“What is the situation here, my Lord?”
“Oh, it’s hard to convince these military people,” answered Carlisle as he pointed his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of General Clinton and Andre.
“I presume so,” assented Barclugh, dryly, as he shrugged his shoulders. “But what have you done, my Lord, on your mission?” asked Barclugh.
“Oh, nothing but to wait for you,” answered Carlisle disgustedly.
“Well, we must do something very soon, or know the cause,” declared Barclugh as General Clinton approached them.
“Gentlemen,” remarked General Clinton, “we might better retire to the Council Chamber and discuss our matters there. Shall I send for Mr. Eden, my Lord?”
“Never mind Eden, General,” replied Carlisle. “Mr. Barclugh is anxious to conclude with us and be about his own mission. I know that he is impatient at least to be out of New York,” replied Carlisle bluntly.
“Very well, very well, gentlemen,” assented Clinton as he led the way to the staircase and bowed to the other two in Pickwickian fashion as he said:
“After you,” and he bowed and gestured toward the staircase with his chubby hand.
A bright fire crackled in the fireplace of a nearly square room where the diplomats were to hold council with the Commander-in-Chief; a round table in the center contained a large map of the Colonies; a half dozen straight-backed bandy-legged chairs stood around carelessly; and a corner closet with a glass door was well stocked with a choice selection of Madeira.