Andy crept along, keeping to the bushes. The storm was nearly over, and no lightning could betray his motions now.
Once the glass house was reached, Andy looked eagerly in. There was a pile of rubbish in one corner, and a man was sitting upon a rude bench near it; between him and Andy, however, were two men with their backs to the boy, and they quite hid the face of the man upon the bench. The two were listening, and the third man was speaking. Andy was too far away to hear, but, gaining courage, he crept around to the other side of the house, and so came close to the group within. Something in the attitude of the man upon the bench had caused the boy's heart to leap madly, then almost stop. He raised his eyes slowly—one look was enough!
Sorrow and ill-treatment had done their work, but the dear face was the same! Dauntless, undying courage shone upon the uplifted face.
It was the master! The errand, whatever it had been, was over. Success or failure? Andy could not tell from the calm features. Spy or hero! What mattered? There sat the beloved friend, deserted and forlorn—still unconquered though the fetters bound him close.
"I would send, if your kindness will permit, these letters. They will make lighter the sorrow of them I love."
Andy bowed his head and clutched at his throat to stifle the rising cry. A broken pane of glass near-by permitted him to hear clearly every word.
One man on guard had a low, brutal face, the other, Andy noticed, had a more humane look.
"Have you the letters written?" asked the coarse fellow.
"I have." The master drew them from his breast and handed them to the speaker.
"One is to Washington," laughed the man. "Gad, you must take us for raw recruits."