they looked as if a very poor lean divine had hung himself there. Then
he sat down, and took his turn at staring. 'I do not bury the dead,'
he remarked after a moment, as if convinced that the two shabby
hunters before him could have no other errand.

Waring was about to explain, but old Fog stopped him with a glance.
'You are to come with us, sir,' he said courteously; 'you will be well
treated, well paid, and returned in a few days.'

'Come with you! Where?'

'Never mind where; will you come?'

'No,' said the little blanket-man, stoutly.

In an instant Fog had tripped him up, seized a sheet and blanket from
the bed, bound his hands and feet with one, and wrapped him in the
other. 'Now, then,' he said shouldering the load, 'open the door.'

'But the Mormons,' objected Waring.

'O, they like a joke, they will only laugh! But if, by any chance,
they show fight, fire at once,' replied the old man, leading the way.
Waring followed, his mind anything but easy; it seemed to him like
running the gantlet. He held his pistols ready, and glanced furtively
around as they skirted the town and turned down towards the beach. 'If
any noise is made,' Fog had remarked, 'I shall know what to do.'

Whereupon the captive swallowed down his wrath and a good deal of
woollen fuzz, and kept silence. He was no coward, this little