EZRA MEETS WITH A STRANGE EXPERIENCE
The two were so engrossed in their conversation that they paid not the
slightest heed to the newcomer. The landlord, a thick-set,
sodden-looking man with a churlish expression, however, came forward.
“Well, young gentleman?” he inquired, and he looked searchingly at Ezra
out of his small eyes.
“I’d like my horse looked after,” said the lad. “And then I’d be
thankful for a little something for myself, if it’s no great trouble.”
The man shook his head surlily.
“If you want your horse attended to, you’ll have to do it yourself,”
spoke he. “I have no one here to do such work. Hostlers are afraid to
stay.”
“Very well,” replied Ezra, as he seated himself. “I’ll look to him
presently.”
He had selected a far corner where Scarlett, if he turned, could not
readily make him out.
“Cooks are just as hard to keep,” stated the host grumblingly. “So if
you expect much in the way of supper, you’ll be disappointed.”
“Whatever you have,” said Ezra, pleasantly. “A dish of cold meat, the
end of a loaf and some mead, if I’m not asking too much.”
The man grunted.
“That’s a common failing hereabouts these times,” he said, preparing to
go about his duties. “They all ask too much. Every one of them does.”
Then with a sudden viciousness, “But they’d better stay away with their
questions! I’ll not have them! Not a bit of it!”
With that he snorted his angry way into the kitchen, leaving his young
guest with a quiet smile upon his face.
“It is very evident,” mused Ezra, “that the spies of General Ward have
been here before me.” His eyes went to Scarlett’s companion, and his
thoughts continued. “That being the case, Master Pennington is a man of
some courage to risk showing himself, I should think.”
The conversation between the two was really a monologue. Scarlett talked
in a resonant voice, twirled his moustache and gestured elaborately. The
other listened, shrugged at times, at others smiled, at others again
uttered the high-pitched, disagreeable laugh. Ezra leaned back and
clasped a knee with his hands and listened with interest.
“The man was an uncommon sort of man,” said Scarlett, “small, backward
in his manner and very low spoken. When he offered me the work to do I
felt sure that it was some plagued commercial matter that a man of my
quality should have nothing to do with. But I needed money and he had it
to pay. So I undertook to carry his papers without more ado.”
“And you found the matter of more interest than you’d have supposed?”
questioned the other.
“Decidedly,” answered Scarlett. He pulled up his boot-top and stroked
his chin. “First I lost my way; then I lost my horse. And afterward, as
though these were not enough, I all but lost my life by means of a young
blade pistoling me upon the road; him I sent on with the message.
Afterward I met with some riders and a wagon heavily laden. Among the
riders was the man Abdallah whom I had been sent to see. I knew him at
once, for no other man in this region could have such an appearance.”
A look of interest came into the other’s face.
“And he directed you here?”
“He said that I might by chance come upon some further employment,”
answered Scarlett, “if I frequented this place. He was not pleased with
the way I had performed my first office; but, doubtless, he’s a person
of some perception and knows a man of mettle when he sees one.”
“No doubt,” said Pennington, dryly.
He regarded the adventurer with attention and seemed endeavoring to
properly weigh him. There was a bold, free air about Gilbert Scarlett
that took the eye at once; but that he was wondrously boastful was
evident, and boastful strangers are ever looked upon with distrust.
“A man,” declaimed Scarlett, twirling at his moustache, “cannot go
through seven campaigns and not bear some stamp of his service. When I
first offered my sword to the Elector of Hanover, he told me in his
rough German way that I was but a boy. But later I proved to him that I
could do the work of my elders, even then.”
“Abdallah said nothing specific, I suppose?” inquired Pennington.
“How specific?”
“He gave you no token to present to any one by name?”
“None.”
“And he did not say that he would employ you?”
“Not in so many words.”
Pennington shook his head.
“I do not know the man,” said he. “But from what you have told me, it
would seem that he has been making game of you.”
The head of Scarlett went up, and his hand sought the heavy hilt of his
sword.
“There have been one or two, at odd times, who have sought to do that,”
spoke he, and there was a ring in his voice that boded no good to any
such. “And I’ll warrant you that they never attempted it again.”
“Have you inquired of the landlord as to these persons whom you seek?”
asked Pennington.
“I have,” with a shrug. “But he is a surly, short-spoken dog. I can get
nothing out of him.”
“It pains me to be unable to give you any intelligence of them,” said
Pennington. “But I am a stranger here myself.”
As he spoke these words he turned his head, perhaps to look for the
landlord. His eyes fell upon Ezra seated there so coolly, and a look of
astonishment came into his face. But instantly he showed what a cautious
man he was by lifting his hand to hide his face; then he coughed
affectedly.
Almost simultaneously with this gesture, Ezra noticed Scarlett make a
sharp movement. It was as though the adventurer was also about to turn.
But apparently he thought better of it, and remained with his back
stoically presented.
“He saw the change in Pennington’s face,” was Ezra’s instant thought.
But what had caused this change the boy could not imagine.
“Perhaps,” he thought, “it was but the sudden discovery that there is a
third person in the room—a person who might have overheard something to
the disadvantage of Abdallah and his fellows.”
There was a marked pause; the backs of both men were turned to Ezra; to
his searching gaze it was plain that they were casting about as to what
they should do or say. It was Gilbert Scarlett who broke the silence.
“Of course,” said he, “a gentleman of my fortune—or lack of it—has no
choice but to gain the wages that enable him to live. I somehow fancied
the service of this Abdallah. Perhaps its strangeness appealed to me.
But now that he has failed me, I can see nothing to do but to take
service with the colonial army.”
“From your tone,” spoke Pennington, “I gather that you do not care to do
this.” He laughed his disagreeable laugh and resumed, “They have the
right upon their side, you must admit that. And then they are led by
very virtuous statesmen.”
“They are right enough,” said Scarlett, with a shrug. “But is their
treasury deep enough to pay a needy officer with reasonable regularity?
I fancy not. As to their statesmen, I grant you their ability, knowing
nothing of them good or bad; but it takes generals to win battles.”
As he spoke he threw one arm across the back of the settle, and in the
most careless way in the world, turned his head. When he saw Ezra he
first looked surprised, and then amused.
“What,” said he, jovially, “my young friend of the pistol! Well met!”
He arose. The spurs upon the heels of his boots clinked upon the tiled
floor, his long sword trailed noisily at his side. Ezra, perfectly
self-possessed, arose to greet him. Scarlett clasped his hand warmly.
“Chance,” declared the adventurer, “plays us many queer pranks as we
journey through life.” He looked from Ezra to Pennington, a mocking
smile upon his lips, then he continued: “For I suppose it was the very
blindest chance that brought you here.”
Every inflection of the speaker’s voice and his whole attitude, however,
indicated his complete disbelief in anything of the sort. It was plain
to the boy that the soldier of fortune was convinced that he and
Pennington were there by prearrangement. But Ezra did not speak;
Pennington, his face a shade paler, sat watchfully observant.
Scarlett continued to glance from one to the other of them with amused
toleration. It was as though he had detected them in a sort of child’s
play by which they had hoped to hoodwink him.
“Sit you down,” he finally invited Ezra. “But over here,” pushing out a
chair, “where we can see you more readily.”
Ezra sat down, and Scarlett waved his hand toward Pennington, the smile
still curling his moustache.
“I do not know either of your names,” he said, “but,” to Ezra, “here is
a gentleman whom you are unacquainted with, of course,” and he burst
into a laugh, “but whom I could have diverted vastly had I chosen to
tell him of our little misadventure upon the road, two nights ago.”
Surprise and incredulity came into the face of Pennington; but he strove
to hide his agitation from the watchful eyes of the adventurer.
“Is it possible,” he ejaculated, “that this is the lad with the
pistol—he,” eagerly, “whom you sent on with the message?”
“None other,” said Scarlett, smiling, “and since you are unacquainted, I
take pleasure in making you known to each other.”
One of Pennington’s hands passed over his face; it was trembling, and,
like his countenance, was pale. He spoke hastily to Ezra, trying hard to
keep the eagerness out of his voice.
“You must have had a most extraordinary experience,” remarked he. “And
did you succeed in delivering this message at the house of this
gentleman—ah,” as though trying to recall the name, then giving up the
attempt, “the gentleman with the foreign name?”
“I did,” replied Ezra. “And I trust that Master Scarlett bears me no
ill-will because of the manner in which I became his messenger.”
“Not the least in life,” said Scarlett. “It is a man’s right to defend
himself against all comers on the road. But you conducted the mission
with which I entrusted you oddly. You set these people, whoever they
are, by the ears. From what I learned in a short talk with them, you
deceived them in sundry ways; and it ended in their house being burned
down and they,” with a laugh, “becoming wanderers upon the face of the
earth.”
“I delivered the papers as I promised,” said Ezra. “I told the people at
the house nothing, but they took much for granted. What resulted was
much their own fault.”
Pennington had listened with interest.
“Were you by any chance entrusted with a message in reply to the one you
carried?” he asked with eagerness.
“I was,” returned the boy frankly.
“And to whom were you to deliver it?” asked Scarlett. “And where?”
“To a Mr. Pennington,” replied Ezra, evenly. “And at this inn.”
“So!” Scarlett lay back in the settle, his arms folded upon his chest
and his booted legs stretched out straight before him. “And how were you
to know this gentleman?”
“I was to inquire of the landlord.”
Impulsively Scarlett rose up.
“I will save you the trouble,” said he. “The matter, in a measure, is my
own,” apologetically to Ezra, “so I trust you will pardon me.” He lifted
his voice and called: “Landlord!”
There came a grumbling, unintelligible answer from the kitchen; but the
host did not present himself.
“I took him to be a surly, sour-mouthed villain from the first,”
commented Scarlett. “And as he will not come to me, I will go to him.
And I’ll warrant you he’ll tell what I want to know, or I’ll have him
dance you a measure that he’ll not like.”
So with a hitch at his sword belt and a twirl at his moustache, the
speaker clanked into the kitchen, from which his voice came a moment
later with commanding insistence.
And no sooner had he vanished than Pennington bent eagerly toward Ezra.
“You know me, of course?” said he.
As Ezra did not reply, the man continued in a low, rapid tone:
“You saw me frequently at your grandfather’s house at Boston.”
A thrill ran through Ezra. He now understood that first surprised look.
The man mistook him for his twin brother, George. But the boy shook his
head as though in doubt.
“I have no recollection of you,” he answered.
The man regarded him searchingly.
“Your name is Prentiss?”
“It is.”
“You are the grandson of Seth Prentiss?”
“I am.”
The man evidenced his satisfaction.
“You are he whom I took you to be,” he said. He studied the lad
carefully for a moment. “Upon second thought I do not wonder that you
fail to recall me,” continued he. “If I remember rightly, I have always
been somewhat given to hesitancy in my manner of showing myself.” Here
he laughed his disagreeable laugh. “A man in my particular profession
must not be too forward.”
“And what is your profession?” asked Ezra.
“I am the confidential agent of—of others,” replied the man. “In point
of fact I am the very man you came here to see.”
“Not Mr. Pennington!”
“That is my name,” returned the man. “And now,” with a quick look toward
the kitchen, where, judging by the sounds that came from it, a very
stormy interview was taking place, “give me the message sent by
Abdallah. I have been trying to get into communication with him, but
could not do so. I had no notion of what had happened until I heard some
fragments of the story from this loud-mouthed soldier.”
The landlord’s voice now came from the kitchen in loud denial.
“I tell you, sir, I know nothing of the gentleman you ask for.”
“And I tell you that you do. Don’t think to pull the wool over my eyes.
Give me full information of this Master Pennington, or I’ll spit you on
this skewer and toast you over your own fire.”
“I do not pretend to understand anything that has happened,” said
Pennington to Ezra, swiftly and very low. “You’ll have your own good
time to explain all that. But,” with a fearful glance at the kitchen
door, “the matter of the dispatch which Abdallah gave you is perhaps
urgent. And all the more so from being delayed.”
The uproar in the kitchen, if such a thing were possible, grew louder.
But Ezra paid no heed to it.
“It is impossible for me to turn the paper over to you now,” he answered
quietly.
The man stared at him.
“And why?” he asked.
“Because I no longer have it.”
“What!” Pennington sprang up, his high, narrow forehead flushing. “Then
who has?”
“I think,” said the boy, “that it is in the hands of one who will make
good use of it.”
Consternation was written deeply in the face of Master Pennington; he
had raised a clenched hand, an exclamation trembled upon his lips when
the landlord rushed into the room amid a great clatter of pans and
kettles. He was pale of face and affrighted of manner; and close at his
heels, with his drawn sword in his hand, strode the adventurer, Gilbert
Scarlett.