“Don’t bother, Master Le Geyt,” a strange voice replied. “I have mine handy, and am sure there is enough stuff for a little blaze. Or there was the last time I looked in here.”
Then the boys saw through the crevices of the floor the glare of a tiny flame.
“We have it,” the same man added, “and here is the wood. Soon there’ll be fire enough to dry us within as well as without,” and he laughed at his own attempt to be witty.
“How fortunate we were to meet you, Captain Brant,” Hiram Le Geyt now said; “but for you we shouldn’t have known of this shelter. But who is your companion? You have not introduced him to us.”
“I haven’t had the time. When our canoes crashed into each other and sank, it was all we could do to look out for ourselves, and while running for the cabin there was no chance for introductions. But I am now glad to present him to you. Hiram Le Geyt, this is Alexander Turnbull; Master Daggett, Master Turnbull.”
While the men below were acknowledging the introduction and greeting each other heartily, the lads above strove to get a view of the famous Mohawk chieftain, and the no less famous British spy, who had so many times escaped capture.
The blazing fire below gave them a full view of both men. Brant, a stalwart Indian in civilized dress, and speaking English fluently;[5] Turnbull, a little man, almost womanly in appearance, and yet known to be brave with a facility for assuming disguises which so far had never been detected.
The boys would have been glad to talk with each other just then, but prudence forced them to remain silent, and, therefore, gave their undivided attention to the conversation which followed.
“Are you from below, captain?” Hiram Le Geyt asked, as he was wringing the rain from his garments that he might spread them in front of the fire.
“Yes,” the Indian answered. “I was not pleased with St. Leger’s movements at Oriskany, and went down to meet Burgoyne.”