"Sign! Sign! I saw no sign," said Dalton.

"I did. It was a big sign, and it read, in big letters:
'No Thoroughfare.'"

"You must be right. I suppose I didn't notice it, because I came back
in such a hurry."

They had become so hardened to the dangers of war that, like thousands
of others, they could jest in the face of death.

"We must make another try for it," said Dalton. "We've got to cross
that road. I imagine our greatest danger is from sharpshooters at the
head of it."

"Stoop low and make a dash. Here goes!"

Bent almost double, they made a hop, skip and jump and were in the
bushes on the other side, where they lay still for a few moments,
panting, while the hair on their heads, which had risen up, lay down
again. Quick as had been their passage, fully a dozen ferocious bullets
whined over their heads.

"I hate skirmishers," said Harry. "It's one thing to fire at the mass
of the enemy, and it's another to pick out a man and draw a bead on him."

"I hate 'em, too, especially when they're firing at me!" said Dalton.
"But, Harry, we're doing no good lying here in the bushes, trying to
press ourselves into the earth so the bullets will pass over our heads.