Page 158 - Among the camps, or, Young people's stories of the war

J A C K had often run races on colts, but he had never
ridden such a race as that. The wind blew whistling
by him j the leaves off the bushes over the path cut
him, hissing as he dashed along. If he could pass the picket

where the path struck the road near the bridge, he would be
safe. The path was on an incline near the road, and was on
a straight line with the bridge, so he had a straight dash for
it. The picket was just beyond the fork. Jack had often
seen them. There were generally two men on the bridge,
and a pole was laid across the railing of the bridge near the

other side. But Jack did not think of that now ; he thought
only of the men galloping behind him on his track. He
could not have stopped the horse if he would, but he had no
idea of trying it. He was near the bridge, and his only

chance was to dash by the picket. Down the path he went
as straight as an arrow, his splendid horse leaping under his
light weight— down the path like a bullet through the dusk
of the woods. The sleepy picket had heard the firing at the
clearing up on the hill, and had got ready to stop whoever it
might be. They were standing in the road, with their guns