Nothing of any importance happened till we reached the Sportsman, where, having fastened up the pony, we went inside to inquire about the parcel. It being the middle of the afternoon the little inn seemed deserted. The only occupant of the taproom was a young country lad, who sat on a big settle, just inside the door, munching a crust of bread and cheese. He turned his head as we entered, and Miles immediately accosted him with,—
"Hullo, Tom Lance! what brings you here?"
The lad was evidently confused at the meeting. His sunburnt face flushed a deeper red, and he mumbled something which we did not hear.
"What brings you in this part of the world?" asked Miles. "Are you tramping it all the way back to Stonebank?"
It had dawned on me by this time who the boy was and where I had seen him before. I remembered now that he was an orphan, and in the employ of Mr. Nicholas Coverthorne. He lived in the house, and made himself generally useful about the farm. Miles had to repeat his question a second time before he got any answer; then the boy, seeming to realize that he could not avoid an explanation sooner or later, blurted out,—
"I'm on the way to Welmington, sir, to go for a soldier."
"To go for a soldier!" cried Miles. "You aren't old enough to enlist."
"I'm big enough, though," replied the boy with a grin; and this seemed likely to prove true, for he was well grown, and might easily have persuaded a recruiting sergeant that he was two years beyond his real age.
"But what are you doing that for?" asked my friend. "Why are you leaving Stonebank?"
Lance hesitated, toying with his huge clasp-knife, and moving uneasily on his seat.