The landlord made a clucking sound with his thin lips. Tom Trask was staring hard at the small iron-bound leather box on the table in front of him.
“Who’s that there belong to?” he asked suddenly.
“That—oh, that belongs to Gerry Malory over in the corner. Gerry’s a shoemaker from Barnstable—on his way to Newburyport to see a girl.” The landlord’s voice was gay and jovial in his relief, now that he had no further cause to fear the British. After all, he had not fled away at the false rumor. He had not been made a fool of. He strutted a little as he walked about the room, filling the glasses, replenishing the fire. When his shame-faced neighbors came straggling back, he’d be able to indulge himself in a boast or two. Then suddenly he pricked up his ears. The tow-headed lad from New Hampshire Colony was speaking. He held the leather chest in his hands, turning it about.
“‘G. Malory,’ it says here. And Landlord says G.’s for Gerry. Gerry Malory—going to Newburyport to see a girl.” He sounded thoughtful.
The landlord noticed that the young shoemaker from Barnstable had edged his stool further back into the shadows. He said no word.
“Seems to me,” went on Tom Trask, “I might know what girl he’s going to see. A peacock-proud girl named Sally Rose, I wouldn’t wonder. Seems to me I heard o’ Gerry Malory.”
His voice deepened, and there was a sharp edge to it that caught the attention of everyone in the room and made them listen.
“That’s her!” cried the landlord excitedly. “Sally Rose! Job Townsend’s daughter! He said he hung around the Bay and Beagle some!”
Still the young man in the shadows did not speak.
“The Gerry Malory I heard of,” went on Tom Trask, “was said to be a captain in the Twenty-third. That’d mean he’s a British officer.” He waited accusingly.