a wild parcel.”

“Are they of our party?”

“Oh, yes, sir. But they hunt the leather-caps as we hunt quail — scare up a company, fire, and then track down the scattered.”

“Oh; irregulars.”

“No, sir, not skinners. They farm it until the British plague them beyond endurance. Then,” he added significantly, “they go a-hunting with their dogs.”

I had already turned to retrace my steps when it occurred to me that perhaps an inquiry of this lad might not be misunderstood.

So I walked up to his horse and stood caressing the sorry animal while I described to him the wench I was seeking.