“We’ll find out,” Late replied in the same cautious manner.
Therefore when Daggett moved on, they kept as close to his heels as was possible with safety to themselves. Having passed the Indian camp, he walked rapidly, with the air of one who knows where he is going.
“He’s bound for the British army,” Late said, speaking scarcely above his breath. “Probably he has a message of some kind. I wish we could find out what it is.”
Fortune soon favored them, and in a way they little expected. A half-mile farther on the old man was hailed by a picket. To the call, “Who goes there?” he answered, “A friend,” and received the customary direction: “Advance, friend, and give the countersign.”
This Master Daggett could not do, and for some time he parleyed with the guard, trying to persuade the man to allow him to pass.
“I’m a loyal subject of the king,” he cried, “and have come with important news for your commander. Let me go on!”
But the sentinel was firm. Then the Tory grew angry.
“I’ll show,” he screamed, “that you have no right to stop me. Your own commander will come to let me in,” and he drew from his pocket a small silver bugle. Putting this to his lips, he sounded a few sharp, shrill notes. Twice he repeated the call, and then, restoring the instrument to his pocket, calmly folded his arms and waited.
A moment later the captain of the guard, followed by a squad of soldiers, came running down to the post where, finding the sentinel with his gun trained on an old man who stood a few rods distant with folded arms, he demanded:
“What does this mean? Who blew those bugle notes?”