Questions and answers followed in quick succession, and the young officers seemed to forget that they were retreating with a defeated army.
As soon as they had landed they made their way past the Fly Market, near the river.
"It looks as if a plague were in town," thought George to himself. He had just finished relating the incidents that led to his sudden promotion, and had listened to Carter's tale of the adventures in the strange house.
Carter was leaning on his arm as they went up the street, and suddenly he stopped. "Take a good look at this man, here on the right. Who is he?" he asked.
As George turned he saw in the group of spectators a strange figure leaning on a stick. His clothes were ragged, and his hat flopped about his ears; a patch was over his left eye, but despite all this the young Lieutenant recognized him in an instant.
"That's my old schoolmaster, Jabez Anderson. The Tory-hunters haven't found him, evidently," he said, quietly, "and I certainly shall not betray him. Though he's rabid for the crown."
"It seems to me that I have met him some place," returned Carter. "But, come to think, he resembles a portrait I've seen and can't place for the life of me."
What Carter was thinking of was a reflection in an old gilt-framed mirror, although he did not know it.
"He's an odd fish," said George, as they stepped forward again, "and used to give us long lectures on our duty to the King, and all in his own way, for he told minutely the grievances of the colonies, and then admonished us to be steadfast. I often even then felt like taking up cudgels on the opposite side of the question. I owe him no ill-will."
As he spoke he looked in his companion's face. "You are suffering, dear friend," he said. "We must find some place to rest."