“I’d like to oblige you,” said Lathrop, “but it’s against the rules.  You can’t shoot a prisoner.”

The rat-faced soldier uttered an angry exclamation.  “To hell with the rules!” he cried.  “We can’t waste time on him.  Turn him loose!”

The older man rounded on the little one savagely.  The tone in which he addressed him was cold, menacing, sinister.  His words were simple, but his eyes and face were heavy with warning.

“Who is running this?” he asked.

The little soldier muttered, and shuffled away.  From under the brim of his campaign hat, his eyes cast furtive glances up and down the road.  As though anxious to wipe out the effect of his comrade’s words, the sergeant addressed Lathrop suavely and in a tone of conciliation.

“You see,” he explained, “him and me are scouts.  We’re not supposed to waste time taking prisoners.  So, we’ll set you free.”  He waved his hand invitingly toward the bicycle.  “You can go!” he said.

To Miss Farrar’s indignation Lathrop, instead of accepting his freedom, remained motionless.

“I can’t!” he said.  “I’m on post.  My captain ordered me to stay in front of this house until I was relieved.”

Miss Farrar, amazed at such duplicity, exclaimed aloud: 

“He is not on post!” she protested.  “He’s a scout!  He wants to stop here, because—­because—­he’s hungry.  I wouldn’t have let you take him prisoner, if I had not thought you would take him away with you.”  She appealed to the sergeant. “Please take him away,” she begged.

The sergeant turned sharply upon his prisoner.

“Why don’t you do what the lady wants?” he demanded.

“Because I’ve got to do what my captain wants,” returned Lathrop, “and he put me on sentry-go, in front of this house.”

With the back of his hand, the sergeant fretfully scraped the three days’ growth on his chin.  “There’s nothing to it,” he exclaimed, “but for to take him with us.  When we meet some more Reds we’ll turn him over.  Fall in!” he commanded.

“No!” protested Lathrop.  “I don’t want to be turned over.  I’ve got a much better plan. You don’t want to be bothered with a prisoner. I don’t want to be a prisoner.  As you say, I am better dead.  You can’t shoot a prisoner, but if he tries to escape you can.  I’ll try to escape.  You shoot me.  Then I return to my own army, and report myself dead.  That ends your difficulty and saves me from a court-martial.  They can’t court-martial a corpse.”

The face of the sergeant flashed with relief and satisfaction.  In his anxiety to rid himself of his prisoner, he lifted the bicycle into the road and held it in readiness.

“You’re all right!” he said, heartily.  “You can make your getaway as quick as you like.”

But to the conspiracy Miss Farrar refused to lend herself.

“How do you know,” she demanded, “that he will keep his promise?  He may not go back to his own army.  He can be just as dead on my lawn as anywhere else!”