the bell-crowned hat flew off and
rolled behind, and Jake could not resist the temptation to give it a
kick which sent it spinning into a clump of honeysuckles. Then the Rebel
flung off a haversack, whose flapping interfered with his speed, and
this was followed by a clumsily-constructed cedar canteen. The thought
flashed into Jake's mind that this was probably filled with the
much-vaunted peach-brandy of that section; and as ardent sprits were one
of his weaknesses, the temptation to stop and pick up the canteen was
very strong, but he conquered it and hurried on after his prey. Next
followed the fugitive's belt, loaded down with an antique cartridge-box,
a savage knife made from a rasp and handled with buckhorn, and a
fierce-looking horse-pistol with a flint-lock.

"I seemed to be bustin' up a moosyum o' revolutionary relics," said Jake
afterward, in describing the incident. "The feller dropped keepsakes
from his forefathers like a bird moltin' its feathers on a windy day. I
begun to think that if I kep up the chase purty soon he'd begin to shed
Continental money and knee-britches."

The fugitive turned off to the right into a narrow path that wound
through the laurel thickets. Jake followed with all the energy that
remained in him, confident that a short distance more would bring him
so close to his game that he could force his surrender by a threat of
bayoneting. He caught up to within a rod of the Rebel, and was already
foreshortening his gun for a lunge in case of refusal to surrender on
demand, when he was amazed to see the Rebel whirl around, level his
gun at him, and order HIS surrender. Jake was so astonished that he
stumbled, fell forward and dropped his gun. As he raised his eyes he saw
three or four other Rebels step out from behind a rock, and level their
guns upon him with an expression of bloodthirstiness that seemed simply
fiendish.

Then it flashed upon him how far away he was from all his comrades,
and that the labyrinth of laurel made them even more remote. With this
realization came the involuntary groan:

"O, Lordy! it's all up with me. I'm a goner, sure!"

His courage did not ooze out of his fingers, like the historic Bob
Acres's; it vanished like gas from a rent balloon. He clasped his hands
and tried to think of some prayer.

"Now I lay me," he murmured.

"Shan't we shoot the varmint?" said one of the Rebels, with a motion of
his gun in harmony with that idea.

"O, mister--mister--GOO