Gerry stepped back into the taproom and turned to face the landlord who rushed out of the kitchen with a badly rusted gun held in front of him. “No British,” he said reassuringly. “Just some teamsters who want to wet their whistles, I expect.” He retired to the shadows near the great chimney, found a stool there, and sat down. The landlord bustled forward to welcome the visitors. In a few moments they were seated at the table, and Nanny was helping her father to set out food and drink, greens, ham bone, chowder, and all. “Not a fit man amongst us,” sighed the oldster with a face like a russet apple and a scar across his forehead. “I fought in too many wars already. But once we get these stores to Cambridge, likely I’ll stay there and enlist for one more.” “Don’t know how we’d ha’ got this far, if this Hampshire lad hadn’t o’ertaken us,” said another. He turned to the thin-faced youth who was eating chowder, the old blunderbuss leaning against the table close to his elbow. “We was sure glad to see you, Tom Trask, when our cart broke down the other side of Rowley last night. A proper wheelwright you turned out to be.” Tom Trask did not look up from his chowder. “Be a wheelwright when I have to,” he muttered, “or most any other sort of thing.” “Tell me, lads,” questioned the landlord eagerly, “did ye see aught of the British that’s supposed to be marching on us, cutting and slashing all before?” “We heard the rumor, o’ course,” went on the russet-cheeked man, “and saw the rout go past. Didn’t trouble us none. We kept on our way. Word’s gone about now, that there be doubts the British ever was nearer than Boston. Truth to tell, sir, I surmise we been made fools of.” The landlord made a clucking sound with his thin lips. Tom Trask was staring hard at the small iron-bound leather box on the table in front of him. “Who’s that there belong to?” he asked suddenly. “That--oh, that belongs to Gerry Malory over in the corner. Gerry’s a shoemaker from Barnstable--on his way to Newburyport to see a girl.” The landlord’s voice was gay and jovial in his relief, now that he had no further cause to fear the British. After all, he had not fled away at the false rumor. He had not been made a fool of. He strutted a little as he walked about the room, filling the glasses, replenishing the fire. When his shame-faced neighbors came straggling back, he’d be able to indulge himself in a boast or two. Then suddenly he pricked up his ears. The tow-headed lad from New Hampshire Colony was speaking. He held the leather chest in his hands, turning it about. “‘G. Malory,’ it says here. And Landlord says G.’s for Gerry. Gerry Malory--going to Newburyport to see a girl.” He sounded thoughtful. The landlord noticed that the young shoemaker from Barnstable had edged his stool further back into the shadows. He said no word.