The sign which the tory made seemed to have a remarkably sedative effect upon the big man, and he only answered:
“What the—— do you run against a fellow that way for? Aren’t it bad enough to have a broken arm, without having it punched by every one that chooses to elbow me about?”
“A man with a broken arm ought to keep out of a crowd, and then he wouldn’t get it hurt,” responded Turner.
The crowd made way for him—he seemed to be well known to those around him—and Turner passed on, casting a quick glance around him. For an instant his eye rested on John Vale’s face, and the gaze, quick and keen, filled the heart of the disguised patriot with apprehension. Whether or not he was recognized, Vale could scarce tell; but he felt that it would be well to make his exit as soon as possible. Turner, though a traitor, and, at heart, a coward, was a man of great caution and was possessed of extraordinary perception. Knowing the hatred the fellow felt for him, John could but think that his destruction would be certain, surrounded as he was by enemies, if the tory should recognize him.
Fagan and the new-comer had a few words of conversation, and the landlord left the room, but almost immediately returned, followed by Tom Blanchard and several soldiers who had been playing cards in a back room. Pointing at Vale, Turner said, in a loud voice: “Secure your man! I accuse him of being a rebel, and of entering this place as a spy.”
The three soldiers made a rush forward. Vale drew a brace of pistols.
“He is a dead man who attempts to lay hands on me!”
“Take him, I say!” shouted Tim.
“Dastard! I defy you!” now shouted John, who rose to his utmost height and looked as if one word more would precipitate him upon the treacherous scoundrel.
“Yes! because I am unarmed, I suppose,” the tory whispered.