FOLKS FROM DIXIE
Jason Andrews had heard the shouts and firing, seen the glare of the burning cabin through his window, and interpreted it aright. He rose and threw on his coat.
"Jason," said his wife, "don't go down there. It's none of your business."
"I'm not going down there, Kate," he said; "but I know my duty and have got to do it."
The nearest telegraph office was a mile away from his cabin. Thither Jason hurried. He entered, and, seizing a blank, began to write rapidly, when he was interrupted by the voice of the operator, "It's no use, Andrews, the wires are cut." The foreman stopped as if he had been struck; then, wheeling around, he started for the door just as Crofton came rushing in.
"Ah, Andrews, it's you, is it? and before me. Have you telegraphed for troops?"
"It's no use, Mr. Crofton, the wires are cut."
"My God!" exclaimed the young man, "what is to be done? I did not think they would go to this length."
"We must reach the next station and wire from there."
"But it's fifteen miles away on a road where a man is liable to break his neck at any minute."
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