“The idea is,” explained the short man, “this being a pleasant party, and all interests being common, it would be a shame to have it broken up.  Tom will sit there in the door for two hours—­then he wakes me and I sit there.  We’re not accusing anybody inside of wanting to leave; but who is sure that somebody from the outside may not stroll along and want to come in?  Seeing that we went down to the pen from Levant, it may be thought—­providing they do any thinking at the state prison—­that we have come back here to start in where we left off.  On the other hand, providing they don’t do any thinking, they may come up into this section because a reasoning man never would believe we’d take chances by coming back into an old stamping ground.  Either way it’s looked at, we’ve got to be careful.  Therefore, we hope that gents of a pleasant party will consider this double-shift arrangement as being for the general good of all hands.”

Mr. Wagg was pleased.  He said so unhesitatingly, but not tactfully.  He declared that he would mortally hate to be surprised keeping the company he was in.

Vaniman was able to stay awake through most of the two watches.  But the short man on sentry go was more vigilant than the tall man had been; two hours of sleep and the keen hope for the morrow conspired to keep the guard alert.  In despair the young man loosed his hold on the hateful verities and slipped into slumber.

He was suddenly awakened by a pinching grip on his arm.  He opened his eyes upon broad day and upon the face of the tall man.  He was aware that the short man was shaking Wagg awake in the next bunk.  “Two men coming up the side of the mountain; got a slant at ’em through the trees; they’re after us!”

“Sho!” demurred Wagg.  “They’re only bird hunters.”

“We’re taking no chances on ’em being jailbird hunters!  Are there any holes here in the rocks?”

“Plenty,” stated Wagg.  “And the three of you better hunt them holes, no matter who is coming.”

The short man, the tall man, and Vaniman needed no urging on that point.  They ran, crouching low, and scrambled out of sight among the ledges of the craggy peak of Devilbrow.

Wagg lighted his pipe and went out and sat on the bench beside the camp’s door, and when the two early visitors came puffing up the hill and confronted him he was to all appearances enjoying the delights of a bland fall morning and the comfort of an unruffled conscience.  He jumped to his feet and hailed one of the men with a great show of cordiality; the man was one of the deputy wardens of the state prison.

Mr. Wagg hopefully and guilelessly expressed the conviction that the officer had followed along into the wilderness in order to join in the process of recuperation.

The deputy asserted that Mr. Wagg was wrong to the extent of a damsite, or something of the sort, and reported some recent happenings at the state prison, Mr. Wagg listening with appropriate, shocked, official concern.  He opined that it was a long shot, figuring that the convicts had fled back to the region of Levant.  The warden agreed.  “But the Old Man is bound to have us tip over every flat rock, Bart.  He got a call-down for that accident—­and this matter on top of it has made him sore.  I’m up here this far because I got a line on you at Levant.”