I thanked him and walked forth.
In Hanover Square, which was only a few steps distant, there was a crowd collected about the entrance to Cawston's Tavern. Murray was standing in the doorway, Tom on one side of him, and a huge, red-haired giant in buckskin, with knife and tomahawk at his belt on the other. I stared at the red-haired man, for he was the first woodsman I had seen, observing with curiosity his shaggy locks and fur cap and the brutal ferocity of his face.
I stared so long that I attracted the attention of Murray, who broke off his conversation, with the group surrounding him, and with a pale smile pointed me out to his buckskin retainer. The man scowled at me, and one hand went to his knife-hilt.
I spoke to the citizen nearest me.
"What is the occasion of the crowd?" I asked.
"'Tis Master Murray, the fur-trader, hath returned from London after winning his case before the Lords of Trade," he answered.
"How is that?"
He regarded me suspiciously.
"Are you a stranger?"
"I am but just landed from the same ship as carried Master Murray," I assured him.