out in the road, dripping with radiance from the car. They were young and rural, but they had efficient repeating rifles.
“Where you headed for?” demanded the elder, good-naturedly enough.
“Montreal, where we live.” Buck showed his Canadian license. . . . Gasoline motor and electric light, yet Doremus saw the frontier guard as a sentry in 1864, studying a pass by lantern light, beside a farm wagon in which hid General Joe Johnston’s spies disguised as plantation hands.
“I guess it’s all right. Seems in order. But we’ve had some trouble with refugees. You’ll have to wait till the Battalion–Leader comes — maybe ‘long about noon.”
“But good Lord, Inspector, we can’t do that! My mother’s awful sick, in Montreal.”
“Yuh, I’ve heard that one before! And maybe it’s true, this time. But afraid you’ll have to wait for the Bat. You folks can come in and set by the fire, if you want to.”
“But we’ve got to —”
“You heard what I said!” The M.M.‘s were fingering their rifles.
“All right. But tell you what we’ll do. We’ll go back to East Berkshire and get some breakfast and a wash and come back here. Noon, you said?”
“Okay! And say, Brother, it does seem kind of funny, your taking this back road, when there’s a first-rate highway. S’ long. Be good. . . . Just don’t try it again! The Bat might be here next time — and he ain’t a farmer like you or me!”
The refugees, as they drove away, had an uncomfortable feeling that the guards were laughing at them.
Three border posts they tried, and at three posts they were turned back.
