"Well," answered our hero in a dull, thick voice. "Well."
"That's you, eh?"
"Me, right enough," Tom coughed sleepily. "What's the time?"
"Time you were back in barracks," came the gruff answer.
The door banged, and again voices were heard on the landing.
"Not there," the grenadier told his friends. "The landlord is right. There is merely a sleepy, half-tipsy comrade. No wonder, too; these rascals of innkeepers sell the worst of wine at the highest figure. But search the other rooms. You, Jacques, stand at the head of the stairs; we will not have our bird bolting. Now, my man, lead on again."
Tom listened attentively, and wondered what his next move should be.
"Walk out in this uniform, I suppose. But it'd be risky; I'd be likely to be accosted by other soldiers. I might get an order from an officer. Still, for the time being, it would do. But I must find some other disguise, for the whole garrison will soon be on the lookout for a young chap dressed like a civilian. I was suspicious of that grenadier; I was afraid he had spotted me. Ah, there they go!"
More voices reached his ear. The French grenadiers stopped at the head of the stairs and discussed the matter.
"Not here—flown through the far window," he heard one say. "Best be after him."