"I don't call this fish-net a blanket," replied Tom's voice. "I suppose it will have to do, if you are so poor you can't give me anything better. But this is a cold, cheerless place to shove a fellow into without any fire or light." "It's plenty good enough for a traitor," answered Mr. Westall, with a coarse laugh; and then he turned about and led the way back to the cabin. Two of the Emergency men and all the wood-cutters had come out to "take a look at the weather," and make up their minds whether or not the steamer they heard coming up the river below the bend was going to stop at the landing for fuel, and while Rodney listened to their conversation he walked about with his hands in his pockets, and kicked listlessly at the chips and sticks that were scattered around the log on which Jeff and his men cut their fire-wood. Finally he picked up one of the sticks and began cutting it with his knife; and a little later, when he thought no one was observing his movements, he shoved the stick into the sleeve of his coat. This much being done he was ready to make a demonstration in Tom Percival's favor. "By the way, Jeff," said he, suddenly. "While you are waiting for that steamer to make up her mind if she wants any wood or not, will you tell me where I can find my horse? I always make it a point to say goodnight to him before I go to bed." Resting one hand on the boy's shoulder Jeff pointed with the other, and showed him the building in which the roan colt had been placed under cover. "The dogs won't bother me, will they?" asked Rodney. "Oh, no. You've been round amongst 'em and they know you." Rodney posted off, and Jeff saw him disappear through the door of the cabin that had been pointed out to him; but he was not looking, that way when Rodney came out a moment later, and with noiseless steps and form half bent directed his course toward Tom Percival's prison. His face wore a determined look, and his right hand, which was thrust into the pocket of his sack coat, firmly clutched his revolver. He knew that he must succeed in what he was about to attempt or die in his tracks, for if he were detected, he would stand as good a chance of being hanged as Tom himself. But there were no signs of wavering or hesitation about him. He drew a bee-line for the back of the corn-crib, and began looking for the places where the chinking had fallen out. It did not take him many minutes to find one, and then he set about attracting Tom's attention by pulling the stick from his sleeve, and rubbing it back and forth through one of the cracks. The movement was successful. There was a slight rustling among the corn-husks inside the cabin, and a second later the prisoner laid hold of the stick. "All right," whispered Tom. "I was looking for you, and I know what this stick is for, Shake." The boys tried to bring their hands together, but the opening between the logs was so narrow that the best they could do was to interlock some of their fingers.