“He means that Ohio Company that’s built a storehouse down near the creek mouth, John, I reckon,” spoke the woman.
“Oh! Well, this here creek jines Will’s Creek. You foller down to the river an’ ask at the big house there, if it’s the Ohio Company you’re seekin’.”
“Goodby,” said Scarouady. He and the Hunter trotted away. Robert’s moccasins were worn through and his feet were sore, and Scarouady settled into a long wolf stride rather rapid for a boy’s tired legs.
“Now we catch Washington soon,” said Scarouady over his shoulder.
They could smell the river. It was the Potomac—smelling very different from the creek that they followed. Within a short time they sighted lights, glimmering through the darkness. The forest was dark and cold; the lights were those of a house at the river—and of a camp fire, nearer than the house.
The camp fire, in a sheltered hollow among the black trees, looked inviting. They went down to it. There were horses; and men lying wrapped in blankets, like Indians, their feet to the blaze; and in front of a lean-to of boughs, fronting the fire, two other men, sitting; a young man, in a match coat, or wool blanket-coat, putting marks upon paper, and an older man, well muffled against the night air, smoking a pipe and staring into the fire.
“Washington!” Robert whispered. “You see him!”
Scarouady hailed: “Hallo, English.”
One of the men lying down started up; but the old man sitting never moved, and Washington only raised his head, and answered:
“Hallo. Come in, friends.”