The young man sat on the steps of the tavern by Ipswich Green and stared about him; at the old brown roofs with yellow moss growing on their seaward sides, at the little rocky river that flowed like liquid amber under its stone bridge, at the steepled church on the rocky hill. Shadows lay long in the deserted streets of Ipswich, and far to the west the sun was going down. The young man wore a rough woolen shirt and homespun breeches. He had a cleft chin, deep blue eyes, and black curly hair. He looked uncommonly pleased about something. The landlord came to the open doorway behind him and stood there, peering into the dusk. He was a short plump man with a lame leg and a worried expression. “Not a sign o’ the British yet, be there, lad?” he asked anxiously. The young man shrugged his shoulders. “Could be they’ve turned aside and gone another way,” he said in a lilting tone. “Well, I guess I’ll be taking the road myself, while there’s a bit o’ the daylight left. How far did you tell me it was to Newburyport, sir?” The landlord shifted his feet uneasily. “It’s a piece of a journey yet, and the roads will doubtless be clogged with fleeing folk, if one’s to judge by the rout that streamed out of here; likewise the half o’ Beverly tagging through. Why not stay the night? I’ll give ye free lodging. It’ll mean there’s one able-bodied man in town, besides a handful of petticoat folk.” Again the young man shrugged his shoulders. “Well enough, if ’twill please you--and supper be included in the offer.” He got to his feet and stood there smiling. “Come in, lad, come in,” cried the landlord in relieved tones. “Come, and I’ll give ye supper, such as ’tis. Cook’s run off to the hills like all the rest, but my daughter Nanny’s here, and Nanny can do. Come and bring your box, if ye will. Where’d ye say ye be from? Have ye traveled far?” The young man stooped and lifted a small leather chest bound with iron. Deep in the lid was burned the name “G. Malory.” It was a peculiarity of his that although he often played other men’s parts and wore other men’s clothing, he would never abandon his own name. “Barnstaple,” he said. “Gerry Malory of Barnstaple, shoemaker.” “Barnstable? Down Cape Cod, ain’t it? A fair ways from here.” “Yes, Barnstaple’s a fair ways off,” said the young man. Together they stepped into the dark smoky taproom. It was deserted except for a little maid, scarce more than a child, who stood in the doorway of the kitchen. The landlord went to the hearth and stirred the dwindling fire. “What’s in the pot, Nanny?” he asked. “Dandelions,” said Nanny pertly. “Dandelion greens and a ham bone. But the ham bone don’t smell like it should, Father.” “Warm up the chowder then,” he ordered, and turned to his guest. “Are ye handy with firearms, Gerry?” “I’ve a pistol in my chest here, among my shoemaker’s tools. Guess I know what to do with it.”