II.--The Disguise That Failed
The morning still forbade the idea of exposing either man or beast to the tempest. Harper was the last to appear, and Henry Wharton had resumed his disguise with a reluctance amounting to disgust, but in obedience to the commands of his parent.
While the company were yet seated at breakfast, Caesar, the black, entered and laid a small parcel in silence by his master.
"What is this, Caesar?" inquired Mr. Wharton, eyeing the bundle suspiciously.
"The baccy, sir; Harvey Birch, he got home, and he bring you a little good baccy."
To Sarah Wharton this intelligence gave unexpected pleasure, and, rising from her seat, she bade the black show Birch into the apartment, adding suddenly, with an apologising look, "If Mr. Harper will excuse the presence of a pedlar."
The stranger bowed a silent acquiescence, while Captain Wharton placed himself in a window recess, and drew the curtain before him in such a manner as to conceal most of his person from observation.
Harvey Birch had been a pedlar from his youth, and was in no way distinguished from men of his class but by his acuteness and the mystery which enveloped his movements. Those movements were so suspicious that his imprisonments had been frequent.
The pedlar soon disposed of a considerable part of the contents of his pack to the ladies, telling the news while he displayed his goods.
"Have you any other news, friend?" asked Captain Wharton, in a pause, venturing to thrust his head without the curtains.