“At Smith’s Corners, a little rudimentary village about ten miles from the Canadian border, my grandfather stopped for a bite of dinner.
“Jake Smith, the landlord of the little inn, was a trusted friend; and to him my grandfather revealed himself in obedience to a sudden impulse. It was the first time on the whole journey that he had given the slightest clew to his true personality. Well for him that he yielded to this impulse, else even the friendly hornets’ nest, to which we are coming presently, would not have availed to save him.
“Jake Smith was a stirring fellow, who under ordinary circumstances would have liked nothing better than running a spy to earth; but when that spy was Jim Henderson, the case was different.
“My grandfather had stood his horse and wagon in on the spacious barn floor, and was having a wash in a little bedroom opening off the kitchen. The bedroom door was partly closed.
“Suddenly, through the crack of the door, he caught sight of a small party of American militiamen, at whose heels followed two huge brindled mastiffs, or part mastiffs, probably a cross between mastiff and bloodhound. Henderson, confident in his disguise, was just slipping on his coat with the idea of going out and speaking to the soldiers, when the leader’s voice, addressing the landlord at the kitchen door, arrested him.
“‘Where’s that pedler chap that drove in here a few minutes ago?’ inquired the officer, puzzled at seeing no sign of the wagon.
“‘What do you want of him?’ inquired the landlord with an air of interest.
“‘We’ll show you presently!’ said the officer. ‘And we’ll want you, too, if we catch you trying to shelter a spy! Where is he?’
“‘I don’t shelter no spies,’ growled Jake Smith ambiguously; ‘and I’d advise you to keep your jaw for your own men!”
“The officer was about to make an angry reply, but changed his mind.