“Who are my men?”
“There's Wilson and Fitzhugh and Porter and Brown,” and she named ten or a dozen more.
“And what is Dicky?”
“It's a smart man as can put his finger on Dicky Nahl,” said Mother Borton spitefully.
“Nahl is his name?”
“Yes. And I've seen him hobnob with Henry Wilton, and I've seen him thick as thieves with Tom Terrill, and which he's thickest with the devil himself couldn't tell. I call him Slippery Dicky.”
“Why did he bring me here to-night?”
“I hearn there's orders come to change the place—the boy's place, you know. You was to tell 'em where the new one was to be, I reckon, but Tom Terrill spoiled things. He's lightning, is Tom Terrill. But I guess he got it all out of Dicky, though where Dicky got it the Lord only knows.”
This was all that was to be had from Mother Borton. Either she knew no more, or she was sharp enough to hide a knowledge that might be dangerous, even fatal, to reveal. She was willing to serve me, and I was forced to let it pass that she knew no more.
“Well, I'd better be going then,” said I at last. “It's nearly four o'clock, and everything seems to be quiet hereabouts. I'll find my way to my room.”