To his surprise, George had sunk his own individuality. He had no idea that it would be so easy or so interesting. He seemed to feel that he was Richard Blount. He limped beside the officer down the road, and chatted freely about the difficulties of his trip from Albany. There's a difference between lying and acting, and our young Lieutenant, though he did not know it, or perhaps had but discovered it, was an actor through and through.
He had caution enough not to embroider his narrative too freely, but stuck closely to the main idea that he had memorized; and he found that it was very easy to answer questions with questions—a common trick in America, the subtlety of which had not seemed to penetrate the English mind.
He found also, to his surprise, that he entertained the others by his assumption of a dry vein of humor.
"I might as well have Richard amuse them," he thought to himself, and made some remark about one of the thin horses which was being groomed in the front yard.
The officer laughed and ushered him into the little room.
A handsome young man in his shirt sleeves was bending over the open fireplace cooking something in a frying-pan. He looked over his shoulder as George and the party entered.
The young spy started. He remembered where he had seen this young man before; he had dined with him at Mr. Wyeth's.
"What have we here?" asked the officer.
George's heart beat once more quite freely.
"A hungry man," he responded, before any one could speak, "who would stand you a bottle of Madeira for your mess of pottage."