Tom pulled a tendril off a grape vine that grew on a trellis over the door and began to chew it. “Stark wants me to bring it back tonight,” he said.
The young officer sat up and surveyed him insolently.
“Stark may not know it, but there’s a war beginning,” he announced.
“Yes,” agreed Tom. “There is. That’s what he wants the lead for.”
Suddenly they were both laughing.
“You’re right, man,” answered the young officer in a friendlier tone. “We’re all on edge, and it takes us different ways, I guess. But I still don’t know where the stuff has got to, and I’m afraid we can’t do anything till Prescott takes his force out of town, which he’ll do as soon as it’s dark enough. Come back a little after nine.”
“Where’s Prescott going?” Tom asked.
The officer laid his finger across his mouth. “Prescott knows—and nobody else has any need to. Have you got rations, lad?”
“No,” said Tom, “we come empty-handed. Three others besides me.”
The officer wrote rapidly on a slip of paper.