized that he must launch a thunderbolt if he would disturb a self-possession so complete—a tranquillity as sweet as the fading afternoon.
“Mr. Ardmore, I dislike to do it, but your amazing conduct makes it necessary for me to disclose my identity,” and the man’s manner showed real embarrassment.
“I knew it; I knew it,” nodded Ardmore, folding his arms across his chest. “You’re either the King of Siam or the Prince of Petosky. As either, I salute you!”
“No!” roared the captive, beating impotently against the door of the cage with his hands. “No! I’m the governor of South Carolina!”
This statement failed, however, to produce the slightest effect on Mr. Ardmore, who only smiled slightly, a smile less incredulous than disdainful.
“Oh, pshaw! that’s nothing,” he replied; “I’m the governor of North Carolina!” and mounting his horse he gravely lifted his hat to the prisoner and galloped away.
While Mr. Ardmore was securing his prisoner in the corn-crib it may be interesting to return for a moment to the haunted log cabin on Raccoon Creek, the interior of which was roughly but comfortably furnished. Above were two small sleeping-rooms, and beside the bed in each stood a suit-case and a hand-satchel. In each room hung, on convenient hooks, a long, black frock-coat, a pair of trousers of light cloth, and a broad-brim black felt hat. Coat, trousers, and hat were exactly alike.
In the room below sat a man in his shirt-sleeves, his feet on a cheap deal table, blowing rings from a cigar. He presented a picture of the greatest ease and contentment, as he occasionally stroked his short brown beard, or threw up his arms and clasped his hands about his head or caught, lazily at the smoke rings. On the table lay an array of playing cards and poker chips.
“It’s too good to last for ever,” the lone occupant reflected aloud, stifling a yawn, and he reached out, with careless indifference, toward a bundle of newspapers tied together with a piece of twine, and drew one out and spread it across his knees. He yawned again as though the thought of a world whose affairs were stamped in printer’s ink bored him immensely; and then the bold headlines that shouted at him across half a quarter of the sheet caused him to gasp, and his feet struck the bare floor of the cabin resoundingly. He now bent over the paper with the greatest eagerness, muttering as he read, and some of his mutterings were, it must be confessed, not without profane embellishment.
TWO COWARDLY GOVERNORS MISSING
SCANDAL AFFECTING TWO STATE EXECUTIVES
IS THE APPLEWEIGHT CASE RESPONSIBLE?
RUMOURS OF FATAL DUEL ON STATE LINE
He read breathlessly the startling story that followed the headlines, then rose and glanced anxiously at his watch.
“Am I drunk or mad? I must find Osborne and get out of this.”
He leaped to the open door, and gazed into the forest from a little platform that commanded all sides of the cabin. And there, to his utter amazement, he saw men in khaki emerging cautiously from the woods. They were unmistakably soldiers of some sort, for an officer was giving sharp commands, and the line opened out like a fan along the creek. The observer of this manœuvre mopped his head with his handkerchief as he watched the alert movements of the figures in khaki.
He was so absorbed that he failed to hear stealthy steps at the rear of the platform, but he was now rudely aroused by two uniformed youngsters with S. C. N. G. on their caps, who sprang upon him and bore him with a crash to the puncheon floor.
“You’re our prisoner!” shouted one of them, rising when he found that the prisoner yielded without resistance.
“What for?” blurted the captive, sitting up and rubbing his elbow.
“For being Bill Appleweight, alias Poteet. Get up, now, and come with us to headquarters, or my instructions are to break your head.”
“Who the devil are you?” panted the prisoner.
“Well, if it’s anything to you, we’re the South Carolina militia, so you’d better get up and climb.”