Waring followed, his mind anything but easy; it seemed to him like
running the gantlet. He held his pistols ready, and glanced furtively
around as they skirted the town and turned down towards the beach. 'If
any noise is made,' Fog had remarked, 'I shall know what to do.'
Whereupon the captive swallowed down his wrath and a good deal of
woollen fuzz, and kept silence. He was no coward, this little
Preacher. He held his own manfully on the Beavers; but no one had ever
carried him off in a blanket before, So he silently considered the
situation.
When near the boat they came upon more patriarchs. 'Put a bold face on
it,' murmured old Fog. 'Whom do you suppose we have here?' he began,
as they approached. 'Nothing less than your little Preacher; we want
to borrow him for a few days.'
The patriarchs stared.
'Don't you believe it?--Speak up, Preacher; are you being carried
off?'
No answer.
'You had better speak,' said Fog, jocosely, at the same time giving
his captive a warning touch with his elbow.
The Preacher had revolved the situation rapidly, and perceived that in
any contest his round body would inevitably suffer from friend and foe
alike.
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