"How that little schoolmaster does put on airs!" he said. "Why he receives toleration I do not see."
"He is rather clever, I fancy," replied the officer. "His imitation of General Washington is most amusing."
"Yes, he is amusing," responded Rivington.
George looked at Mr. Anderson once more. His small head seemed to retreat into the folds of his neck-cloth, and the lace at his wristband hung below his finger-tips. His clothes were as gorgeous as the plumage of a peacock, and he had a way of bringing his heels together with a click like a dancing-master. But the keen eyes and that protruding chin would have told an accurate observer that a brain of no mean quality was hidden underneath the curled white wig. But Rivington and the officer were approaching.
"Ah, here's my friend of the other morning!" exclaimed the officer—"young Blount of Albany." The speaker was the young cavalry Captain who had met George on the hill-side two days before. "I see you have found your tailor," he went on.
"No; better luck, my wardrobe," answered George. "I feared me I had lost it."
"Good! Allow me to present our loyal friend, Mr. Rivington, long-time printer to his Majesty," replied the officer.
"Your service, sir," replied Mr. Rivington, looking at George thoughtfully. "You have not changed since I saw you last at Albany."
Imagine the surprise of the fictitious Richard Blount! Everything was certainly playing into his hands. But he merely bowed, and asked the two gentlemen to breakfast with him. They accepted, and seated themselves.
George once more had to recount the story of his supposed adventures on the way from the city up the river.