Seeing Robert pause and gaze, the sentry by the tree gained dignity and staggered toward him, then he laughed: “You were long enough in coming, lad,” he said, “I’m nearly frozen. What you doing in those togs?” he questioned, looking sharply, “changed your ideas with your clothes and want me to follow? Lead on, I’ll be glad enough to get back to American quarters. Got some whisky?” He came quite close to Robert now, and a queer light grew in his dull eyes.
“Wha—at’s the matter—hic, going to turn your back on me, after what I’ve told you? You look more than ever—hic—like my girl. Come give us a drink!”
Shirtliffe saw that Mason mistook him for some one he knew, and was puzzled.
“Don’t you—don’t you know me?” the boy asked in a broken voice.
“Of course I know you Captain Morley, even in those clothes, come boy, pass out your flask.”
“Come with me,” groaned Robert, “how did you get among the British after your splendid deed?” A blur passed over Mason’s eyes. His senses became more muddled.
“Get here? You ought to know better than I, captain, hic—but I’m not going to tell you anything more, hic—until I get whisky. Good whisky you’ve got and plenty of it. I’d sell my soul for a drink.” A half sob choked the words, and Mason’s hands stretched out in piteous pleading.
Robert turned his head away, bewilderment and horror keeping him silent.
“Some day, lad,” Mason was crying openly now, “I want you to go to Plymouth—and—find—Debby—pretty—Debby Mason. ’Pon my soul she’s enough like you to be your sister,—hic—I wonder if it—could—be—possible—but no, it could not be. Here—give me a drink, I’m choking—what—what was your mother’s name lad? I’ve been trying to ask you that ever since I first saw you. Whisky! whisky! quick!”
“Sentry, who goes there?” A clear young voice startled the shivering drunkard and Robert alike.