The officer rose to his feet, with an intent look both dismayed and embarrassed. He did not venture on speech; he merely acceded with a nod. “Ye want a lift, I reckon.” The stranger was hampered by the incongruity between his rustic garb, common to the coves, and his cultivated intonation; for, unlike his comrade Browdie, he had no mimetic faculties whatever. Nevertheless, he was now constrained to “face the music.” “I didn't want to interrupt you,” he said, seeking such excuse as due consideration for the circumstances might afford; “but I'd like to ask where I could get lodging for the night.” “What's yer name?” demanded Barker, unceremoniously. “Francis Bonan,” the raider replied, with more assurance. Then he added, by way of explaining his necessity, “I'm a stranger hereabouts.” “Ye air so,” assented the sarcastic 'Gene. “Ye ain't even acquainted with yer own clothes. Ye be a town man.” “Well, I'm not the first man who has had to hide out,” Ronan parried, seeking to justify his obvious disguise. “Shot somebody?” asked 'Gene, with an apparent accession of interest. “It's best for me not to tell.” “So be.” 'Gene acquiesced easily. “Waal, ef ye kin put up with sech accommodations ez our'n, I'll take ye home with me.” Ronan stood aghast. But there was no door of retreat open. He was alone and helpless. He could not conceal the fact that the turn affairs had taken was equally unexpected and terrifying to him, and the moonshiners, keenly watchful, were correspondingly elated to discern that he had surely no reinforcements within reach to nerve him to resistance or to menace their liberty. He had evidently followed them too far, too recklessly; perhaps without the consent and against the counsel of his comrades, perhaps even without their knowledge of his movements and intention.