At any other time Hadley would not have been so disturbed at meeting Lon Alwood, for, though they were not friends, he was scarcely afraid of the Tory youth. But now, when he was in such haste and so much depended upon his getting across the river in the quickest possible time, the unexpected appearance of young Alwood unnerved him. “Whadjer goin’ ter do, Moster Had?” whispered the frightened darkey. “Sho’s yo’ bawn, Ah’ll be skinned alibe fur dis.” “Who’s that with you, Sam?” demanded his young master. “You’re helping some rebel across the river--I know your tricks. I tell you, when father hears of this he’ll make you suffer for it!” “It’s Had Morris,” said the young courier, before his companion had a chance to answer. “You needn’t come any nearer Lon, to find out. But, as long as you are aboard, you can pick up the other pole and help Sam.” “Had Morris!” shouted the other boy in astonishment and wrath. “Do you think I’m going to do what you say?” “Take up your pole, Sam!” commanded Hadley, hastily. “The boat’s swinging down stream. Quick now!” He had heard a door shut somewhere near, and was quite sure that the elder Alwood had heard the noise at the riverside and was coming to see about it. Hadley stepped to where Lon stood in frozen amazement, and, holding a pistol at a threatening angle, patted each of his enemy’s side pockets and the breast of his shirt. Lon was without arms. “Lon, you pick up that other pole and set to work, or I’ll shoot you!” commanded the young American, sternly. “If you were in my shoes you’d treat me just as I’m treating you. I’ve got to get across the river, and nothing you can do will stop me. No you don’t!” Lon had half turned, as though he contemplated leaping into the river. Hadley raised the pistol menacingly. “Pick up that pole!” he commanded. At that moment the voice of the elder Alwood came to their ears. “Lon! Lon! Is that you out there? What air you and Sam doin’ with the boat?” “Keep on poling and save your wind!” commanded Hadley, threateningly, still with the pistol at Lon’s side. But the old gentleman’s wrath rose, and, believing that it was not his son aboard the boat, he brought his old-fashioned squirrel rifle to his shoulder. “Stop where you be!” he called, threateningly. “I ain’t goin’ to let you scalawags run off with my property--not by a jugful! Come back here with that boat or I’ll see if a charge of shot’ll reach ye!” “Don’t shoot, dad!” yelled Lon, in deadly fear of the old man’s gun. “You’ll like enough shoot me instead of him. I can’t help it. He’s got a pistol an’--” “Who is it?” cried the elder Alwood. “Where’s Sam?” “It’s Had Morris. He’s makin’ Sam and me take him across the river.” “Is that his horse I see there?” demanded the wrathful farmer. “Yes, dad. Shoot it!” shouted Lon. “Don’t you do it, Mr. Alwood,” warned the dispatch bearer. “I’ve got my pistol right against your son’s ribs, and when you fire your gun I shall pull the trigger.”