The older man seemed to have guessed this, for he had dismounted and hitched his horse, and, arm in arm, they walked up the path to the house.
“I promised Mrs. Jackson I’d not stay long, Jack, but as much as we love them, boy, there are times when a man must talk to a man. Nothing else will do,” and he slapped the other affectionately on the shoulder.
Both, for a while, were constrained, and each knew it. Trevellian knew what the older man had come for, and the other knew that Trevellian had guessed.
In endeavoring to be natural, the General was slightly embarrassed, a thing so unnatural with him that he worried more as he recognized it. But it convinced him how deeply interested he was in the affair before him—how much he cared for the future of the young man at his side.
“That tobacco they raised at the Hermitage while I was away this year is not the best in the world, Jack,” he said, passing his buckskin pouch to the other, “but it will help us out.”
The two were soon smoking. It was plain that the older man had plans, and that he would soon unfold them. Under any other circumstances his talk would have been different—the day’s racing, the banterings, the jokes, the oft-repeated tales of it, the speculation on this and that event, the praise or condemnation of horse or jockey.
To-night it was different. They smoked in silence, and after a while the General said:
“I heard from Washington to-day.”
Trevellian looked up quickly—expectantly.
“Not about Pensacola,” went on the other, “but the treaty with the Creeks. I am directed by the Secretary of War to conclude it, and I will soon meet them at Ft. Jackson. I’ll want you to go with me—of course—and the First Regiment.” He stopped and tapped the young man lightly on the arm: