I made a sign to Whitestone, and we slipped quietly out of the tavern, not wishing to draw any notice to ourselves. Despite our caution, two men followed us outside. I had observed one of these men looking at me in the tavern, but he had turned his eyes away when mine met his. Outside he came up to me and said boldly, though in a low voice:
“Have you come from the south?”
“No,” I said carelessly, thinking to turn him off.
“Then you have come from the north, from the battlefield,” he said in a tone of conviction.
“What makes you think so?” I asked, annoyed.
“You and your companion are covered with dust and your horses with perspiration,” he replied, “and you have ridden far and hard.”
I could not guess the man’s purpose, but I took him and the others with him to be Tories, spies of the British, who must be numerous about Albany. I do not like to confess it, but it is true that in our province of New York the Tories were about as many as, perhaps more than, the patriots. We might denounce the men, but we had no proof at all against them. Moreover, we could not afford to get into a wrangle on such a mission as ours.
“You were at the battle,” said the man shrewdly, “and you have come in all haste to Albany.”
“Well, what if we were?” I said in some heat. His interference and impertinence were enough to make me angry.