So he made his way into the settlement, at the opposite side from the British encampment, and approaching one of the houses, knocked on the door.
The door opened, and a tall, rough-looking settler appeared. He was no other, in fact, than Hank Sprowl, Herbert Miller’s worst enemy, but Dick, of course, did not know him.
“How are ye, stranger?” Sprowl said, gruffly. “What kin I do fur ye?”
“I am a stranger in these parts,” replied Dick, “and I thought that perhaps I could get something to eat here. I will pay for the food.”
“Thet’s all right. Yas, I guess we kin let ye have somethin’ to eat. Come in.”
Dick entered, and Sprowl motioned to a chair after closing the door, and as the youth sat down, he asked: “What is your name, stranger?”
“Dick Ford,” was the reply, Dick deciding that he had better give a fictitious name, he being so close to the British.
“Where do ye live, an’ where ye goin’?”
“I live about a hundred miles north from here,” was the reply. “And I’m going about fifty miles beyond the James River.”
“Got folks down there, hey?”