“He is not to be found. The governor has no idea if he be living or dead. Men die suddenly in these times, you know.”
“But suppose,” said the boy, “that I could tell you where to find him?”
The old man grasped him eagerly by the arm.
“You are not jesting?”
“Not in the least. I am of Major Marion’s command. He is now in the camp of General Gates.”
The burgess was overjoyed at this intelligence; he wrung Tom’s hand warmly. “Good news,” he cackled, hardly able to restrain himself. “I will go to him in the morning—I will offer him the command.” Then he paused suddenly and continued in a more sober tone. “Do you think, my lad, that he will be inclined to accept?”
Tom thought of his commander’s cold reception at the hands of General Gates, and answered promptly:
“I rather think he will, sir.”
“Good—good!” The old fellow went off, at this point, into a rapture of chuckling. “Come, you will lodge with me to-night; I will not accept a refusal. Wait until I give word to dismiss the company for the day; then you shall have as fine a supper and as soft a bed as you have ever had in your life.”
At the burgess’ command the drill-sergeant dismissed the militia; then Tom and Cole were led away to the comfortable stone house of the town official; their horses were put up in the stable and baited with corn; Cole was taken in hand by some of the negro servants, while his young master was borne off to be introduced to the family of the burgess. In spite of his worn clothes and unkempt appearance, the boy was kindly welcomed by his hostess and her blooming daughters. To be sure he noticed, now and then, that the girls would giggle together, aside, over his deerskin hunting-shirt or his leather leggings; but they made up for this by their many little kindnesses; and the sly looks of admiration which they stole at his handsome, sun-browned face and tall, sinewy form often made his cheeks burn.