It was a disconcerting pass,
and George Fairburn set his wits to work.
"I have a plan!" he cried a moment later, and he hastily told it to
the officer in command, Major Wilson. That gentleman gave an emphatic
approval.
Behold then, a quarter of an hour later, a couple of young peasants at
work in a hayfield down below. Stolidly they tossed the hay as they
slowly crossed the field, giving no heed to the tramp of horses near.
A voice, authoritative and impatient, caused them to look round in
wonderment, as a mounted officer came galloping up. He inquired of the
peasants whether they had seen anything of the convoy, describing its
probable appearance. The listeners grinned in response, and the face
of one of them lit up with intelligence, as he made answer in voluble
but countrified French.
"Where have you picked up such vile French?" inquired the officer.
"I'm from Dunkirk, please your honour," the man replied with another
grin, to which the other muttered, "Ah! I suppose the French of
Dunkirk is pretty bad!"
In another minute the yokels were leading the way through a
plantation, along which ran a little stream. At one spot the water was
very muddy, and the marks of hoofs were plentiful. "We are evidently
close upon them," remarked the officer jubilantly, and at a brisk trot
he and his men rode on, a gold louis jingling down at the feet of the
peasants as the party dashed away.
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