A few hundred yards
beyond this point, at the end of a deep cut, the officer drew up his
horse sharply, leaned over the wheel, and shook hands with the
person inside.
"I have attained my limit," he said. "That was our last picket-post back
yonder, and my orders were strict. You know the road, of course."
"Perfectly, Lieutenant," responded a low voice, muffled under the hood.
"I have travelled it often before. I thank you so much, and think it
will all come out right this time."
"I have no doubt of that," he replied, with a little laugh. "Hope I may
renew the acquaintance under more pleasant circumstances. Meanwhile,
good luck and good-bye."
He sat erect upon his horse, watching as we clattered past, appearing
scarcely more than a dim shadow, yet I thought he held his hat in his
hand. Billie laid on the gad, however, as if to make up for lost time,
and the pony trotted off at such a burst of speed as to keep me busy
clinging to my perch. It was an exceedingly rough road, rutty and stony,
up hill and down, while the pony condescended to walk on the steepest
grades only, and occasionally took the declines at a gallop, the
carryall bounding from side to side as though mad. Apparently no fear of
possible disaster disturbed Billie, however, for I could hear every few
moments the slash of a whip on the animal's flank.
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