Seeing that his new friend was determined to have his way in the matter, Nat said nothing more upon the subject.
“But,” he cautioned, “keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Trust me for that,” grinned the Porcupine.
Nat pushed open the heavy door and found himself in a large, square, low-ceilinged room with rafters and sanded floor. There were heavy settees and chairs and tables standing about and many rain-soaked coats hanging upon the wall. The rain and wind together had turned the night rather chill; a good-sized fire was burning in a wide-mouthed fireplace, and a number of men were standing about it, their bands behind them and their backs to the blaze.
As the boy opened the door, the landlord, a small, meek-looking man in a white apron, was speaking.
“But, gentlemen,” he said, “you are well acquainted with what is required of an innkeeper. It is quite impossible for me to do what you ask.”
The burly Tory, Royce, to whom these words were apparently addressed, slashed his tall boots with his riding-whip and stalked up and down angrily. His heavy tread sounded noisily upon the sanded floor; his big, coarse-featured face was flushed.
“Now listen to me with attention, my good fellow,” spoke he, wrathfully, and he pointed the heavy whip at the landlord threateningly. “We know little of what you call the duties of an innkeeper and care a great deal less. As for it being impossible for you to do what ask—well, we’ll request you to reconsider that.”
“The gentlemen when they came begged the use of the room,” said the other. “It was to be strictly private. And I could not now intrude others upon them.”
The angry, flushed face of Royce now became fairly purple.