In the course of the evening, the day on which he reached Charleston, the tory sauntered into the bar-room, and, with a careless nod, asked Fagan where Tom Blanchard might be found.
Fagan answered that he could be found in the back room—he had just gone in, and was probably engaged with Joe Lawson in a game of cards.
He found the soldier sitting at a small table with a young man of good appearance. A few silver pieces, lying on the table, told that they were betting.
Tom started, when Turner laid his hand on his shoulder, for he, the dragoon, had not seen him enter, the look of alarm was exchanged for one of inquiry, when Turner made a peculiar sign with the fore-finger of his left hand.
“From the captain?” inquired Blanchard.
“Yes!” said Timothy—at the same time placing his finger on his lip to indicate silence.
“Is it right haway?” continued Tom, casting a glance full of regret upon the cards and silver.
“Immediately.”
“Then, Joe, I’ll ’ave to leave you till some hother time. Hi ’ate to do hit, but duty says hi must.”
“Can’t your friend, there, wait a while? Or, perhaps, he would have no objection to take a hand himself?”