Watching the officer’s face, George saw it change grimly at this answer; he made no remark, but turning to Herbert Camp, inquired:
“And how is it with you, my lad?”
“My name is Bardwell,” returned the young man, composedly. “I suppose, sir,” with a glance at the party of soldiers, “that you have a right to make these inquiries?”
“Ay,” replied the officer, “that I have; and I’m not called upon to show any credentials, either. This uniform will do all that,” and he slapped himself upon the chest, “and so out with the rest of it. What are you, and what is your errand here?”
“I am clerk to a mercer in the city,” replied young Camp—“Mr. Nathan in Maiden Lane, to be exact. And I’m on my way beyond the Harlem upon some matters of business.”
“You could have gotten beyond the Harlem if you had had the mind,” spoke the leader of the party, positively. “There was no reason for your stopping here.”
“I dislike traveling at night,” said the other.
“Then you should have started earlier in the day.” And with this the officer turned upon George. “And you, sir?” he demanded, peremptorily. “What have you to say?”
“I am from Cambridge,” replied George. “I arrived in New York only recently and am traveling about.”
“You selected a most indifferent time and place to do it in,” the other made answer. Then with a gesture that took in all three he added: “You are under arrest.”