“I offered you the chance,” I said, “when we were in the river, but you would not accept it. You’ve heard many wise sayings about lost opportunities, and this proves the truth of them.”
“That’s so,” he said with a sigh of deep regret.
“Besides,” I added, in the way of consolation for his lost opportunity, “you would gain nothing by it but bruises. I am larger and stronger than you.”
He measured me with his eye and concluded that I spoke truth, for he heaved another sigh, but of comfort.
“Now, Chudleigh,” I said, “a man can be a fool sometimes and lose nothing, but he can’t be a fool all the time and gather the profits of the earth. Drop back here with me and let us talk and act sensibly.”
He wrinkled his brow a moment or two, as if in thought, and accepted my invitation. Whereupon we became very good companions.
In reality I felt as much trouble about Chudleigh as myself. It was like the trouble I had felt on Albert’s account. He had penetrated our lines in citizen’s clothes, and if I took him back to our camp in the same attire he might be regarded as a spy, with all the unpleasant consequences such a thing entails. Having spared Chudleigh’s life once from scruples, I had no mind to lead him to the gallows. I must get a British uniform for him, though how was more than I could tell. The problem troubled me much.
But the advance of hunger soon drove thoughts of Chudleigh’s safety out of my mind, and, stubborn Englishman though he was, he was fain to confess that he too felt the desire for food. Along that side of the river the settlements were but scant, and nowhere did we see a house.
That we would encounter Whitestone and Adams was beyond all probability, for they would never surmise that we had crossed the river. Chudleigh and I looked ruefully and hungrily at each other.
“Chudleigh,” I said, “you are more trouble a captive than a fugitive.”