"You are sure you are
not English?"
All at once the truth came over Fred. They thought he was English! Then
England must have entered the war! They would think that he was an
enemy, perhaps a spy! Yet, though he knew now the cause of the
suspicious looks, the mutterings, he couldn't utter a word in his
defence. He hadn't been formally accused of anything.
"Yes, I'm an American," he said, quietly. "I'm not English. I've no
English blood in me."
He had intended to try to get a place to sleep in the village, but now
he decided that it would be better to get away as soon as he could. If
there had been soldiers about, or any really responsible police
officials, he would not have been at all disturbed. But these people
were nervous and ignorant; the best men of the place had gone, the ones
most likely to have a good understanding. So he paid his little
reckoning, and started to walk on.
They followed him as he started. As soon as he was in the open road
again, a new idea came to him. Why not try the great house on the hill?
There certainly someone would know the difference between an American
and an Englishman. He was very tired.
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