"Where runs this road?" I asked.
"To Boutonville."
"And what is Boutonville?"
"It's where the Boutons live—a mile or two north, sir. They're a wild parcel."
"Are they of our party?"
"Oh, yes, sir. But they hunt the leather-caps as we hunt quail—scare up a company, fire, and then track down the scattered."
"Oh; irregulars."
"No, sir, not skinners. They farm it until the British plague them beyond endurance. Then," he added significantly, "they go a-hunting with their dogs."
I had already turned to retrace my steps when it occurred to me that perhaps an inquiry of this lad might not be misunderstood.
So I walked up to his horse and stood caressing the sorry animal while I described to him the wench I was seeking.