“I saw Laura, sir,” said Tom, “and just paused for a moment to speak to her.”
“Well,” growled he, not seeming to relish this explanation in the least, “now that you have spoken with her, suppose you come into the dining-hall and not keep my guests waiting for you.”
Tom pressed Laura’s hands in hurried thanks; his glowing eyes told her how grateful he was for the information which she had just given him. In it he saw a chance to serve his country and make a name for himself at the same time.
The planter led him through the hall, into the room in which his dragoon guests were assembled. The table contained some bottles; and, as though by chance, the sword of each dragoon lay near him ready to hand.
“Ah!” said Mark Harwood, as Tom entered, at the planter’s heels. “Here you are at last!”
There was something like a sneer in his tone as he said this; the officers seemed to see a hidden meaning in them, for they laughed boisterously and hammered the table with their glasses. They made room, however, for the boy at the head of the table, as though anxious to do him honor. Cheyne, the lieutenant who had tortured Cole so barbarously, slapped him familiarly upon the shoulder.
“Now, fall to, youngster. You’re a pretty sprout of a king’s man, and a king’s man should never shirk.”
“In these times of rebellion,” said Mark Harwood reaching forward and filling a goblet, which stood upon the table before Tom, “good, loyal subjects are rare. So let us treat them well when they visit us.”
Tom Deering flashed the young Tory a rapid glance.
“Come, take your glass, my lad,” cried Cheyne.