The hours passed quickly. At next sunrise the boys were dressing in their little room at the top of the house. William handed a coat to George. It was the one Aunt Clarissa had prepared for the journey.
Generally the old lady had endeavored to make some slight differences in the boys' garments, which was not noticeable at first glance, but was helpful in distinguishing them, provided each wore his own apparel.
George put on William's coat, but paused, with his arm half-way in the sleeve. "No, William, you ought to go," he said.
"Pray, it's settled," replied his brother. "When they find it out perhaps they will send me too."
"How about the scar?" said George, reading his brother's thoughts.
William made a sudden movement and extended his arm. Across the back of his left hand ran a large scar. He had hurt it years ago while playing with a sickle out at Stanham Mills. It showed quite plainly in a good strong light.
"Perhaps you had better go, after all," said George.
"Not a single step," replied his brother. "You know we never change when we once have drawn lots. I can keep my hand hidden easily enough. Besides, they have not thought of looking for a long time now."
This decided it, and with the exchange of coats the boys exchanged their names, as they had done on various occasions before.
All was bustle and confusion at the wharf where the Abel Trader lay.