The crowd kept growing larger and larger, until the space in front of the bar was quite filled with men, young and old—all drinking, talking, and smoking. Fagan stood at one end of the bar, occasionally assisting his red-haired and masculine Hebe, but keeping a watchful eye in his head to see that his property was neither injured nor improperly confiscated. As he had, several times, subjected Vale to a close scrutiny, the rebel had thought it best to endeavor to allay any lurking suspicion which the tavern-keeper might have, and so he staggered up to the bar and called for a glass of beer.
This being finished, the young man lit a pipe and vigorously puffed away at it. Whatever Fagan might have thought before, after seeing this performance of Vale’s, all suspicion was allayed, and his grim countenance relaxed with a smile.
Hardly had Vale taken his seat, when, from among the crowd, a man elbowed his way to the bar where Jim stood. Leaning over, he addressed the landlord in a tone too low for John to hear the question, but the answer, incautiously given in a rather loud tone, sent a thrill to the heart of the honest patriot.
“You know, Harry,” said Fagan, “that Turner has hired the place for a couple of weeks, and I guess it would be better to let any thing of the kind alone for the present.”
“All right!” responded Harry. “Some of the boys were speaking about it, and I gave ’em the same answer you gave me, without mentioning Turner’s name; but, to make the thing sure, I thought I’d speak with you about the matter.”
“There’s no harm done by your speaking; but, if it’s necessary, we can enter by the garden-way without troubling the other part of the house. Have you heard from Bob yet, about how he’s getting along?”
“Nary word.”
After this laconic answer, “Harry” disappeared in the crowd, leaving Jim to attend to his customers. John Vale was strongly excited by what he had just overheard. That Captain Preston had used Turner as an instrument with which to abduct Catherine, was not doubted—the conversation between Fagan and “Harry” had set him on the trail; and the point now was to find out of what house they had been speaking. He did not anticipate much difficulty in doing that; and when once he lit upon the spot, Vale thought it would go hard with him if he could not, by hook or crook, manage to discover if Catherine was there hidden, and to rescue her from the clutches of the ruffians who had abducted her.
The hours passed slowly, until it came to ten o’clock. John was earnestly considering about the best means of leaving his corner, crossing the room, and making his exit from the opposite door without running against any one who might chance to take advantage of his seeming simplicity to annoy him. Though in a good humor, the crowd seemed to be well primed with liquor, and it would take but little to involve the whole roomful in a general row. After half rising to his feet, he sank back again into his seat. Words of altercation attracted his attention. A big, rough-looking man was saying something in an angry tone to some one concealed from the eyes of Vale by the crowd. Curiosity impelled the young man to take his stand upon a bench in order that he might get a glimpse of the man who was being berated. What was his surprise to recognize the cat-like countenance of Timothy Turner. That worthy did not seem in the least troubled by the invectives hurled against him, but waited quietly until the large man had concluded. Then raising his hand and making a peculiar sign with his forefinger, he remarked:
“Keep cool, Bob Wynstay. If I shoved against your sore arm, you ought to be thankful I don’t tell how it got hurt.”