As he spoke he started suddenly.
“What is it?” demanded Ross in a low tone.
“That blackguard English spy!” returned Conyngham. “Didn’t you see him? There he goes on a run up the street.”
By this time three sailors had also climbed to the wharf and picked up the canvas bags. The crowd made way as the little party started forward, Ross and the young captain leading. The people, on the whole, were in smiling good nature. There was even a trace of exultation in their expression, a few clapped their hands, there were some murmured “Bravos.” Had they been English or American they might have fallen to cheering.
“Heaven grant we have not been rash,” muttered Ross, “but there will be a tempest as soon as the news reaches Paris.”
“What will there be when it reaches London?” returned Conyngham laughing. “Perhaps this time our friend Lord Stormont will demand his recall or Parliament will send for him. Egad! then the fat will be in the fire!”
Although they had passed close to the spot where Ross and Allan and Hodge were standing, no sign of recognition passed between them. The crowd had the politeness not to follow, and soon Conyngham and Ross turned down the corner toward the little inn at which the first meeting had been held; the sailors carrying the canvas bags were close at their heels, and, the landlord of the tavern appearing at the doorway, the party entered. In a few minutes the rest of the plotters appeared, having come in by another entrance, and the sailors returned to the ship’s boat.
As soon as they were all seated about the table in the little front room and had ascertained that there was no chance of their conversation being overheard, Conyngham related his experience.
The company laughed heartily as he told of the English captain’s discomfiture, but Hodge a moment later looked very grave. So much so, in fact, that Allan, noticing it, clapped him on the shoulder.
“What is it, friend William? You look suddenly stricken with grief or disappointment.”