“Why,” cried Putnam, when George had finally finished, “here’s a surprising circumstance, indeed. And it would seem that the situation is made to fit you as the coat upon your back. There is nothing for you to do but to take up the scent that is plain before you; and within a week, I warrant you, the solution of it all will be in your hands.”
But George shook his head.
“I’m afraid,” said he, slowly, “that I have no keenness for the work. I felt bound in duty to report what I had seen and heard; but now I ask to be relieved of the matter.”
The general stared at him for a moment in wide amazement. Then the habitually jolly look upon his face died out, and one of coldness replaced it.
“When once a soldier volunteers, it is considered that he is willing to go on until he is directed to halt,” said he.
George lifted his head proudly.
“I, too, am perfectly willing to do that, general, if commanded. But I felt that you were not only my officer but my friend; and that if I told you there was something which made the duty personally distasteful, you would release me from it.”
General Putnam regarded him earnestly for a moment; his face gradually softened.
“You are right, my lad,” spoke he, “I am your friend. This duty, which you have so far carried out smoothly and well, shows itself to be of great importance; and it would be well for us if you could continue it. To be sure, we could arrest young Camp and the merchant Dana at once if need be; but there is still little or no convincing evidence, and a thousand loopholes by which they might escape. The proof necessary could be best secured by you; but if you feel a real repulsion to the work—one that you cannot readily overcome—you may have your wish.”
“Thank you,” said George. “Anything else, general, and you may command me to any length; but not in this.”