Frederick was well behind them now. The last Union outposts, a half-mile beyond the town and as far to the north of the two riders, were past. Into “no-man’s land,” into that most perilous of regions, the “debatable ground” between two hostile armies, sped pursuer and pursued. Hearing the ever-nearing drumming of hoofs behind him, the runaway increased his flagging speed. Jimmie heard, too, and, glancing back over his shoulder, grinned delightedly at the white-faced man who rode so furiously in pursuit of him. To the boy it was a glorious lark. The long, smooth gait of the runaway did not toss him about in the saddle as had the rough trot and gallop. Jimmie, helpless as he was to curb his mount’s pace, was thoroughly enjoying the novelty of this exploit. Dad’s spurs were blood-flecked. Dad’s gallant horse was beginning to breathe in gasps. The September wind hammered and whipped the man’s hot face and blurred his eyes. The octuple thud of hoofs was nauseating him. Another mile and the runaway breasted a steep hillock. Dad was a bare ten yards behind. “Now, then, Jimmie!” he sung out. “Now’s your chance as he takes that rise. Both hands on the reins. Forget the pommel. Both hands on the reins, I said. Lean back with all your weight. Hold the right rein stiff, and saw on the left. With your whole weight, son!” The lad obeyed, though with visible reluctance, for he was having a beautiful time and saw no good reason for ending it so soon. The maneuver with the reins jerked back the bit from between the runaway’s teeth. It incidentally caused him to break momentarily his long stride. The steepness of the hillock did the rest. At the summit Dad was alongside. He reached for the boy’s bridle. As his fingers were almost closing on the rein, a vagrant gust of wind snatched up from under a bush (whither another gust had evidently whisked it) a piece of white paper. The paper swirled upward in the very track of the runaway like a sentient thing, and danced in air before his bloodshot eyes. The fear-crazed brute forgot his exhaustion long enough to swerve violently to the right. Dad’s clutching hand closed upon nothingness. Jimmie remained stationary in mid air--the horse having shied from under him--for the most infinitesimal fraction of a second. Then he descended to earth with considerable force; landed, still in a sitting posture, with an impact that knocked the breath completely out of him; and stared dazedly upward at his grandfather. Dad, slipping from his horse, picked the boy up and stood him on his feet. “Are you hurt, dear lad?” he cried. “Are you badly hurt?” “No,” responded Jimmie, albeit uncertainly. “But--but it’s blamed lucky for me I got so many spankings from father when I was home. They’ve--they’ve kind of calloused me, I guess. Gee, Dad, but that was one gorgeous ride; and I stuck on, all right, didn’t I, Dad? As long as we kept going. What’s the matter, sir? You’re all gray-white and you look ’most a hundred.”