“Under the shed, there by the pastry cook’s. The horse, I mean.” Dale gazed at the large, coal-black beast hitched to a post and munching a feed of corn out of a small tub. “Dirk Hatfield’s horse,” cried the sailor. “The same,” said Ethan. “And where the horse is the master cannot be far away.” “In the cook’s shop,” said Dale, eagerly. “As like as not. Let us go in.” They crossed toward the glass fronted shop; through the window they saw a neatly appointed place whose counters were filled with the flaky products of its ovens; a white-capped, round faced man presided over it; and at a table, knife and fork in hand and napkin tucked under his shirt collar, sat the worthy Master Hatfield, attacking with gusto a smoking dish of pigeon stew. As the two Americans stalked in, he gave them a glance; but their change of dress saved them from recognition. They took seats, and the white-capped man served them with food, all the time continuing the conversation which he had been holding with the highwayman. “Yes,” he was saying, “the king’s ships are in a bad way indeed for lack of men. They say the frigate Serapis is almost unmanned.” “Too bad,” growled the gentleman of the road, who though his hand was constantly raised against the law and its officers was a stout Briton at heart. “How do we expect to beat the French and the Yankees if our ships can’t put to sea?” “You speak truth,” said the pastry cook. “And the impudent Yankees need a beating badly. Their insolence in crossing the ocean in their cockle-shells and attacking English ports is more than can be borne.” The man puffed his round cheeks with indignation and rattled the plates with vigor. Dirk Hatfield paused in his assault upon the pigeon stew long enough to reply: “Oh, but they’ll get their trouncing before long, mark me. English tars and English ships rule the sea; it’s not for the Yankees to hoist a flag without British permission, and their colored rags will soon be trailed in the dirt of their decks, and Britannia queen of them all, as is her place.” “Are you up from the water-side, friends?” asked the cook, as Ethan and Dale calmly ate of the dishes he had placed before them, and watched the highwayman cautiously. “No,” answered Ethan; “from Plymouth.” The highwayman lifted his head and gave the boy a long look of interest. “Are the press-gangs out, there, as in London?” asked the proprietor. “I’ve heard that they were busy there,” said Ethan. “It’s the same all over the kingdom, I suppose.” Neither of the Americans replied; and in a few moments Hatfield spoke up. “Plymouth is a brisk little place; it is no great size, indeed, but many things happen there.” “Right,” said the pastry cook; “the fleets sail from there very often.” “It’s not by sea alone that Plymouth is brisk,” continued the gentleman of the road; “but by land as well. And the country between that town and London offers many opportunities to a man of parts.”