“Seems to me,” went on Tom Trask, “I might know what girl he’s going to see. A peacock-proud girl named Sally Rose, I wouldn’t wonder. Seems to me I heard o’ Gerry Malory.” His voice deepened, and there was a sharp edge to it that caught the attention of everyone in the room and made them listen. “That’s her!” cried the landlord excitedly. “Sally Rose! Job Townsend’s daughter! He said he hung around the Bay and Beagle some!” Still the young man in the shadows did not speak. “The Gerry Malory I heard of,” went on Tom Trask, “was said to be a captain in the Twenty-third. That’d mean he’s a British officer.” He waited accusingly. The landlord slapped his thigh. “Well, pickle my brains in rum!” he cried. “I think ye be right, lad. He was talking like a Britisher just before ye got here. Saying times was dark for us, and no man would give his life for America. Out o’ that corner, sir, and answer the charge! Be ye a lobsterback come in disguise among us?” Then indeed Gerry Malory stepped forward. “You’ve mistaken yourselves,” he said easily. “There may be a man with the same name as mine in the ranks of the British. I doubt that I be the first Gerald Malory since the world was made. I doubt if I be the last. I be a shoemaker of Barnstable, loyal as any man here.” “Loyal to what?” demanded Tom Trask. Then he bent down, pulled off one crude cowhide boot, and held it out. “Here. I got a hole clear through my sole leather tramping these rocky roads of Essex County. If you be a shoemaker, prove it! Cobble my boot!” Gerry Malory took the boot in his hands and examined it. Then he shook his head. “’Tis scarce worth fixing, my good man,” he said condescendingly. “Get yourself a new pair when you arrive in Cambridge. That is the best advice I can give you.” “You lie,” said Tom Trask steadily. “I can fix it myself, if you’re unable. All I ask you to do is prove you be a shoemaker.” The teamsters, the landlord, even Nanny, were staring in silence at the two young men. Gerry Malory studied the boot in his hand. He frowned. “Well enough,” he said. He opened the small chest and fumbled inside it, took out a wooden last, hammer, and awl, a packet of pegs and nails. “Ah, this should do it,” he murmured judiciously. He selected a strip of leather and tried to fit it over the ragged hole Tom had pointed out. All eyes were upon him. No lips made any comment. He gripped the boot with one hand under the instep. He fitted the leather over the hole with the other hand. Then he stood there, conscious suddenly that he had no third hand to set the nails in place, no fourth hand to wield the hammer. He put the boot down and started all over again. But his face was growing hot and his fingers even more clumsy. Suddenly he ceased his efforts. “I am sorry,” he said. “I forgot my most needful tool. You must wait until you get to Cambridge, unless you can find another cobbler.”