The news of our great battle had reached the Albany people, but in a vague and contrary fashion, and we found that we had beaten Burgoyne; that Burgoyne had beaten us; that Burgoyne was fleeing with all speed toward Canada; that he would be in Albany before night. Those who know always feel so superior to those who don’t know that Whitestone and I were in a state of great satisfaction. But the conversation soon turned from Burgoyne to Clinton, and then Whitestone and I grew eager. Our eagerness turned to alarm, for we heard that Clinton, with a great fleet and a great army, was pressing toward Albany with all haste. Good cause for alarm was this, and, however much it might be exaggerated, we had no doubt that the gist of it was the truth. I made a sign to Whitestone, and we slipped quietly out of the tavern, not wishing to draw any notice to ourselves. Despite our caution, two men followed us outside. I had observed one of these men looking at me in the tavern, but he had turned his eyes away when mine met his. Outside he came up to me and said boldly, though in a low voice: “Have you come from the south?” “No,” I said carelessly, thinking to turn him off. “Then you have come from the north, from the battlefield,” he said in a tone of conviction. “What makes you think so?” I asked, annoyed. “You and your companion are covered with dust and your horses with perspiration,” he replied, “and you have ridden far and hard.” I could not guess the man’s purpose, but I took him and the others with him to be Tories, spies of the British, who must be numerous about Albany. I do not like to confess it, but it is true that in our province of New York the Tories were about as many as, perhaps more than, the patriots. We might denounce the men, but we had no proof at all against them. Moreover, we could not afford to get into a wrangle on such a mission as ours. “You were at the battle,” said the man shrewdly, “and you have come in all haste to Albany.” “Well, what if we were?” I said in some heat. His interference and impertinence were enough to make me angry. “But I did not say from which army you came,” he said, assuming an air of great acuteness and knowledge. I was in doubt. Did the man take us for Tory spies--I grew angrier still at the thought--or was he merely trying to draw us on to the telling of what he knew? While I hesitated, he added: “I know that Burgoyne held his own in a severe battle fought yesterday. That is no news to you. But if you go about the town a little, you will also know what I know, that Clinton, in overwhelming force, will soon be at Albany.”