“Yes,” said Nanny flatly, stepping back into the kitchen.
He sat down on a bench, picked up a ladle, and tasted the chowder gingerly.
“None for me, Nanny,” called her father. “I be that worried about the British, I wouldn’t relish victuals none.”
“Right, sir,” said Gerry, putting down the ladle. “It comes to me that I, too, am worried about the British. Still, a piece of bread now—it need not have butter—I could eat it dry.”
“Slice up a loaf of bread, Nanny,” called the landlord.
Nanny’s thin piping voice came back from the kitchen. “The bread’s moldy. All that wasn’t, we sent to Cambridge.”
Gerry Malory sighed resignedly. “Well, perhaps a glass of milk then—unless all the cows have fled away. Nothing stronger. I must keep a clear head on me.”
The landlord himself brought a pitcher of milk and poured two glasses full.
“Be ye just up from the Cape, Gerry? And did ye come by Cambridge? We’ve had no news from there since the word o’ Concord Fight come through.”
The young man shook his head. “I haven’t been near Cambridge, and it’s a long time since I went Barnstaple way.”