CHAPTER VIII.
ON THE MARCH.
Will Bertram’s expressive face must have betrayed to Mr. Hunter that the stowaway was a friend, for that gentleman regarded Tom with a critical, amused smile, and then asked Will:
“You know this boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who is he?”
“Tom Dalton. He is from Watertown, but how he came here is more than I can tell.”
Tom stood sullenly regarding the curious men around him, half-cowering, as if expecting the usual beating he had received on board the Golden Moose for any delinquency.
“Come to the fire and warm yourself, and get something to eat,” said Mr. Hunter, in a kindly tone, to the friendless runaway.
Tom crept to the camp-fire with a look of infinite relief. He evaded Will’s glance sheepishly, and was entirely silent until the rude, but plentiful, evening repast was finished.