"Nay, man, he called me not that," denied the stranger,
"unless he meant to call himself a deserter as well. Landlord,
a bowl of swizzle for the company! Gentlemen, I am
Lincolnshire born and bred. My name is John Evatt, and I
am travelling through the country to find a likely settling place
for six solid farmers, of whom I am one. Whom did you say
was yon rogue's master?"

"Squire Meredith," informed mine host, now occupied in
combining the rum, spruce beer, and sugar at the large table.

"And what sort of man is he?" asked Evatt, bringing his
glass from the small table and taking his seat among the rest.

"He 's as hot-tempered an' high an' mighty as King George
hisself," cried one of the drinkers. "But I guess his stinkin'
pride will come down a little afore the committee of Brunswick 's
through with him."

"Let thy teeth keep better guard over thy red rag, Zerubbabel,"
rebuked Joe Bagby, warningly. "We want no rattlepates
to tell us--or others--what 's needed or doing."

"This Meredith 's a man of property, eh?" asked Evatt.

"He 's been so since he married Patty Byllynge," replied the
publican. "Afore then he war n't nothin' but a poor young
lawyer over tew Trenton."

"And who was Patty Byllynge?"