“Why, I baiged an’ baiged an’ besought ye ’fore we went in the house ter do nothin’ ter the paper,” said Hilary, wearied and excited and even alarmed by his companion’s vacillations, so wild with fear had Bixby become. “I wunk at ye when the old man’s back was turned. I even tried ter snatch the paper whenst ye put yer boot-toe on the aidge of a piece of it on the ha’thstone an’ helt it down till it war bu’nt.” “I war a fool,” said Bixby, gloomily. “I wish I hed it hyar now.” “I tole ye,” said Hilary, for he had spent the day in urging the fair and open policy, let come what might of it, “I tole ye ez I war a-goin’ ter show my parole ter the fust man ez halts me, an’ ef I be out’n the lines, an’ he won’t believe my tale, let him take it out on me howsumdever the law o’ sech doin’s ’pears. Nobody could expec’ me ter set an’ starve on that hillside till sech time ez the Fed’rals throw out thar line agin.” “I wisht I hed my parole agin,” said Bixby, more moodily still. Down the road before them suddenly they saw a dust, and a steely glitter--not so strong a reflection, however, as marching infantry throws out. A squad of cavalry was approaching at a steady pace. Jack Bixby’s first idea was flight; this the condition of the jaded horse rendered impolitic. Then he thought of concealment--in vain. On either hand the level, plowed fields afforded not the slightest bush as a shield. The only thicket in sight was alongside the road and now in line with the approaching party whom it so shadowed that it was impossible to judge by uniform or accoutrements to which army they belonged. “Hil’ry,” said Jack Bixby, “let’s stick ter the country-jake story; I’ll say that I be a farmer round hyar somewhar, an’ pretend that you air my son. That’ll go down with any party.” “I be goin’ ter tell the truth myself, an’ show my parole, whoever they be; that’s the right thing,” said Hilary, stoutly. “But I ain’t got no parole,” quavered Bixby. “Tell the truth an’ I’ll bear ye out,” said Hilary. “Tell ’em that thar be so many parties--Feds an’ Confeds an’ Union men an’ bushwhackers, an’ we-uns got by accident out’n the lines an’ ye took alarm an’ _dee_stroyed yer parole. I’ll bear ye out an’ take my oath on it; an’ ye know the old man war remarkin’ on them cinders on the aidge o’ the mantel shelf an’ ha’thstone ez we left the house.” “Hil’ry,” said Bixby, as with a sudden bright idea--anything but the truth seemed hopeful to him--“I’ll tell ye. I’ll take yer parole an’ claim it ez mine, an’ pretend that ye air my son--non-combatant, jes’ a boy, ez ye air.” “But it’s got _my_ name on it. It’s a-parolin’ of _me_,” said Hilary, “an’ I _ain’t_ no non-combatant.” “But I’ll claim your name; I’ll be Hil’ry Knox, an’ tall ez ye air, yer face shows ye ain’t nuthin’ but a boy. Nobody wouldn’t disbelieve it.”