“Not 'a cold check' after all that drenching and mishandling!” the landlord exclaimed. “We'll have a hot supper in half an hour, and you shall stay, and welcome. Wife, bring down one of Liddy's pens, the schoolmaster made for her, and put a little vinegar into th' ink-bottle; it's most dried up!”
In a few minutes the necessary materials for a letter, all of the rudest kind, were supplied, and the landlord and drovers hovered around as Gilbert began to write, assisting him with the most extraordinary suggestions.
“I'd threaten,” said a drover, “to write straight to General Washington, unless they promise to catch the scoundrel in no time!”
“And don't forget the knife and pistol!” cried the landlord.
“And say the Tory farmers' houses ought to be searched!”
“And give his marks, to a hair!”
Amid all this confusion, Gilbert managed to write a brief, but sufficiently circumstantial account of the robbery, calling upon the County authorities to do their part in effecting the capture of Sandy Flash. He offered his services and those of the Kennett troop, announcing that he should immediately start upon the hunt, and expected to be seconded by the law.
When the letter had been sealed and addressed, the drovers—some of whom carried money with them, and had agreed to travel in company, for better protection—eagerly took charge of it, promising to back the delivery with very energetic demands for assistance.
Night had fallen, and the rain fell with it, in renewed torrents. The dreary, universal hum of the storm rose again, making all accidental sounds of life impertinent, in contrast with its deep, tremendous monotone. The windows shivered, the walls sweat and streamed, and the wild wet blew in under the doors, as if besieging that refuge of warm, red fire-light.
“This beats the Lammas flood o' '68,” said the landlord, as he led the way to supper. “I was a young man at the time, and remember it well. Half the dams on Brandywine went that night.”