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We made coffee and were drinking it when a roughly dressed man approached.

“Say, folks,” he began, “you better clear out of here. The boss up there is hitchin’ up a team to go to Morris after the constable. I hearn him vow to have you run in for trespassin’ on his land.”

We looked at one another in alarm. Hastily swallowing the last crumbs of bread, we rolled up our wet blankets and made ready for the road, the stranger doing all he could to help. Once on the highway we found riding out of the question because of the mud, and what to do we didn’t know, especially as our friend said that the constable would be glad enough to arrest us for the fee.

“But if your wife don’t mind,” he concluded, “you might come down to the river with me. We’re choppin’ wood down there and the bunch’ll hide you till the constable gets tired nosin’ around and goes back to town.”

No sooner said than done. The men took the wheel, and away we went through the underbrush to the woodchopper’s shack. There were four men there, washing clothes, shaving and attending to the usual Sunday chores. Our adherent explained the situation and they all hustled around to make us comfortable. One built up the fire to dry our things, another hid the wheel, one went out to the road to keep watch, while the fourth arranged a place of concealment for us in the rear of the room. Hardly were the preparations complete, when the watcher reported the coming of the farmer and the constable.