At this catalogue of infirmities Tom burst into a laugh.
“Well, he must be a peculiar looking person, to be sure,” remarked he. “What did he say?”
“Him have paper,” said Natchez. “Him read it. The paper have you on, sure.”
Tom was puzzled; the whole affair seemed very queer; perhaps the British had learned—but no; if they knew of his and his companions’ presence at the Indian’s Head, they would have made the fact known by means of a company of dragoons, and not in this way.
“He was here three times, you say,” he said to Natchez.
The old man nodded.
“And he say he come once more,” said he.
“Ah!” Tom looked surprised. “Well, in that case I can find out just who and what he is and what he wants.”
After a time Natchez went into the inn to attend to some duties; Tom remained upon the bench, playing with a lively pointer pup, which had approached him in a friendly manner. His companions showed no signs of having awakened; the sun was going down behind a wooded rise in the ground and the long, wide road stretched away toward the city dusty and deserted.
“If my peculiar looking friend wants me he had better hurry,” muttered Tom. “It’s almost time for us to take the road once more.”