“Gerry?”
“Oh, of course, Kit!” Sally Rose’s voice had a ring of impatience in it. “I tried to make signs to you. I thought by the look of your face you understood me. You were surely staring at him.”
“Staring at whom?”
“Oh Kitty! You saw him! Gerry was the lad in the homespun breeches who marched beside the prisoners’ cart. He was the only one able to walk, and so he had to wait on them.”
“But—but that lad—he looked like an American. His clothes—I thought—”
“Of course! Gerry was pretending to be an American when we captured him. That’s why he was looking so shabby. You should see him in his captain’s uniform! He’s been kept in a tent in Cambridge—a tent made of old sailcloth that the rain came through, and guards all around him. But he was exchanged this afternoon. I went down to the dock and talked to him while the boats were putting off. He’s gone safe to his own regiment in Boston now. But he says he’ll come back to see me—another day.”
“That’s nice,” said Kitty. “That’s very nice indeed.”
She felt cross suddenly. It must be the heat, or because she had been working so hard, or because she had forgotten to eat any dinner. It might be the outrageous behavior of Sally Rose. There are many ways to explain such a thing.
“And you know he said ...” Sally Rose rattled on.
Suddenly there was a hoarse cry from the cellar stairs—a burst of strong language, then a deep groan of pain. The girls looked at each other.