“I know that we are both no better than dead men if we can not lay hands on this spy of yours before he has screwed up courage to name his price to Sir Henry Clinton or Arnold,” I said gravely. “But doubtless he has already done so.”
Champe shook his head.
“I’m hoping not. He was well frightened by the fierceness with which the guard corporal bullied me; and when I had my last glimpse of him he was making off up the shore and evidently wishing with all his heart he dared break into a run.”
“Yet he will come to it,” I asserted. “The gold-greed will drive him, and his news is too big to keep. I’d give the best field of the Page tobacco lands to know if we are still in time to stop him.”
The sergeant rose and stretched his long arms over his head. Then he felt of his neck tenderly, saying with a touch of grim humor: “The cord isn’t knotted around it yet. Pass your orders, Captain Dick. What do we do?”
“Nay,” said I; “you’ve proved that your head is as good or better than mine. What do you say?”
“Being footloose, and having my regimentals on, I might go and have another look for Mr. James Askew. Then, if I could get him and my bully guard-relief corporal in the same crazy wherry—”
“You’d drown them both, I suppose,” I laughed. “Never mind the corporal; he’s harmless enough, while this man Askew holds your life in one hand and mine in the other. What will you do with him if you find him?—or when you find him?”
“I’ll keep him from spreading his sails to Sir Henry Clinton’s golden breeze, at all events,” said the sergeant meaningly. Then: “You don’t happen to have a bit of poison of any kind in your kit, do you?”
“Bah!” said I. “Do it soldierly, at least, Sergeant Champe.”