“Sir, you said your inn was a quiet one, and that we would not be disturbed.”
“I ask your pardon, Mr. Washington,” said the frightened host. “Nothing like this has ever taken place in my house before. I regret it exceedingly, sir, indeed I do.”
As Mr. Washington once more directed his steady gaze at the Tories and stablemen, Nat addressed him quietly.
“I think, sir,” said he, “that the disturbance is about over. This gentleman,” and he bowed to Royce, who stood, a picture of baffled fury, at one side, “has about discovered that he’s made a mistake. At any rate, he and his friends will intrude no longer, as I think the landlord objects to their presence.” He paused and waved his hand toward the door leading to the road in a gesture that was both an invitation and a command. “The rain, I see, has somewhat slackened, Mr. Royce,” he proceeded, “and you will no doubt find your horses rested and ready.”
There was a short silence. Then Royce, who had evidently no desire for a struggle with the hardy workmen who faced him, made a sign to his followers, and with never a word they strode out into the night, the inn people close at their heels.
And while the sounds of mounting and the jeers of the onlookers came from without, Nat Brewster stood upon the hearthstone before the log fire and explained the situation to the grave, attentive Mr. Washington.
CHAPTER VIII
TELLS HOW THINGS BEGAN TO LOOK BAD FOR
EZRA PRENTISS
It was almost afternoon on the following day when Nat Brewster and the Porcupine reached Germantown once more.
“And now,” said Nat, with a grimace, “what are we going to do with the horses?”
“We can dismount just above here,” answered the ready Porcupine. “I’ll lead them down the lane to a field that belongs to Mr. Chew, take down the bars and drive them in.”