“If you look for fighting,” said Ezra, soberly, “I fancy you’ll get your fill of it before many days.”
The other laughed and leaned gracefully against a tree. He had thick black brows, and he bent them at the young New Englander jeeringly.
“Fighting!” mocked he. “Where is it to come from? Gage has an army of veterans and dare not come out. This other man——”
“General Ward?” suggested Ezra, as the other hesitated.
“Yes—thanks. General Ward has gathered a rabble of peasants which would tear off like sheep at the first sound of a heavy gun.”
“You are wrong,” cried Ezra warmly. “I saw them under fire. They acted the part of men.”
“I’ve heard of that fight,” said the young man. “Pshaw! Such a thing is not a test. Wait until they are forced to sleep out under the stars, to mount guard in the wet, to obey popinjay officers, to keep hungry bellies for days on end, to be sick without physic, to be cold without clothing, to be beaten and asked to fight again. That will show the color of their courage, sir. Your General Ward may be satisfied with less; but nothing short of all I’ve mentioned would answer the needs of an old campaigner.”
To hear him with his youthful face, and sprouting moustaches, calling himself by such a name, caused Ezra to smile. Instantly the face of Gilbert Scarlett changed.
“But it seems that I am wasting good time speaking with you,” said he, coldly. “I find that men of experience are not understood by colonials.” His hard, black eyes ran over the lines of the tall bay horse which Ezra bestrode, and he proceeded, “That is a fair-looking charger. Anyhow, it’s the best to be had at this time, I suppose. So do me the favor to get down.”
Ezra looked at the speaker in some surprise.