AT THE SMITHY
_Hinc Constantia, illinc Furor._
CATULLUS.
The way in which the girl broke off the discussion and went out did more
than surprise me. It left me anxious and, in a degree, apprehensive. Her
proposal would have been a cruel and a heartless one if nothing lay
behind it. If something lay behind it, some risk serious enough to
justify the step on which she insisted, then I could think better of her
but very much worse of my own plight.
Yet Wilmer had thought that I was safe in his house, if not in the huts.
And if I were not secure here, what risks must I not run on the slow,
painful, helpless journey to Gates’s Head-Quarters, through a district
ill-affected to the British! Once there, it is true, my life would be
safe, and the Colonial Surgeons enjoyed a high reputation for skill. But
the appliances of a rebel hospital were sure to be few, the fare rough
and scanty; it was unlikely that I should be better off there than where
I was. In the end, doubtless, I should have to go thither; it was the
only road to exchange and freedom, unless a happy chance rescued me. But
a life which would be bearable when I could use my arm and had recovered
my strength would be no bed of roses at present.
And to be quite honest I had found an interest where I was. I had
enjoyed my tussle with this strange girl, and I looked forward to a
repetition of it. Her beauty, her disdain, her desire to be rid of me
piqued me—as whom would it not have piqued?—and whetted that appetite
for conquest which is of the man, manly. Madam Constantia! The name
suited her. I could fancy that she governed the plantation with a firm
hand and a high courage.
On the whole I was determined, whatever the risk, to stay where I was;
and yet as the day waned I felt less happy. My shoulder was painful, I
was restless. I told myself that I had some fever. I was tired, too, of
my own company and the house seemed more still than usual. I hoped that
the girl would pay me another visit, would resume the argument, and make
a second effort to persuade me; but she did not, and when my supper came
Mammy Jacks dispensed it with an air, absurdly tragic. She heaved sighs
from a capacious bosom, and looked at me as if I were already doomed.
“Marse, you’r runnin’ up wid trubble,” she said. “Ma’am ’Stantia, she
look like der wuz sump’n wrong. She look like she whip all de han’s on
de plantation.”
“I dare say she is pretty severe,” I said carelessly.
“I des’low you know nothin’ ’bout it,” the woman replied in great scorn.
“She sholy not whip one ha’f, t’ree quarters, ten times ’nough! When
Marse Wilmer come home, sez he, whip all dis black trash! Make up fer
lost time. De last man better fer it! Begin wid Mammy Jacks! Dat’s w’at
he say, but I des hanker ter see him tech ole Mammy! I speck sumpin’ wud
happen bimeby ter ’sprise ’im. Ef Missie got win’ uv it, she up en tell
’im!”
“Is he coming back soon?” I asked.
“Day atter to-morrow. Clar to goodness, when he mounts dem steps,
Missie’ll not mope round no mo’! She not make like she whip de han’s
den.”
“She’s very fond of him, is she?”
“Der ain’t nobody in Car’lina fer ’er ceppin er dad! Seem like she
idol—idol—”
“Idolizes him,” I suggested.
“Mout be dat,” Mammy Jacks assented. She repeated the word to herself
with much satisfaction. It was a long one.
The little vixen, I thought. So she would be rid of me before her father
returned! She knew that he would not send me away, and so—well, she was
a spit-fire!
“Look here, Mammy Jacks,” I said. “I don’t think that I shall sleep
to-night. I am restless. I should like something to read. Will you ask
Miss Wilmer if she can lend me a book. Any book will do, old or new.”
“Tooby sho,’” she said, and she went to do my bidding.
I thought that this might re-open relations. It might bring the girl
herself to learn what kind of book I would choose to have. There was not
likely to be much choice on this up-country plantation, where I need not
expect to find the “Fool of Quality” or “The Female Quixote” or any of
the fashionable productions of the circulating libraries. But a Pope, a
Richardson, or possibly a Fielding I might hope to have.
Alas, my reckoning was at fault. I had none, of these. It was Mammy
Jacks who presently brought back the answer and the book. “Missie, she
up ’n say dat monst’ous good book fer you,” the negress explained, as
she set down the volume with a grin. “Missie say it wuz ole en new, but
she specks new ter you. She tuck’n say she ’ope you read it ter
night—you in monst’ous big need uv it.”
Puzzled by the message, and a little curious, I took the book and opened
it. It was the Bible!
For a moment I was very angry; it seemed to be a poor jest, and in bad
taste. Then I saw, or thought that I saw, that it was not a jest at all.
This queer girl had sent the Bible, thinking to impress me, to frighten
me, to bend me at the last moment to her will!
Certainly she should not persuade me now! Go? Never!
After all I had a quiet night. I slept well and awoke with a keen desire
to turn the tables on her. I counted on her coming to learn the result
of her last step, perhaps to try the effect of a last persuasion. But
she did not come near me, and the day passed very slowly. I thanked
heaven that Wilmer would return on the morrow. I should have some one to
speak to then, some one to look at, I should no longer be cut off from
my kind. And he might bring news, news of Tarleton, news of Lord
Cornwallis, news of our movements in the field. Out of pure ennui I
dozed through most of the afternoon. The sun set and the short twilight
passed unnoticed. It was dark when I awoke. I wondered for a moment
where I was. Then I remembered, and fancied that I must have slept some
hours, for I was hungry.
And then, “Wilmer has come,” I thought; I heard the voice of a man in
the living-room. Presently I heard another voice, nay, more than one.
“Yes, Wilmer has come,” I thought, “and not alone. I shall have some one
to speak to at last, and news perhaps. Doubtless they are occupied with
him, but they need not forget me altogether. They might bring me a light
and my supper.”
And then—strange how swiftly, in a flash, in a heartbeat, the mind
seizes and accepts a new state of things!—then I knew why Mammy Jacks
had brought no light and no supper. I heard her voice, excited, tearful,
protesting, raised in the unrestrained vehemence of the black; and a
man’s voice that silenced her harshly, silenced her with an oath. And
therewith I needed no more to explain the position. I grasped it.
When a few seconds later the door was flung open, and the light broke in
upon me, and with the light three or four rough burly figures, who
crowded one after the other over the threshold, I was prepared. I had
had that moment of warning, and I was ready. There were scared black
faces behind them, filling the doorway, and peeping athwart them, and
murmurs, and a stir of panic proceeding from the room without.
“You come without much ceremony, gentlemen,” I said, speaking as coolly
as I could. For the moment I had only one thought, one aim, one
anxiety—that what I felt should not appear.
“Ceremony? Oh, d—n your ceremony!” cried the first to enter. And he
called for a candle that he might see what he was doing. When it was
handed in I saw them. They were a grim, rough group, the man who had
called for the candle the least ill-looking among them; as he was also
the smallest and perhaps the most dangerous. They all wore wide-leafed
hats and carried guns and were hung about with pouches and weapons. They
stared down at me, and I stared steadily at them. “You’ve got to swap
your bed for the road,” the leader continued in the same brutal tone.
“We think you’ll be safer, where we’re going to take you, mister.”
“And where’s that?” I asked—though I knew very well.
“To Salisbury,” he said. But his grin gave the lie to his words.
“I am afraid that is too long a journey, gentlemen,” I answered. “I
could not go so far. I am quite helpless.”
“Oh, you’ll be helped to make the journey,” he retorted; and they all
laughed, as at a good jest. “You’ll not find it long, either,” he
continued, “you can trust us for that. We’re not set on long journeys
ourselves. We must go with you a piece of the way, so we’ll shorten it,
depend upon it!”
“I am Captain Wilmer’s prisoner,” I said clutching at what I knew was a
straw. “He placed me here, and you will have to answer to him,
gentlemen, for anything you may do.”
“We’ll answer him,” growled one of the other men. “I don’t think you’ll
be there to complain,” he added with meaning.
I tried to calculate the chances, but there were none. I could not
resist, I was crippled and unarmed. I could not escape. I was in their
hands and at their mercy. “I ask you to note,” I said, “that I am a
prisoner of war, duly admitted to quarter.”
“And why not?” the last speaker retorted with a curse. “Ain’t we going
to take you to Head-Quarters? And the shortest way?” with a wink at the
others.
At this there came an interruption from the outer room. “Why don’t you
bring the d—d Tory out?” cried a voice that scorned disguise. “What’s
the use of all this palaver, Levi? Might be a Cherokee pow-wow by the
sound of it. Come! If he don’t know what to expect he’d best go and ask
at Buford’s! Bring him out, confound you! Here’s his horse, and a rope
and—”
“You’ll let me dress?” I said. There was no chance, I saw, but clearly
what chance there was lay in coolness and delay, if delay were possible.
“With a long journey before me, a man likes to start handsomely,” I
continued, addressing the smaller man whom they called Levi. “I am sure
that Captain Wilmer would not wish to put me to more inconvenience than
is necessary. He’s been at a good deal of trouble—”
“A vast lot too much,” the man in the outer room struck in. “He needs a
lesson, too, and we’re the lads of mettle to give it him! Here,” with a
mingling of sarcasm and impatience, “pass along my lord’s vally, and his
curling tongs! ’Fraid we can’t stop while he powders! Now, no nonsense,
damme! Where’s his clothes? Where’s that nigger? Tom!”
The nigger was passed in from one to another, getting some rough usage
on the way. “If you could withdraw, gentlemen, for a minute?” I said.
Alone I might think of something.
But, “No, stranger, by your leave,” Levi replied, with a sneer. “You’re
too precious! We’re not going to lose sight of you till—till the time
comes. Go on with your dressing, if you don’t want to go in your shirt!”
Perhaps it was as well that they did not go, for I was shaky on my
legs and I feared nothing so much as that I should break down through
bodily weakness. Their presence braced me and gave me the less time to
think. Tom’s fingers trembled so much that he was not as useful as he
might have been, but with his help I got somehow into my clothes—with
many a twinge and one groan that I could not check. The injured arm was
already bound to my side, but by passing the other arm through the
sleeve of a coat—Wilmer’s I suppose, for my uniform was not wearable—and
looping the garment loosely round my neck, I was clothed after a
fashion. With these men looking sombrely on, and their shadows, cast by
the wavering light of the candle, rising and falling on the ceiling, and
the hurry and silence, broken now and again by some, “Lord ha’ mercy”
from the outer room, it was such a toilet as men make in Newgate but
surely nowhere else.
“That’ll do,” Levi cried by and by. “You’ll not catch cold.”
“We’ll answer for that!” chimed in another. “Bring him on! He’ll be warm
enough where he’s going! We’ve wasted more time than enough already!”
My head swam for a moment. Then, thank God, the dizziness left me and I
got myself in hand. I thought it right to make a last protest, however
useless. “Note,” I said, raising my head, “all here that I go
unwillingly. These gentlemen do not intend me to reach Salisbury, and I
warn them that they will be answerable to Captain Wilmer and to the
Authorities for what they do. I am well known to Lord Cornwallis—”
“Enough of this palaver!” roared the brute in the outer room. “Are you
turning soft, Levi? Why don’t you bring the man through? If he won’t
catch cold, my mare will. Make an end, man!”
It was useless to say more. “Don’t touch me,” I said. “I can walk.”
I went out in the midst of them into the living-room which I had not yet
seen with my eyes. There, in the lamplight the fourth man was standing
on guard over the negro women of whom there were three or four. Apart
from them, with her back to us, and looking through a window into the
darkness, stood Madam Constantia. I had not heard the girl’s voice since
the men had entered the house, and so far as I could judge she had
carried out her threat, had uttered no protest, taken no side. She had
deliberately stood aloof. Now, one does not look for protection to
women. But that a woman, a girl should stand aside at such a time,
should stand by, silent, unmoved, unprotesting, while her father’s guest
was dragged out to death—when even the negroes about her were moved to
pity—seemed to me an abominable thing, a thing so unnatural that it
nerved me more than I believe anything else could have. If I were
English, and she hated me for that, she should at least not despise me!
If she thought so ill of the King’s officers that to her they were but
milksops, she should at least find that we could meet the worst with
dignity. She was abominable in her hardness and her beauty, but at least
I would leave a thought to prick her, a something by which she should
remember me. Better, far better to think of her in this pinch, than of
home, of Osgodby, of my mother!
There would be time to think of these in the darkness outside.
As I entered the room—and no doubt, half-dressed as I was, I looked pale
and ill—the women cried out. At that the men would have hustled me
through the outer door without giving me an opportunity of speaking; but
I managed to gain a moment. Mammy Jacks was blubbering—I called her to
me. “My purse and what little money I have,” I said, “is under my
pillow. It’s yours, my good woman. If Captain Wilmer will be good enough
to let Lord Cornwallis know that Major Craven—Major Craven, can you
remember—but he will know what to say. And one moment!” I hung back, as
the men would have dragged me on. “There are some letters with the purse
from a woman named Simms, who is about the Barracks at Charles Town. I
want her to know that her husband is dead—was killed in my presence. I
promised him that she should know. She should get a pass on the next
Falmouth packet, and—you won’t forget—Major Craven—my address in England
is in the purse.” Then, “I am ready,” I said to the men.
I would not look again at the girl’s still figure; I went out. Half a
dozen horses stood in the darkness before the house, watched by a fifth
man. One of these was thrust forward, and from the edge of the porch I
was able, though weakly and with pain, to get into the saddle. The men
mounted round me. They would have started at a trot, but I told them
curtly that I could not sit the horse. On that they moved away,
grumbling, at a walk.
I cast a backward glance at the long dark line of the house, and
especially at the lighted window in which the girl’s figure showed as in
a frame. She was watching us go, watching to the last without concern or
pity. Certainly she had warned me, certainly she had done her best to
persuade me to go while there was time. But in the bitterness of the
moment I could not remember this. I could only think of her as
unfeeling, unwomanly, cruel. I had read of such women, I had never met
one, I had never thought to meet one; and I would think of her no more.
I knew that in leaving the house I left my last hope behind me, and that
outside in the night, in the power of these men, I must face what was
before me without a thought of help.
A man dismounted to lower a sliprail, and even while I told myself that
there was no hope I wondered if, crippled and weak as I was, I might
still find some way to elude them. Clopety-clop, the horses went on
again. The night wind rustled across the fields, crickets chirped, the
squeal of some animal in its death-throe startled the ear. Clopety-clop!
I tried to direct my thoughts to that future now so near, which all must
sometime face. I tried to remove my mind from the present, so swiftly
ebbing away, and to dwell on the dark leap into the unknown, into the
illimitable, that lay before me. But I could not. Hurried pictures of my
home, of my mother, of the way in which the news would reach
Osgodby—these indeed flitted across my mind. But though I knew, though I
told myself, that escape was hopeless, and that in a few minutes, in an
hour, according as these ruffians pleased, I should cease to exist, hope
still tormented me, still held me on its tenter-hooks, still swung my
mind hither and thither, as the chance of reprieve distracts the poor
wretch in the condemned cell.
What if I broke away, one-armed as I was, and thrust my way through the
men, taking my chance of obstacles? It would be useless, reason told me;
and it might be the thing which they wished. It would absolve them from
the last scruple, if any scruple remained. And at best I must be
recaptured, for I knew neither my horse nor the country. Then—the mind
at such times darts from subject to subject, unable to fix itself—I
caught a word or two spoken by the riders in front.
“We can get one at the smithy,” Levi said.
“Confound you, you make me mad,” the other grumbled. “Why break our
backs just to put him—” I missed the last word or two.
“You’re a fool, man! We must give Wilmer no handle,” Levi replied. “Let
him suspect what he pleases, he can’t prove it. If he can’t show—” his
voice dropped lower, I lost the rest.
So they were afraid of Wilmer, after all! But what was it that they were
going to get at the smithy? And if we stayed there, was there any chance
of help? I thought of Barter and the frightened women. Reason told me
that there was no hope in them.
We were on the road now, riding in thick darkness under trees. The pain
in my shoulder was growing with the motion, and from one moment to
another, it was all I could do to restrain a groan. Frogs were
croaking—cold for them I thought, with that strange leap of the mind
from one subject to another. The men were silent, and save for the
trampling of the horses and such sounds as I have named, the night was
silent. How far were we going? Why need they be at the trouble of
riding, and I at the pain, when the end, soon or late, would be the
same?
Ha! there, before us was the faint glow of the smithy fire. Apparently
the forge was at work to-night. It had not been lighted on the night of
the King’s Mountain fight.
As we sighted it, one of the men spoke. I caught the word “Spade.” It
was that which they were going to get at the smithy, then? A spade!
The word chilled my blood—I shivered. The glow of the smithy fire grew
stronger as we advanced, the ring of a hammer on metal reached us. The
men seemed to be disturbed by something and spoke low to one another.
They even drew rein for a moment and conferred, but on second thoughts
they moved on. “It can’t be old Barter,” said one. “But I’m mighty
surprised if there was a fire when we came by. Who’s lit it?”
“Perhaps his lad’s come back?”
“Jake? Maybe. We’ll soon know.”
They drew up towards the forge at a walk.
When we were twenty yards from the doorway whence the light issued, a
man strolled out of the shed, his hands in his pockets. He stood in the
glow of the fire, looking towards us; doubtless he had heard the sound
of the horses’ hoofs above the clink of the hammer. He had a cigar in
his mouth, and as he stood watching our approach he did not remove it,
nor take his hands from his pockets. He stood quietly watching us, as we
came towards him.
“Halloa!” said Levi, as we pulled up two or three paces from the
stranger. “Lit the forge, have you?”
“Cast a shoe,” the man replied. He was a small man, plainly, but, for
the up-country, neatly dressed, and wearing a black leather jockey-cap.
A rather elegant finical little man he seemed to me, and unarmed. Such
as he was, my hopes flew to him, and rested on him, though in the way of
help old Barter could scarcely have seemed less promising.
“You alone?” Levi asked, looking him over.
“You’ve said it,” the man replied placidly. His eyes traveled from one
to another of us. He did not move.
Levi bent his head and looked under the low eaves of the smithy. “You
ride a good horse,” he said. “A d—d good horse!” he repeated in a rising
voice.
The man nodded.
Levi glanced over his shoulder. “Fetch it,” he said to one of his
followers—and I knew that he meant the spade, not the horse. Then, “What
are you doing here?” he asked the stranger.
It was on this that the first real hope awoke in me. The man’s calmness
in face of this bunch of armed men—he had never removed his hands from
his pockets or the cigar from his mouth—and a certain gleam in his eyes,
that gave the lie to his mild manner—these two things impressed me. And
his answer to Levi’s question.
“I’m just looking round,” he said gently.
For a moment I think that Levi was on the point of turning on his heel,
and letting the man go his way. But his greed had been roused, I
suppose, by a second look at the stranger’s horse; and “That’s no
answer,” he said roughly. “What’s your errand here? Who are you? What
are you doing? Come!” he continued more violently. “We want no strangers
here and no spies! We’ve caught one already, and it’s as easy, s’help
me, to find two halters as one!”
“And there are plenty of trees,” the man answered coolly, with his eyes
on me. “No lack of them either! Spy is he. He might well be English by
the look of him.”
“We’ll take care of him!” Levi retorted roughly. “Who are you? That is
the point! You’re none of Shelby’s men, nor Campbell’s! Where do you
live?”
“Well, I don’t live here.”
“Then—”
“Do you know Wilmer? Captain Wilmer?” the stranger asked.
“Yes, but—”
“He knows me. Ask him.”
I struck in before Levi could make the angry rejoinder which was on his
lips. “I am Captain Wilmer’s prisoner,” I cried, thrusting my horse
forward. For the moment I forgot pain and weakness. “And I take you to
witness, sir, whoever you are, that I am no spy, and that these men have
carried me off from Captain Wilmer’s house.”
“D—n you, hold your tongue!” cried one of the other men, pushing forward
and trying to silence me.
“I am Major Craven of the English Army!” I persisted. “I am a wounded
man, taken at King’s Mountain, and given quarter, and these men—”
One of them clapped his hand on my mouth. Another seized my horse’s head
and dragged it back. They closed round me. “Knock his head off!” cried
Levi. “Choke him, some one!”
“That man, Barter—the smith!” I shouted desperately—the old man had just
come to the smithy entrance—“he knows! He saw me with Captain Wilmer!
Ask him!”
I could say no more. One of the men flung his arm round my neck and
squeezed not only my throat but my shoulder. I screamed with pain.
“Take him on! Take him on!” Levi cried furiously. “I and Margetts will
deal with this fellow. Take him on!”
“Stop!” said the little man; and more nimbly than I had ever seen it
done, he whipped out a pistol, cocked it, and covered Levi, who was
sitting in his saddle not three paces from him. “Don’t take him,” he
went on. “And stand still. If a man goes to draw his weapon I shoot.”
Never was a surprise more complete. The man who had tried to choke me
let his arm fall from my shoulder, the men’s mouths opened, Levi gaped.
Not a hand was raised among them.
“Wilmer’s prisoner, is he?” the little man went on; he spoke as quietly
as he had spoken before. “And you were going to hang him? Mighty
hurried, wasn’t it?”
“What the h—ll is it to you?” Levi cried.
The muzzle rose from his breast to his head. “Better tell that man of
yours to be still!” the stranger said—this time he spoke rather grimly.
Then to me “Taken at King’s Mountain, sir?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ve a broken arm and my shoulder was crushed. I appeal
to you to rescue me from these men. If you leave me in their hands—”
The man stopped me by a nod. He took his cigar from the corner of his
mouth, threw it away and substituted for it something that gleamed in
the light. He whistled shrilly.
“Better stand still!” he said, as one or two of the horses backed and
sidled, “I miss sometimes, but not at three paces.” He whistled again,
more loudly. “On second thoughts, you’ll be wise to take yourselves
off,” he added.
“Not before I know who you are,” Levi retorted with an oath. His mean
face was livid with anger—and fear.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” the stranger answered in the tone of a man making
a concession; and to my astonishment he dropped the muzzle of his
pistol, cooly uncocked it, and returned it to his pocket. “I am Marion
of Marion’s Rangers, Marion of the Pee Dee River. My men will be here
presently and if you take my advice you will be gone before they come.
There are plenty of trees about and we have ropes. I will be responsible
for your prisoner,” he added sternly. “Leave him to me.”
Levi gasped. “Colonel Marion!” he cried.
“At your service, sir. Captain Wilmer is acting as my guide and if he
finds you gentlemen here he may have something to say to this matter.
Bring out my horse, my friend,” he continued, addressing the old smith.
I rode clear of Levi’s gang, no one raising a hand or attempting to stay
me. I ranged myself beside Marion. Levi and his men conferred in low
voices, their heads together, their eyes over their shoulders.
Marion turned his back on them while the smith brought out his horse, a
beautiful black thorough-bred. I did not wonder that at the sight of it
Levi’s greed had been whetted. “I’d have shod him with gold,” Barter
said as he held the stirrup, “if I’d known whose he was, Colonel—and a
little bit for his own sake. I might have known when I saw him, as he
carried no common rider.”
“Thank you, my friend,” Marion said as he settled himself in the saddle.
“I won’t offer to pay you.”
“God forbid!” cried the old man.
Marion turned to the five scowling, angry men who still held their
ground. Even they were ashamed, I fancy, to back down before one man.
“Gentlemen,” he said in a small hard voice. “When I say, Go! I mean,
Go.”
“You’re not on the Pee Dee now!” one of the men answered with insolence.
“You can tell that to my men.” he replied. “When they come.”
Far off, breaking the silence of the night, the beat of hoofs came dully
to us. Levi heard it, and he turned his horse’s head, and muttered
something to his men. “Another day!” he cried aloud—but only to cover
his retreat. Then he and these four brave men moved off with what
dignity they might. The beat of hoofs came more loudly, and clearly from
the eastward. The five began to trot.
Marion laughed softly. “They are grand folks—in a tavern!” he said.
A man who has had such an escape as I had had, and whose throat aches as
he thinks of the rope that he has evaded, is not at his best as an
observer. If he is capable of thought at all, he is prone to think only
of himself. But I had heard so much of the partisan leader, whose craft
and courage had defied the energy of Tarleton, and whose name was a
terror to our people from the Pine Barrier to the ocean, and from the
Santee River to the Gadkin, that I could not take my eyes off Marion.
His marvellous escapes, the speed of his horse which was a fable through
the Carolinas, the stern discipline he maintained, and his humanity to
royalists and regulars alike—these things had already made his name
famous. Pursued to his haunts in the marshes of the Pee Dee, he issued
from them the moment the pressure was relaxed; and while Sumter and Davy
and Pickens, all leaders of note, harassed us on our borders, it was
Marion who sapped the foundations of our power, cut off our detachments,
and harried our friends to the very gates of Charles Town. Tarleton,
whom he had evaded a dozen times, called him the Swamp Fox, and grew
dull at his name. But Tarleton could bear no rival, friend or foe, and
carried into war a spirit far too bitter. For most of us Marion’s
exploits, troublesome as they were and rapidly growing dangerous, were a
theme of generous interest and admiration.
He saw that I was observing him and probably he was not displeased. But
after a moment’s pause, “Are you in pain, sir?” he asked.
“Not more than I can bear,” I replied. “Nor in any that should deter me
from acknowledging the service you have rendered me.”
“I am glad it fell out so,” he replied courteously. “Here is Wilmer.”