Recovering the wretched hat, Israel again beat a retreat, his wardrobe sorely the worse for his visits.

Not only was his coat a mere rag, but his breeches, clawed by the dog, were slashed into yawning gaps, while his yellow hair waved over the top of the crownless beaver, like a lonely tuft of heather on the highlands.
In this plight the morning discovered him dubiously skirmishing on the outskirts of a village.
"Ah! what a true patriot gets for serving his country!" murmured Israel.

But soon thinking a little better of his case, and seeing yet another house which had once furnished him with an asylum, he made bold to advance to the door.

Luckily he this time met the man himself, just emerging from bed.

At first the farmer did not recognize the fugitive, but upon another look, seconded by Israel's plaintive appeal, beckoned him into the barn, where directly our adventurer told him all he thought prudent to disclose of his story, ending by once more offering to negotiate for breeches and coat.