[Illustration: _A BROAD-SHOULDERED YOUTH OF SEVENTEEN_]




  The Young
  Continentals
  at Lexington

  _by_
  John T. M^cIntyre
  _Author of_
  “With John Paul Jones”
  “The Boy Tars of 1812”

  [Illustration]

  Illustrated by Ralph L. Boyer.

  _The Penn Publishing
  Company Philadelphia_
  _MCMIX_




  COPYRIGHT
  1909 BY
  THE PENN
  PUBLISHING
  COMPANY

  [Illustration]




Introduction


“THE YOUNG CONTINENTALS AT LEXINGTON” begins with that vital period of
our country’s history when the great forces that made the Revolution
were slowly coming together.

The port of Boston was closed; an army under Gage occupied the city;
Massachusetts Bay was thronged with troop-ships and frigates, and the
colonies were writhing under a series of unjust and oppressive laws.

It was at this time that the four boys who play the leading parts in
the story began their experiences. Historical events that led up to
the war for independence are met with in every chapter; the great
personages of the time figure upon almost every page. From the meeting
of the first Congress at Carpenter’s Hall to the stand of the minutemen
at Lexington and Concord Bridge, every important step in the movement
for national life is touched on.

The second book of the series, “The Young Continentals at Bunker
Hill,” takes up the thread of history where this book leaves it. It
will show the siege of Boston, and the glorious defeat on the Hill. It
will tell how Washington was given command of the army; how he sent
word to Ethan Allen; how the heavy guns he captured at Ticonderoga were
hauled through the winter wilderness upon sledges to Boston; also how
Washington mounted them upon Dorchester Heights and finally drove the
army of Gage from the city.




Contents


      I. SHOWS HOW BEN COOPER SAW THE WAR A LONG WAY OFF               9

     II. TELLS WHY NAT BREWSTER WALKED TOWARD CLIVEDEN IN THE DARK    20

    III. SHOWS HOW NAT MET “GRUMPY COMEGIES” AND WHAT CAME OF IT      31

     IV. SHOWS HOW STARTLING NEWS WAS NAT’S REWARD AT CHEW HOUSE      38

      V. HOW NAT BREWSTER MET THE PORCUPINE                           50

     VI. SHOWS HOW NAT BREWSTER AND THE PORCUPINE RODE THROUGH
           THE NIGHT                                                  64

    VII. SHOWS HOW NAT BREWSTER MET WITH MR. WASHINGTON               81

   VIII. TELLS HOW THINGS BEGAN TO LOOK BAD FOR EZRA PRENTISS        105

     IX. NAT BREWSTER FINDS MORE PROOF                               120

      X. WHAT THE PORCUPINE SAW AT CHEW HOUSE                        130

     XI. SHOWS HOW NAT BREWSTER SPOKE TO HIS UNCLE AND WHAT
           THEIR RESOLUTIONS WERE                                    147

    XII. WHAT HAPPENED ON THE NORTH ROAD                             159

   XIII. SHOWS HOW NAT MET ONE STRANGER AND HOW THE PORCUPINE
           MET ANOTHER                                               174

    XIV. THE NIGHT PROMISES WELL                                     192

     XV. HOW THE PROMISE WAS KEPT                                    203

    XVI. THE TALL MAN BRINGS A FRIEND                                216

   XVII. WHAT NAT HEARD AT THE COFFEE-HOUSE IN ORANGE STREET         230

  XVIII. IN WHICH DR. WARREN AND PAUL REVERE LISTEN INTENTLY         238

    XIX. IN WHICH A WINTER PASSES, BRINGING MANY THINGS              250

     XX. NAT BREWSTER IS TAKEN BY FOES AND PAUL REVERE BEGINS
           HIS MIDNIGHT RIDE                                         273

    XXI. NAT BREWSTER MARCHES WITH PITCAIRN TO LEXINGTON             287

   XXII. TELLS HOW A MYSTERY WAS SOLVED AND HOW VICTORY CAME
           TO THE COLONIES                                           306




Illustrations


        PAGE

  A BROAD-SHOULDERED YOUTH OF SEVENTEEN      _Frontispiece_

  “WHO ARE YOU?” HE DEMANDED                             34

  “I ASK YOUR PARDON, MR. WASHINGTON”                   103

  “THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG, THEN”                      188

  HE SAW THE TALL STRANGER                              228

  HE GOT A GLIMPSE OF THE NEWCOMER                      270

  THEY CAME WITHIN SIGHT OF LEXINGTON                   303




The Young Continentals at Lexington




CHAPTER I

SHOWS HOW BEN COOPER SAW THE WAR A LONG WAY OFF


The smart little roan mare drew up at the gate of the Cooper place,
and Ben Cooper leaned over and lifted the latch with the loop of his
riding-whip. The gate was still creaking open when the lad noticed old
Stephen Comegies stumping along the road on his gouty legs, and leaning
heavily upon a stout oaken staff.

“Good-morning, Mr. Comegies,” saluted Ben, cheerily.

But old Stephen seemed not to hear; his eyes were fixed upon the road,
and his lips were muttering; from the way his gnarled hand clutched the
staff, it would have fared badly with those who had excited his anger
had they been in reach of its iron-shod foot.

“A fine morning, Mr. Comegies,” said Ben Cooper.

This time he was heard. The old man paused--leaned upon the staff and
regarded the boy from under his shaggy gray brows.

“A fine morning,” repeated he. “No! That it is not. I see nothing fine
in it. But,” and his voice rose a pitch higher, “I see a great deal of
bad in it. I see a great store of ill being laid up, for future days to
take care of.”

A slow smile stole over Ben Cooper’s round, good-natured face. The
whole of Germantown called old Stephen “Grumpy Comegies” and Ben had
listened to him frequently before.

“It’s fine weather anyway,” insisted Ben. “The harvests are almost
ready; the shooting is going to be good; the rabbits and birds are
growing fat and plenty. What more can any one want?”

“If they had any understanding,” replied old Stephen, “they might feel
sorry that these colonies are being swept by a flood of ingratitude to
an honest king.”

Ben’s mouth puckered into a whistle of surprise; for Stephen Comegies
was a man of authority and weight in the community, and it seemed odd
that he should begin a political discussion with a boy of sixteen years
upon the open road. However, the matter was explained the next moment,
when Ben heard his father’s voice and saw him rise up from a bench
inside the gate where he had been sitting with a book.

“I know, Mr. Comegies,” said Robert Cooper, “that your words are
pointed at myself and not at the boy; so I will take them up.”

He leaned upon the fence as he spoke, fluttering the leaves of the
book with his fingers. He was a tall, spare man with a pale, studious
face; but there was something about him that was forceful and ready; an
opponent would never find him at a loss for either words or actions.

“Can you deny that a spirit of unrest is abroad?” demanded old Stephen,
planting the iron-tipped staff in the road. “Can you deny that a
rebellion is being fostered against a generous prince? Can you deny
that the irresponsible firebrands in New England are arming against
their lawful rulers?”

“I shall not deny anything that you charge,” replied Mr. Cooper
sternly, “I shall only say that it is all true, and further add that I
am greatly pleased to be able to say it.”

“Take care,” cried the old man, his gaunt, once powerful frame
quivering with resentment. “Take care, Robert Cooper. You and your like
are sowing seeds of sedition that can be reaped only by the bayonets
of the king’s regiments. You can flaunt your scandalous theories of
liberty in the faces of your neighbors, but when the time for reckoning
comes you may not seem so ready.”

“I think,” replied Mr. Cooper, calmly, “that when it does come, the
reckoning will find me ready enough.”

Old Stephen lifted his staff and shook it tremulously to the southward.

“The broth that those vipers brew in Philadelphia,” declared he, “will
be the death of them!”

“Those sent by the different colonies to this Congress that is to
meet,” said Robert Cooper, “are honest American gentlemen. They have
wrongs that require redressing and they chose this means, as the best
they know, of procuring the remedy.”

“It is a threat,” maintained the old man. “They are shaking a sword in
King George’s face. Why do they not beg redress of wrongs like dutiful
subjects, and not come together like a lot of skulking rascals?”

“The time for begging has gone by,” said Mr. Cooper. “From now on
the colonies will demand--and in a voice not to be mistaken. We have
submitted too long; the king is an ignorant old man surrounded by
incompetents. There have been no more faithful subjects than those of
America; but they will not permit themselves to be plundered. If we are
to be taxed we desire a voice in the government that fixes those taxes.”

Stephen Comegies gazed at the speaker in horror. That a man should
cherish such sentiments and still be permitted at large filled him with
wondering alarm. For a moment he was unable to speak; then, recovering,
he burst out:

“This is not the first time I have heard treason from you, Robert
Cooper; and the day is fast coming when you shall rue having spoken
it.” There was a pause, then he resumed with a harsh laugh, “They
will demand, will they? And in a voice that will not be mistaken, eh?
Well, take care! It is easy to send out a summons to draw a rebel pack
together, but it is not always so easy to actually assemble them.”

Mr. Cooper gazed steadfastly into the deeply-lined face of the old
Tory; there was something in the countenance threatening and sombre,
and somehow it gave out an impression of hidden joy at some grim joke.
Mr. Cooper was about to reply, but old Stephen gripped his staff firmly
and moved a step or two on his way. Then he paused and turned his head.

“Don’t forget what I have said,” added he, with another cackle of
laughter, “and don’t say you were taken unawares.”

Then he stumped away upon his gouty legs, the iron-shod staff ringing
upon the hard road, his big gray head bent and his lips muttering their
hatred of all the king’s enemies.

“He seems to be in a high temper this morning,” laughed Ben, who had
listened with amusement to the Tory’s words. “But he’s always crying
out against something.”

Mr. Cooper shook his head.

“I’m afraid,” said he, “that the coming struggle will see the Tories
one of our greatest sources of vexation.”

Ben looked at his father in surprise.

“The coming struggle,” repeated he. “Do you actually believe that it
will come to that, father?”

Mr. Cooper resumed his seat upon the bench and opened the book once
more. It was easy to see that his fears were of the worst, but that he
had no desire to impart them to his son.

“All this controversy is a struggle,” he said. “And as time draws on,
it will grow more bitter.”

“But,” queried Ben, his face alight with anticipation, “do you think it
will end in blows being struck?”

But his father was bent over the book. All he would say was:

“No one can predict the outcome of such a thing.”

Ben waited for a moment, thinking he would speak further; but as he did
not, the lad shook the reins and Molly loped gaily up the path and off
toward the barn.

In the shadow of the coach house a broad-shouldered youth of seventeen
was engaged in cleaning a long, shining rifle. He looked up as Ben
dismounted and turned the mare over to a hired man.

“Good morning for a ride,” commented he, as he rubbed industriously at
the brass butt of the weapon. “Wanted to go over my traps, or I’d have
joined you.”

“You missed something,” replied Ben, as he sat upon a sawbuck near the
other. “The air is fine upon the road.”

“I know,” smiled the other, “full of sunshine and some other things
which you can’t see, but which make you feel like a giant. It’s that
way among the hills, up in the Wyoming valley.”

Ben kicked at some chips with the toe of his riding-boot and looked
thoughtful.

“You _are_ right,” he said, after a short pause; “there are things in
the air this morning--things that maybe you don’t mean. And the nearer
I rode to the city, the stronger I felt them.”

The broad-shouldered youth laughed and his gray eyes twinkled.

“Maybe,” said he, “they were bits of Mr. Franklin’s electricity.”

“It might seem odd to you, Nat,” proceeded Ben, without noticing the
other’s light words, “but I fancied that the roadside looked different.
Everything seemed closer together and secretive, somehow. When the
trees rustled in the wind and nodded toward each other, it seemed as
though they were whispering mysteriously.”

Again Nat Brewster laughed.

“Ben,” said he, “I think you’ve passed the glen where Mother Babette
lives, and that she’s put a spell upon you.”

But Ben paid no attention to the raillery; his round, good-natured face
was serious and he went on soberly:

“Of course, I don’t think any of these things are so. They are merely
impressions caused by something I did not notice at the time.”

Nat looked at him with more interest. The long rifle lay across his
knee, and the burnishing ceased.

“That’s so,” said he. “I’ve often felt like that myself. Sometimes when
I’ve tramped alone among the mountains I’ve felt worried about things
that I couldn’t give a name. And always something of importance turned
up afterward. It was just as though I felt it coming a long way off.”

Ben nodded his head.

“That’s it,” said he. “That’s it, exactly.” He paused a moment, then
continued, “All along the road the people seemed quiet. Men burning
brush in the fields looked strangely at me through the smoke. People
in carts who’d usually have something to say just nodded their heads,
and seemed to look after me, watchfully. I passed the schoolhouse there
at the crossroads and the long drone that always comes from it, of the
scholars chanting their lessons, was queer and hushed.”

“It was a strange sort of ride,” commented Nat. “I wish I’d gone with
you.”

“I went as far as the ‘Bull and Badger.’ Some farmers were gathered in
front of it and some travelers were upon the porch. It was the same
with them as with the others. The very inn seemed to be trying to
contain some weighty secret; and I turned and rode away without even
getting down.”

Ben leaned over and his forefinger tapped his cousin upon the shoulder.

“I was at the gate of this place before I found out what caused it
all,” said he.

“What was it?” asked Nat, quickly.

“We’re going to have a war with England,” replied Ben. “It means
nothing else.”




CHAPTER II

TELLS WHY NAT BREWSTER WALKED TOWARD CLIVEDEN IN THE DARK


Nat Brewster settled his stalwart frame back against the coach house
wall and, wrinkling his brows, regarded his cousin attentively.

“It’s very likely you’re right,” said he at length. “The expectation
of such a thing would act just about that way upon every one--even to
children and others who did not understand.” Then he stretched out
his long legs and snapped the lock of his rifle with his strong brown
fingers. “If war does come,” he went on, “I hope it comes quickly,
while the colonies are aroused to answer the call. The whole of the
north country is ready; and from reports, the south and coast colonies
are also.”

There was a silence for a moment; then Ben asked:

“Do you think, if it came to blows, the colonies would dare defy the
king?”

“They’ve done it before now,” replied Nat. “Charles II tried oppression
and his commissioners were soundly beaten and shipped back to England
to him. James II patterned by his brother in this, and his governor was
first imprisoned and then banished. If the colonies were bold enough to
do these things when they were weak, they’ll do others like them, now
that they’re stronger.”

As Nat finished speaking there came a clattering of hoofs and the
rumble of wheels upon a side road. Then a strong voice called:

“Who-o-e-e!”

The boys looked in the direction of the sound and saw a light spring
cart drawn by four wiry little horses. A pockmarked man with fiery red
hair sat upon the seat; and in his hands he held a sealed letter.

“Hello,” called he, in his loud voice. “Come get this, some one. I
can’t leave these critters. If I did, they’d try to climb over the
barn.”

Ben arose and hurried to the fence.

“Something for us, Tom?” he asked.

“Something for you,” replied the pockmarked man. “Was given to me at
the City Tavern last night.”

As he spoke the carter tossed the letter to Ben, who deftly caught it;
then he went on:

“I stopped there to get some things which came in on the Baltimore
coach for Mr. Pendergast, above here. There’s a lot of Massachusetts
Bay people stopping there; and one young fellow comes up to me:

“‘I hear you carry goods up Germantown way,’ says he.

“‘I do,’ says I.

“‘Do you know the Cooper place?’ says he.

“‘As well as I do my own,’ I says.

“‘Here’s a letter then,’ he says. ‘And I’d like it delivered with
despatch.’

“And with that he gives me a half crown and the message, and tells me
to keep the one and give you the other.” The carter grinned across
at Ben good humoredly and added: “Anything you want carried toward
Whitemarsh?”

“I think not, Tom,” replied Ben.

“Good-day to you,” said the man. He tightened the reins; the wiry
little horses sprang forward against their collars and the cart went
whirling away in a cloud of dust.

All the time the man was speaking Ben Cooper’s face wore an expression
of astonished impatience. The astonishment was caused by a glance
at the handwriting upon the letter, the impatience by the carter’s
monologue. But now that the man had gone, the lad broke the seal and
his eyes ran over the few lines of writing which the sheet contained.
Then he turned and dashed back toward the spot where he had left Nat.

“You’ll never guess what it is,” cried he, breathlessly. Then, without
pausing for a reply, he added, “Ezra Prentiss, of whom I’ve told you so
much, is in Philadelphia.”

“In Philadelphia?” echoed Nat.

“Listen to what he says.” Unfolding the letter, Ben read:

                                                “_City Tavern, Aug. 23._

  “MY DEAR BEN:--

  “I know this will astonish you. I’ve come south with Mr. Samuel Adams
  and his brother John, of both of whom you’ve no doubt heard. They are
  here to attend the Congress which is soon to meet at the Carpenter’s
  Hall. As you might guess, they were in a great hurry as they came
  into the town and I had no chance to call upon you. We will be
  staying in the City Tavern; come in if you can. In any event I will
  come to Germantown in a few days.

                               “Sincerely, your friend,

                                                        “EZRA PRENTISS.”

“Mr. John and Samuel Adams!” said Nat when his cousin had finished.
“They are the brothers who have spoken so boldly and openly against the
king. It seems to me, Ben, that your friend keeps very famous company.”

“He’s a great patriot, you see,” explained Ben. “Even while he was at
school here several years ago, he used to tell us of the happenings at
Boston and how the citizens defied the government.”

“But I think you said his father was an Englishman.”

“His grandfather. His father is dead. He never seemed to care to go
deeply into his family history; but he told me this: Some years before
his father’s death, there was some sort of an outbreak--against the
Stamp Act, I think. Ezra’s father sided with the townspeople. But
the grandfather was a Tory. A bitter quarrel was the result and they
afterward no longer saw or spoke to each other.”

“I suppose there is a great deal of that,” said Nat. “And if it comes
to war, it will be worse.”

They had now risen and walked toward the house. Down the path along
which Ben had ridden in entering they saw Mr. Cooper pacing to and fro,
with bent head.

“That talk he had with old Stephen Comegies has upset his nerves,” said
Ben. “Politics always has that effect upon him.”

As they walked up the step and into the wide hall he related to his
cousin what had happened.

“I see,” said Nat, thoughtfully. “That is what has fixed your
impression of war.” He looked at Ben steadfastly for a moment. “Tell me
again: What was it he said before he left?”

“As near as I can remember,” said Ben, “he said: ‘It’s easy to _call_ a
pack of rebels together, but not always so easy to actually _get_ them
together.’”

“And you say he seemed to have a sort of--well--a look, while he said
it.”

“It was a satisfaction to him. I could see that.”

“And then he bid your father not to say he was taken unawares, eh?”

“Just as he was going,” said Ben. He looked into Nat’s bronzed,
thoughtful face and was surprised at its expression. “Why, you don’t
think he really meant anything, do you?” he asked.

Nat shook his head.

“I don’t know. Sometimes crabbed old men delight in making meaningless
threats. This may be one of them.”

He hung up his rifle upon a rack in the hall and sat down in a broad
seat at the door. The beautiful suburb with its broad fields, white
roads and stately houses was stretched out before him.

“Are there many Tories hereabouts?” he asked, after a space.

Ben nodded.

“Yes,” he replied, “a great many. And it’s the same way in the city.
With a very few exceptions, it is only those who actually suffer by
the heavy taxes who are aroused and speak against the government.”

“The people of consequence, as you might call them, are then mostly
Tories?”

Again Ben nodded.

“And they are proud of it,” said he. “Though I must say I can’t
understand what they have to pride themselves on.” He pointed across
some prosperous grain fields; behind a clump of heavy, thick-growing
trees could be seen the outlines of a rather fine looking house.
“That’s Cliveden, where the Chews live,” he continued. “The Tories meet
there now and then and protest about the growing disloyalty to the
king.”

For a long time Nat Brewster sat gazing straight ahead and pondering.
Ben watched him curiously for awhile, then as his cousin said nothing
more, remarked:

“I think after Molly’s rested I’ll ride into town and see Ezra. He must
be a regular mail-bag for news. Will you come along, Nat?”

“I think not,” replied the other.

“I’ve often spoken to him about you,” persisted Ben. “He’ll be glad to
see you.”

“Another time will do just as well. I hardly feel like going in to town
to-day.”

“Very well,” and Ben turned away. “Some other time then. But you must
know Ezra before he leaves. You’ll like him.”

After Ben had gone, Nat clasped his hands about his knees and continued
to gaze across the fields toward Cliveden. The August sun was warm
and the insects buzzed lazily about in it, their wings a-glitter. The
level, fertile country was new to Nat; up north in the Wyoming valley
the rugged hills crowded one upon the other; the grim, defiant forests
circled the settlements; the stony earth fought stubbornly against the
plow.

His mother had been Mr. Cooper’s sister; she had met and married Nat’s
father and had gone with him into the wilderness to make a home. But
both were now dead. Nat, whose mother had carefully taught him, had
served two terms as master in a log schoolhouse. But the work did not
altogether please him; and when his uncle sent for him to take him into
his office, he had gladly grasped the opportunity.

Even in the far Wyoming valley, the growing discontent was felt; but
the boy had no notion that matters were so grave until he arrived
at Philadelphia and found neighbors arrayed against each other and
representatives of the colonies scheduled to meet and pass solemn
resolutions protesting against England’s unfair laws.

He ran over all his old impressions and his new ones as well, as he sat
in the wide doorway of the Cooper house. And through all his thoughts
the saying of old Stephen Comegies kept recurring.

“‘It’s easy to call rebels together,’” he repeated, following Ben’s
version of the saying as well as he could. “‘But it’s not always so
easy to get them together.’”

The boy’s thick black brows came together in a frown and his locked
fingers gripped his knees closely.

“I don’t like that,” he murmured. “It has a bad sound. It may have
been the angry, empty words of a partisan--and then again, it may not.
It would be a good thing to have it looked into, I think, if it were
possible.”

And so this is why Nat Brewster waited and lounged about for hours
after his cousin had ridden gaily away into the city; and it is also
why, just as the evening shadows were deepening into darkness, he
started across the fields toward Chew House.




CHAPTER III

SHOWS HOW NAT MET “GRUMPY COMEGIES” AND WHAT CAME OF IT


When Nat had arrived at Germantown, some weeks earlier, his place at
the office was not yet ready. In order not to be idle he had gone
to work in the fields with the hired bands, and so still wore his
backwoods costume. A hunting-shirt, low about the throat and coming
almost to his knees, served the place of a coat, while his leggings of
tanned deerskin and moccasins gave him the air of one fresh from the
wilderness, which he was. But for all this homely dress he was a fine,
upstanding youth, broad-shouldered and tall; his movements were as free
and supple as those of a savage, and his face wore the look of habitual
resolution that comes to those who live in dangerous corners of the
earth.

“It’s queer,” he said to himself as he strode along, “that I can’t get
out of the idea that I should take my rifle everywhere I go, as I did
at home. Somehow I don’t know what to do with my hands when I haven’t
it.”

To supply the place of the missing rifle he stopped a little later and
cut a good-sized cudgel from a scrub oak; then once more he started
forward, whistling softly.

Further on, he found it necessary to vault a fence into a narrow,
tree-lined lane. Darkness had now about set in; the lane, because of
its border of trees, was especially shadowy, and some little distance
away Nat caught the yellow glow of a lantern as it came halting and
dancing along toward him. Leaning back against the fence, he waited
silently for the person carrying it to advance.

Forward it came, hesitatingly, timidly, it seemed. Nat at length made
out the figure of a man and that of a girl, and in a short time they
were close enough for him to catch the sound of their voices.

“But, grandfather,” said the girl, and Nat saw her look intently ahead
in the lamp-light, “I feel quite sure that I heard some one.”

“Pish!” answered the man, impatiently.

“What if you did? The roads are free to every one, are they not?”

“But just now,” persisted the girl, “it is dangerous, is it not, with
all this coming and going of strange men? Indeed,” with great candor,
“I don’t like their looks any too well.”

“Hold your tongue,” cried the man, angrily. “It’s not for you to
question the appearance of loyal subjects of the king.”

“And do you think,” said the girl, “they are really willing to----”

“Hush, I tell you!” The voice of the man rose sharply and broke with
the quaver of age. “What talk is that to have in a public place? For
all you know, there may be a score about to hear you.”

During the above, the pair continued advancing along the lane in Nat’s
direction; and all the time the girl gazed ahead, trying to pierce the
darkness beyond the circle of light. A ray from the lantern fell upon
Nat’s face as the old man spoke the last words, and the girl halted
with a sharp exclamation, grasping his arm.

“What is it?” asked her companion.

“A stranger!” breathed the girl. “There near the fence.”

The old man flashed the lantern in the direction indicated; and Nat’s
lounging figure was bathed in its rays.

“What now, sir?” demanded the girl’s companion, sternly. “What do you
mean by prowling around and startling decent people in this way?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Nat, politely, taking off his cap. “I just
happened to be passing.”

The old man peered into his face. He was old, but his eyes were keen
and bright; and he studied Nat closely.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “I don’t think I have seen you in this
neighborhood before.”

“Possibly not,” replied the boy. “I have not been here a great while.”

An inquiring look came swiftly into the deeply-lined face of the man
with the lantern. He bent forward eagerly.

“Perhaps,” said he, “you are from the north.”

“Yes,” replied Nat, calmly. “I am from the north.”

[Illustration: _“WHO ARE YOU?” HE DEMANDED_]

“And you are going----?”

“To Chew House,” with great frankness.

“Good!” The old man burst into a cackle of laughter, reached out and
patted the boy’s shoulder approvingly. “Excellent! But,” with an
admonitory air, “it would be as well to mention no names.”

Nat had no reply for this, and so remained silent.

“I am Stephen Comegies,” continued the old man. “Perhaps,” with a great
deal of pride, “you have heard of me.”

“I have,” replied the lad.

“There are a few who have not,” chuckled “Grumpy Comegies.” “The king
has some friends who do not fear to speak their minds to the rabble.
And I would not let it end with speaking,” he went on, with increased
spirit, “if I were twenty years younger. There is not a lad of you all
that would take horse in the government’s service quicker than I.”

Here Nat noticed the girl plucking the old man’s sleeve. He bent
impatiently down and she whispered some quick words in his ear.
But he shook his big gray head at her evident attempt to check his
garrulousness.

“Child,” said he, “leave men’s work to men. I am old enough to know
a friend from a foe. And I will not hesitate to speak a word of
encouragement to one when I meet him prepared to do dangerous work for
his master.” He turned to Nat and held out his hand. “Your hand, lad.”

Nat extended his hand; the old man grasped it in a way that showed that
all his strength had not departed from him, and said:

“If you and your comrades succeed in what you are about to undertake,
you will scatter this rebellion like chaff. Have no fear; sweep upon
them and crush them out.” He turned to the girl once more. “Come,
child,” he said. And as he started off he continued over his shoulder,
to Nat, “Good-evening, sir.”

They had gone barely a dozen yards when Nat, who stood looking after
them, saw the girl leave old Stephen’s side and dart back toward him.

“I do not know who you are,” she said, “but you have an honest face.”

“Thank you,” replied the youth, smiling.

“My grandfather is a very old man,” she continued in a breathless,
hurried sort of way, for old Comegies had begun to call rather angrily
to her, “and like most very old men, he--he says a great many things
that perhaps he should not say.”

Nat bowed silently, in the shadows.

“I am glad you understand me,” continued the girl, who perceived this
despite the thickening darkness. She drew closer to him and lowered her
voice. “If you are not what he has taken you to be, I beg of you to be
generous and hold none of it to his injury. Remember, he is, as I have
said, an old man.”

“If it will ease your mind, mistress,” said Nat gravely, “I promise to
forget him in the matter entirely.”

“Thank you,” said the girl, gratefully. “Thank you. You are kind.”

And with that she darted away toward old Stephen, who was holding up
the lantern and calling to her in his high-pitched, quavering voice.




CHAPTER IV

SHOWS HOW STARTLING NEWS WAS NAT’S REWARD AT CHEW HOUSE


Nat Brewster continued to watch the lantern and the two whose way it
lighted, until the flame grew faint and flickering; finally a bend in
the road hid it altogether.

“So that is old Stephen Comegies,” he said. “Well, I never thought I’d
be pleased to see a Tory, but I’m glad to meet this one; for I think
he’s clinched my belief that there is some sort of a plot on foot
against Congress.”

Through the trees he saw the winking windows of Cliveden, and he
regarded them soberly.

“Some people from the north are expected,” he continued, “and they are
going there.” He stood for a moment in silence; then suddenly he threw
back his head and laughed. “I’m from the north, just as I told the old
man,” he said, “and,” clutching the oaken cudgel firmly, “I’m going to
Chew House, also as I told him.”

He clambered over the fence at the opposite side of the road and
started across the fields once more. The dense growth of trees between
him and the mansion loomed blackly before his face. There was a breeze
stirring and the boughs set up a warning whispering.

“There is no doubt of it,” said Nat, and he laughed at the conceit;
“the trees are on the side of the colonies. This morning they told Ben
of coming war; and now they are doing their best to make me keep my
distance.”

However this might be, the young mountaineer did not heed the warning,
but went steadily on. When once among the trees his pace became slower;
but finally he struck a broad road, where the dim sheen of the sky was
visible through the branches.

“This evidently leads up to the house,” muttered the lad. “It has the
well-kept feel of a private way.”

In this he was correct. It was not more than a few minutes when the
lights of the house came into view; the broad windows were like great
yellow eyes and winked genially out upon a wide lawn where flitting,
shadowy people came and went.

“Men,” said Nat, to himself, “and quite a number of them.”

Cautiously he drew nearer; at length he came to a low stone wall at the
edge of the road, and taking his place behind this, he set himself to
learn what was going forward.

“Ben said there were Tory meetings held here,” he continued. “And I
shouldn’t wonder if this were one of them. And, perhaps,” his grip
tightening upon the club which he still retained, “a very important
one, considering what Stephen Comegies hinted at.”

After a little his eyes grew accustomed to the wide beams of light with
the shadows thickening at their edges; then he began to make out the
figures upon the lawn as those of men pacing backward and forward in
twos and threes.

“And very impatiently, I should say,” Nat told himself shrewdly, as he
watched the men. “They act like persons delayed in something which they
are anxious to accomplish.”

The wall was at the far side of the lawn; at first none approached it;
but finally Nat noticed a pair, who seemed even more impatient than
the rest, gradually coming nearer and nearer as they unconsciously
lengthened their course at each turn in their walk. One was a lean,
stoop-shouldered man; the other was tall and burly; their arms
were locked, their heads were close together and they seemed to be
discussing some exasperating situation that had arisen.

Nat watched this twain expectantly.

“At the next turn they’ll get near enough for me to hear what they are
saying,” he calculated. “Then, maybe, I’ll learn something worth while.”

Sure enough, the next turn brought the two within ear-shot. The first
words that Nat caught were from the burly personage, and they made him
catch his breath and shrink closer to the wall.

“It would have been much better if we had thought of this in time
to intercept that parcel of rascals from Massachusetts Bay,” the
big man said in a harsh voice that was much like the grumbling of a
dissatisfied animal. “The ring-leaders of the entire movement were in
that party and with them safely aboard a British ship, we’d soon have
them in England for trial and execution.”

As he spoke he slashed at his high boots with a riding-whip and gave
every evidence of being in a towering rage. But the lean man with the
stooped shoulders spoke soothingly,

“Don’t let your feelings get the better of you, my dear Royce,” said
he. “We must have a beginning somewhere, and the Massachusetts members
of the rebel Congress were already safely in the city when young
Prentiss suggested this idea to us.”

Prentiss! Nat Brewster heard the name with a shock of recollection. But
at the instant the recollection was only as to having heard it before.
He mentally groped about seeking to place it; then suddenly the facts
came to him like a flash.

“It’s the name of Ben’s school friend,” he thought. “Is it possible
that----” but he drove the thought from him. “No, it can’t be the same.
There are many others of that name, of course.”

The two men turned slowly and began to retrace their steps.

“He should have communicated with us sooner,” maintained Royce in his
disagreeable grumble.

“You may depend upon it that he made all the speed he could,” replied
the other. “I never saw a lad more anxious about anything than he was
regarding the taking of that firebrand Samuel Adams.”

Royce began speaking once more; but they were too distant now for Nat
to make out his words; and the indistinct grumble died as the men
slowly paced away.

“Prentiss!” muttered Nat, still sternly holding back the idea that
tried to possess him. “It’s an odd kind of a coincidence, but that’s
all it is. It can’t be Ben’s friend! Why, of course it can’t,” with a
relieved laugh as another thought came to him. “This Prentiss of whom
these two were speaking is eager to bring ill-fortune upon Mr. Adams,
while the one I’ve heard so much of since I came to Germantown is his
friend.”

But in spite of the laugh and in spite of the reasoning, the similarity
in the names troubled the young mountaineer. And when Royce and his
companion drew near once more, he listened eagerly.

The stoop-shouldered man was speaking and considerable impatience had
crept into his voice.

“It is unreasonable and ungenerous,” declared he, “to blame the boy for
something that is perhaps entirely out of his control.”

“Didn’t he say he was sure this was the night?--didn’t he ask you to
call us together?” demanded Royce.

“He told me plainly that he was not sure; he merely said that this
would perhaps be the night, and that it would be as well to have
everybody ready. You are angry because we missed the opportunity to
take Adams; don’t lay everything to the lad’s discredit.”

“I will admit,” said Royce, “that there is something in what you say.
Of course he doesn’t know just when the members from Virginia are
to cross the ferry, and he can only notify us when he receives the
information. But I can’t get it out of my head that he could have used
more expedition in the Adams matter.”

“You are a natural born grumbler,” said the lean man. “I don’t
think it would be possible to please you, no matter what was done.
Young Prentiss did his best to get here in advance of the men from
Massachusetts; and he did arrive in advance, as you know.”

“But not far enough to be of any service, Mr. Dimisdale, as you know,”
insisted Royce, stubbornly.

The two men had paused and leaned their elbows upon the wall at no
greater distance than two yards from the spot where Nat was crouched.

“I know the general estimate placed upon the importance of these two
Adams’,” said Dimisdale.

“They are dangerous to the best interests of the crown,” declared
Royce. “They are of the type of men who lead the people astray by false
doctrines. The country will never be at peace while they are at large.
Did not the eldest of them--the one named Samuel--have the effrontery
to shake his fist in the face of an English governor and warn him that
British redcoats--our safeguards--must be removed from Boston. And all
because a few rebellious rascals had been shot in the streets for an
open defiance of the law!”

The indignation of the burly Tory as he conjured up this scene almost
made Nat laugh outright, but he stifled the impulse as Dimisdale began
to speak.

“Please allow me to finish,” said that gentleman. “When you interrupted
me I was about to show you that these two brothers are not the only
persons of consequence in this movement.”

“Go on,” said Royce, sullenly.

“The prospects of our intercepting the men from Virginia are good,”
said Dimisdale. “If we succeed, we will, beyond a doubt, have made as
important a capture, if not one of more importance, than the one you so
regret missing.”

“It will require a great deal to convince me of that,” remarked Royce,
with doubt plain in his voice.

“First,” said Dimisdale, impressively, “there will be Edward Pendleton,
one of the Virginia aristocrats, a man of fine distinction and
attainments, of many friendships and vast influence in his own colony
and far beyond to the southward.”

“I know that,” said the big man.

“Then there will be Patrick Henry, whose name has already gone across
the sea and whose tongue is as a flame in arousing rebellion among
the discontented. And last--but in my private opinion--standing head
and shoulders above them all--is one whom I consider to be the most
dangerous man of the period. His very silence up to this time makes him
all the more to be feared. His resolution is like granite, his talent
beyond dispute. I mean Colonel Washington, of Mount Vernon.”

What Royce thought of this estimate Nat never knew; for at that moment
there came the ring of hoofs in the darkness. Then a horseman dashed up
to the Chew House and threw himself from the saddle.

“Young Prentiss at last!” cried Royce.

“And come with news of importance, I’ll be bound,” echoed Dimisdale.

The two hurried away toward the spot where an eager group had gathered
about the newcomer; and Nat was left to his thoughts and the darkness.

“An attempt to capture the Virginia members of Congress,” breathed the
boy, his blood thrilling at the idea; “and to-night!”

He stared at the dim cluster of Tories who stood in the path before the
house listening to something that was being swiftly imparted to them by
the night rider.

“And it may succeed,” he said. “It is a thing so unsuspected that it
may succeed!”

As he watched he saw the group scatter. Horses were heard trampling
and jingling their equipment; then came the noise of men mounting and
calling to each other triumphantly. Finally the entire party rode down
the path and into the public road; some of them bore lanterns to light
their way, and in the dancing rays Nat saw eager, laughing faces, and
also the glint of steel. In the midst of them rode a boyish figure; it
was the bearer of the news, but Nat could not see his face, as it was
turned away, the boy being engaged in earnest talk with Dimisdale, who
rode beside him.

“Keep to the roads on the outskirts,” ordered Royce, who seemed to
command the cavalcade. “We might attract attention if we rode through
the city; and we can reach the lower ferry just as well.”




CHAPTER V

HOW NAT BREWSTER MET THE PORCUPINE


Bewildered, and a trifle frightened by the nature of the proceedings,
Nat Brewster stood by the low wall and listened to the hoof beats as
they died away in a muffled rumble. But when the silence of the August
night closed in upon him--when he noted the many lights of Chew House
being extinguished one by one, and heard the doors and windows closing
sharply, he suddenly came out of his trance, and his naturally alert
brain began to work once more.

“Something must be done,” he said, aloud. “And so it seems to have been
left for me to do, I suppose I must do it.”

Almost in an instant a plan of action was drawn up.

“I must reach the lower ferry at the foot of Gray’s Road before the
Tories,” he told himself, still speaking aloud. “But to do it I must
have a swift horse and one that can stand a long run without breaking
down.”

That there was none such in the stable at Coopers’ he well knew; and
instantly his mind went to that of the Chews’.

“They are wealthy people and ride to the hounds in season,” reasoned
Nat, calling to mind some gossip of Ben’s. “And so, naturally, they
have some good mounts in their barn.”

He faced toward the great stone house as he spoke, and in the darkness
a smile came upon his face.

“I don’t suppose they’d be willing to lend if I went there and candidly
explained what I meant to do,” he proceeded. “So the best thing I can
do is to borrow first and take the risk of explaining afterward--that
is, if I can find the barn in the dark.”

He sprang upon the wall and then down on the other side. As he made his
way cautiously around the house he saw that all the lights, save one at
the front, were out.

“There’s not much chance of my being seen--by humans, anyway,” he
muttered. “But if they have any dogs about, they’ll be more likely to
scent me than not.”

The words had scarcely left his lips when there came a tremendous
barking and the swift rush of a heavy body toward him. Luckily the
brute was of a light color and the boy caught a vague glimpse of it as
it bounded at him. Swinging the cudgel over his head, he brought it
down with a free, double-handed sweep; there was a moaning yelp and the
dog lay motionless at his feet.

“A lucky blow,” said the young mountaineer, as he jeered down at the
stricken beast. “But unlucky for you, old fellow,” with a sudden qualm,
“for I suppose you were only doing what it was your nature to do, after
all.”

But he had little time for remorse. The great door of Cliveden opened;
a servant appeared upon the threshold holding a light above his head; a
tall, aristocratic man stood beside him.

“Are you quite sure it was the dog, Henry?” asked the latter.

“Quite,” replied the servant.

There was a pause; then both bent their heads as though listening: then
the first speaker remarked:

“It was some passing noise, I fancy. He seems quiet enough now.”

“Yes, sir,” said the servant, who was a stout, resolute looking fellow.
“But had I not better take a look about?”

“There is no need,” said the master carelessly.

“Very well, sir.”

Both withdrew, the servant casting suspicious glances into the deep
shadows about the house. Nat drew a breath of relief.

“That was rather a narrow escape,” he murmured. “From the way that
fellow looked, I felt sure he’d be out here poking around with his
light whether or no.”

Once more he cautiously made his way around the mansion. Some little
distance away he caught the dense bulk of the barn; and the same
instant he noted that a dim light was filtering through a small window
at one side.

“A watchman, perhaps,” thought the boy, in keen disappointment. “If it
is, that’s the end of my plan.”

However, he carefully advanced and peered through the window. A lantern
hung upon a wooden peg; there were some half dozen horses in the
stalls, but, as far as he could see, no humans.

“In the loft, I suppose,” muttered Nat. “More than likely a stable
hand, sent to look after the stock.”

He waited and watched for some time; once the sound of a door opening
caught his ear; he turned and saw a barb of light flash along the
ground; then the door closed and the light vanished.

“The servant, I suppose,” smiled Nat. “He was not satisfied and took
another short look to assure himself.”

He waited for some time after this again, but as there was no sound
within the barn save for the occasional stamp of the horses, he finally
walked quietly around to the door and entered. A swift glance showed
him some horse equipment hanging at one side. He took down a bridle and
gave an appraising look at the mounts.

“This one looks the best,” said he, softly; and with that he slipped
into the stall of a powerful looking gray and bitted him with calm
expertness. He had backed the animal out and was adjusting a saddle,
when a queer, squeaking voice, from directly over his head, sounded in
his ears.

“I thought you’d get the right one, master! He’s a rare goer, he is!”

Nat started. His eyes went swiftly in the direction of the voice. First
he caught sight of a comical little pair of legs astride one of the
rafters, then of a huge head, topped with a shock of stiff, upstanding
hair.

“There ain’t a nag in these parts that’ll get you to the lower ferry
quicker than that one will,” continued the queer voice, assuringly.
“Always trust a flea-bitten gray to have courage and bottom.”

Nat continued to hold the horse by the bridle with one hand; with the
other he shaded his eyes from the light and examined the speaker with
interest. He saw a big, moon-like face--a large mouth that grinned down
at him good-naturedly, showing two rows of strong, white teeth. The
creature’s head was that of a man, but the body was no larger than that
of a ten-year-old boy.

The sudden discovery of this unusual creature was in itself enough to
startle a person with weak nerves. But Nat Brewster was not troubled
with anything of the sort. It was the words alone that troubled him;
the odd-looking imp on the rafter seemed able to read his secret
purpose.

“Who are you?” inquired the mountain boy, quietly, after a pause.

The dwarf grinned more widely than ever.

“Don’t you know?” asked he. “Have you been at the Cooper place for two
weeks and not heard of me?”

Nat shook his head. The dwarf blinked his small round eyes as though
marveling at this lack of information. With one hand he smoothed back
his upstanding shock of hair; but it sprang stiffly erect once more.

“I’m the Porcupine,” announced he. “Everybody knows me. I live in the
woods when I want to; but I mostly like barns and such like, after the
hay is in.”

Nat regarded him closely.

“What made you think I was going to the lower ferry?” demanded he.

The Porcupine grinned; his large teeth gleamed like polished ivory in
the lantern light.

“Folks don’t calculate I know much,” said he. “But sometimes I fool
’em. You didn’t see me down there by the wall, did you? Well, I
was there, not more than a couple of yards from you all the time.”
The squeaky voice pitched higher, as the dwarf shook with gleeful
recollection. “And I heard what Master Dimisdale said to Master Royce;
also I heard what Master Royce said to Master Dimisdale.” He leaned
down from his perch upon the rafter and shook his huge head with
increased enjoyment. “And right away I knew what you were going to do.”

“How?” asked Nat, in wonder.

“When the party rode away and you stood watching them, I heard what you
said,” replied the Porcupine. “That’s why I came here. I wanted to see
that you got a good horse. And now that you have,” pointing to a rangy
looking chestnut that stood in a stall almost beneath, “I want you to
put a saddle and bridle on that one for me.”

“For you!” said the astonished Nat.

“Of course, for me,” replied the dwarf, coolly. “You’re a stranger
here. How’ll you find the lower ferry unless I show you?”

At this Nat burst into a laugh.

“Right!” said he, cheerily. “How would I, to be sure? So get down and
hold the gray and I’ll saddle the chestnut for you in a moment.”

The Porcupine slid himself along the rafter dexterously until he
reached the wall where there was a ladder leading to the loft. Down
this he swung easily; and Nat watching him for the first time noted the
great length of his arms and the size of his hands.

In a space the chestnut was beside the other horse, champing its bit
in a dissatisfied sort of way. The dwarf, who scarcely came to the
shoulder of the tall gray, held it by the rein and watched Nat’s
accustomed fingers approvingly as they flew from buckle to buckle.

“So,” said the young mountaineer, as he worked, “you are for Congress
and against the king, are you?”

“No,” replied the Porcupine, “I’m only against Neighbor Dimisdale.”

“And why against him?” asked Nat.

“Once there was a great robbing of hen-roosts; they could not find
out who was doing it, so Master Dimisdale settled upon me and wanted
me sent to the workhouse. He said I was a vagrant and a danger to the
town.”

“You don’t look very dangerous,” spoke Nat.

The dwarf grinned impishly.

“You don’t know me yet,” he replied. “But,” returning to his grievance,
“Master Dimisdale is a hard man. Even after I had caught the real
thief, he did his best against me.”

“And who was the real thief?” asked Nat, surprisedly.

“A clever old mink,” grinned the Porcupine. “I told them so from the
first--but no one would listen to me but Ben Collins. He loaned me a
trap and gave me a chance to prove what I said.”

Nat put his hand upon the dwarf’s shoulder and looked thoughtfully down
into his face.

“Do you understand the nature of the errand upon which those men rode
away a while ago?” asked he.

The big head nodded; a shrewd look came into the small, round eyes.

“Yes,” said the Porcupine.

“And you will help me prevent their carrying it out?”

“I’m against anything that Neighbor Dimisdale is for,” answered the
Porcupine promptly.

Without another word Nat led the two horses out of the barn.

“Quick, now!” he said, in a low voice.

With a single heave he tossed the small body lightly into the saddle.

The Porcupine clutched the chestnut with his short legs and grasped the
reins with a practiced hand.

“Good,” said Nat, to himself. “He knows what he’s about at all events.”

His own foot was in the stirrup when a light suddenly flared in his
face.

“Now then, my friend,” said a cold voice, “give an account of yourself.”

For a moment Nat’s eyes were dazzled; then he made out the countenance
of the speaker and that of the person who had so suddenly unmasked the
lantern. They were the two who had come to the door of Chew House but
a short time before, attracted by the barking of the dog. There was a
superior smile on the face of the master and a derisive grin upon that
of the man, as they noted the boy’s astonishment.

“Your suspicions were correct, Henry,” said the former, and Nat saw
that he held a large pistol ready in his hand. “And I thank you for
insisting, so to speak, upon a search.”

Nat recalled the sound of the door opening and closing while he gazed
through the window of the barn, and realized that it was then that they
had emerged. Seeing that he was caught he resolved to put a bold face
upon the matter and watch for any opportunity that might present itself.

“I’m sincerely sorry to have disturbed you, sir,” said he, politely.

“I can see that,” returned the other. “And you were so anxious not to
do so that you were upon the point of borrowing my horses to carry you
out of ear-shot.”

Nat smiled at the quiet mockery of this. He was about to speak, but the
man servant was before him.

“The lower ferry would be well out of ear-shot,” remarked he with a
laugh.

“Hold your lantern up, Henry,” commanded the master; the man complied
and the rays fell upon Nat’s face once more. “You hold your countenance
well, my lad,” continued the speaker, after a pause. “But it will not
serve you. We overheard your conversation with this little villain,”
nodding smilingly toward the Porcupine, who had during all this time
remained silently perched upon his tall steed. “And I think I’m safe in
saying that you’ll carry no warning to the rebels to-night.”

Nat made no reply. Through his mind ran thoughts of a dark, lonely
road, of a quiet party riding forward toward the city, of a swift rush
and capture, of a staggering blow dealt the cause of the protesting
colonies.

For a moment the man with the pistol watched Nat’s face, then he turned
with a careless laugh.

“Now the rope, Henry,” said he. “I’ll hold the light while you truss
them up comfortably.”

But that moment of carelessness cost him the success of his plan. The
instant he turned, Nat sprang upon him, wrested the pistol from his
clutch and felled him with its heavy butt. With a squeal of excitement
the Porcupine drove his heels into the chestnut and rode down the man
servant, the lantern being extinguished in his fall. Like a flash Nat
was upon the back of the gray, which was snorting with fright, then
with the dwarf at his side he went leaping away into the darkness, the
horses’ heads pointed toward the dim glow that overhung the city.




CHAPTER VI

SHOWS HOW NAT BREWSTER AND THE PORCUPINE RODE THROUGH THE NIGHT


“This way,” cried the Porcupine, after a little. “Keep to the left;
there’s a gap in the fence at the far side of this field that will let
us out upon the main road.”

Nat followed the instructions of the dwarf, whose knowledge of the
ground about the Chew House seemed perfect and whose sight was
unusually keen in the dark. The break in the fence was located without
any great trouble, and a moment later found them with the hard public
road under them. Here Nat drew rein; turning his head he gazed back
toward the mansion.

“It appears that we have created some little stir,” remarked he to the
Porcupine, who had drawn up beside him. The dwarf uttered his peculiar,
squealing laugh.

“Look at the lights,” said he. “They pop up at window after window,
just like fireflies.”

There was also the dim hubbub of far-away voices; it was as though
excited men were calling loudly to each other, and that their
excitement grew greater with each passing moment.

“In a little while they may recover their senses sufficiently to take
horse in pursuit,” spoke Nat. “So I think we’d better make the best of
our time.”

“We’d better make it anyhow,” suggested the Porcupine. “We’ve a long
ride ahead of us and Master Royce’s party have had a good half hour’s
start.”

So together they gave their mounts the rein and went galloping down
the road. Steadily the pace was kept up until the horses began to
show signs of distress. Then they were allowed to walk until they
had recovered, when they were urged into a faster pace once more. It
was not a great while before they rode into a more thickly built up
section; people were now frequently met with carrying lanterns and
proceeding about their business.

“And here is the city itself,” at last cried the dwarf. “See the
lamps,” pointing to the scattering of oil lamps which, owing to the
efforts of Benjamin Franklin, had been lately placed in the streets.
“They say there is no town in all the colonies that has so many.”

The light thrown was dim and uncertain enough; but Nat Brewster was
struck with admiration and looked wonderingly down each street as they
passed. He had been in Philadelphia several times since his arrival,
but never before at night.

“Do you know the town very well?” he asked the dwarf, as they rode
along.

“I was born in it,” replied that personage, proudly. “And it is the
largest city in America. There are thirty thousand people living here,”
in a tone of almost incredulity, “and there is a fast coach that makes
the journey to New York in two days.”

They turned at a smart pace through some open ground into High Street,
then across a field and to the eastward of the State House whose tower
pointed darkly into the sky.

“Below here we shall soon come to Gray’s Road, which leads direct to
the ferry,” said the dwarf. They rode on in silence for some time after
this. But the Porcupine’s manner showed that he had something on his
mind; finally he twisted himself about in his saddle and asked:

“What’s your name?”

“Nat Brewster,” was the reply.

“Nat Brewster,” repeated the other, slowly, and with much the manner of
a person who is tasting something. “I kind of like the sound of that;
and,” suddenly, “I kind of like you. But tell me this, Nat Brewster,”
tapping the young mountaineer upon the elbow with one finger-tip; “when
you come up with Master Royce and his men, what do you intend to do?”

For a moment Nat was startled. He drew hard upon the rein and the big
gray came to a stand.

“You are right,” said he. “I’ve been in such haste that the thing
entirely escaped me.”

“You can’t fight ’em alone,” spoke the Porcupine wisely. “Of course,”
with a grin, “you won’t be exactly alone, but you might as well be. I’m
not much good in a fight. I’m not big enough.”

Nat silently sat upon his horse and pondered. Royce’s men were heavily
armed; he knew that, for he had caught the glimmer of steel in the
lights of Chew House. And that they were determined to carry out their
project in spite of all opposition, he felt sure.

“If I faced them,” the lad muttered, “they’d laugh at me and cut me
down.”

But he must have aid! He would turn about and ride to the City Tavern
where those members of Congress, who had already arrived, were staying.
The idea was seized upon eagerly; then almost immediately it was
discarded.

“It will take too much time,” thought the young mountaineer. “And,
another thing: Would they believe the story I’d have to tell?”

He was forced to admit that he did not think so. The thing was
improbable and would be difficult to credit; valuable time would be
consumed, and in the end he’d probably be forced to ride away as he
came, and proceed upon his mission alone.

“And with not so many chances of success,” said Nat. “For while I’d be
seeking to convince strangers that I was telling the truth, the Tories
would have more than likely accomplished what they set out to do.”

A watchman’s lantern sparkled ahead as the man raised it and tried to
make out the details of the two horsemen who stood so silently in the
middle of the street. A bell struck midnight in a solemn, sonorous sort
of way; the watchman lifted his voice and chanted:

“Twelve o’clock--a cloudy night--and all’s well!”

“The time’s drawing on,” remarked the dwarf. “Have you made up your
mind?”

For answer Nat shook the rein and the gray sprang forward; after a few
bounds the chestnut was alongside once more, and the dwarfs peculiar,
squealing laugh sounded in the silence.

“That’s what I thought you’d do,” declared he. “I can always tell what
people will do by their faces.”

“Well,” replied Nat, good humoredly, “if you can see my face in this
light, I must say that Porcupines have remarkably sharp eyes.”

“I can’t see it now,” said the dwarf, composedly. “But I could the
other day when you were breaking the colt for Farmer Campbell in the
back lot. There’d been a dozen tried to ride that young beast before
you came to Germantown, and it threw them all. I heard tell that it
almost killed Peter Corbin.”

“It was somewhat self-willed,” said Nat, recalling the desperate battle
he’d had with the creature before it was subdued. “But you can expect
that of colts, as a rule.”

“Yes, but they’re not all as wicked as that one,” and the Porcupine’s
voice had a tone of great positiveness. “I’ve seen lots of them broken,
but that colt fought harder than all of them put together. But you
didn’t ask any one to help you when it threw itself down and tried to
roll on you, or when it tried to crush your leg against the fence. You
just stuck to it and won. I knowed then, by your face, that you’d do
it; and I know now, even when I can’t see it.”

“You have confidence, at any rate,” laughed Nat. “And so,” rather
grimly, “I’ll try and live up to your judgment of me.”

Some distance to the southwest they came to Gray’s Road, and dashed
along toward the river.

As it drew on past midnight, it grew darker, the sheen disappeared from
the sky, a fact which told them that the clouds were growing thicker
and that heavy rain might soon be expected. The Porcupine sniffed as
they sped along.

“I can smell it,” said he confidently. “It’s going to come from the
direction in which we are going.”

Just then Nat, whose eyes were fixed steadily ahead, uttered an
exclamation and pulled up shortly. The dwarf instantly did likewise.
Both horses were thrown back upon their haunches by the suddenness of
the stop and snorted with fright. Nat bent his head forward, staring
straight between the gray’s ears and called sharply:

“Who’s there?”

In the silence that followed, the gurgle of water lapping a bank was
plainly heard. Nat drew from the breast of his hunting-shirt the heavy
pistol which he had wrung from the master of Cliveden; its clumsy
mechanism clicked loudly as he drew back the hammer.

“Who’s there?” demanded he, sternly. “Answer, or I’ll fire.”

This time a low laugh followed the words.

“I suppose we’d better do as he asks,” spoke a voice. “He said that as
though he meant it.”

The Porcupine leaned his big head toward Nat.

“Master Dimisdale,” breathed he. “I’d know his voice among a thousand.”

“We are peaceable citizens, sir traveler,” said the voice. “And we
trust that we have not made ourselves offensive to you.”

Again came the low laugh; this time it was slightly mocking and Nat’s
anger began to rise.

“You will kindly stand out of the road,” said he, sharply. “I am not
here to hold conversation with you, whoever you are; my business is
more urgent.”

“And just what may your business be?” inquired a boyish voice, which
Nat at once recognized as belonging to the person who had laughed. “We
have some small interest in various matters to-night and who knows but
what yours might be one of them?”

“You can have no interest in me,” replied Nat, evenly. “You know
nothing of the business that I ride upon.”

“Let us debate the question,” replied the boyish voice. “Who knows but
what our knowledge is greater by far than you’d suppose. It is a fact,
and I’ll leave it to my friends here to substantiate me in the saying,
that we have considerable interest in those who use this road to-night.”

There was a chorus of laughter, low pitched and cautious, at this. The
shadowy persons, who were stretched across the way, seemed greatly
diverted. Then Dimisdale spoke once more.

“However,” said he, “we must remember that these gentlemen are riding
in the wrong direction for us.”

Again came the laughter; above the others, Nat could plainly hear that
of the boy. And somehow the sound greatly irritated him. As a rule,
Nat was not the lad for strangers to make game of, and least of all
was this the case now. The cool, masterful tones of the young stranger
ruffled his temper in a way that he could not have accounted for even
if he had tried. But when he spoke, no trace of his anger crept into
his voice; this was just as even as before.

“You are disposed to entertain yourselves at our expense, I see,” he
said. “And, candidly, I dislike it. So I ask you once more to kindly
stand aside that we may go on.”

“Go on!” came the boy’s voice. “Why man alive, you should be thankful,
indeed, that we are here to prevent you from going on. A dozen steps
more and you’d be swimming for your life in the Schuylkill.”

The sound of lapping water a few momenta before had given Nat a hint as
to this.

“It’s the ferry landing,” he told himself.

Almost at the same moment he heard the Porcupine whisper in his ear:

“They are waiting here for the gentlemen from Virginia to cross the
river.”

“Hush!” breathed Nat, fearing that the words would be overheard. Then
aloud he said, addressing the invisible people before him:

“I suppose you have taken up your present position through motives of
kindness entirely. The fear that some heedless wayfarer might ride
into the river has kept you all out of your beds, no doubt.”

Again came the laugh from the party blocking the road.

“Our traveler has wit!” mocked the unseen boy. “I’ll even venture that
he’s as clever a debater as either of the Adamses, or Patrick Henry
himself.” He paused a moment and then addressed Nat once more: “Perhaps
it’s your intention to cross the river?” said he.

“Perhaps,” replied Nat.

“I’m very sorry, in that event,” returned the other in his cool,
exasperating way. “But the ferry has just this moment----”

He had gotten this far when there came a sudden movement; it was as
though a hand had been quickly clapped over his mouth. Then Dimisdale
was heard to say, quietly:

“A still tongue makes a wise head, Master Prentiss. It is not always
well to tell everything you know.”

But he might just as well have allowed him to continue, for even as
it was, Nat Brewster’s quick mind had grasped the situation. He had
wondered from the beginning why he had not heard the voice of Royce;
for that gentleman was scarcely one to be present and not be heard. But
the heedless words of the youthful Tory brought the truth to him in a
flash.

“Royce is not here,” reasoned Nat, to himself. “He has taken part of
the band and crossed the river on the ferry. They have made up their
minds that it is best to attack on the far side.”

The idea was startling; but he kept himself well in hand. Dimisdale had
begun to speak again, and he listened eagerly.

“In times like these,” said Dimisdale, “one should consider everything
one says. There is no telling what small matter inconsiderately dropped
might lead to some larger circumstance entirely unforeseen.”

“You talk like a sage, Master Dimisdale,” laughed the stranger youth,
lightly. “But there is a great deal of truth in what you say, and I’ll
try to be guided by it.”

While he was speaking, Nat bent toward the Porcupine.

“Is there a ford anywhere at hand?” he whispered.

“Some distance above,” answered the dwarf in the same low tone.

“Do you think you can find it?”

“I’m sure I can.”

“Then hold yourself ready to run for it.”

The young Tory had continued speaking; and now he lifted his voice for
Nat’s benefit, still, however, addressing Dimisdale:

“However, at the worst there is no great harm done. These two
gentlemen, whoever they are, are going to remain our guests for an hour
or two.”

“Don’t be quite so sure of that,” cried Nat, through his tight shut
teeth. Then with a quick word to the Porcupine they wheeled their nags
and went tearing up the road in the direction of the city. Behind them
came a confused hubbub; then the voice of Dimisdale rang out clearly:

“Halt!”

But they paid no attention; bending low in their saddles, they urged
the galloping horses to a greater speed. Then a pistol shot sounded,
followed by another and still another. The heavy bullets flew wide, and
Nat laughed as he heard them “zip-zipping” among the trees.

“It takes a sharp eye to sight a pistol in the darkness,” said he.

“And it’ll take just as sharp a one to find the road that’ll take us to
the ford,” declared the Porcupine, as he strained his eyes ahead. “But
I rather think I’m going to do it, for all.”

“Do your best,” said Nat. “A great deal depends upon the next half
hour--perhaps the very lives of Mr. Henry and his friends.”

In a little while the sounds in the rear died away. The Tories upon the
river bank had been dismounted; and apparently they did not think it
wise, in any event, to give chase.

A full hour was consumed in finding the ford in the dark, and crossing
the river; but upon the far side they picked up the ferry road once
more and turned south. Nat rode with his hand upon the butt of the
pistol; the Tories were somewhere ahead and almost any moment might
bring another surprise. Suddenly the Porcupine spoke.

“Why,” inquired he, “do this Mr. Henry and his friends travel at night?”

This very question had been intruding itself upon Nat in a hazy sort of
way for some time, but now he saw its point for the first time.

“Is there any good reason for their doing it?” persisted the dwarf.

“None that I know of,” replied Nat.

“Then I don’t believe they are doing it,” said the Porcupine,
positively. “I don’t know much about things, and the Tories at Master
Chew’s seemed to think they would cross the lower ferry to-night. But
if it were left for me to give an opinion, I’d say that they were
comfortably sleeping at Chester, if they are anywhere near the city at
all.”

Nat was silent. The suggestion opened up a new view of the night’s
latter developments, and he examined them carefully.

“You may be right,” he said at length. “Perhaps the Tories had some one
on the watch; and when they reached the river they may have been told
that there would be no crossing attempted until morning.”

“That’s it,” said the dwarf, shrewdly. “And then some of them went over
in the boat, while the others were left behind to make sure.”

“What purpose did they have in crossing?” asked Nat. A thought had
sprung, full armed, into his mind, and he breathlessly awaited the
Porcupine’s reply.

“They have found out where the gentlemen are to spend the night,” came
the dwarf’s answer. “And they are going there after them.”

For a moment Nat Brewster was too absorbed to speak. The Porcupine’s
reply agreed so exactly with his thought that the odd creature might
well have read his mind. At length, however, he asked:

“Is this the southern road?”

“Yes.”

“The one the travelers would be likely to take?”

“It is.”

Nat stared straight ahead into the darkness. A few heavy drops of rain
were falling and the wind had begun to blow in warm gusts.

“We’d better go as we are,” he said, after a pause. “And,” with a laugh
that was full of expectation, “I rather think that we’ll meet with some
further experiences on the road before we are an hour older.”




CHAPTER VII

SHOWS HOW NAT BREWSTER MET WITH MR. WASHINGTON


The two had ridden no great distance from the river when, close to the
roadside, they came upon a small wooden house, from a window of which
a light was streaming. This in itself was rather unusual in such a
place at such an hour; but, more surprising still, they saw, through
the window, a man sitting upon a low bench hammering merrily away at a
piece of leather.

“A cobbler,” said Nat, surprised, “and at work so late in the night.”

“His customers must be in great haste,” laughed the Porcupine. “They
don’t give the poor man time enough to get his natural sleep.”

“I think,” answered Nat, who had brought the gray to a stand in the
road opposite the window, “that it might mean more than that. At any
rate, it will do no harm to exchange a word with this hard-pressed
mechanic.”

They rode close up under the cobbler’s window; he, roused by the
trampling hoofs, paused in his hammering and lifted his head.

“You work late, shoemaker,” saluted Nat, genially. “Business must be
over good.”

“You ride late, young sir,” replied the cobbler, shrewdly. “And how is
business with you?”

Nat laughed. The night was warm, and the small-paned sash was pushed up
as far as it would go, making easy conversation.

“My present business is a great deal of a puzzle,” replied the boy.
“And I think I had better see the end of it before I pass any sort of
judgment.”

The cobbler was a small, dried-out looking man of middle age. He had a
weazened face and cunning eyes; and yet there was something engaging
about him. He beat at the thick piece of leather upon his lap-stone for
a moment, then laid down the hammer and said:

“There is no one on this side of the Schuylkill that can outdo me in
puzzles this night, young man. And whatever your matter is, I’m quite
sure that it can’t compare with the situation that I find myself in.”

“Why,” said Nat, and the watchful Porcupine saw an eager look come into
his face, “I had not thought the making of boots so exciting a trade.”

“It has nothing to do with the making of boots,” replied the mechanic.
“If it had, I could understand it readily enough. It is something else,
and something most peculiar when a man comes to examine it from its
different sides.”

Nat said nothing to this. He saw that the cobbler had something upon
his mind and that he was most anxious to unburden himself of it, even
to a stranger who appeared at his window in the night.

“It’s best to let him take his own time,” reasoned the lad. “If I begin
to ask questions, he might take the notion not to speak--and somehow I
fancy that I should greatly benefit by what he has to say.”

The little shoemaker rubbed his stained and calloused hands together
reflectively; the thick candle that burned in a sconce over his head
threw a bright light about his work-room, with its array of farmers’
thick boots awaiting repair, and its clutter of leather and tools.
Finally he spoke, and with the air of a man who was asking advice.

“What would you think,” he inquired, bending forward, “if you were
sitting here upon this bench, pegging away at a sole and wondering what
sort of fall and winter we have coming upon us, when a very young chap
rode up, much like you have done, only it was by daylight, and says to
you:

“‘Is this Neighbor Parslow?’

“‘It is,’ says you.

“He tries to look careless like, but you see at once that he’s keen for
something; so you go on pegging and pegging and let him take his own
time about his own business. So after a while he says to you:

“‘As I was riding along the river I saw a rather smart looking barge.’

“‘Did you?’ says you.

“‘Yes,’ says he, ‘and as I was told it was your property, I’ve come to
see you about it.’

“‘It’s not for sale,’ says you.

“‘Oh, I don’t want to buy it,’ he says, quick enough. ‘I just want to
engage it.’

“‘Very well,’ says you. ‘That’s what I keep it for; my charge is four
shillings for the day.’

“‘And how much for the night?’ asks he. And with that you see he’s a
merry chap and has an honest face.

“‘It’s seldom or never,’ says you, ‘that any one hires the barge for
after dark, so I don’t know about that.’

“‘Have your boat ready at ten to-night,’ says he briskly, ‘and you’ll
earn a handful of Spanish dollars.’

“So at that you’re a little taken by surprise.

“‘Do you want it for a pleasure party?’ you ask him, and he laughs
again in a way that makes you like him more.

“‘I don’t know but what you might call it that,’ says he. ‘I and my
friends will take great pleasure in it; but I have a suspicion that
there are some others who will not like it so well.’

“He looks at you closely,” continued the cobbler to Nat, who was
listening with great attention, “and he sees that you’re not taking to
the idea very keenly. So with that he whips out a leathern purse and
counts out a sum of money upon the window sill such as you have not
seen in months.

“‘There,’ he says, ‘is your pay in advance. Have the barge at the ferry
landing across the river and await me and those who shall bear me
company.’”

The cobbler arose and came closer to the window, brushing the scraps of
leather from his apron. He peered up at Nat with his small eyes.

“Somehow,” he proceeded, “for all the lad has an honest look and a
merry laugh, you don’t care to do what he asks. There seems something
secret about it. But at the same time there is the money--all Spanish
gold--on the window sill, staring you out of countenance.” The speaker
paused a moment, then asked earnestly: “Now, if all these things
happened to you--and remember you are a poor man--what would you do?”

“I think,” replied Nat, “I would try to earn the money.”

The shoemaker nodded and seemed much relieved.

“There are some lads,” remarked he, “who have more wisdom than their
years give them. I think you are one of that stamp. That is the very
thing I did. Promptly at ten, for it was a still night and I could hear
the town bells strike the hour, I was at the landing upon the other
side.”

“Yes,” said Nat, so eagerly that the watching dwarf gave him a warning
prod with his knuckles. “And what then?”

“No one was there,” replied the cobbler. “And I wailed until eleven
struck; then until almost twelve. At length a great party of riders
came down the road. When a light was struck I could see that they were
all armed and wore looks that boded no good to somebody. This troubled
me more than ever; but I had scarcely a glimpse of them when the youth
who had engaged me told me to recross the river, tie the barge up and
hold myself in readiness here until they wanted me.”

“Is that the last you saw of them?”

“No; the entire party--or so it seemed to me, at any rate--crossed the
ferry and rode by here less than two hours ago.”

“I suppose,” said Nat, carelessly, “you had no idea as to where they
were heading?”

“Not the least,” replied the worried cobbler; then as a sort of
afterthought: “Have you?”

“How far is it to the nearest inn--on this road--riding as we are?” Nat
ignored the question, as he had no desire to confide his suspicions to
the talkative mechanic.

“A matter of some six miles. Perhaps a little more.”

“Perhaps your friends have stopped there; if so we might get a glimpse
of them.”

“And if you do and should see anything that would make you think
they’re trying to entangle me with the king’s laws, it would be a
friendly act for you to ride back and give me warning.”

“Take warning now,” said the dwarf, speaking for the first time. His
odd squeak startled the shoemaker, who had apparently not noticed him
before, and the man stood staring at the great head and small body in
something like wonder.

“If you want to avoid entanglements of every kind,” proceeded the
Porcupine, smoothing his stiff crest, “take warning now by what I’m
going to tell you. Go quickly now and hide your barge somewhere along
the bank; then return, close up your house, put out your light and go
quietly to bed. In that way you’ll be sure to do no wrong.”

The man seemed greatly struck by this advice and nodded his head as
though it pleased him. Nat gathered up his reins and was about to give
the word when a thought struck him.

“Did you by any chance,” asked he of the mechanic, “hear the name of
the boy who engaged your boat?”

“I did,” was the answer. “A large man was speaking in a loud tone of
voice as they rode up to the ferry landing and he called him Prentiss.”

“Thank you,” said Nat, and without further words the pair turned and
put their mounts at a hard gallop down the road.

“I think I could name what use is to be made of the barge,” said the
dwarf after a long pause.

“And I,” replied Nat. “If the Virginian members of Congress are taken,
they will be put into it, sculled down the river and placed upon the
British vessel which is, no doubt, at anchor there for the purpose.”

“And I hardly think she’d wait to take on any further cargo,” remarked
the Porcupine, wisely. “They’d up sail, and away for England, a quick
trial, a tall scaffold and a short rope.”

“You are pretty near the truth,” replied the young mountaineer, grimly.
“I’m afraid the British ministers would not give the prisoners much of
a chance for their lives.”

The gusts of warm wind had been growing heavier. And now the rain began
to fall in torrents. The two riders bent their heads, doggedly and in
silence. Before the storm began objects had been made out with the
utmost difficulty; now the darkness grew all but impenetrable; lakes
and rivulets formed in the road; the horses were given their heads, as
being the safer way, and stumbling, snorting and shaking the streaming
rain from their manes, they pressed onward.

Nat never knew how much time had elapsed or how far they had gone, when
suddenly he felt his companion tugging at his sleeve. Lifting his head,
he became conscious of a warm, yellow glow. Turning, he saw the bright
front of an inn, set back a little from the roadside.

“And look!” said the Porcupine, forced to lift his voice, that he might
be heard above the roar of the rain. As he spoke, he pointed to a long
open shed where a couple of wind-mad lights were dancing. Nat saw a
full dozen horses, saddled and bridled and looking as though they had
but lately been hard ridden.

The young mountaineer’s face expressed the satisfaction that filled him.

“The inn of which the cobbler spoke,” said he, “and Royce and his
companions are inside.”

In a few moments the gray and the chestnut were also beneath the shed;
a couple of stable hands took them in charge and began rubbing the rain
from their streaming coats.

“And now,” spoke Nat, when he saw that they were being well taken care
of, “let us go inside; there is sure to be a good fire in the kitchen
where we can dry our clothes.”

But the dwarf shook his big head.

“Go in yourself,” said he. “You may be needed. But I’ll stay here.”

“But you are wet to the skin,” protested Nat.

“I’m used to that, and it will do me no harm.” Nat was about to say
something more, but the Porcupine interrupted him. “There may be some
of Master Royce’s people who know me,” said he. “And that would bring
suspicion, or at least direct attention, upon you. So you see, it is
best for me to be outdoors. Another thing,” and a cunning look came
into the odd, round face of the speaker, “I’m used to prowling around.
I may be of more service out here than you think.”

Seeing that his new friend was determined to have his way in the
matter, Nat said nothing more upon the subject.

“But,” he cautioned, “keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Trust me for that,” grinned the Porcupine.

Nat pushed open the heavy door and found himself in a large, square,
low-ceilinged room with rafters and sanded floor. There were heavy
settees and chairs and tables standing about and many rain-soaked
coats hanging upon the wall. The rain and wind together had turned the
night rather chill; a good-sized fire was burning in a wide-mouthed
fireplace, and a number of men were standing about it, their bands
behind them and their backs to the blaze.

As the boy opened the door, the landlord, a small, meek-looking man in
a white apron, was speaking.

“But, gentlemen,” he said, “you are well acquainted with what is
required of an innkeeper. It is quite impossible for me to do what you
ask.”

The burly Tory, Royce, to whom these words were apparently addressed,
slashed his tall boots with his riding-whip and stalked up and down
angrily. His heavy tread sounded noisily upon the sanded floor; his
big, coarse-featured face was flushed.

“Now listen to me with attention, my good fellow,” spoke he,
wrathfully, and he pointed the heavy whip at the landlord
threateningly. “We know little of what you call the duties of an
innkeeper and care a great deal less. As for it being impossible for
you to do what ask--well, we’ll request you to reconsider that.”

“The gentlemen when they came begged the use of the room,” said the
other. “It was to be strictly private. And I could not now intrude
others upon them.”

The angry, flushed face of Royce now became fairly purple.

“Intrude!” stormed he. “Intrude! Do you call our presence in your
beggarly inn an intrusion?”

“No, sir, surely not,” the meek little innkeeper hastened to say,
lifting both his hands in a gesture of protest. “I am quite overjoyed
to have you, sir; and also your friends,” with a frightened little bow
to the others, who stood scowling at him menacingly.

Royce was about to reply to this when he for the first time noted
Nat, who still stood near the door listening to the conversation with
attention. For a moment the Tory scanned the boy; then he inquired
sharply:

“Well, sirrah, what do you want?”

Nat shook the rain from his hunting-shirt; then he removed his cap and
tossed the clinging drops with a flirt out upon the floor.

“I don’t think,” replied he, after a pause of some length, during which
he smilingly studied the growing fury in the big man’s face, “that is
any affair of yours.”

For a moment it seemed as though the Tory would leap upon him and
strike him down. But perhaps it was the stalwart, strongly-made figure
with its wide shoulders and arching chest that gave him second thought.
At any rate, he stood and glared; and Nat, as though he had not noticed
his anger, advanced quietly toward him.

“Gentlemen,” spoke he, courteously, to the men about the fireplace, “if
you could make room for me, I’d be extremely obliged to you.”

Whether it was the calm, indifferent manner of the lad, or something
that they expected of Royce that made them act as they did, it would
be difficult to say; at any rate, they drew silently away toward the
settees and chairs at the side, leaving the fireplace to Nat, while
Royce stood inspecting him, enraged, but mute.

Finally the man found his tongue once more; but instead of bursting
out in a blaze of wrath, as all no doubt expected him to do, he spoke
quietly enough.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that you are rather forward and plain
spoken for one of your age.”

There was a sneer in his voice and a look in his eye that were
infinitely more dangerous than his vented fury could be. Nevertheless,
Nat spread the dripping fringe of his hunting-shirt to the blaze and
answered him, smilingly:

“In my part of the country we grow rather quickly, as I suppose people
do in most wild places. So if you find me rather beyond my years, I beg
of you, sir, to lay it to that.”

In spite of Nat’s seeming carelessness, he was keenly watching all that
went on about him. For the first time he noticed the air and dress of
those who made up the Tory party; and for all the slim acquaintance
with the section, he knew at once that the men did not belong in or
about Philadelphia. Another thing: The queer face of the Porcupine was
pressed inquiringly against the streaming panes of a side window; and
beside and above it were those of a number of stable hands, who were
frowning belligerently at the unconscious loyalists. At the sight a
quick understanding of the situation came to Nat and he smiled once
more.

“I see,” thought he, “that the Porcupine was quite right when he said
that he was used to prowling about and might be of service outdoors.
Those fellows look hardy and courageous; and I’ll need them before
long, if I’m not mistaken in my reading of the face of Master Royce.”

“And where,” inquired the latter, who had been studying the young
mountaineer in silence after his last reply, “where might that
wonderful region be?”

“In the north,” answered Nat. And as he spoke the words, the saying
of old Stephen Comegies came to him like a flash. “In the north,” he
repeated, “where I think,” waving his hands toward the others, “most of
your friends are from.”

Watching, he saw Royce suddenly catch his breath; also there was a
quick stir among the other Tories; some of them even came to their feet.

“You are a lad of remarkable observation,” spoke Royce, after an
amazed pause. “But don’t you think it as well not to see too much?” a
different note creeping into his voice--a note that at once challenged
Nat’s attention.

“I don’t know,” replied the boy, with the same undisturbed air as
before. “A good outlook is not a bad thing to have; indeed, I’ve found
it of distinct advantage more than once.”

“Unless I am greatly mistaken,” said Royce, “this will not be one
of the times.” He advanced until he was within arm’s length of Nat,
then resumed: “I asked you, when you first came into this place, what
you wanted. The inquiry was made simply because your presence was
undesirable.”

“I think I understand,” replied the boy, easily enough. “Persons who
have particular and urgent business don’t like to be intruded upon.”

“I’m going to ask the same question now,” continued Royce, his jaw set
in a grim way, “and this time I want a plain, straightforward answer.”

“The night is wet,” said Nat. “I have ridden quite some distance. And
the lights of an inn are always particularly attractive at such a
time.”

With a snarling sound the man made a clutch at the boy’s throat; but
Nat, with a light, quick movement, evaded him. Then he in turn shot
out his hand and gripped the Tory by the wrist. Though not much over
seventeen, Nat was as large as most men and stronger than a great many,
as Royce at once discovered. The clutch upon the wrist was like iron,
and with a quick whirl, the young mountaineer spun the man around.

“It would be as well, sir,” said he, “not to lose your temper. It will
hardly do you any good, and may result in doing you considerable harm.”

In weight the Tory was greatly the young mountaineer’s superior. But
his bulk was soft, flabby, untrained and his breath scant. On the other
hand, Nat was hard, supple and swift, with wind and endurance that
would carry him far.

What a struggle between them would have resulted in was still to remain
in doubt; for a quick, forward movement of the followers of Royce
caused Nat to let go and step back, his hand going to the butt of Mr.
Chew’s pistol. However, there was no need of immediate alarm, for the
men, while their attitudes toward him lacked nothing in hostility,
seemed to have something else in mind. They whispered and argued with
Royce, holding his arms. He began by struggling and storming at them
and demanding that they set him free that he might chastise Nat for his
impudence in resisting. But in a few moments he calmed wonderfully.

“You are right,” said he, quietly enough. “We have more important
matters to carry out. Gentlemen, I beg your pardon. I’m afraid I have
not kept my temper very well, and have risked compromising our errand.”
He shook himself like a great dog; turning once more to Nat, he said:

“I’ll see to you in a few moments, my lad, if you’ve the courage to
remain.”

“I shall be at your service whenever you are disposed to take the
matter up,” replied the youth from the Wyoming.

Royce addressed the little innkeeper, who had remained a silent
spectator of all that had passed.

“Now,” said he, coldly, “let us have that door open,” indicating a door
that apparently led into another of the inn’s public rooms. “And let
there be no further delay about it.”

“But, my good sir,” protested the frightened little man, “this is a
much more comfortable room. It’s larger and more airy.”

Without more ado, Royce threw him aside, for the man stood between him
and the door.

“Stand out of the way,” growled he. “I’ll save you the trouble by
opening it myself.”

His hand was upon the knob and he was about to throw the door open,
when a clear voice cried:

“Wait!”

Royce and the others turned their heads, startled by the suddenness and
sharpness of the command. Nat Brewster stood upon the hearth facing
them, and plain in view of all was a long-barreled, shining pistol.

“Before you intrude yourselves upon those people within here,” said the
lad, firmly, “let us have another word together, Mr. Royce.”

At the sound of his name the man started, and he and his followers
exchanged looks of wonder.

“Yes,” went on Nat, “I know your name; and more than that, I know
why you are here to-night. Also, if it’s any pleasure for you to be
acquainted with the fact, I know why Mr. Dimisdale and some others hold
the ferry landing across the river; why a certain cobbler awaited you
in a barge and why a British ship is anchored near the mouth of the
Schuylkill.”

Open-eyed, the Tories gazed at the daring boy; while Nat laid the long
barrel of the heavy pistol in the hollow of his left arm and regarded
their amazement amusedly.

“And you’ve come here alone to tell us that?” asked Royce grimly.

“Not altogether,” replied Nat. “I have this,” and he held up his
weapon. “You may depend upon its being a serviceable arm, for it is
the property of Mr. Chew. Also,” with a laugh, “I have some small
reinforcement without.”

Almost as he spoke, the main door swung open and across the threshold,
bearing uncouth but effective looking weapons, trooped a half score of
stablemen and farm laborers. With them was the Porcupine, rain-soaked
and with his stiff crest bristling with excitement.

[Illustration: “_I ASK YOUR PARDON, MR. WASHINGTON_”]

“There they are!” squeaked the dwarf. “Stand to them, men!” And
pointing to the innkeeper, who was just rising from the floor, he
added, “Shall they do as they like? See how they have misused the
landlord.”

The newcomers gripped their blunderbusses, scythes and bludgeons
tightly and were preparing for a rush upon the Tories, when the door
which Royce had been about to open was thrown back and a tall, superbly
made man stepped into the room. For an instant his steady eyes swept
the apartment; the sight of drawn weapons seemed to occasion him no
surprise; he merely turned to the trembling landlord and said:

“Sir, you said your inn was a quiet one, and that we would not be
disturbed.”

“I ask your pardon, Mr. Washington,” said the frightened host. “Nothing
like this has ever taken place in my house before. I regret it
exceedingly, sir, indeed I do.”

As Mr. Washington once more directed his steady gaze at the Tories and
stablemen, Nat addressed him quietly.

“I think, sir,” said he, “that the disturbance is about over. This
gentleman,” and he bowed to Royce, who stood, a picture of baffled
fury, at one side, “has about discovered that he’s made a mistake.
At any rate, he and his friends will intrude no longer, as I think
the landlord objects to their presence.” He paused and waved his hand
toward the door leading to the road in a gesture that was both an
invitation and a command. “The rain, I see, has somewhat slackened, Mr.
Royce,” he proceeded, “and you will no doubt find your horses rested
and ready.”

There was a short silence. Then Royce, who had evidently no desire for
a struggle with the hardy workmen who faced him, made a sign to his
followers, and with never a word they strode out into the night, the
inn people close at their heels.

And while the sounds of mounting and the jeers of the onlookers came
from without, Nat Brewster stood upon the hearthstone before the
log fire and explained the situation to the grave, attentive Mr.
Washington.




CHAPTER VIII

TELLS HOW THINGS BEGAN TO LOOK BAD FOR EZRA PRENTISS


It was almost afternoon on the following day when Nat Brewster and the
Porcupine reached Germantown once more.

“And now,” said Nat, with a grimace, “what are we going to do with the
horses?”

“We can dismount just above here,” answered the ready Porcupine. “I’ll
lead them down the lane to a field that belongs to Mr. Chew, take down
the bars and drive them in.”

“Excellent,” said Nat. “It couldn’t be better.”

Accordingly they dismounted when they came to the lane; the dwarf took
the bridles and prepared to carry out his plan; but before starting he
turned his head and said:

“I suppose I’ll see you again some time, eh?”

Nat went to him, took him by the shoulders and looked down into his
queer, round face.

“You’re not very big,” said he, “but you’ve got courage and brains. And
I thank you for what you’ve done.”

“Oh, never mind that,” grinned the Porcupine. “I was thanked enough
last night. The hostlers thanked me for telling them about how Master
Royce and his friends were bullying the landlord; and the landlord
thanked me for bringing the hostlers in. And then the gentlemen from
Virginia thanked me for the other thing.” He paused and looked up at
Nat with shrewd inquiry. “And so Mr. Washington won’t want us to tell
any one about the real reason for the Tories being at the inn?”

“No,” replied Nat. “He thinks that it would arouse indignation, and
maybe bring on some sort of an attack by the Congress party. He says it
is best to have nothing of the sort now, for they have not yet given up
hope of bringing all Americans together in their protests to the king.”

When Nat reached the Cooper place he found that his absence had
occasioned considerable alarm. But he led his uncle and Ben quietly
aside and explained the business that took him away. To say that they
were surprised would be putting it mildly.

“It was a clever and a dangerous plan,” said Mr. Cooper, gravely. “It
would seem that men were brought from some point to the north so that
they would not be known in this neighborhood. But,” with a laugh,
“there were by far too many in the secret. It is not safe to tell
anything of importance to such rabid partisans as Stephen Comegies; for
the moment they lose their tempers, the truth comes out.”

“There’s one thing,” said Ben, “that pleases me most of all--of course,
after seeing the members from Virginia safe,” hastily. “And that is
that some one else has seen the good qualities of that little imp, the
Porcupine. I’ve always contended that he was a faithful and an honest
boy; but I could get few to believe me.”

A little later the two lads were alone pacing up and down the lawn
discussing the features of Nat’s adventure. All the time--though
he said nothing of it--one thought filled the mind of the boy from
Wyoming, and that was as to Ben’s friend, Ezra Prentiss. In relating
his experiences he had not mentioned this name, for he had not seen a
way to bring it naturally about.

“I must not hurt Ben by letting him see that I am suspicious,” he
thought. “The suspicions are foolish and absurd, of course. It could
not have been the same person, for while I was talking to one Prentiss
at the lower ferry, Ben was no doubt talking to the other at the City
Tavern.”

“I tell you, it’s all very wonderful here,” said Ben, “and if I’d
thought there was going to be any such work, I’d never have ridden to
the city as I did.”

Nat laughed.

“I saw only three members of the Congress,” said he, “while at the City
Tavern I suppose you saw a great many.”

But Ben grumbled.

“Oh, yes, I saw quite a few,” said he. “But I didn’t see Ezra.”

Nat darted a quick look at his friend.

“You didn’t see him?”

“No. They told me he’d been away all day. And though I waited for him
until quite late in the night, he did not return.”

As he said this Ben chanced to look up and caught the look that flashed
into his cousin’s face.

“What is it?” he asked wonderingly.

“Oh, nothing,” replied Nat, quickly recovering from the shock which
Ben’s news had given him. “I was thinking it rather strange, that’s
all.”

“I suppose he must have had some urgent business,” Ben hastened to say
in defence of his friend. “Though it must have been a private affair,”
he added; “for I made bold to stop Mr. John Adams and make inquiries.
Mr. Adams was much put out about Ezra’s absence, for it seems that he
had gone off without warning. And, apparently, it had not been the
first time. It seems that Ezra had left them much the same way on the
road between Bristol and the city.”

Once more a quick shock ran through Nat, for he distinctly recalled the
words of Dimisdale and Royce. But this time he hid his feelings and
after a little thought asked:

“When will you be riding into town again?”

“Perhaps to-morrow.”

“Then I’ll bear you company,” said Nat, quietly.

Nat spent the greater part of what remained of the day in sleep; when
he awoke, evening was settling down once more; and as he dressed he
thought of the events of the preceding night.

“It was all queer enough and unexpected enough,” thought he. “But there
is no part of it that has the same surprising qualities as the part
played by this boy Prentiss.”

He stood for some time at the window thoughtfully, looking across the
fields and woods toward Cliveden. In his mind he drew up a résumé of
the entire matter where it concerned Ben’s New England friend.

“First Ben tells me that he has such a friend,” thought Nat. “Then
I learn he’s strong for the rights of the colonies and against the
king’s ministers. Third, we find that he’s unexpectedly arrived at
Philadelphia with Samuel and John Adams.” There was a break in the
marshaling of the facts at this point. “All these I hear through Ben,”
proceeded Nat. “But now let me come to the things that I got from other
sources. First, I heard Royce and Dimisdale say that the idea of the
proposed kidnapping had been given them by a youth named Prentiss,
and I was struck by the similarity of the names. However, that was
slight cause for suspicion, for there must be many persons of that
name. Then I hear the same men say that the youth is from New England,
and that he has ridden on ahead of the gentlemen who were coming to
attend the Congress, that he might have them taken. Third, I hear of
the plot against the Virginians, and see the youth himself, though in
the shadow. Then I meet him at the ferry landing in the night; and
afterward the cobbler tells me that he’s engaged a barge which I knew
was to carry the prisoners to some English ship.”

Again and again the lad went over this ground; but the result was
always the same.

“It looks like positive evidence against him,” he thought. “But it all
could be cleared up at one stroke if he had met Ben in the city last
night. His failure to do that, and the fact that he had been gone all
day, seems to clinch the matter, so far as I can see. Also, there is
the circumstance of his mysteriously leaving his employers upon the
road to Philadelphia. It seems to me that no amount of reasoning can
get beyond that.”

After making up his mind to this, Nat Brewster descended to the floor.

He ate his supper in silence. At different times his uncle or Ben
addressed remarks to him, but his answers were brief. Even his aunt
noticed it.

“Are you not well?” she asked, solicitously, of him.

“Oh, yes,” said Nat; “there is nothing wrong with me, aunt, thank you.”

“The dampness of the night air is apt to be bad for growing boys,” said
the good lady, wisely; and her husband laughed.

“If Nat is still growing,” said he, surveying his nephew’s breadth of
shoulder, “I don’t know what he’ll look like by the time he’s done.
We’ll have a giant on our hands, perhaps.”

During the evening Nat continued thoughtful. A dozen times he was
tempted to speak to Ben regarding his suspicions, but each time he
checked himself.

“It is just possible that it was not the same boy,” thought he. “And
though I don’t expect to find it so, still I’d better wait; something
may turn up that will convince me beyond a doubt, one way or another.”

And so, directly after breakfast on the following day, they saddled
their horses to go into town. Molly was in great spirits, champing
her bit and pawing at the stones in the yard. Nat’s steed was a tall,
raw-boned black with a hard mouth and an uncertain temper; but the
young mountaineer was accustomed to such, and got the beast ready,
never giving a thought to his evil qualities. A brisk gallop through
the sunlit morning brought them to the nearer suburbs; then at an
easier pace they entered the city itself.

Philadelphia at that time was the largest and most important city
of the colonies. Its population was timid in regards to throwing a
challenge into the teeth of the British ministry, and were for a
continuance of the petitioning that had been going on for so long. The
fierce resentment of the people of Massachusetts excited alarm in the
City of Brotherly Love; it, too, desired to be free, but it wanted to
go about the work in a more Quaker-like fashion.

However, in spite of this decided feeling of conservatism, the
gathering of the first Congress had stirred up considerable spirit in
the town, and as the two lads rode through the streets they noted a
movement and a pent-up excitement that were unusual.

This was especially the case at the hostelry called the “City Tavern.”
Here men crowded the entrances engaged in excited discussion; others
sat upon the heavy benches outside the door and talked heatedly upon
the great event that was in a few days to befall the colonies. As the
boys got down and gave their horses into the care of a stableman, they
caught some fragments of one of these debates and stopped to listen.

A red-faced personage with a wart upon his nose and holding a huge
knotted stick, which he pounded upon the pavement when he desired to
emphasize his remarks, was talking to a mild-looking man whose peaked
features gave him a solemn look.

“How,” demanded the red-faced man, “can the protests of the colonies be
heard if the people don’t unite their voices as they propose to do in
this Congress?”

“But,” replied the peaked man, “the king is short of temper: he may
resent such a step.”

The red-faced man grew redder still.

“Let him,” said he, heatedly. “And much good it will do him. The people
are aroused; they have stood as much of this kind of thing as they are
going to. It must stop, sir! It must stop!”

“But,” protested the mild-looking man, “suppose it does not stop?”

“In that event, sir, we will carry it further. These colonies wore
not settled for the purpose of bringing gain to British merchants and
revenue to the treasury at London. No, sir! They were settled that the
settlers might be free to conduct their own affairs as they saw best.”

“But the king, the parliament, the ministry----” began the peaked man,
but the other stopped him with a snort.

“The king,” said the red-faced man, “is a stubborn, ignorant old
meddler; the parliament, with the exception of Pitt and a few others,
are a parcel of incompetents, and the ministry might well change places
with the clerks to the advantage of the empire!”

Warming up to his subject, and keeping his stick beating a tattoo upon
the red brick pavement, the speaker went on:

“Look at the governors they send us, sir! What imbeciles! They’ve
tried to take away the charters of Massachusetts, Rhode Island, and
my own colony of Connecticut. They talk of establishing a peerage in
America with lords and earls and dukes, as grand as you please. Our
officers and men wrested the country from the French, but they are held
in contempt by the British. An English captain outranks an American
colonel. Our workmen are forbidden to make the nails that go into
the shoes of their horses; iron manufacturing is declared a common
nuisance; a hatter in one colony is forbidden to sell his hats in
another, and is permitted to have only two apprentices.”

“It is a difficult thing to bear these restrictions upon the country’s
natural trade,” said the mild-looking man, his long face growing
more solemn. “But if the matter were placed properly before the king,
perhaps he would see things in a different light.”

“He will never see them in any light but the one in which he now sees
them,” declared the red-faced man, positively. “The British tradesmen
have the government under their thumbs; they fear the competition of
America and seek to make it dependent upon them for everything. Did
they not drive Pitt out of office because he was disposed to do us
something like justice?

“Then there were their writs of assistance, as they called them,”
proceeded the speaker, seeing that the peaked man was not disposed to
answer. “Any ruffian in the British service could break into a man’s
house and ransack it from roof to cellar; and we were not supposed to
object. And even this was not enough. They must needs saddle us with
the Stamp Act. No deed of sale or any other legal paper could be made
out unless drawn upon stamped paper that cost anywhere from threepence
to six pounds. Then they clapped the tea tax upon us and sent an army
into Boston because it was resisted.”

“There was a great waste of a very profitable article when they threw
those cargoes of tea into Massachusetts Bay,” said the mild man,
regretfully. “I have often thought that they could have put their
objection into another form.”

“Be that as it may,” and the other smiled grimly, “it’s closed the
port of Boston as tight as wax, ruined its merchants and placed its
population upon the verge of starvation.”

At this point in the discussion the two boys moved away toward the door
of the inn.

“I noticed when I was here the other day that the New Englanders were
the most determined and outspoken in this matter,” said Ben Cooper.

“That’s because the greater part of the oppression has so far fallen
upon them,” replied Nat, wisely. “I think you’ll find that the other
colonies will be in no way backward when the time comes to act.”

Once within the inn, Ben inquired for Ezra Prentiss.

“He’s in the coffee-room, I think,” answered the person asked. “Just
walk in.”

There was quite a crush of men at the coffee-room door; and as the two
friends were slowly making their way through it, a ringing, pleasant
laugh fell upon their ears. Nat started at the sound and caught his
breath. Like a flash, the laugh brought back the experience at the
ferry landing; in every quality and every tone it was similar to that
of the boy who had spoken to him from the darkness.

“Did you hear that?” asked Ben, and his cousin saw that he was smiling.
“That’s Ezra Prentiss as sure as you live!”




CHAPTER IX

NAT BREWSTER FINDS MORE PROOF


The coffee-room was thronged; men sat and stood about as they did in
the other rooms; here and there at tables parties were at breakfast;
there was also a great comparing of papers and much secret conversing
in out-of-the-way corners.

No sooner had Ben and Nat entered than a merry voice called:

“Ben Cooper!”

Then a hand struck the owner of that name a most tremendous whack
upon the back; and turning, Ben found himself face to face with his
schoolmate from New England.

While the two were shaking hands in great delight, and laughing and
greeting each other, Nat Brewster’s keen eyes were traveling over
Ezra Prentiss for any distinctive qualities that would confirm his
suspicions.

“The height is about the same,” he told himself, “as near as I can
judge. However, the one was sitting a horse and this one is standing
upon his legs. The general build is also, I think, the same, though of
course I saw one in the shadow, or at best, the dim light of a candle,
and now see the other in the full flood of the morning. There is a good
chance that I may be mistaken in both these things. But in the laugh,”
and Nat’s eyes showed how sure he was, “I cannot be mistaken. It’s the
same. I could tell it anywhere and any time I heard it.”

The boy from the mountains was still deep in his reflections when Ben
turned to him quickly, saying:

“Pardon me, Nat, for forgetting you. But I don’t see old friends like
Ezra every day, you see.” Then addressing the latter he said: “This is
my cousin, Nat Brewster--Nat, this is the friend of whom you’ve heard
me talk so much about--Ezra Prentiss.”

Ezra’s eyes ran over Nat’s stalwart figure in great admiration as they
shook hands.

“I say,” said he to Ben, “here’s the chap we should have had at the
Academy. He could have put Bully Harvey’s shoulders upon the floor if
any one could.”

They sat down at a window opening upon the tavern yard. The two school
friends soon fell to rattling away about old experiences and friends;
Nat listened and studied the newcomer closely.

“The cobbler near the river said that the boy who engaged his boat had
an honest look and a merry laugh. So has this one,” as Ezra Prentiss’
laugh once more filled the coffee-room and an expression of boyish glee
crossed his face at something Ben was saying. “I never saw any one look
more honest or more worthy of confidence. And yet----”

Nat, try as he would, could not get beyond the facts as he saw them.
There was great cause to suspect the young New Englander; but, still,
there was also something about him that made such thoughts of him seem
unjust and ridiculous.

Frankness itself was in his eyes, and his face was thoughtful looking
even with its merry expression. He was rather taller than Ben Cooper
and a trifle slimmer; but his frame was well knit and strong. He
talked rapidly and with great spirit; his hands constantly gestured to
point his remarks, and his white teeth shone in an ever ready smile.

Nat joined in the talk readily enough when it touched upon subjects of
which he had any acquaintance.

“But,” said Ezra, at length, “it’s rather close here--don’t you think
so? Let’s go outside. There’ll not only be more air, but more to
interest us.”

With that they arose and made their way to the street.

“I never saw such throngs before,” said Ben, his wondering eyes taking
in the loitering people. “It must be that the entire town is out to
greet the strangers.”

“It’s the first time, I suppose, that so many have visited a colonial
city at one time,” said Ezra. “And the fact that they are from twelve
different provinces makes the occasion all the more remarkable.”

Just then two horsemen rode out of the inn yard; Ezra grasped Nat’s arm
eagerly.

“Look,” said he, pointing to the riders. “There is Patrick Henry, who
made that great speech before the Virginia Assembly, and Colonel
Washington, who saved Braddock’s army from destruction in the
wilderness.”

Ben Cooper gazed at those two famous colonists with the utmost
interest. In Mr. Henry he saw a tall man with bent shoulders and a
strong face; in Washington, the athletic figure and calm, powerful
personality that impressed every one who saw him. As the two rode by
the place where the boys were standing they noted Mr. Washington say
something to his companion in a quick undertone. The latter turned his
head with a look of interest and then both saluted Nat Brewster gravely.

As the statesmen proceeded down the street, Ezra Prentiss looked at the
young mountaineer in surprise.

“Why, they seem to know you,” exclaimed he.

Ben laughed at this; he was about to speak, when he felt Nat secretly
tug at the skirt of his coat. Discreetly he kept silent.

“Yes,” replied Nat quietly to Ezra. “I have a slight acquaintance with
the gentlemen.”

Ezra smiled at the tone used by his new acquaintance.

“I thought I was going to have the pleasure of pointing out all the
notables,” said he. “But I’m afraid now that I’m not.” Then with a
quick glance of interest, he added, “Do you know any of the other
members of the Congress?”

“Mr. Pendleton only,” replied Nat.

At this he saw Ezra start; he also caught a distinct change of
expression. But a moment later it was gone, and the youth from
Massachusetts Bay laughed gaily.

“Good,” said he, “I’m not to be denied my right after all. See there
at the window,” pointing to a small, earnest group. “They are the two
Rutledges and Christopher Gadsden of South Carolina.”

A venerable man, with snowy hair, and a tall, grave-faced gentleman
stood near the front door.

“The eldest is Mr. Hopkins of Rhode Island, and the other is Roger
Sherman of Connecticut. And that man farther on, with the fine
high-bred face, is John Jay of New York; with him are my two patrons,
the brothers Adams.”

“Which is which?” asked Ben, eagerly, for the fame of the great
Bostonians made them persons to be asked after.

“Can you not tell that by simply looking at them?” asked Ezra with a
laugh. “John is the shorter and the plumper of the two. He’s the great
debater and brilliant lawyer. But Samuel is the grimmest fighter; look
at his stern, deeply-lined face and sombre manner. He has not the ready
flood of eloquence of John, though he can speak straight to the point
when need be. But it is his nature to be of the silent and relentless
kind--and I think in the long run he’s the most to be dreaded by the
British ministers.”

They talked for some time about the eminent persons who were gathered
around the inn in small parties, preparing for the event which was to
prove so important for the nation. At length Ezra, who had every now
and then stolen an odd, questioning look at Nat Brewster, said to him:

“Have you known the members from Virginia for any length of time?”

“No,” replied Nat, briefly.

Ben was too much interested in looking about him to pay any attention
to what his companions were saying. There was a short pause, and Ezra,
with an assumption of carelessness that did not escape Nat, said:

“You’ve been something of a traveler then?”

But Nat shook his head.

“Except for one journey into York State, I’ve kept pretty close to the
Wyoming valley all my life,” he replied.

Ezra looked puzzled. That he would like to have asked a great many
questions was plain; but that there was something that kept him from
doing so, was equally evident.

“It seems to me,” and the boy from New England smiled as he said
it, “that your acquaintance with Mr. Washington and his comrades is
somewhat mysterious.”

“Oh, no,” replied Nat. “It happened that I was able to be of service to
them a night or two ago. That is how I came to make their acquaintance.”

For a moment Ezra gazed steadily into the speaker’s face.

“A few nights ago,” said he, an odd note in his voice.

“Yes,” returned Nat, calmly. “It was rather an urgently needed service;
and it just happened that I was at hand to render it.”

There was another pause, and then Ezra spoke again, this time very
quietly.

“Such things are sometimes long remembered,” said he.

Nat nodded.

“And some people,” went on Ezra Prentiss, in the same quiet way,
“remember them to advantage.” Seeing Nat’s questioning look he added:
“I mean that there are certain dispositions that take great pleasure in
rewarding a good deed--and others that take equal pleasure in repaying
an evil one.”

“I suppose there are,” replied Nat, his eyes never leaving the face of
the other. “But,” with a laugh, “the doer of good deeds can rest in
peace; and the other--well, he can only be watchful.”

As these last words were being spoken Ben Cooper turned. And now he
broke in upon them with a grin.

“I say,” spoke he, “what are you two mumbling away about? And you’re
staring at each other like a couple of owls.”

In an instant Ezra’s face took on its usual expression of good humor.

“Don’t criticise us,” said he laughingly. “You should see yourself.
Your eyes have grown so goggled through looking at so many great men
that it’s a wonder they don’t pop out on the ground.”

All through the day Nat Brewster watched Ezra Prentiss when he got the
opportunity; and deeper and deeper grew his impression that beneath the
merry laugh and ready good humor there was a hidden something that must
not see the light.

“It’s a fear,” thought the young mountaineer, as he and Ben mounted
their horses late in the afternoon and waved their hands to Ezra. “It’s
a fear. And, perhaps, a fear that he may be shown to be a traitor to
the cause of the colonies!”




CHAPTER X

WHAT THE PORCUPINE SAW AT CHEW HOUSE


During the days that followed, Nat Brewster saw a great deal of Ezra
Prentiss. One day the latter would ride to Germantown. On the next,
perhaps, the cousins would go into the city.

On September 5th, the Congress met for the first time, at Carpenter’s
Hall, with Peyton Randolph, of Virginia, as its president and with
representatives present from every colony except Georgia.

On the very next day, the famous Suffolk resolves were passed at
Milton, Massachusetts; on the 17th a rider arrived in Philadelphia
bearing a copy of this document to the Congress, and when a hint of the
radical nature of the resolutions became known, the city was in a state
of feverish suspense.

It happened that Ezra Prentiss had spent the preceding night at the
Cooper place; and that day Ben and Nat rode in company with him into
the city. As they dismounted in the yard of the City Tavern, Ezra
noticed a well-made, good-natured looking man of middle age rubbing
away at a powerful bay horse.

“What!” exclaimed the young New Englander. “Is it possible that it is
Mr. Revere?”

The man paused in his rubbing and looked up. As he caught sight of
Ezra, a cheery smile overspread his face.

“Why bless my heart and body!” cried he, “it’s young Ezra Prentiss, as
large as life!”

Ezra hastened forward to shake hands with the speaker. A hostler who
took Nat’s mount said in a low tone, in which there was considerable
respect:

“It’s the rider of the Suffolk Convention. He’s made the trip from
Boston in six days.”

“I don’t wonder at it,” put in another one of the inn’s people who
stood idly by, chewing at a long straw. “That’s a remarkable animal
he’s got there.”

“And he’s sure that it will get proper attention,” grinned the first
speaker, “for he won’t let any one put a hand upon it but himself.”

Here Ezra called to his companions and introduced them to the despatch
bearer.

“I’m glad to make your acquaintance, young gentlemen,” said he in a
bluff, sincere way. “If you’re friends of Ezra, I know you’re friends
of the colonies; and I want all such to be friends of mine.” He paused
a moment and surveyed them carefully. “Are you Sons of Liberty?” he
inquired.

“I am,” replied Ben promptly, “and so is my father.”

“The society has not yet reached the back settlements,” smiled Nat. “So
I am not yet a member. But I hope to be before long.”

“Good,” said Paul Revere, clapping him upon the back. “Every true
American should be one of us. We are united in hating tyranny and
defying our oppressors.”

After the speaker had seen his steed properly cared for and given
particular instructions as to how he should be fed, he went with the
boys into the inn.

“I gave my papers to Samuel Adams,” said he to Ezra; “and even now
the Congress is reading them. And when their contents get out,”
rubbing his strong hands together and laughing gleefully, “there will
be some excitement, I can tell you, young gentlemen; for Dr. Warren,
who offered the resolves to the Suffolk delegates, does not mince his
words.”

They sat in the coffee-room talking to Revere while he awaited the
return of Samuel Adams from Carpenter’s Hall. He seemed deep in the
movement that was then convulsing the colonies; every turn was familiar
to him; every New Englander who figured conspicuously he could call
readily by name.

“But,” said he at length, “let me show you some little things that have
been thought to hit off the situation.”

He produced as he spoke a number of prints from his saddle-bag, which
he had carried into the coffee-room, and with honest pride, began to
point out their qualities.

“There is nothing like putting a thing before the people in a way
they’ll understand,” said he. “And that is the intention of all my
work.”

“You are an artist then, Mr. Revere?” said Nat, inquiringly.

The man smiled and waved his hand.

“Not much of a one, as the pictures themselves will tell you,” answered
he. “I’m merely an engraver of copper plates. This one,” indicating
a particular print, “shows the bloody massacre which took place in
King Street, Boston, four years ago. You’ve heard how a party of the
Twenty-ninth Regiment shot down a number of honest people, I feel sure.
This one,” showing still another print, “of the Dragon, met with quite
a little success at Boston and other cities.”

One by one he displayed the quaint pictures and proudly read the
pompous verses which were printed on the margin of each.

“The poems I wrote myself,” stated he, “and while they may not be of
the best, still I take credit for them because I am no great scholar.
I had to give up school over soon to go into my father’s shop to learn
the trade of gold and silversmith.”

“Then you were not brought up an engraver,” said Ben.

“No. But, though I do say it myself, I soon showed some art in
fashioning ewers, tankards, brasiers and mugs; and it is no great step
from that to the copper plate. However,” and Revere smiled, “I have
not kept myself altogether to such work. When trade was dull I took up
other matters that would be of service to the public, and incidentally,
to myself.”

“I’ve heard tell that you once were a dentist,” spoke Ezra.

“A sort of one,” replied the man. “At least as much as John Baker, the
surgeon dentist, could make of me in a short time. When I had my shop
at the head of Dr. Clark’s wharf,” to the other two, “I made very good
teeth for those persons who were so unfortunate as to lose their own.
Sometimes the best in the city resorted to me. Once I set a molar for
Dr. Warren himself, and he has ever since declared it even better than
the natural one.”

They were still engaged with this versatile craftsman when a porter
came into the coffee-room and approached them. Addressing Revere, he
said:

“Mr. Adams has returned and is inquiring for you, sir.”

Revere arose with alacrity.

“Where is he?” asked he.

But at that moment Samuel Adams, an exultant light in his stern eyes,
entered the apartment.

“Ah, Revere,” said he, “I was this moment seeking you.”

“Something has been done!” cried Revere. “I can see it in your face.”

“The resolutions of the citizens of the county of Suffolk have been
read to Congress,” replied Mr. Adams, “and have been received with the
utmost approval. Even now an answering paper is being drawn up and will
be passed upon at our earliest opportunity.”

“And you will commission me to carry it back to Boston!” cried Revere,
eagerly.

“To be sure. There is no one I would trust farther--unless, indeed, it
were Ezra,” and he laid his hand upon the lad’s shoulder.

“Well,” laughed Revere, “I’ll not be jealous of him, for I know that
he’s served both the cause and yourself well. He’s only a lad, but
many men might well be proud of the work he’s done for the colonies!”

“I think,” here spoke Ezra, “that you are both inclined to overestimate
anything that I have done. Every one has his opportunities, and it is
only his duty that he should accept them as they come to him.”

They were still talking in this strain, and Nat Brewster was listening
wonderingly, when the porter, who was lingering in the room, touched
him upon the arm.

“Are you Mr. Brewster?” he asked.

“Yes,” replied Nat.

“There is a boy been asking for you--rather an odd sort. He’s outside.
Shall I call him in?”

The porter’s words at once suggested the Porcupine to Nat.

“But what in the world is he doing here?” he thought. Then to the man
he said: “I’ll go out to him.”

As he turned away from the group in the coffee-room he noted that
the hand of Samuel Adams still rested upon Ezra Prentiss’ shoulder.
The whole attitude of the statesman and that of Paul Revere were of
perfect trust and confidence in the boy; apparently they would not
hesitate to place their most cherished projects in his keeping.

“I can’t understand it,” thought Nat. “I can’t, no matter how I try.
Samuel Adams is not a trustful man; he is more apt to suspect than not.
And Mr. Revere is not without shrewdness. Both have known Ezra for a
long time, so it seems. They speak of him as having rendered great
services to the cause. And, surely, they must know! It is not possible
that he can have hoodwinked them and the many others in Boston who must
have watched his actions.” He paused in the middle of the outer room,
his mind filled with these reflections. “I have known him but a short
time,” he went on, “and yet I have convinced myself that he is----”
But here he paused and shook his head. “No,” he said aloud, “I’m not
convinced. If I were I would not be arguing with myself in this way.”

When he reached the door of the inn he found that the person inquiring
for him was the Porcupine, as he had fancied. The dwarf was seated upon
one of the heavy benches, whittling a stick and whistling. At sight of
Nat he grinned widely and nodded his huge head.

“What brings you here?” asked the young mountaineer, as he shook him
warmly by the hand.

He had seen the boy once or twice since their joint adventure, and had
praised him so highly to the family that in recognition of his bravery
Mr. Cooper had offered to employ him upon the place. But the dwarf had
shaken his head.

“I don’t want to work for nobody--steady,” he had replied. “I’d rather
live around--just as the squirrels do.”

Now he looked up at Nat and rubbed his knife blade on the palm of his
hand.

“I came to see you,” he said. “Went over to Coopers’ this morning and
asked for you. But they said you’d come into town. And as my business
is important,” with a renewal of the grin, “I started in after you.”

“You didn’t walk!” exclaimed Nat.

“Not on legs as short as these,” returned the dwarf. “It would take too
long. I caught the carrier as he came by, and as he’s a decent fellow,
he let me ride on top of the load.”

Nat sat down beside him on the bench.

“Well,” inquired he, “why did you wish to see me?”

At once the face of the Porcupine lost its grin. He resumed his
whittling of the stick and was silent for some little time. At length
he spoke.

“You’ve only known me for a little while,” he said. “Haven’t you?”

“Not very long,” admitted Nat.

“And of course when people don’t know other people for any length of
time--well, they don’t put overmuch faith in them.”

Nat looked at him inquiringly. But the dwarf kept his eyes upon the
stick and trimmed it delicately with his knife point.

“Go on,” said Nat.

“It’s not very easy to go on,” said the Porcupine. “Sometimes there are
things that are hard to say.”

There was another pause. Nat felt that it was best to make no remarks.
Apparently the lad had something to tell him--something that he
thought would stretch his hearer’s credulity--and he was diffident in
beginning.

“But,” proceeded the Porcupine, at length, “it’s got to be said and I’m
going to say it. Only, I want you to promise to believe me.”

“Is it going to be as hard as all that?” said Nat, smiling.

“Maybe it will be the hardest you ever heard. I wouldn’t have believed
it myself if anybody had just told me. But I saw it. And when you see a
thing, you must believe it.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Nat.

The dwarf here threw down the stick and placed his knife carefully
in his pocket. Then he drew his short legs under him much after the
posture of a Turk seated upon a rug.

“It was four nights ago,” he said, “that this thing happened.”

“What thing?” asked the other.

“I’ll come to that in a minute,” answered the Porcupine quietly. “You
see I’d been in to town here because I wanted to see the people that
were being so talked about; and when I got back to Germantown it was
late and seemed about to come on rain. There ain’t a great many places
where I’m allowed to sleep now, but I felt sure that Mr. Cooper
wouldn’t take it ill if I crowded into the hay-mow in his barn for the
night.”

“Why didn’t you come to the house?” said Nat. “You know they’d have
found a bed for you.”

“Oh, I don’t like to be a trouble to people. And, then, as I said, it
was late. But anyway,” proceeded the dwarf, “I was on the main road
near Mr. Cooper’s; so I just crawled through the fence, walked across
the back lot, and there I was behind the barn. There’s always places
where you can get into barns, if you know how,” grinned the boy, “and
I was just hunting around for a door or window that had been left open
when I heard a dog bark.

“There are very few dogs ’round about Germantown that ain’t acquainted
with me, and there’s no occasion for me to be afraid of any of them,
for dogs never make any mistakes. But, anyhow, I stopped and listened
because I thought there might be some one stirring.”

“And there was?”

“Yes, and in a very little while I knew that he was coming in my
direction.”

“Go on,” said Nat.

“I couldn’t see who it was,” continued the Porcupine, “but I knew it
was only one person by the footsteps. I heard him stop at the barn door
and fumble with the catch for a moment. Then I heard him say:

“‘Locked!’

“Now this was kind of curious, so I crept quietly around the building
on my toes. Just as I reached the corner and peeked I heard a
tinder-box snapping, then there was a light flared up, and I saw that
the person at the barn door was the boy who has been visiting at
Coopers’ of late.”

“Ezra Prentiss!” almost cried Nat, with a start.

“Yes, that’s his name,” said the dwarf. “The hired man told it to me
the first day I saw him around the place; and I’ve remembered it,
because it’s not a name,” meaningly, “that I’m likely to forget.”

“I see,” said Nat. Then he added quickly, “But you haven’t spoken to
any one about his name being the same as that other?”

“No,” replied the other, promptly. “I never do things like that until
I’m sure of them.”

“That’s right!” approved the young mountaineer. “And now, go on.”

“The light only lasted a moment,” said the Porcupine, proceeding with
his story. “And as it went out, I heard him say:

“‘Well, I can’t open that. So I suppose I’ll have to walk.’ He was
still for a little and then he went on: ‘But it’s not very far off. I
can cut across the fields, and it will take me no time, if I don’t lose
my way in the dark.’

“And with that he started off,” said the Porcupine, “and, because of
the sameness of his name with that other one, I followed him.”

Nat had a feeling that somehow this was not altogether right. He
detested spying and anything like it; but for all that, his interest
was stimulated, as the story seemed to bear directly along the line of
his own suspicions.

“Well,” said he, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice and only
succeeding indifferently well, “where did he go?”

“Across the fields to Cliveden!”

Nat felt something like a shiver run through him. His feelings were
that no other proof of Ezra Prentiss’ guilt was wanting. But his reason
and sense of justice told him that he must not condemn, even yet.

“As I said,” proceeded the dwarf, “I followed him. But in the trees
upon this side of Master Chew’s house I lost him.”

Nat drew something like a breath of relief.

“And that is all?” he asked.

“No.” The dwarf drew his little legs under him more tightly and laid
his large strong-fingered hands upon his knees. “You know after you
lose a thing, you sometimes find it again. So thinking of that I
waited around in the dark, near the stone wall where you heard Master
Dimisdale and Master Royce talk on the night that we rode below the
ferry. But the boy didn’t show himself, and as there was a lighted
window at one side of the house--the side where I knew Master Chew’s
office to be, I worked my way over to it without any noise. The window
was pretty high for me, but there was a rain barrel almost under it,
and I climbed up that until I stood upon the chime.”

“But,” questioned Nat, “what did you expect to see?”

“I don’t know,” said the Porcupine. “The light was in the window, and
it was late at night. That wasn’t usual, so I thought I’d better not
miss anything.”

“Well,” said Nat, and once more the cold feeling of dread crept over
him, “what did you see?”

“I saw,” replied the Porcupine, calmly, “Master Chew, with the bandage
about his head which he’s been wearing since the night you struck him
with the butt of his own pistol. I also saw Master Dimisdale, a pair
of glasses perched upon his nose, going over some papers. Both sat at
one side of the big table in the center of the office. And across from
them, as cool as you please, and chatting bravely away with Master
Chew, was the lad I’d been following!”




CHAPTER XI

SHOWS HOW NAT BREWSTER SPOKE TO HIS UNCLE AND WHAT THEIR RESOLUTIONS
WERE


As Nat Brewster heard the Porcupine’s statement, he was surprised and
astonished to find that quick words of denial sprang to his lips. The
truth was that the merry laugh and honest face of Ezra Prentiss, which
had impressed the cobbler of the ferry road, had also impressed Nat.
And, not only that, Nat had seen Ezra’s eyes, full of frankness and
friendliness, something that the worthy mechanic had missed; and in
spite of his suspicions the young mountaineer felt drawn toward the boy
from New England.

“It’s impossible!” were his first words. “It simply can’t be! You were
mistaken!”

“Don’t forget what I told you at the beginning,” said the dwarf. “I
said it would be hard to believe; I even said I wouldn’t believe it
myself just on somebody’s say-so.”

Nat gazed at the speaker in silence. That the misshapen boy was sincere
he had never a doubt. But the sudden confirmation of his own suspicions
had startled him; he had spent some days with Ezra, had come to like
him and so feared to follow where the facts led.

“If I were convinced,” his inward thoughts were, “I might act upon my
conviction. I might point this boy out as a traitor. And, in the end,
in spite of everything I’ve seen and heard, he might still be innocent.”

The Porcupine here resumed.

“Also, I told you at the beginning that the thing had to be said; and
that’s why I said it. But I wouldn’t have told any one but you, for you
and I are the only ones that know about him being in the plot to take
Mr. Washington and the others--unless,” and there was inquiry in the
speaker’s little eyes--“you’ve mentioned it to some others.”

“No,” replied Nat, hastily. “I’ve told Mr. Cooper and Ben about our
adventure, as you know; but this fact of the name I’ve kept clear of.
You see, Ezra is a warm friend of Ben’s, and I didn’t care to----”

“I understand,” said the other, as Nat hesitated.

“Even in the face of what you’ve told me,” resumed Nat, “I hesitate to
say anything.”

“Then you believe what I’ve told you?” eagerly.

“Of course I believe you--everything happened as you’ve told
it--everything! Ezra Prentiss arose in the night while we were all in
bed, stole out of the house, made his way to Cliveden and was seen
by you in conversation, in Mr. Chew’s office, with Mr. Dimisdale and
Mr. Chew himself--both of whom are noted as friends of the British
government. Now,” continued Nat, “we know all this; but are we quite
sure that we know what it means?”

“I’m quite sure that I do,” spoke the dwarf, sturdily.

“Well, I am not,” said Nat.

And even while he spoke the words he knew that he did not mean them--he
knew that he was equally sure. But there was a something--an instinct,
perhaps--that made him fight the feeling back.

“It looks bad,” said he continuing, “in fact, I am willing to admit
that it looks as though you were right. But let us wait. It can do no
harm, and it may do good.”

At this moment, Samuel Adams came out of the inn accompanied by Ezra,
to whom he was speaking in low, confidential tones. As they went on
down the street, side by side, the Porcupine puckered his eyelids and
gazed after them keenly.

“You say that waiting can do no harm,” said he, “but I’m not so sure
about that. I know who that is,” nodding toward Mr. Adams. “He was
pointed out to me the other day. And,” looking at Nat steadily, “such
men, when they are engaged in such work as is going on at Carpenter’s
Hall, have many things of importance to say that they would not say to
every one; but they’d be likely to speak to some one who is in their
confidence. Don’t you think so?”

A troubled look came into Nat’s face.

“I’ve thought of that,” said he. “And it’s a real danger. But we’ll
have to risk it--at least for a little longer.”

That afternoon as Nat and Ben took the road once more for
Germantown--Nat with the Porcupine perched before him in the
saddle--Ben said:

“I hardly think we’ll have Ezra with us much longer.”

Nat looked inquiringly at his cousin; the dwarf twisted his big head
about and waited for what was coming.

“Mr. Revere is going to ride back with Congress’ answer to those
Suffolk resolves,” proceeded Ben. “And Ezra will more than likely go
with him.”

“Why?” asked Nat. “I understood that he was here as clerk to the
Adamses.”

“So he is. And it’s in Samuel Adams’ service he’ll go north, if he goes
at all.”

Nat’s jaw set at this, and his brows came together. At the same moment
he felt the Porcupine squirm; and he knew that the same thought had
come to them both.

“Anything of importance?” inquired Nat, after they had ridden a little
further.

“I don’t know,” answered Ben. “But I suppose so. It’s a private
message, I think, and to Dr. Warren; so I’d judge that it would be of
some consequence.”

Nat made no reply to this. Indeed, he spoke but seldom all the way
home. Ben noticed it, but made no comment. However, he thought it a
little odd.

“But then,” he told himself, “Nat’s been keeping to himself for a week
back. Sometimes he goes moping around thinking and thinking like all
possessed; and I’ve really begun to wonder if he isn’t homesick for
those mountains of his, or something like that.”

After supper that evening Mr. Cooper, as was his custom, took a book
and began pacing up and down the paths at the front of the house. He
was generally left to himself on these occasions, as it was what he
called his “study hour”; and so, when Nat came out and quietly fell
into pace beside him, he was a little surprised.

“I hope I’m not disturbing you, sir,” said the lad.

Mr. Cooper placed his book under his arm, his hands behind him and
smiled.

“Not at all,” said he.

The boy’s mother had been his only sister, and a favorite with him.
Nat resembled her and this had, at first, greatly recommended him to
his uncle. But the quiet, strong character of the boy had quickly made
itself felt, and Mr. Cooper, even in the short time his nephew had been
with him, had come to value him highly.

And so when Nat intruded upon his study hour he felt that there was
reason for it; and in this he was not mistaken.

“I wanted to speak with you alone, sir, upon a matter of much
importance,” said the boy. “And I thought that this would be the best
time, if you don’t mind.”

“If it’s about the office,” said Mr. Cooper, “don’t worry yourself. You
will get down to work in good time, never fear. We shall probably be
ready for you in a fortnight.”

“It’s not that,” answered Nat, “though I had expected to speak to you
upon the subject at some time. This affair,” and his uncle noticed his
face grow grave, “is much more urgent. I had thought at first to say
nothing, fancying it would untangle itself; but as the reverse now
promises to be the case, I want your advice.”

“Very well,” said Mr. Cooper quietly and attentively. He knew that the
matter must be of some moment, otherwise Nat would not speak in such a
fashion.

So with that, Nat began at the beginning and once more told his uncle
the story of his experiences upon the night that he and the Porcupine
had ridden to the rescue of the unsuspecting Virginians. But this time
there were no reservations of any kind. When the name of Prentiss came
into the narrative, Mr. Cooper raised his brows, but said nothing;
however, Nat noticed that his attention grew more marked from that
moment.

Then came the meeting of Nat with Ezra at the City Tavern. The
similarity of the voices impressed Mr. Cooper greatly; but when
Nat repeated Ezra’s odd words, spoken after he learned of Nat’s
acquaintance with Mr. Washington, he uttered an exclamation.

“That was strangely like a veiled threat,” said he. “And coming
directly on top of what looks like an appearance, at least, of
knowledge of the Tory plot, it sounds suspicious. Go over that again,
if you please.”

“He said,” obeyed Nat: “‘There are certain dispositions that take
pleasure in rewarding a good deed--and others that take equal pleasure
in repaying an evil one.’”

“If that speech were made to me,” said Mr. Cooper, emphatically, “and
under like circumstances, I would consider that the person making it
were warning me that he’d be revenged.”

“I thought the same,” replied Nat, “but I could scarcely bring myself
to it.”

“I understand. The boy is as honest looking and as truthful appearing
as any I ever saw. But it is facts that count, and not appearances.”

Then Nat proceeded with Samuel Adams’ estimate of Ezra, and that of the
Suffolk Convention’s rider, Revere. As he expected, Mr. Cooper looked
puzzled. But upon hearing the story that the Porcupine had related to
Nat, his face grew dark with anger.

“The young scoundrel!” he cried. “I’ll see Mr. Adams to-morrow and----”

But Nat placed his hand upon his shoulder and stopped him.

“First, let us be very--very sure,” said the boy. “Let us make no
mistake that we shall be sorry for in the future. The whole matter
looks bad--I confess that I don’t see a shadow of doubt that would make
me think him other than what you consider him. But for all that, we had
better be sure.”

Mr. Cooper looked at his nephew a moment.

“Nat,” he said, “you have a wise head. You are right. As you say, let
us be very, very sure. In spite of everything he may be innocent, and,
in that case, if we charged him with this shameful thing, we should
indeed have occasion for regrets. But he must be watched--constantly
watched.”

“But if he goes back to Boston upon this mission of Mr. Adams?”

“I had forgotten that,” and Mr. Cooper grew thoughtful. “In that case
he must still be watched; but how, is a thing that will require some
turning over.”

Next day Ben rode into town alone. Early in the afternoon he returned,
and his face was alight with excitement.

“Father!” he cried, for Mr. Cooper was standing in the doorway. “Ezra
Prentiss is to ride to Boston--starts to-morrow morning with Mr.
Revere, whom you’ve heard tell of. And,” throwing himself from his
mare’s back, recklessly, “he wants me to go with him.”

Nat sat upon the stone step; at these words he turned his head and
glanced up at his uncle. Like a flash the thought traveled from one to
the other; there could be no mistake about what was in the boy’s eyes,
and Mr. Cooper said to Ben:

“Very well; you may go, but not alone. Nat must go with you.”

Ben shrieked with delight.

“Why,” cried he, “Nat’s been asked. Ezra told me particularly to get
him if I could. So you see, you’re not saddling a caretaker on me,
after all.”

And as he rushed away to the barn, the well-trained little mare at his
heels, Mr. Cooper said to Nat:

“Asked him particularly to get you, if he could. What does that mean, I
wonder?”

“I don’t know,” replied Nat, slowly, “and I’m not going to think
about it. In the frame of mind I’m in now, I’m likely to see evil in
everything that has to do with Ezra Prentiss. But I’m going back to
Boston with him, no matter what it means. And the future will tell what
it will tell!”




CHAPTER XII

WHAT HAPPENED ON THE NORTH ROAD


It was high noon next day when Ezra Prentiss slipped Mr. Adams’ private
despatch to Dr. Warren into his saddle-bag. Mr. Revere already had the
resolutions passed by Congress, and the two, together with Nat Brewster
and Ben Cooper, climbed into their saddles. Then they waved their hands
to those gathered in front of the City Tavern to see them off.

“Remember what I’ve told you about my letter and make all speed,” said
Mr. Adams, as a last word. “It is to be given to Dr. Warren alone, as
it is of great importance.”

This was said in a low tone as the statesman stood at Ezra’s stirrup;
but Nat Brewster, who sat his horse next to Ezra’s, caught the words;
and likewise he heard the boy’s reply.

“I understand its urgency and its importance as well,” said Ezra,
gravely. “There shall be no delay on the way north, and Dr. Warren
alone shall receive the message.”

They took their way northward at a fairly easy pace, as Paul Revere
cautioned them not to press their horses too hard.

“Since I’ve taken to riding from city to city for the various
committees,” said that gentleman, “I’ve had much experience. And it has
shown me that a soft pace in a long journey is the swiftest in the end.
Also, it is the least laborious and anxious, for you haven’t a broken
nag to help along toward the finish.”

The sun shone wonderfully and the breeze blew in their faces with
delightful freshness. Ben Cooper longed to put Molly at her best, for
her dancing along the road showed that her spirit was as high as his
own.

“Where do we make the first stop?” inquired Nat, of Revere.

“We should reach Bristol at sundown or a little before,” replied the
man.

“Bristol!” cried Ben. “Why, we could make----”

But Revere interrupted him.

“I know,” said he. “So we could. And we could make some other place,
equally far off, to-morrow. Then we could sit for a couple of days at
an inn and twiddle our thumbs while the saddle-galls were healing or
the nag’s swollen legs going down.”

Ben felt properly rebuked; but he laughed good humoredly.

“I guess you’re right,” said he. “So you’ll have to content yourself as
you are, Molly,” to the frisky mare. “You’ve never been on so long a
journey as this; and maybe at the end you’ll be sedate enough.”

As they struck into the long, dusty wagon roads some distance north of
Philadelphia, Revere and Ezra rode on ahead. After a time, the watchful
Nat noted a marked peculiarity in the manner of Ezra. The latter had
been very quiet and thoughtful since leaving the city; and now there
was an anxiety in his whole attitude that could not be mistaken. Even
the unsuspecting Ben noticed it.

“Wonder what’s wrong with Ezra,” he said, with a laugh. “He keeps
turning his head from one side to the other as though it had been
shaken loose.”

“He is entrusted with a document of some importance,” said Nat quietly.
“Perhaps he is a little anxious for its safety.”

Ben laughed once more.

“Why, to hear you talk,” said he, “one would think we were actually
at war. Why should he feel anxious for the safety of the message? Who
knows anything of it but us? And then,” gaily, “if he thought this was
a bad way to come, why did he argue with Mr. Revere, who wanted to come
by another way?”

“Ah,” said Nat, thoughtfully, “did he do that?”

“For half an hour. And do you know, he grew actually warm about it,
just as though it greatly mattered.”

There was silence for a little while, and then Ben suddenly exclaimed:

“Hello! What’s that for?”

Nat had unbuckled the flap of a holster and loosened the heavy pistol
which had been so lately the property of Mr. Chew.

“It’s my backwoods nature, I suppose,” said Nat, carelessly. “Up in
Wyoming the wild things and the Indians never allow us to travel
without firearms ready to hand, and I don’t feel quite comfortable
otherwise.”

“I should think that long rifle would be enough to take with you
through a settled country,” said Ben, nodding toward the weapon which
his cousin carried slung across his shoulders.

“It would be ordinarily. But it is not quite handy enough on horseback.”

Ben looked at the speaker with his usual good-natured grin.

“Well, all I can say,” remarked he, “is that it must be in the air. If
Mr. Revere begins to take notions about things also, why, I’ll have to
take general charge of the party, that’s all.”

When the shadows began to lengthen by the roadside and thicken among
the clumps of trees and tall brush, they were still some miles south of
Bristol. The Delaware rippled smoothly on the right, and here and there
the filled sail of a sloop could be seen as it made its way up river
with wind and tide.

“What building is that ahead?” asked Nat, after a time.

They had rounded a bend in the road, and a stone structure,
smoke-begrimed and forlorn looking, showed itself blackly against the
sky-line.

“I don’t know,” replied Ben. “I’ve never traveled this route before.
But it looks like a burned mill or something of the sort.”

There are things and there are persons whom one naturally suspects;
there may be no reason for it that one can see, but still the suspicion
grows stronger and stronger; and often it turns out that there is cause
for it. When they came in sight of the ruined mill, frowning gloomily
out upon the road, Nat Brewster felt just such a suspicion growing
in his mind. More than once, among his native hills in the north, he
had run upon an ambuscade--a crouching panther perhaps; and once a
murderous red man. And so it was a kind of second nature to him to
regard suspicious places with caution and to advance upon them with his
eyes wide open.

Accordingly, as they rode toward the burned building, he eyed it
narrowly; when they were within fifty yards of it his vigilance was
rewarded, for he caught sight of a man’s head cautiously lifted above
the edge of one of the openings that were once windows.

Instantly the boy struck his spurs into the tall black; the animal,
startled, fought for its head, and finding that the strong hand upon
the rein did not give an inch, it raced forward. A score of bounds
brought it alongside of Ezra and Mr. Revere, and they, surprised at the
sudden burst of speed, were turning their heads, when:

“Halt!” said Nat, sharply.

With astonishment written large upon his face, Revere obeyed, and Ezra
did the same.

“What is it?” asked the rider from Boston. “Has anything gone wrong?”

Nat drew his pistol from the holster and coolly examined the priming.

“I don’t know,” replied he. “But it’s rather likely. Just ahead there
is a person--perhaps several of them--who seems interested in us, in a
cautious sort of way.”

As he spoke his keen eyes went to the face of Ezra; he saw it pale and
the mouth twitch.

“It would be best,” proceeded Nat, evenly, “for you all to remain as
you are. I’ll ride forward and look into matters a trifle.”

He was about to do so, but upon second thought checked his horse.

“Are you armed, Mr. Revere?” he inquired.

“I am,” answered the rider, promptly, and out came a squat, serviceable
looking pistol.

“Good,” said Nat. Then he took the rifle from about his shoulders
and threw it to Ben, who had ridden up and sat listening in silent
amazement. “It’s loaded and ready,” proceeded the young mountaineer,
“and it shoots straight, as you know. Cover my advance.”

With that he spoke to the black; the animal trotted forward; and when
it reached the ruin, Nat drew it in and turned, facing the structure
from the middle of the road.

“Hello!” cried the boy. “Hello, inside there!”

He waited, but there was no answer.

Then he tried again.

“Hello! Don’t think that your keeping silent will deceive me. I know
you’re there.”

Still there was no answer. Down the road, Nat saw his three companions,
their horses abreast, anxiously watching him. He smiled when he saw the
alert posture of Ben, the long rifle in his hands, for Nat knew that
his cousin shot with unerring skill, and that he could rest safe under
the protection thus afforded. Once more he turned his gaze upon the
ruin.

“I’ll give you a minute,” continued he. “If you’re not out in that
time, I’m coming in.”

This had immediate results. In the broken doorway of the burned mill
appeared a half dozen men; and behind them Nat made out a burly figure
which he at once recognized as that of Royce.

“Well,” inquired one of the men, sullenly, “what do you want?”

“I want to have nothing to say to you, sir, at all events,” replied
Nat, readily. Then lifting his voice a trifle, he continued: “Stand
forward, Mr. Royce. Don’t be backward.”

The man at once pushed his way to the front. His coarse, large-featured
face was inflamed and angry looking.

“So it’s you, is it?” growled he, his fierce eyes glowering wickedly.
“I thought I recognized your voice.”

Nat laughed.

“And I rather thought I recognized your face as you took that little
observation from the window a few moments ago.”

“Well, what do you want?” asked Royce. “We can’t be detained here all
day by a whipper-snapper like you.”

“I wouldn’t think of detaining you,” replied Nat. “I merely desired to
make sure that I and my friends met with no reception that we were not
prepared for.”

As he spoke he lifted his hand and beckoned his comrades forward. As
they came up at a trot, Revere and Ben holding their weapons ready, Nat
said to them:

“I think you’d better ride on while I stay for a little further talk
with these gentlemen. Ben, you may halt fifty yards away.”

There was that in the speaker’s manner that showed Revere that he was
perfectly competent to carry out any plan that he had made. And so the
convention’s messenger nodded his head and rode along up the road with
the two boys.

Nat Brewster would have given a great deal to have seen Ezra Prentiss’
face at that moment. But he dared not take his eyes from the sullen,
muttering group in the doorway of the mill. He smiled as he heard the
hoofs of his companions’ horses rattling away. To Royce he said:

“It seems, Mr. Royce, that our arrangements clash now and then.”

“Yes,” replied the man, loweringly, “and take care that it does not
happen once too often.”

“I think the care should be upon your part, if you value yourself at
all,” said Nat. “If I had spread the news abroad of your attempt of a
week ago, the people of Philadelphia would have torn you apart.”

“If they had caught me,” sneered the man.

“At least they would have caught Mr. Dimisdale and a few others. And I
have no doubt that you, also, could have been taken, had enough people
been so minded. There is too much bitterness in the public mind to
tolerate such plots as you are engaged in.”

“You seem to know a great deal,” said Royce.

“Much more, perhaps, than you even think,” returned Nat. “But I’ll not
put you to the trouble of listening to it all: I’ll just say that any
message intended for a good patriot is going to reach him. Make no
mistake about that.”

Then, as the rage of Royce grew greater and a look of astonishment went
around the others, Nat continued:

“Now I’ll bid you good-evening. But first I’ll ask you,” and he never
took his eyes from them, “to look up the road. There, I have no doubt,
you will see a lad with a rifle.”

The followers of Royce and Royce himself gazed up the road as directed;
and from their expressions Nat gathered that Ben was waiting there with
the long weapon ready.

“He,” continued the young mountaineer, “is going, so to speak, to cover
my retreat. And as I’ve never known him to miss a shot, I warn you to
be very careful what you do.”

And with that he turned his back fearlessly upon them, gave rein to
his horse and rode toward Ben, who was dismounted and planted in the
roadway, the rifle at his shoulder.

When his cousin came up, young Cooper said:

“I say, now, what is all this about?”

“You’ll know in good time,” replied Nat. Molly stood grazing at the
roadside; he took her rein and continued: “I’ll take the mare with me.
You come along with your face to them until we get out of pistol shot.
They haven’t any heavier arms that I could see.”

Ben followed these orders carefully. When they had moved out of range
of any stray shot, he remounted and slung the rifle before him, a
complaint plain upon his face.

“I’ll know in good time, will I?” said he, in an injured tone. “Now,
I want you to understand, Nat Brewster, that I’m not to be treated as
a child. If I’m old enough to keep these men from shooting you in the
back, I’m also old enough to be told who they are and what they were
after.”

Nat laughed.

“Why,” said he, “that sounds like good sense. And I suppose I’ll have
to tell you. But, remember,” warningly, “it goes no farther.”

“All right,” spoke Ben, “I promise.”

“They are the same men that I met at the inn on the ferry road,” Nat
told him. “And, while I’m not sure, I think they were waiting for Ezra.”

“For Ezra!” Ben stared, open-eyed.

“To relieve him of the message he’s carrying to Dr. Warren.”

“I see,” said Ben, soberly. Then they rode forward in silence until
they overtook their companions.

“The ruffians,” exclaimed Revere, warmly. “I had not thought that
thieves were so bold in these parts.”

“Common thieves are not, I suppose,” said Nat, quietly.

Revere continued to fume and mutter as they rode along toward Bristol,
the housetops of which were gradually coming into view. Ben was now
riding with him and Ezra had fallen back until his mount was abreast of
Nat’s.

“You think, then,” said Ezra, and his tone was low, “that those men
were not common thieves.”

“I do,” replied Nat. “A man’s purse would be safe with them, I feel
sure. Something of greater value was in their minds, I feel sure.”

“So do I,” replied Ezra. He looked at Nat steadily for a moment and
then said with a faint smile, “You’ve met those men before?”

“Yes,” quietly.

“I felt sure that you had. And do you recall some words which I spoke
after you told me of that meeting?”

The words that had struck both himself and his uncle as veiling a
threat at once recurred to him.

“You mean,” said Nat, “those regarding the disposition of some to
reward a good service, and of others to repay an evil?”

“I see you remember it,” said Ezra, and he smiled into Nat’s face. “So
I need not repeat it now.”




CHAPTER XIII

SHOWS HOW NAT MET ONE STRANGER AND HOW THE PORCUPINE MET ANOTHER


Bristol was a fair-sized village upon the west bank of the Delaware,
and one very well known to persons upon their way to and from New York.
Consequently there was a good inn and our wayfarers at once sought it
out.

“When I stopped here on my way south,” said Revere, seriously, to a
hostler who came forward to receive their mounts, “you did not give my
horse proper attention as I desired. It will not do to rub him down
with a wisp of straw and rush him in, still wet, to a sloppy supper of
bran mash.”

The hostler protested, but Revere waved his hand for silence.

“I want him brushed and combed, and rubbed with a cloth,” proceeded he,
severely. “And these others,” pointing to the steeds of the boys, “are
to be used likewise. Then they are to be blanketed until they are dry
and cool, when they should be fed--not with mash, but with grain.”

The groom promised faithfully to do as he was bidden; but it was not
until he had carefully repeated his instructions several times more
that Revere was satisfied and consented to enter the inn.

“The beasts can’t speak for themselves, or do for themselves,” said he.
“So it is our duty to see that right is done by them.”

The inn was a cheerful place, with many brass candlesticks and painted
china plates; and the landlady was a good-natured, rosy dame, who
bustled about making them comfortable.

“I shall get you a good supper,” she told them, “for I’m quite sure
that you’ll need it after being so many hours upon the road. And
there’s warm water and basins and towels and soap in the little room
close by the kitchen. So you can make yourselves clean and fresh while
you are waiting to be served.”

They thanked her for this and made good use of the articles named. Nat
was the first to finish, and as he stepped back into the inn parlor
he noticed that a newcomer had taken possession of a big chair at the
window overlooking the road, and was calmly reciting his desires to the
obliging hostess.

“I shall want some boiled mutton,” said he, “with a savory sauce. And
pay heed to the sauce, madam; let it not be the flavorless thing one
gets at so many inns. The meat served may be ever so good, but if the
sauce has a breath too much garlic it is all ruined.”

“Yes, sir; it shall be just as you like it, I assure you,” said the
landlady, dropping the stranger a curtsey. “And will there be anything
else, sir?”

“Some potatoes--baked in their jackets--a small loaf and some mead--if
you have any that’s fit for a gentleman to drink.”

“There’s none better, sir, in this section,” said the good dame, rather
nettled. “And I might even say that you’d hardly find better in your
own country.”

“My own country!” repeated the stranger, and he looked at her keenly.

“Yes, sir,--England. For you are an Englishman, unless your tongue
belies you.”

The man laughed and waved his hand.

“That will be all, I think,” said he. “So make haste and don’t stand
making hazards at the private affairs of your guests.”

Indignantly the hostess turned away.

“Such high and mighty ways,” she muttered to Nat. “It’ll be a blessing
if he has enough money in his purse to settle his score in the morning.”

And with this she went angrily into her kitchen, slamming the door,
leaving Nat to seat himself upon a settle along the wall and amuse
himself by studying the stranger.

The latter was a tall man with a high, prominent nose and a wide,
thin-lipped mouth. His hair was very long and worn in a queue, and
his black-stockinged legs were thrown carelessly over the arm of his
chair in an unsightly, lounging way that gave him the appearance of
great awkwardness. There was still considerable daylight, and he read
a newspaper which he took from his pocket as soon as the landlady had
departed.

“And the newspaper has something in it which amuses him greatly,”
thought Nat, as he watched the humorous twitching of the thin-lipped
mouth.

Wider and wider grew the smile and at last the man threw the news sheet
from him with a roar of glee.

“Now out upon them for a parcel of raving maniacs,” said he. “Did ever
any one hear of such folly before since the world began?”

As he laughed his eyes rested upon Nat, and, apparently for the first
time, he became aware of the boy’s presence. The eyes were light
colored, cold and keen, as the lad saw when they became steadfastly
fixed upon him; and that they were also cruel, he was firmly convinced.

“Young gentleman,” said the man, growing sober enough, “good-evening.”

“Good-evening, sir,” returned Nat, politely.

There was a long row of brass buttons down the front of the man’s
coat; he took the one at the top between a thumb and forefinger in a
speculative sort of way; then the touch dropped to the second button
and so on down the row until he reached the bottom. And all the time
the cold, light-colored eyes were fixed upon the lad from the north
country; and they were studying and weighing and estimating him
steadily. Finally, so it seemed, the stranger made up his mind. He
removed his legs from the chair arm and stretched them out before him;
the waning sunlight played upon the big brass buckles upon his shoes as
he turned his feet first one way and then the other, inspecting them
thoughtfully.

“It will be a fine evening,” ventured he, at last.

“So I’ve thought myself,” returned Nat.

“And following a fine day,” said the man.

Nat nodded. He was disappointed. Evidently the stranger was not nearly
so interesting as he looked.

“Travel far?” asked the man, after another pause, but not so long as
the first.

“Not a great way.”

The stranger pursed up his thin lips and looked at the boy carefully.
Seemingly he made up his mind that he might venture the question, for
he asked:

“From the city?”

“Yes,” was the brief answer.

That there might be no mistake the man persisted:

“Philadelphia?”

Nat nodded. Clearly the stranger was nothing short of a bore.

“I’ve just ridden from there myself,” said the lean stranger. “There is
much excitement there, eh?”

Nat nodded.

“I’ve seen places where there was a great deal more demonstration, so
to speak,” went on the man, “but for genuine interest, felt of the
heart, that city is ahead of them all.”

“I’ve thought that it seemed impressed with the importance of the
occasion,” said Nat. “But that is scarcely to be wondered at.”

“It is not, indeed,” agreed the man, readily. “It would, in fact, be
cause for great wonder if the town and its people were not impressed.”
He leaned toward the boy in a grave sort of way and continued: “Modern
history does not show anything that can compare with the events which
have happened of late in these colonies; and those which are on their
way to happen will be greater still. We shall show a stubborn and
narrow ministry that we are determined to be justly dealt by.”

Nat looked at the speaker with attention.

“Do you know,” said he, “I’m just a little surprised to hear you speak
after this fashion?”

“Why?” asked the stranger, and the cold, light-colored eyes peered
through their wrinkled lids.

“Because, as our landlady said a short while since, you are an
Englishman, or your accent greatly misrepresents you.”

A shade of annoyance crossed the stranger’s face; Nat, ever watchful,
saw his hands clinch upon the arm’s of his chair. But this only lasted
for a moment; the lean countenance cleared up, the hands relaxed their
grip and the man lay back in his chair, smiling amusedly.

“It is an odd thing,” spoke he, “that the fact of my being English has
been so noted of late. No sooner do I open my mouth than I am looked
at askance; if I utter a sentiment in favor of liberty, I am stared at
in amaze; if I condemn tyranny, as every honest man should, my hearers
regard me with wonder.”

He paused and watched Nat, the smile of amusement still wrinkling the
corners of his mouth. Then he leaned forward, as before, proceeding:

“But I can tell you the reason of this. It is because the country is
young. It is inexperienced. It is not yet mature enough to know that
a man may be a friend to freedom no matter where he was born. Don’t
forget, young gentleman, that true liberty began in England, and that
it still has its lovers and upholders there.”

“Why,” said Nat, “I have no doubt but that there is a great deal of
truth in what you say.”

“It is all truth,” stated the stranger positively. “The fact is
recognized by the leading spirits in this movement, at least. And if
the time ever comes, and I sincerely hope it shall not, that blows be
struck in this land, there shall be no lack of men of English birth in
the colonial army.”

The man then proceeded to enlarge upon his theme and to point out to
Nat that the great mass of the British population sympathized with the
colonists, that it was only certain merchants and ministers who, it
seemed, had combined to oppress them. He was still so engaged when the
landlady appeared in the kitchen door.

“Sir,” she announced, addressing the Englishman, “I would be much
beholden to you if you would step in here and look to your dishes
before they are made ready. I am not honored by so particular a person
every day, and would wish to be sure that my poor skill as a cook has
not led me wrong.”

With a laugh the stranger arose, and Nat saw that he was of remarkable
height and had wide, strong shoulders. And, while the young mountaineer
had had little opportunity to observe the habits of military men, he at
once put him down as a soldier.

“He has the bearing that I would think a trained officer would have,”
was the lad’s instant thought.

“You’ll pardon me, I know,” said the stranger. “The art of dining well
is a very important one, as you’ll learn by the time you reach my age:
so I must not miss this opportunity.”

After the speaker had followed the hostess into the kitchen, Nat sat
upon the bench and cogitated.

“There is something queer about him, for all he’s so well spoken,” was
the lad’s judgment. “I hardly think I should like to have much dealing
with him.”

He patiently awaited his three companions; but as they seemed in no
hurry to join him he bent over and picked up the newspaper which the
Englishman had so contemptuously thrown aside.

As it happened, it was folded just as the man had been reading it, and
Nat saw at once that it was a detailed account of the proceedings of
Congress that must have excited the reader’s derision. Nat put down the
sheet, and an expression of understanding crossed his face.

“Lucky I saw that,” said he. “The man’s quality is plain enough now,
and I’ll know how to use him from now on.”

A little later at the sound of high voices he went to a window
overlooking the inn yard. Paul Revere was there, as was also Ezra and
Ben, and the former was lecturing the grooms for some shortcoming in
their care of the horses. Nat looked and listened, greatly amused
at the earnestness of the man from Boston, and as he did so, he
indistinctly saw, out of the tail of his eye, a small figure under the
brick arch that opened into the yard. Swiftly turning his head in that
direction he was surprised and astonished to recognize the form of the
Porcupine.

That the dwarf saw Nat at the window was at once evident; for he lifted
one hand in a quick beckoning movement and gave a flirt of his hand
toward the front of the inn. Nat nodded; he turned, walked to the main
door and out upon the porch. Across the road was a tall elm tree; the
Porcupine now stood near this, but in such a position as not to be
readily seen by any one looking from the windows of the inn.

Nat crossed to the elm in a state of amazement.

“Porcupine,” began he at once, “you are the most astonishing little
animal I ever saw. How did you ever get so far from home?”

The dwarf grinned.

“Oh, this isn’t so far,” replied he. “I’ve often been here with Simon
Nichols, the kitchen gardener. You see, he has a sloop and takes it
to the city every second day, in the season, with fresh green things.
When I heard that you were going off to Boston, I knew you’d stop here
overnight; so I boarded Simon’s sloop yesterday in Dock Creek and got
here about noon to-day. He’s always glad to have me because I can help
work ship and do lots of things when he’s short handed, as he ’most
always is.”

Nat laughed heartily; and yet he was touched.

“And you put yourself to all this bother just to see me off, did you?”
he asked; and the other nodded. “Well, you’re a queer little fellow,
aren’t you?”

“So I’ve been told before,” grinned the Porcupine. “But,” more soberly,
“there are some just as queer, and at no great distance from here,
either.”

The tone in which these words were spoken attracted Nat’s attention
at once. He had known the dwarf but a short time, but he had come to
understand that when he spoke in a certain way he was very much in
earnest.

“Has anything happened?” asked the lad from the north.

The other shook his head dubiously.

“I don’t know,” answered he. “But I should say something is going to,
unless the signs are all wrong.”

Nat looked at the speaker attentively; but as usual he did not try to
hurry him.

“As this is the inn where I felt sure you’d stay for the night,”
proceeded the Porcupine, “I came here as soon as Simon had tied up the
sloop at his place about a mile above. The landlady is a good sort, for
when she saw me standing about the door, she gave me some bread and
cheese, and I came over here in the shade to eat it. And while I sat
here, a man came up--a strange-appearing man with gold rings in his
ears and the look of a gypsy.

“‘Good afternoon,’ he says as he gets sight of me.

“I, politely enough, bid him the time of day and fell to studying him
as he stood there looking up at the inn. He carried a heavy staff and
pack upon his back. As he came along, I had noticed that he limped
like one footsore from a long journey; but for all, he seemed cool and
clean. There was but little dust upon his shoes and none at all upon
his stockings.”

[Illustration: _“THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG, THEN”_]

“You have excellent observation, Porcupine,” praised Nat.

“It does not do to keep one’s eyes shut in such times as these,”
answered the dwarf, wisely. “And, again, I shouldn’t get any credit for
it, because I was just idling away the time until you rode up and had
no notion of anything being wrong.”

“Ah,” said Nat, with increased interest, “there is something wrong
then?”

“Again I must say that I don’t know,” and the speaker shook his head.
“It only seemed queer to me; and what followed looked a great deal more
so. But sit down here,” added the dwarf, indicating a place where some
bushes would screen Nat from the inn windows. “It would be just as
well, maybe, if you were not seen talking to me.”

Nat did as directed; then the speaker once more took up his story:

“After a few moments the gypsy-looking man walked over, threw off his
pack, sat down and began to fan himself with his hat. Then I saw that
he was tattooed upon the back of his hands, and looking carefully I saw
that on one was a ship and on the other the Union Jack.

“‘Do you belong hereabouts?’ says he.

“‘Not very far away,’ I answers him.

“‘I’ve come a long distance,’ says he, ‘to meet some friends. Has any
one gone into the inn lately?’

“‘The landlady,’ I told him.

“And with that,” continued the Porcupine, “I could see that he began to
think me a great deal of a fool. He was not so careful thereafter.

“‘If you’ll go into the inn yard and see what horses are there, freshly
come in, I’ll give you a shilling,’ he says.

“‘Very well,’ says I; and I was about to start across the road; but he
stopped me.

“‘Especially mark,’ says he, ‘if there is a fine looking bay horse, a
small mare, a wicked looking raw-boned black and a buckskin stallion.’”

“Our horses!” ejaculated Nat, “and described as well as I could
describe them myself.”

“I found that out afterward,” said the Porcupine, “though if I’d
thought, I’d have recognized your nag and Ben Cooper’s, even then. But
anyhow, I went into the yard and looked about, also into the barn; but
there was none but old work horses, and so I told the man with the
rings in his ears when I came out. He didn’t appear to relish it very
well and muttered and went on at a great rate. Then something seemed to
strike him.

“‘Is there another inn in Bristol?’ asked he.

“‘There is,’ I told him. And I was just giving him the directions when
we heard the clatter of hoofs, and along you came with your friends.
I stopped until you had all gone into the yard; and when I turned my
head once more, the man was running down the road in the direction from
which he had come.”

“But,” questioned Nat, “why did you not come in and tell me all this at
once?”

“Because I felt sure there was to be more come of it. And I was right.
The foreign-looking man had gone no great distance when a second one
rode into the path and stopped him short. They talked together for a
little while and then the first man disappeared in a thicket, while the
second came on quietly enough and entered the inn.”

Nat nodded.

“He was a tall man, lean and with a large, thin nose, was he not?” came
the question.

“I looked through the window and saw you talking to him a while ago,”
answered the dwarf. “I suppose, though,” with a grin, “he didn’t tell
you what he wanted.”

“Hardly,” said Nat, “for from what you have seen, it would scarcely
bear telling.”

They were silent for a moment, and then the boy from Wyoming resumed:

“The day has not been without its interest; and from the look of
things, the night is promising to keep pace with it.”




CHAPTER XIV

THE NIGHT PROMISES WELL


Nat Brewster left the Porcupine under the big elm across from the
Bristol inn.

“Say nothing to any one,” he warned him. “I’ll have the landlady get
you a supper and make you up a bed somewhere where you’ll not be
noticed. Remember, I don’t even want Ben to see you.”

He crossed the road and entered the inn in deep thought. The mission of
the two strangers greatly troubled him.

“Of course,” he told himself, “it’s connected with the message that
Ezra carries to Dr. Warren. But who are these men? They do not belong
to the party we encountered at the burned mill, I feel sure; for they
go about their work in a more crafty and experienced manner.”

Of course, under the circumstances, to show Ezra that he knew anything
about them was out of the question.

“And I can’t tell Mr. Revere or Ben anything either,” he reasoned,
“for as soon as I had done so they would let it all out to Ezra. And,
if there is any truth in my suspicions that the strangers are friends
of his, he’d warn them at once, a thing that I most particularly don’t
want done.”

In a very little while the candles were lighted and the tables spread
with smoking dishes. In the meantime Nat had spoken quietly to the
landlady, and the good soul had at once fallen in with his plans of
feeding and housing the dwarf.

“But I quite agree with what you say, young gentleman, in regard to not
allowing my other guests to know of his presence. They might object to
having such an unfortunate in the house. Travelers, you know, are most
peculiar.”

And so Nat had the satisfaction, when he sat down to his supper, of
knowing that his little friend was also well taken care of, and in a
position, perhaps, to render a prompt service, if such a thing should
be necessary.

Revere, Ezra, Ben Cooper and Nat were gathered about a large table; a
smaller one was laid for the tall Englishman, and he smiled contentedly
as he tucked the generous napkin under his chin.

“Madam,” said he, to the landlady, “I take this occasion to ask your
pardon. I did you the discredit of questioning your skill in cookery;
but in the presence of these gentlemen I take it back unreservedly.”

“But you have not tasted the dishes as yet,” protested the landlady,
assuming to be short and vexed. But in reality she was much mollified.

“I don’t need to taste them to be assured of their excellence,” spoke
the stranger with a wave of the hand. “The aroma that arises as I lift
each separate cover is enough for me. You are not a cook, madam; you
are an artist.”

And so with great good humor he fell to and proved to be a worthy
trencherman. Revere, eating generously of his own supper, watched their
neighbor in high admiration. At length he said:

“It is not at every inn one finds such excellent fare, sir.”

“Right!” and the stranger saluted him with his knife. “Right, sir.
And that is why I was suspicious at the off-start. But,” and he bowed
to the now gratified hostess with great politeness, “I shall always
remember the town of Bristol. I shall write the name large in the
records of my experiences, because it is a place that possesses an inn
where a gentleman can dine.”

As he was speaking the door opened and a newcomer made his appearance.
At sight of the small gold rings in his ears, the pack upon his back
and the heavy oaken staff in his hand, Nat Brewster recognized him as
the stranger to whom the Porcupine had talked on the road. He was a
swarthy looking fellow and decidedly like a gypsy, as the dwarf had
said; but there was a roll to his gait and an air about him that would
have told an experienced observer that he was no stranger to the sea.

“I would like accommodations, madam,” said he to the landlady, and
there was a foreign blur of some sort that spoiled the distinctness of
his speech.

“Supper, a bed and breakfast, I suppose,” said the woman, very brisk
and businesslike. Foot travelers were never very profitable as a rule,
and she did not waste much time upon them.

“If you please,” said the dark man. He threw down his knapsack and
stood the staff in a corner. “And as I am hungry I should like my
supper as soon as you can give it to me.”

“I shall have to lay another cloth,” said the landlady, with the air
of one who does not altogether like a task. “I would that you had come
sooner, sir.”

“I am sorry to be troublesome,” said the other, civilly enough; but for
all, Nat saw a look in his piercing black eyes that gave the lie to his
words.

The tall stranger had been quietly listening to this dialogue with a
careless air. But now he arose.

“Madam,” said he, politely, to the hostess, “to save you trouble and
offer the hand of good fellowship to a stranger and a wayfarer,” bowing
to the swarthy man, “let me say that the other side of my table is at
the gentleman’s service.”

“Why,” said the pleased landlady, “that is very kind of you.”

The sailor-like man looked properly grateful.

“I thank you, sir,” said he. “I did not expect such civil treatment
from one whom I never saw before.”

As the newcomer settled himself into a chair facing the other, Ben, who
sat beside Nat, whispered to him, lowly:

“I wouldn’t have expected it of him at any rate. But he must be a far
better natured man than I’d put him down to be.”

However, Nat only smiled. The play between the two men, who were
greeting each other as strangers, interested and amused him.

“And they do it very well, too,” he thought, sadly neglecting his food
that he might miss nothing of what was going forward. “If I did not
know what the Porcupine told me I’d be deceived as well as the most
innocent of them.”

“It is a wearying and sultry time of the year to tramp the roads,” said
the tall man to the newcomer, sympathizingly. “I hope you have not far
to go.”

“To Trenton,” responded the swarthy man. “And it’s a long journey
enough when you consider that I’ve come from New Castle in Delaware.”

“Is it so, indeed? And bearing that pack upon your shoulders, too.”

“It’s not so comfortable as it might be,” laughed the other shortly;
“and not so lightly carried as your saddle-bags, which I see hanging
upon the wall.”

The tall man turned and looked where the other pointed.

“It just happens that I’m not sure that those are mine,” said he. Then
running his eye over the array of hats, saddle-bags and riding-whips
which hung upon the wooden pegs, he remarked, addressing those at the
other table: “Did it ever occur to you, gentlemen, how alike all such
things are? For the life of me I can’t see why we are not continually
mistaking each other’s property.”

“Now that I think of it,” spoke Mr. Revere, “I must say that I agree
with you.”

“I knew you would,” said the tall man. Then with a laugh he added,
lightly: “But let us put it to the test.” He looked at the things upon
the wall as though reckoning them up. “There are four--yes, five pairs
of saddle pouches. Come, now,” and he ran his eyes over his neighbors
until they rested upon Ben, still laughingly, “let us see if you can
tell which is your own and which are your friends’.”

Nat, with a start, grasped the man’s idea instantly.

“Ezra placed the message to Dr. Warren in his saddle pocket,” he said
to himself. “This man in some way knows of it, and is taking this means
of making sure which are Ezra’s.”

It was plain that Ben Cooper did not altogether relish being selected
to make what the stranger called the test. While the boy never dreamed
of the real truth, as it flashed into Nat’s brain, still there was
something in the man’s manner that did not please him--a cunning and a
mockery, well hidden, but present nevertheless. However, he did not see
how he could well refuse, so he set about the task without further ado.

“The pair at the end I do not know, so I suppose they must be yours,
sir,” said he. “Next are Mr. Revere’s, because they are of polished
leather, and next are Ezra’s because they are of pigskin and almost
new----”

“Wait, wait!” interrupted the smiling stranger. “Which of your friends
is Ezra?”

“That is my name, sir,” answered young Prentiss steadily enough.

“Ah!” said the other, and he looked at him searchingly. “Thank you.”
And as Ben told off the other two pairs of saddle-bags the speaker
added: “Well, well, you have sharp eyes, young gentleman. I did not
think it could be done so easily.”

During the above, Nat had not devoted all his attention to the
stranger. Ezra had come in for his share of observation, and the boy
from the mountains saw the various changes of expression that had
flashed over his face. At the first reference to the saddle-bags by the
tall man, Ezra had glanced at him quickly--and there was something in
the glance that was puzzled and hesitating. But as the other proceeded
the boy grew slightly pale and Nat saw his lips come together in a
tight line.

And as the others talked and laughed, Nat pondered the subject in his
own mind carefully.

“It is plain to me,” he told himself, “that these men are met here for
the purpose of possessing themselves of Mr. Adams’ letter. But why has
it been necessary for them to go to all this trouble if Ezra is in
league with them? Why could he not have arranged to meet one of them
quietly and hand over the document without further bother? It would
have been much simpler, much easier and much safer.”

This point puzzled him for a space; then the possible reason for all
the plotting came to him like an inspiration.

“I have it,” he thought. “If the message were delivered to these people
secretly, Ezra would be held accountable--he would be suspected. If
some show is made of taking it from him against his will, with all of
us as witnesses, he can easily convince his employers that he did all
he could to safeguard it.”

This idea grew and took shape in Nat’s mind. And he began to suspect
that the tall man’s attempt to pass himself off as a sympathizer with
the colonies had not been so clumsy after all. It was possible that he
might have thrown himself open to suspicion intentionally, so that
in the end, if he succeeded in securing the paper, it could be shown
that there had been a systematic plan laid and carried through for its
possession.

“If this is so, it is very ingeniously and carefully laid,” thought the
boy. “And I must keep my eyes wide open.”

After supper they remained in the inn parlor talking with the two
strangers for a time; at length Revere, looking at a massive silver
watch that he carried, said:

“It’s coming nine o’clock, lads. Let’s to bed. We’ll needs be up in the
morning early to get a good start.”

Willingly enough the three boys arose and began gathering up their
belongings. Nat saw the hungry eyes of the two men upon the pigskin
saddle-bags, which now hung from Ezra’s arm, and he smiled grimly.

“It’s one thing to want a thing and another thing to get it,” he
muttered. “You may get Mr. Adams’ message in the end, my friend, but if
you do, you’ll have harder work of it than you think.”




CHAPTER XV

HOW THE PROMISE WAS KEPT


But that Nat Brewster was not the only one who had noticed something
odd in the evening’s proceedings was made evident as they all four
ascended the wide stairs of the inn. Lowering his voice to a husky
whisper, Paul Revere said:

“On the road it’s best, my lads, to pin your confidence upon no
one--unless you are sure who he is.”

“Hello,” said Ben Cooper, “what’s brought that out?”

Revere held up his flaring candle, for the landlady had provided each
of them with one; the light danced in their faces and up and down upon
the walls and ceilings, throwing their distorted, gigantic shadows
along the staircase.

“Nothing,” answered the horseman of the Suffolk Convention, “but the
caution of an old traveler. I say nothing against any one, mind you;
but it is well to be careful. The sweetest spoken person is not always
the one most to be trusted.”

“I think I get your meaning,” spoke Ezra Prentiss. “You are of the
opinion that the man below is not altogether to be trusted.”

They had reached the landing upon the second floor; the rooms which
they were to occupy were just at hand. Revere made a gesture with the
lighted candle that caused the shadows to crouch and then spring madly
apart.

“I repeat,” said he, “that I say nothing against any one. However, it
would be just as well to keep your eye upon this.”

As he uttered the last word he struck the pigskin saddle-bags smartly
with his hand and nodded his head wisely.

“I think it’s very good advice,” said Ben Cooper, thoughtfully.

“And I,” remarked Ezra. “Good-night, Mr. Revere, and thanks.
Good-night, Nat.”

Good-nights were said and they entered their rooms. Ezra and Ben were
to occupy a large room in which were a pair of huge four-poster beds.
Nat and Revere had separate rooms, but as it happened, there was a
communicating door between.

The man placed his candlestick upon the top of a chest of drawers.

“I never saw a finer or more careful lad than Ezra,” he remarked, “but
I’d as leave Mr. Adams had given me his errand to do.”

“Why?” and Nat Brewster turned his head, looking at the speaker with
interest.

“Only that a person of years is naturally more cautious,” returned
Revere. “Now take for example the fact that Ezra hung his saddle
pouches upon the wall. Was that not very like carelessness?”

“But he had them before his eyes all the time,” said Nat.

Revere waved his hand.

“I grant you that. But it was no way to do. A person upon an important
mission cannot be too sure.”

There was a short pause, then Nat said:

“You did not mistrust the man below at first, I think.”

“No; I thought him a hearty fellow enough. It was when the other
arrived that I noticed something that rang false. He received the dark
man as though he were a stranger. But I’ll hazard a guess that they
knew one another well enough.”

“I see,” said Nat; and after that he had a greatly increased respect
for the observation of Mr. Paul Revere.

As it happened, Revere chose the inner room, the windows of which
opened upon the courtyard. Nat’s apartment overlooked the road and lay
next the hall. In a very little while the boy heard the dismal creaking
of Revere’s bed as the man climbed into it. Then, after a great number
of yawns, there came the deep breathing of a person fast asleep.

But Nat had no desire to follow his example. He knew that he ought to
be rested for the long journey of the morrow; but his brain was full of
thoughts, his eyes unwinking; he had never felt so wide awake in his
life.

There was a high sky that night and the stars gleamed clearly; but
there was no moon and things were apt to be more vague and melt more
swiftly into the blackness that lurked under the fences, trees and at
the sides of buildings. Nat stood at his window looking out upon the
darkness and waiting for the sounds that would tell him the strangers
were taking themselves to bed. But as they seemed in no hurry to do
this, the boy soon fell under the spell of the September night. Every
rustle in the elm across the road was plain to him; and the rasp of
insects, deep in the grass, came clearly to his ears.

“I like the nights in this flat country,” he said softly to himself.
“Things seem more distant. They don’t come crowding upon you like they
do among the hills.”

Just then the rattle of halyards and spars sounded from the river, the
gleam of a starboard light came winking over the water in a long, thin
trail and the huge loom of a sail showed ghostlike against the stars.
The romance of this dim vessel appealed to the boy. What was she--where
was she bound and what strange adventures would she bring her crew
before her prow parted the waters of the Delaware again?

Half dreaming, Nat Brewster continued to watch; then he was quickly
called back to the present by the sound of footsteps on the inn stairs.
He turned from the window and listened. Lightly, swiftly the steps
ascended; a dim glimmer of light from a bedroom candle was thrown along
the hall and entered Nat’s room at the transom. But in an instant it
had vanished and the footsteps grew fainter and finally died away.

“He’s gone the other way,” Nat said to himself. “His room is probably
at the rear of the building.”

As they had stood upon the landing listening to Revere Nat had noticed
that the staircase was in the center of that wing of the building and
that the hallway ran in either direction from it.

“Whichever of them it is,” muttered the boy, “he’ll be well out of the
way, at any rate.”

For a long time he stood and listened for the other man. But there were
no further footsteps or sounds of any sort.

“Strange!” thought the listener. “Is it possible that two really came
up that time? I felt sure that it was only----”

He had gone so far when he suddenly shrank back from the window. Across
the road he had seen a moving shadow, unquestionably the dim figure of
a man.

“I have it,” breathed Nat. “The second man is to remain on watch
outside. And,” with a grim setting of his jaws, “that proves to me that
there is going to be something attempted, as I thought.”

He had laid the long pistol upon a chair shortly after he had entered
the room. Now he took it up, raised the hammer and renewed the priming.

“There is nothing like being sure,” he thought. “And unless I’m
entirely wrong, a pistol that’s ready to fire will be a useful thing to
have at hand before very long.”

Again he fell to waiting. A clock from some distant part of the
hostelry struck eleven and then midnight. It was some time after
that--how much, Nat did not know--for he had gradually become
drowsy--when a faint creaking noise suddenly came from the hall. With
the step of a cat he crept to his room door and laid his ear against
its edge to listen.

He was not mistaken; there was a soft scuffling sound, much like that
which would be made by a person advancing slowly and with much caution.

Outside his door the sound ceased, and a long silence followed.
At first Nat was convinced that the prowler intended to enter his
apartment; but a moment’s thought showed him that the man could hardly
be working by chance.

“The door of the room occupied by Ben and Ezra directly faces mine,”
was Nat’s conclusion. “It is there he has stopped and it is there he is
going to enter.”

A faint click--so faint as to be scarcely discernible--came from the
other side of the door. The prowler had lifted the catch and was
probably at that moment standing with his eyes peering through the
darkness into the opposite room. Nat gave him a moment to get well
within the room; then he grasped the handle of his own door, slowly and
noiselessly swinging it open.

The hall was dark save for the starlight that sifted through the window
at the front. But just then there came the crackle of a tinder-box in
the room opposite, as it caught the spark from a steel. Nat saw a form
crouching close to the floor. Then there was a swift glance--a swifter
movement and the pigskin saddle-bags were in the hands of the unknown.

So, pistol in hand, Nat stepped into the doorway.

“Now then, whoever you are,” he said in a loud tone, “stand steady, or
it will be the worse for you.”

Instantly the light was extinguished. He heard the four-posters creak
as the sleepers awoke and sat up; and he was just about to cry a
warning to them when a strong hand hurled him aside and a dark figure
leaped down the hall toward the window. Nat had a confused sense of
hearing startled voices calling out; but he did not pause to learn what
they were crying.

“Stop!” he shouted. “Stop, or I’ll fire!”

But the unknown paid no heed. Under the hall window was a porch roof.
Leaping through the one he gained the other; as he did so the pistol
exploded with a terrific report and the heavy ball flew by his head.
He was balancing himself upon the edge of the roof for a leap when Nat
sprang out and upon him. Clutched in each other’s arms they swung
backward and forward for a moment and then fell into the road.

The shock broke their holds. Bruised and bleeding Nat Brewster
staggered to his feet. Lights were beginning to flash at the inn
windows and eager faces to peer out. The stranger was also rising; the
saddle-bags were in his hands, and Nat sprang forward to grasp them,
when he received a terrific blow from behind and fell forward upon his
face in the dust of the road.

Ben Cooper, staring from his bedroom window, candle in hand, saw the
person who struck the blow raise his bludgeon as though to deliver a
second.

“It’s the stranger with the earrings,” cried the boy.

Lights were now shining from various windows and the roadway before the
inn was dimly illuminated; the man was clearly the same, and there was
a fierce look upon his face as he steadied himself for the finishing
stroke. But just then came a most tremendous barking and growling;
petrified with astonishment, Ben saw a great dog rushing furiously
forward from the inn yard--and held in leash by the Porcupine.

The monstrous beast sprang upon the swarthy man and crushed him to the
ground; dragging the dwarf after it like a feather, it rushed upon the
tall man, who had risen and was gazing around in a most bewildered
manner.

Then Ben, followed by Ezra, leaped out upon the porch and thence to the
ground; and though they arrived upon the scene of action but a moment
or two later, it was to find the two strangers gone, and the Porcupine
and dog masters of the situation.

With the help of Revere they carried Nat into the inn parlor; the
landlady, who was now up, as were indeed all the people of the
hostelry, began staunching the flow of blood from a wicked cut in his
scalp, all the time lamenting that such a thing should have occurred at
her house.

“The villains!” she said. “The ungrateful wretches! I hope they get
their deserts! To strike a poor lad like this--to attempt a robbery
here--to run off without settling their score.”

“Now,” demanded Ben Cooper of the Porcupine, who was perched upon the
arm of the settle where Nat lay, “how on earth did you come here?”

“I came to see him,” answered the misshapen boy, a catch in his voice.

The landlady gave the speaker a look that was full of wonder and
contained just a little fear.

“How he ever came to make up with that wicked beast, Hector, is more
than I can understand,” she said to the others. “I have had that dog
chained in the yard these three years, and only one or two of us dare
go near him.”

“I can always make friends with dogs,” said the dwarf. “All I need is a
chance to talk to them. And when you put me in the loft over the stable
to sleep my window was just above him; so I had no trouble at all. When
the noise began I knew what it was right away, and so I made good use
of Hector.”

Here Nat opened his eyes and began to stare bewildered about him.
Revere, Ben and the landlady bent over him, but Ezra looked keenly at
the dwarf.

“When the noise began you knew what it was,” repeated he. “How was
that?”

“Never mind,” replied the dwarf, coolly. “I knew; so let that be
enough.”

Nat’s wits came slowly back to him during this time, and he painfully
grasped each fact as it presented itself to him. The struggle with the
stranger came first--then, finally, the object of the man’s visit.

“The saddle-bags!” he cried, starting to his feet.

“Are gone,” replied Ben Cooper in a startled tone, for in his anxiety
for Nat this important fact had been forgotten.

Nat’s eyes went accusingly toward Ezra; he had not fully recovered from
the shock of the blow and the boy’s figure was seen through a sort of
haze.

“And the message?” spoke Nat, in an unsteady voice.

“It is safe,” replied Ezra Prentiss, quietly. “I have it here in my
pocket.”




CHAPTER XVI

THE TALL MAN BRINGS A FRIEND


At the announcement of Ezra, his companions gazed at him in surprise.

“What Mr. Revere said upon the stairs as we were going to bed,” said
the young New Englander, “made quite an impression upon me. So I had
not been buried in the four-poster long before I found that I could not
sleep so long as the message was where it was. So I got up, removed it
from the bag and put it under my mattress.”

Revere was much gratified at this.

“Now,” said he, “that was wisdom. And I am glad that any words of mine
saved you from such a loss. Always be as careful--you will find that it
adds to your peace of mind.”

But Nat Brewster was puzzled, and the look which he directed at the
dwarf showed that that personage was in the same state of mind.
However, he was in no condition to grapple with perplexities, so he put
the thing from him for the time. His head was bandaged and before long
they got back to bed once more.

Next morning the wounded boy had a severe headache; but toward noon it
wore away and he thought himself fit to travel.

“But,” said he, decidedly, to Revere, when announcing his intentions,
“we’re going to be a party of five from now on.”

“I expected that,” said the other. “Ben’s been telling me about that
little imp that he calls the Porcupine, and how he rendered you
services of some sort upon other occasions beside that of last night.”
Then after a pause: “So you think of taking him along?”

“Yes,” replied Nat. “If I can get him a horse it would be much better;
but if not, I’ll carry him on mine, as he’s no great weight.”

“I’ll see what can be done,” said Revere. “Horse flesh ought to be
plenty in these parts; and that means that it should be cheap.”

The result was that Nat paid out about all the money he had for an
angular, swift little bay horse, along with which came a worn saddle
and bridle. The Porcupine received these evidences of favor with great
delight.

“Maybe,” said he to Nat, “I’ll be a lot of trouble on the road, but
I’ll try not to be. And then,” with his usual grin, “I may be useful
again in some way; for as you know I’m a pretty handy sort to have
around on the outside.”

They reached Trenton after dark that night and by the next were well
into the north Jerseys. They slept one night in New York, then crossed
the little colonies of Rhode Island and Connecticut into Massachusetts;
and at the end of eight days, were arrived safe at Boston.

“And now,” said Revere, as they paused in Marlborough Street, near the
Old South Meeting House, “I must leave you for a time. Before I sleep
this night the members of the convention must be notified that the
Continental Congress has acted, so that they may assemble to-morrow to
receive its formal resolutions.” He shook hands with Nat, Ben and the
Porcupine. “I shall see you again before you leave the city, no doubt;
if not, good-bye.”

As Revere left them, Ezra said:

“It would be as well that I should deliver my letter to Dr. Warren,
also. Misadventures on the road have taught me that a messenger is
never safe until his errand is done.”

They turned their horses’ heads in the direction of Hanover Street,
where the great patriot lived; and in a little while, leaving their
horses in care of the Porcupine, they were shown into the library,
where Dr. Warren received them. That he was all eagerness to read the
communication from Mr. Adams was evident, but first he greeted Ben and
Nat, bidding them welcome and directing a servant to prepare supper for
them at once. When he had seen them comfortable and inquired eagerly
after the cause in Philadelphia, he said:

“And now you’ll pardon me, I know. Mr. Adams is sure to have matters of
moment to write of.”

And so, while the lads watched him, he broke the seals and carefully
read the message. By the way his face lit up they knew that the news
was good, and that the future had a brighter prospect than the present.
When he had finished, he carefully tore the paper into fragments.

“You see,” said he to the boys, laughing, “it is not well for a marked
man, such as I, to have papers about him that will tell so much. Almost
at any time Gage is likely to take courage and swoop down upon me with
a file of men.”

“And how are things in Boston, sir?” asked Ezra.

An anxious look came into the doctor’s fine, worn face. But, for all,
there was hope in it also.

“Bad enough,” he answered. “But the people hold out wonderfully. The
Port Bill has them upon the verge of starvation; those of us who were
rich are now poor--those who were poor are now beggars.”

“Then the law is enforced strictly?” said Nat Brewster.

The doctor laughed bitterly.

“Strictly enough,” said he. “The harbor is covered with British ships
of war. And not only is the city’s foreign commerce cut off, but its
domestic as well. Let a scow bring lumber or iron, or a lighter attempt
to land hay from the islands and they are stopped. If a farmer attempts
to ferry over his marketings or float his sheep into the city, the
fleet is ever ready to capture or destroy them.”

“It is, indeed, a condition of affairs not to be tolerated,” remarked
Ezra, warmly. “But how has Gage treated the people lately?”

“Oh, fairly enough. But he dare not do otherwise. The new laws are
observed only in Boston; the whole outlying colony is in revolt against
them, and I think he’s in fear that there may be an outbreak before
he’s ready for it.”

“What do you suppose will be the end of it, sir?”

“We must fight!” answered the doctor, gravely; “and to win, we must
make preparations.”

“Good!” cried Ezra, and the light in his eyes was that of one who feels
deeply. “And as for the preparation, I suppose that is still going
forward.”

Dr. Warren nodded.

“We have magazines of stores at Concord and Worcester which are
constantly being added to. Cannon, powder and musket-balls are being
gathered from every possible source. The organizations of militia are
being drilled daily; the minutemen, as we have called them, stand ready
to answer the call of the Committee of Safety, day or night.”

For a long time the patriot talked to the boys with simple,
unsuspicious directness. And Nat noticed that he, like Revere and Mr.
Adams, seemed to have perfect trust in Ezra Prentiss.

That night the boys spent at the “Green Dragon,” an inn much frequented
by the patriotic townspeople. Next day Ezra made ready to ride to his
home, which had been in Cambridge for the past year or two.

“Of course,” he said to Nat, “what time you stay about Boston, you will
spend as my guest. So get ready and go out with me now.”

But Nat shook his head. It was an awkward situation, and the young
mountaineer felt it deeply. Suspecting Ezra as he did, he could not
accept his hospitality.

“You will be a great deal more comfortable at Cambridge than in the
city as it now is,” urged Ezra.

“I have no doubt of that,” returned Nat. “But there are reasons why I
should not go. However, I thank you for your kindness.”

The two boys were standing apart upon the pavement of the Green Dragon;
and as Nat made this answer, Ezra regarded him steadily with his frank,
honest eyes.

“For the first time in my life I know what it is to be held at arm’s
length,” said he. “And not only now, but since I first met you.”

Nat did not reply; and the other resumed:

“I don’t know when I’ve met any one whom I’ve more earnestly desired to
make my friend than you. Sometimes I’ve thought it would come about;
but more often I’ve thought it otherwise.” Nat saw his mouth twitch as
he turned away, adding: “There may be a reason for it all; if there
is,” meaningly, “don’t forget that it was no fault of mine.”

Of course Ben accompanied his friend to Cambridge. He was vastly
surprised when he learned that Nat was not to bear them company; but
after one or two questions he subsided; for he had come to understand
that Nat only told those things which he desired to tell.

And as the two rode away down the street, the lad from Wyoming turned
to the Porcupine who sat upon a bench before the “Dragon” and said:

“Well, midget, what do you think?”

The little eyes of the dwarf seemed to read what was in his tall
friend’s mind. He nodded toward the riders who were now some distance
away.

“About him?” he asked.

“Well--yes.”

“I like him,” said the Porcupine. “I like him same as you do, and same
as every one does. But he’s got a good many things to explain before
I’d trust him.”

“I think,” remarked Nat, soberly, “that’s about what I think too.”

That afternoon the two paid a visit to Paul Revere at his shop in
North Square; and Nat had a long talk with the engraver as he worked
industriously at a plate.

“I can lose no time,” said the man at the beginning, by way of apology.
“I’m taken away from my work so often now that I must improve each
moment I can snatch.”

But he talked incessantly just the same; and Nat learned much of the
condition of Boston, its conflict with king and parliament, of its
patriotic population, and the vigorous, if secret, measures taken to
oppose the army of Gage.

“And now,” said Revere, at last, pausing in his work, and surveying Nat
with questioning eyes, “how would you like to stay on in a town in such
a plight?”

Nat was rather puzzled as to just how to take this; but before he could
speak, Revere went on:

“I had some talk about you with your cousin as we journeyed along, and
he told me just how it is with you. As far as I can see, though of
course my information is limited, there is no great call for you to go
back to Philadelphia, just yet.”

“No,” Nat replied. “There is not.”

“Good!” exclaimed Revere. He leaned against his bench and scratched
his chin. “There are many brawny, ready young men of excellent courage
in the city, I have no doubt,” he continued; “but one must see them in
action before making sure. Such a one is wanted. Dr. Warren has asked
me to recommend him a youth of quality for work that will need to be
done in Boston during the winter.”

“And you think I would answer?” inquired Nat.

“I am sure you would!” cried Revere, in high admiration. “Have I not
seen you in stress of danger? You were like a rock for steadiness, and
you planned like an old campaigner.”

“Just what is the work?” asked Nat.

“I’ll tell you another time,” said Mr. Revere, and Nat noticed him cast
a look in the direction of the Porcupine, who sat in a high-backed
chair drinking in the conversation.

“Don’t be afraid to trust him,” said Nat, warmly. “I never had a more
faithful friend than he has proven himself.”

“I’ll speak to Dr. Warren,” said Revere, evasively. “It may be that the
need he spoke of has passed. Come to-morrow at this time and I’ll let
you know.”

Nat spent the remainder of the day and part of the next wandering
about the city, looking curiously upon the closed stores, the military
encampments, the trim looking warships and transports that rode at
anchor in the river. But more than anything else he was interested
in the people, the quiet, watchful people, so careful that no one
should do anything that could be in any way considered an offence to
the military. Boston knew that the day of blood was coming; but when
it came she wanted to be able to say that she did not strike the first
blow.

At about noon on the day following the departure of Ezra and Ben, Nat
paused before a likely looking coffee-house in Orange Street not far
from Allen’s Lane.

“Shall we go on to the ‘Dragon’ or shall we have something here?” asked
he of the Porcupine.

“I do feel rather peckish,” returned the dwarf, “and the ‘Dragon’ is a
long way off.”

So without more ado, Nat made his way into the place, followed by his
odd-looking ally. There were oaken tables and chairs about the main
room, and at the side were others screened by curtains of baize.

“It’ll be more comfortable here, I think,” said Nat, selecting one of
these; and so they seated themselves and made known their wants to
an attentive waiter. As they ate their thick barley soup with big
pewter spoons and nibbled at bits broken from a crusty loaf, their eyes
wandered about the great square room and through the door at the people
who passed so quietly, up and down.

There were some prints upon the wall that after a little attracted
Nat’s attention; and it was while examining these that he heard a
sputtering cry from the Porcupine. Turning his head he found that the
latter was apparently choking upon a morsel of bread and a mouthful of
soup; but at the same time he was almost frantically pointing through
the open door with his spoon.

Nat turned his gaze in that direction and his excitement almost equaled
that of his companion when he saw, standing upon the pavement before
the coffee-house, the tall stranger whom they had encountered at the
Bristol inn.

But instantly Nat’s excitement left him. Surprise seldom mastered him;
in moments of danger he usually was at his coolest.

“Just give that curtain a twitch,” he said to the dwarf, who was
nearest the hanging folds of baize. “I think the gentleman is coming
in.”

[Illustration: _HE SAW THE TALL STRANGER_]

The Porcupine did as directed; and it was none too soon, for the tall
man, who had apparently paused outside to greet an acquaintance, strode
into the coffee-house, laughing and slapping his boot leg with a thick,
silver-knobbed cane.

“And look who is with him,” whispered the Porcupine, clutching his
friend’s arm, almost fiercely.

“Ezra Prentiss!” breathed Nat, and sank back into his chair, his face
stern and set.




CHAPTER XVII

WHAT NAT HEARD AT THE COFFEE-HOUSE IN ORANGE STREET


As Nat Brewster and the dwarf breathlessly watched, the newcomers
at the coffee-house in Orange Street were taken in hand by the same
attentive servant who had waited upon the boys; and he pulled back
chairs for them at a table only a few feet distant. They briefly made
known what they desired and when the waiter had taken himself off, the
tall man, after surveying his companion, said:

“Well, I suppose you are glad to get back to Boston?”

“Can you doubt it?” laughed the boy, his elbows upon the table, his
chin in his palms. “It seems that this is the only place in which I can
accomplish anything.”

The tall man nodded as though he agreed perfectly with this saying.

“It seems so indeed,” replied he. “You had the long journey to
Philadelphia practically for nothing.”

“And I don’t know when I worked harder,” said the other. “But
everything seemed against my success--especially this Nat Brewster.”

A sour, vindictive look came into the man’s face; his curved nose
seemed more hawk-like than ever and his thin lips were set in a
straight line.

“As far as I have been able to judge,” went on the boy, “young Brewster
is quite a person.”

The dwarf jogged Nat’s elbow and grinned up at him, but the young
mountaineer shook his head warningly.

“Well, he was person enough to give me a nasty fall from the top of
that porch,” said the tall man, morosely.

The lad across the table laughed amusedly.

“Never mind, Chesbrook,” said he. “Your hurts will heal. And then you
got them in a good cause. It’s not for a lieutenant in the royal navy
to make faces about a few bruises.”

“Perhaps,” remarked Lieutenant Chesbrook, “if it were you that had the
same hurts, you wouldn’t be so apt to laugh about them.”

“Maybe not,” returned the lad. “But Brewster did not get off unmarked.”

This time the man laughed.

“That Neapolitan strikes a hard blow,” said he.

“Friend Nat is going about with a bandage around his head, at any rate.
But he is toughly made, and I think would stand a great deal of rough
usage.”

“I may put him to the test if he remains in Boston long,” said
Chesbrook, grimly. “And as for that imp who came down upon us with the
dog, I’ll be the death of him. The bites which the beast gave me before
I could get out of its reach are worse than the other injuries by far.”

“Well, he’s a brisk little villain, that dwarf, for all,” laughed the
boy. “I wish he were as fast a friend to me as he is to Nat Brewster. I
could make use of him.”

“But what I complain of worse than anything else,” continued the
lieutenant, “is the fact that all my hurts are for nothing.”

“But you got a pair of very excellent saddle-bags,” laughingly.

“If you had not valued those boys so lightly,” complained the
lieutenant, “it would not have been necessary to resort to this last
plan of yours.”

The other nodded. The laughter quickly vanished from his face and an
expression of vexation took its place.

“You are right,” he said. “And as it was, to have broken into the inn
at Bristol and taken the message by force would have been the proper
way of going about it.”

“Don’t forget that our friend Royce tried something of the sort only an
hour or so south of the town. His success was no greater than mine.”

“He did not count upon resistance. If he had, there would probably be a
different story to tell.”

“Not count upon resistance!” The lieutenant laughed heartily. “Well,
that’s an odd sort of way of setting out upon a venture. He and his men
were armed, were they not? Then they must have thought of a possible
resistance. But,” sneeringly, “when the time came, they were afraid to
fire.”

There was a short silence, during which time their food was served
them. When the waiter had once more departed, the man proceeded:

“When I got the news of Royce’s failure in the matter of the men from
Virginia, I lost faith in him. He allowed himself to be beaten by a boy
and a few grooms.”

“I don’t think his courage can be doubted.”

“Perhaps not. But his qualities as a leader can. If a competent man
had been on hand to carry out that enterprise we would have broken the
heart of this growing rebellion at one blow.”

“So I think, too. But,” and a deep shade of anxiety came into the
speaker’s face, “as matters stand now, it looks very bad, eh?”

“General Gage thinks so, at any rate. You know when he first arrived to
take the governorship of the colony of Massachusetts Bay, he had a very
poor opinion of Americans. Indeed, he still pretends to think the same.
His letters to the king’s ministers, so I hear, still maintain that the
colonists are cowards, that they will not fight, that they will not
hold together long enough to make this movement serious, that they are
mere blusterers who think to bully the king into doing what they ask.
But it’s common talk aboard ship, at least, that he’s grown anxious.
When he sends troops beyond the limits of the city, though they go
bravely enough, with flying colors and to the music of their bands, he
does not know if they will return alive, or no.”

“Yes, I’ve heard that the towns all about are very determined.”

“And they show their determination in a practical way by taking all the
ammunition from the public magazines and hiding it away for their own
use. All the cannon they can lay hold of are used the same way; those
guns which they have not succeeded in carrying off, they’ve spiked
or thrown into streams. And, I may add, that the spirit which sets
mothers, wives and daughters to moulding musket-balls for a defence of
what they call their country’s rights, is one hard to put down.”

“But why does not General Gage make an effort to stop all this?”

“How can he? Massachusetts must first be overawed by a huge army--which
Gage has not at command--before any sort of successful measures can
be taken. To attempt it now might cost a thousand lives. And I know,”
added the man, with a grim smile, “that you wouldn’t care to see that.”

“No, no,” replied the boy, his face going pale. “I think that above all
else open war must be prevented.”

“Gage is willing enough to let matters stand as they are. He thinks
that in the end the people will become more divided and the whole
matter settle itself. But the Tories are at him constantly to take
measures. Nothing will do them but that their Whig neighbors shall be
hanged or punished in some equally vigorous way; and they also demand
that expeditions be sent to suppress the outlying towns. Up to this
time, the governor has resisted them; but I hardly think he is man
enough to continue to do so.”

Then for a long time the two ate their food in silence. Then the man
asked:

“You are living at Cambridge, I suppose.”

“Yes,” replied the other.

“And still hold yourself in readiness to answer our call.”

“You know that I do.”

“Good! If all in Massachusetts were half so ready to prevent an
outbreak as you, we’d need to have no fear of the result.”

Finally they arose and paid their score. While awaiting change for
the gold piece which Lieutenant Chesbrook had given the waiter, that
officer asked:

“But you intend to return to Philadelphia, do you not?”

“If there is a message from the Adamses, I will,” replied the boy.

And with that their change came; then the two walked out of the place,
while Nat and the Porcupine sat staring at each other across their
table.




CHAPTER XVIII

IN WHICH DR. WARREN AND PAUL REVERE LISTEN INTENTLY


It was some little time before either Nat or the dwarf spoke; then the
latter said slowly:

“Well, I suppose you have no more doubts now. I guess you’ll think with
me that he’d only one reason for going to Master Chew’s house on the
night that I saw him there.”

Nat’s face was sternly set and there was a look in his eyes that was
unmistakable.

“No,” replied he, “I have no more doubts now. Ezra Prentiss is all that
I have suspected him to be. But in this he has reached the end of his
rope. I shall keep silent no longer.”

“Good!” exclaimed the Porcupine, his stiff crest of hair seeming to
grow more erect with excitement. “But,” lowering his tone, his manner
changing quickly, “even now there is something queer about it all.”

Nat looked mutely at the lad for an explanation; the dwarf went on:

“There was a plan laid between Ezra and this naval officer to steal the
message of Mr. Adams, was there not?”

“Their talk would make it seem so, at all events,” replied Nat.

“Then why was the plan not carried out? The matter lay in their own
hands. If Ezra Prentiss wanted the message taken, why did he remove it
from the saddle-bags?”

“That is more than I can say,” answered Nat, in a low, brooding voice.
“It has a very unusual look. Something happened, perhaps, to show the
thing not to be desirable at the time. Otherwise I cannot account for
it.”

They sat in the Orange Street coffee-house for some time talking over
the matter. Nat had often before noticed the good sense of the dwarf
and the intelligent expression of his opinions. But to-day both were so
noticeable that in sheer surprise the young mountaineer finally said:

“Porcupine, how old are you?”

“Sixteen,” replied the dwarf.

“You must have had pretty good schooling.”

“Five years. A Quaker gentleman sent me to Master File’s Academy. But
he died and I had no money to continue any longer, so back I went to
sleeping in doorways, while I staid in the city, and in barns when I
took to the country.”

A little later, Nat, looking at the tall clock which stood in a corner,
said:

“I think I’d better make my way to North Square, and see Mr. Revere;
and as he seems disinclined to talk before a third person, you had
better wait for me at the ‘Dragon.’”

After leaving the Porcupine to make his way to the inn, Nat Brewster
set into a brisk pace and in a short time found himself once more at
the house of Paul Revere.

“Ah,” said that worthy, heartily gripping him by the hand, “I was just
this moment thinking of you.”

Nat sat down upon an oaken bench; the engraver went on with his work,
every now and then looking up to nod at his caller; but all the time he
talked steadily.

“Last night,” he said, “I saw Dr. Warren and Dr. Benjamin Church, and I
talked with them about you.”

“Who is Dr. Church?” asked Nat, who had never heard of that gentleman
before.

Revere’s face became clouded; a little frown wrinkled itself across the
top of his nose.

“Dr. Church,” said he, “is a well-known gentleman who has mixed himself
much in the movement. He is a frequenter of my shop; he has written
verses that have appeared upon some of my prints.”

“Ah,” said Nat, “a patriot.”

But Paul Revere shook his head. Lowering his voice cautiously, he made
answer:

“I’m not so sure of that. He is a member of the Committee of Safety,
and, with the exception of Dr. Warren, is the only person who is told
of the secret doings of the Sons of Liberty. Yet I don’t trust him
overmuch. He’s too friendly with the Tories and, I have heard, is upon
terms with Gage himself.”

An anxious look crept into Nat’s face.

“Why, the struggle for liberty is like to be honeycombed with treachery
before it has fairly begun to live.”

He was about, there and then, to bring up the matter of Ezra Prentiss,
deeming it a fitting time; but Revere’s thoughts drifted back to what
he had upon his tongue in the first place.

“Dr. Warren was most pleased with what he heard about you,” said the
engraver. “More than ever he desires some one in whom he can trust
to be at hand when wanted. Ordinarily he would call upon me, but
I’m ofttimes taken up with my own affairs and cannot attend to the
committee’s business as I’d like. He said,” continued Revere, “that
he’d be pleased to have a talk with you to-night.”

It was arranged after some further conversation that Revere was to call
for Nat at the “Dragon” about eight in the evening and then they were
to go together to the doctor’s house in Hanover Street.

This program was carried out, and they found the great patriot still at
his supper.

“I had been called out, and am but now returned,” he said. “But I am
delighted to see you both.”

Nothing would do but that they should draw up their chairs and join him.

“Here is an excellent joint,” smiled he, “and a capon pie that
will please you if you admire cookery. And then we can talk more
comfortably, you see.”

And though they had just supped, they again sat down with the doctor.
After some little gossip of a general nature, Revere said:

“I have been talking to Master Brewster, doctor, as you suggested. And
as he seems anxious to help in the work, I brought him to see you.”

The doctor looked at Nat good-naturedly.

“Mr. Revere is an ardent admirer of yours,” said he, “and has been
telling me some of the misadventures of your journey north. And I may
say that your own part in them has taken my fancy.”

“Travelers,” replied Nat, “come upon unexpected things, and must
somehow overcome them. That’s all I tried to do.”

“All!” cried Revere. “All! Well, perhaps so; but it was enough to
save all our lives from the hulking thieves gathered in that ruin.
And again, it required courage to do what you did to save Mr. Adams’
letter, even though you failed.”

“You see,” said Dr. Warren, laughing; “Revere will make you out a hero
whether you will or no. But,” and his face grew graver, “I think you
would be of good service here in Boston if you could but stay.”

“If there is need of me,” said Nat, “I can stay.”

The doctor’s eyes shone with pleasure.

“Excellent!” ejaculated he. “There is a promptness and decision about
that which I like. And,” he proceeded, bending toward Nat, “there
is much need of you. We have things to do which require courage and
adaptability--qualities which I’m inclined to think you possess.”

“I am ready to undertake anything that you think I can do,” said the
lad.

“Gage and his officers are to be watched. The British must make no move
that shall not at once be reported to us. Revere has organized a body
of mechanics to patrol the streets night and day; but we must have some
one for a venturesome task--to learn what the governor’s intentions are
before he gives the command.”

“How is that to be done?” asked Nat, puzzled.

“I will explain some ways in which I think it might be done, later,”
said Dr. Warren. “Ezra Prentiss was to have taken up this task; but his
being selected by the Adamses to help in their work at Philadelphia
prevented it. I know that he would have been successful; and I feel
sure that you will.”

Nat had, after careful deliberation, made up his mind that before this
meeting with Warren came to an end, he would unburden himself of all
his knowledge of Ezra and lay his suspicions and the cause of them out
for the judgment of that calm-minded patriot.

As he could imagine no better opportunity for doing this than the one
which now presented itself, he addressed his host nervously, across the
table.

“Dr. Warren,” he inquired, “how long have you known Ezra Prentiss?”

The patriot hesitated, then turned to Revere.

“How long has it been since you first brought him here?”

“Some two years, I should say,” returned Revere. “He’d but lately
joined the Sons of Liberty, and seemed so warm for the work that I
thought we could find things out of the ordinary for him to do.”

“And some of the tasks we set him to perform were very much out of
the ordinary,” praised Dr. Warren, warmly. “And I never expect to see
anything more enthusiastically done.”

“But,” insisted Nat, “do you know nothing more of him than this?”

There was something in the boy’s voice that made the two men look at
him questioningly.

“I know,” answered Revere, “that he is a native of Boston; but that’s
all. However, we don’t ask for pedigrees in these days. For proof of
that witness your own case. Deeds are what count with us and nothing
else.”

There was a pause. Dr. Warren laid his knife and fork crosswise upon
his plate, sat well back in his chair and looked at Nat intently.

“I think,” said he, at last, “there is something back of what you’ve
said.”

“I’m going to tell you something,” said Nat, with a grave air.
“Something that will try your credulity, perhaps, but that is
nevertheless true for all that. I ask your attention and I promise to
venture no opinion. I am going to tell you nothing except what has
happened and will leave it for you to pass judgment.”

“Go on,” said Dr. Warren.

Thereupon Nat began his tale and related it much after the fashion
in which he had told it to his uncle. But of course there were the
additional things--the happenings since they had left Philadelphia and,
most damaging of all, the scene in the coffee-house only a few hours
before.

Both Warren and Revere listened with the utmost attention; not once
did they interrupt the boy as briefly and lucidly he sketched the
happenings that had given him so much anxiety.

“And now,” he concluded, “I felt that I could not withhold this any
longer--that it was my duty to place the facts before you. And, as I
said at the beginning, I venture no opinion. I leave it to you to say
what it all means.”

“What you have told us is most astounding,” said Warren, “and yet there
is that in it which carries conviction. What is your opinion, Revere?”

The engraver shook his head.

“I don’t know what to say,” he replied. “Ezra has always, as far as I
could see, been worthy of trust. But in the face of all that I have
just now heard----” and he gestured helplessly, as though unable to
finish the sentence.

Then the two plunged deeply into the matter and discussed its every
side. Every now and then they appealed to Nat for the verification of
some fact; and the boy was greatly relieved to find that not once did
they doubt any feature of his story. At length Dr. Warren said:

“To spread this tale abroad would do little good. In fact, it might do
considerable harm; for the people, you know, are easily struck with
panic. The knowledge that there are traitors within the lines would
have a bad effect upon many.”

“But,” said Nat, “will it not be much more harmful to allow this boy to
continue as he is doing? He occupies a position which endangers----”

But Dr. Warren interrupted him.

“He will not occupy it for long,” said he, quietly. “I will despatch
word to Samuel Adams to-morrow detailing everything and asking him
to act upon the matter as he thinks best. And that will mean only one
thing--that Ezra Prentiss will be entrusted with no more important
work.”

It was late at night when Revere and Nat Brewster left Dr. Warren’s
house and proceeded along Hanover Street.

“I never expected to hear anything like this,” said the engraver, as he
shook his head sadly. “I’d have trusted that boy with my life if need
be.”

“I can understand that,” replied Nat. “And that is the feeling that
made me hold my tongue till now.”

“However,” spoke the man, “we have other matters to think about. It’s
a sore thing to lose a friend, but we’ve no time for grieving. Work is
ahead for all of us--work that will mean much for the colonies if we
can perform it properly.”




CHAPTER XIX

IN WHICH A WINTER PASSES, BRINGING MANY THINGS


The very next night, Nat Brewster was admitted with all due formality
to membership of that devoted band of patriots known as the “Sons of
Liberty,” of which Paul Revere was a leading spirit. This organization
met in one of the upper rooms of the “Green Dragon,” and the young
mountaineer was astonished to find how complete were their plans of
resistance should the time come when it should be necessary to take up
arms.

Immediately, after another consultation with Dr. Warren, the boy took
up the work that had been assigned to him.

“One of the most pressing needs of the British army now encamped in
Boston,” said the doctor, “is for barracks to shelter them during the
coming winter. The artisans of Boston have refused to undertake the
building, and so bricklayers, masons, plasterers and carpenters are
largely in demand. If you were one of these now”--and he looked at
Nat speculatively, “you’d be able to get inside the lines and perhaps
gather information of great value to us.”

“I have done a great deal of rough carpentry,” said Nat. “And though I
am no great mechanic, still, I may do, if they are badly pressed for
men.”

“Excellent!” said Dr. Warren, greatly pleased. “Lose no time in
applying to the officer in charge.”

This Nat did, later in the same day; and his services were snapped up
eagerly at much higher wages than usual.

“Those villains of Whigs will not take honest work in the king’s
service,” complained the red-faced captain in charge of the work.
“They’d rather stand about the streets meditating treason and throwing
black looks at decent persons who uphold the laws.”

So during the days that followed Nat sawed, planed and nailed in the
midst of the British with great energy. And all the time he watched
keenly and listened for any news that might be of importance. At night
he patroled the streets with Revere and his thirty mechanics; and there
was little that escaped their sharp eyes and alert minds, for they
scattered into every part of the town where they thought there might be
a movement of the king’s troops.

Nat saw very little of Ben Cooper, and nothing at all of Ezra for some
days; finally one evening as he sat at supper at the “Dragon” Ben burst
in upon him.

“Ezra has been recalled to Philadelphia,” he stated. “He starts in the
morning, so be ready and you can pick us up on the way.”

“I’m going to remain in Boston,” said Nat, calmly.

“Going to remain in Boston!” Ben almost gasped these words, so great
was his astonishment. “Why, what for?”

“I have urgent reasons,” replied Nat. Then seeing his cousin’s
reproachful look, he added, laughingly, “Well, I suppose I’ll have to
tell you about it; but you will have to promise not to say anything to
any one--not even Ezra.”

Ben looked at Nat challengingly.

“I say,” said he, “what’s the matter with Ezra? Somehow or other you
don’t take to him very well.”

“He’s said something to you, has he?” said Nat.

“He’s said nothing,” replied Ben warmly. “But I’ve got eyes and I can
see as well as the next.”

Nat was silent for a moment. He could tell Ben nothing of that
particular affair because Dr. Warren had asked both himself and Revere
to keep silent.

“I’ll say nothing about your ideas regarding Ezra and me,” said he,
at last. “But I will say, under promise that you tell no one, that I
remain in Boston to carry out some work required of me by Dr. Warren.”

Now there was no more ardent patriot among them all than good-natured
Ben Cooper. So upon hearing his cousin’s words he at once gave up all
expectation of his accompanying them south.

“Very well,” said he. “If that’s the case, I suppose I’ll have to leave
you here. But the Porcupine will go back with me, of course.”

“No,” said Nat. “I rather think he wants to remain. But,” turning to
the dwarf who sat near him, “speak for yourself.”

“I’ll stay with you if you’ll let me,” came the answer promptly.

“So you see,” smiled Nat to Ben, “you will have the trip all to
yourselves. But,” with a sudden recollection of what was due to his
uncle, “I must get you to take a letter to your father.”

So while Ben waited, he got a bottle of ink, a quill and a sheet
of thick paper, with which he set about composing a long letter to
Mr. Cooper. When he finally finished and sealed it up, he had told
everything of importance there was to tell. Ben remained for some time
talking and then got upon his horse for the ride to Cambridge.

“Do you know,” said he, as he mounted and sat looking down at his
cousin, “that I rather envy you.”

“Why?”

“Because there is something in the air of this town that tells me that
it’s here or hereabouts that the explosion is going to take place.”

“You are always finding things in the air,” laughed Nat.

“Well, if I do, I am generally right,” argued Ben. “Just you wait and
see.”

Then they shook hands and said good-bye; Ben waved his hand and nodded
smilingly to the Porcupine, who replied with a grin; then the rein was
given the little roan, and she scampered away down the dimly lit street.

During the whole of the long, gloomy winter that followed, Nat Brewster
saw no more of his cousin; once there came a letter from Mr. Cooper in
which Ben enclosed a page of greetings, but that was all.

But Nat had little time to think of these things. As the winter
advanced the situation became more and more tense. The arming of the
people went steadily on, as did the collecting of the military stores.
Nat, in one capacity or another, served Dr. Warren and the Committee
of Public Safety continuously; he kept as close as possible to the
British sources of information and more than once was lucky enough to
secure news that was of great help to the cause. But the Porcupine
was invaluable; he developed a musical talent, which Nat had not
suspected, and upon a strange looking string instrument of his own
manufacture he played and sang Tory ballads at inns and places where
the royalists resorted. In this way he made himself popular with
them and so gained admittance to places which would otherwise have
been denied him; the result was that there was scarcely a thing of
consequence talked of among the Tories that escaped him, or failed to
reach the ears of the committee in due course.

In this way it became known to Warren and the rest of the patriot
committee that Gage had about despaired of his policy of inaction; he
had made up his mind to disarm the people and seize their leaders.

“He has been desirous of having an army of twenty thousand men before
resorting to this,” Nat told Dr. Warren in repeating what he had heard.
“But he has made up his mind that these will never be sent him, so he
is going to make the attempt with his present force.”

“Which is about thirty-five hundred,” said Dr. Warren. “But how is he
to proceed, or haven’t you heard?”

“The Porcupine, as it happens, heard that very subject talked of last
night at the ‘George and Griffin.’ Ruggles, the loyalist leader, has
asked General Gage to send troops to Marshfield to protect the Tories
from violence.”

“No violence is meditated against them,” said Warren, sternly. “That is
but a subterfuge to test the willingness of the people to permit troops
to march into the outlying sections.”

On January 23d, General Gage sent one hundred men and three hundred
stand of arms to Marshfield. All Boston, it seemed, was on the streets
to watch the tiny column move out of the city; and as Nat stood gazing
with interest upon the scene, he was surprised to see Ezra Prentiss
upon the edge of the crowd at the opposite side of the street. They
exchanged formal salutes, but neither made any attempt to cross to the
other. Nat knew that the brothers Adams had left Philadelphia at the
adjournment of Congress, but he had heard nothing of Ezra; and, indeed,
had given him but little thought.

“That means that we must both be more careful,” said the Porcupine,
when Nat told him of the meeting. “If he sees you among the British
and me among the Tories, he’ll be sure to whisper something in their
ears that will put us in danger.”

In sending the troops to Marshfield, Gage feared an outbreak; but when
the colonists merely looked sullenly on and no hand was raised against
the soldiers, the governor grew elated.

“They dare not really oppose the king’s troops,” he is reported as
saying. “And when the spring opens, I’ll prove it to even themselves.”

A few brass cannon and gun carriages had been deposited by the patriots
at Salem, and about a month later Nat, by the merest chance, learned
that Colonel Leslie and a detachment were to be sent to seize them. At
Warren’s command the young mountaineer sped to Salem as fast as the
hard-mouthed black would take him.

It was Sunday morning and the Puritan town was still and covered with
snow. But within an hour the streets were alive with citizens, all
ready to defend the guns. As the latter were upon the upper side of
North Bridge, the draw was raised, and when the British arrived they
could not cross the river. Several large gondolas lay upon the south
bank. Colonel Leslie at once gave orders that his men cross in these;
as the soldiers moved toward the boats Nat saw a youth, followed by
several older persons, rush forward, push the craft into the water and
proceed to scuttle them.

The redcoats waded into the stream and with their bayonets tried to
stop this. The boy leader lifted an oar with which to defend himself
and then, for the first time, Nat recognized him.

“Ben Cooper,” he cried in amazement.

A moment later the boats sank, and their occupants struck out for the
north side, swimming lustily and uttering derisive cries.

Flushed and angry, Colonel Leslie stood at the open draw and shouted
across at the townspeople:

“Lower the draw in the name of the king.”

The Rev. Mr. Bernard, a clergyman of Salem, stepped forward.

“Colonel,” said he, “I take you for a just and reasonable man, and
one who would not wish to stain the Sabbath day with blood. This is
a private way; you have no right to cross if the owners see fit to
object. So go your way in peace.”

Leslie had been especially warned by Gage not to persist if there was
danger of bloodshed; and now the news reached him that the minutemen
from all the country round had been sent for, and indeed, that the
company from Danvers had just arrived. But he was a determined officer,
and as he had set out to cross the bridge he made up his mind to do so.

“I am going to march my men across,” declared he. “If you will
peaceably lower the draw, I’ll agree to proceed no more than thirty
rods beyond it. But if you refuse--well, you must accept the
consequences.”

Thereupon the draw was lowered; the British had the empty triumph of
crossing; but the brass guns were safe, and the incoming militia drew
up in line and watched the redcoats depart, their fifes squeaking
dismally, their drums beating a hollow tattoo.

When all danger was past, Nat began a search for Ben Cooper. But the
swimmers had landed some distance below the bridge; he located a few
of them, but Ben was nowhere to be found.

“The boy who first started for the boats was a stranger to us,” the men
told Nat. “We never saw him before. But he’s a plucky one, whoever he
is.”

All the way back to Boston Nat wondered over this strange incident.

“Why, I had not thought Ben within hundreds of miles of Boston,” he
said. “And here he pops up in the midst of a thing like that just
passed. However, I suppose he’ll hunt me up before long and give an
account of himself.”

But this Ben did not do; weeks passed and Nat still heard nothing of
him. At last the latter made up his mind that he had been mistaken.

“It couldn’t have been Ben, or he’d have looked me up,” he reasoned.
“It was the excitement of the moment that led me astray; one is apt to
imagine all sorts of things at such times.”

However, as has been noted before, he had not much leisure to think
over his own affairs. With Revere and the thirty faithful mechanics,
who continued to patrol the bleak streets each night, ever watchful and
alert, he gave all his waking time to the Committee of Safety. And in
pursuance of the change of policy on the part of their commander, the
British grew aggressively offensive. Once they tarred and feathered a
citizen whom they claimed had tempted a soldier to desert, and drew him
about the streets upon a dray guarded by soldiers, their band playing
“Yankee Doodle” in derision.

They attended public meetings at the Old South Church and hissed the
speakers. On the day in March set aside by the Provincial Congress for
fasting and prayer, they pitched tents near to the meeting-houses and
the services were constantly interrupted by the sound of drum and fife.
The very next day Mr. Hancock’s house was assaulted and damaged.

“All this is to provoke the people to strike the first blow,” said
Warren.

And thereupon the precautions taken by their leaders to prevent their
doing so were redoubled.

Some fourteen thousand musket cartridges were seized by the British
guard as the patriots endeavored to get them across Boston neck, and
the driver of the wagon was severely handled. This was on March 18th;
and the same evening a party of officers attacked the Providence coach.

It was about this time that Nat Brewster became aware that an
enterprise of some moment was soon to be undertaken by Gage. There
was nothing said openly, no one put it into words; but there was much
whispering and signaling among the younger officers; and Nat, whose
days were almost all employed at the barracks or officers’ quarters,
listened with all his ears.

At length, as March neared its end, the rumor became more definite; and
then it was given a name. The stores at Concord were to be destroyed!

When Nat excitedly bore this intelligence to Warren, a guard was at
once placed over the magazines; teams were held in readiness to carry
them away at the first sign of a British advance. Riders were also
despatched to carry the alarm to all the towns and have them hold their
companies of militia to answer any call that might be made upon them.

Gage now sent out engineer officers to inspect the state of the towns,
to make sketches and maps of the roads and all possible places of
defence. Bodies of troops were frequently sent out. On the 30th of
March, the first brigade, numbering some eleven hundred men, took
its way toward Jamaica Plain, and on their march did much damage by
throwing down stone walls and otherwise misconducting themselves. Armed
to the teeth, they swaggered through the near-by towns like ruffians.
Little did they dream what danger they were in. All about them the
country slowly arose; bands of armed minutemen appeared like magic,
and, unseen, awaited the word. Dr. Warren, watching the truculent
brigade of British from a neighboring hill, smiled grimly to Paul
Revere, who sat his horse beside him.

“Let them advance a few miles further, attempt to destroy a magazine or
in any way abuse our people, and not a man of them will ever see Boston
again.”

But the time was not yet. In the city, the bearing of the king’s
soldiers became more and more proud; the population, unable to stand
their insults, was slowly drifting into the country. It became quite
dangerous for a patriot of mark to remain, and, indeed, most of them
had taken their leave of the town long before. But the gallant Dr.
Warren remained.

“Some one must take the risk,” said he, simply. “And why not I?”

Gage made every effort to purchase supplies for camp service; but
the people were before him everywhere; they cut him off both in
Massachusetts and New York. About the middle of April a reinforcement
came, and the very day of its coming, Nat overheard a conversation
between an ensign and a lieutenant at a mess table which immediately
set his expectations upon edge. The boy from Wyoming was fitting a
window-sash which had been much complained of; and as the two officers
were but a half dozen feet from him, he lost not a word.

“This is all the general’s been waiting for,” declared the ensign, a
youthful, strapping fellow. “Now mark my words, he’ll slip a second
expedition out upon the Yankees and capture all the nest-eggs they’ve
been hoarding so carefully at Concord.”

The lieutenant shook his head.

“Of course it’s for General Gage to do as he thinks best,” said he.
“But if I were asked what I thought about it--which I’m not likely to
be--I’d tell him to go slow.”

“Oh, he’s been going slow since he’s been here,” exclaimed the ensign,
“and what has it done for him? Not a thing. Here is an assembly of
men, styled the Provincial Congress, and which is totally unknown to
the constitution, collecting the public moneys. That alone is enough
to arouse him to action; but when he sees the same moneys invested in
warlike stores to be used against him, he grows angry. It’s his duty to
stop this and prevent the calamity of a civil war.”

The lieutenant nodded.

“You are right,” said he, “so it is; but I don’t like the way he’s
going about preventing it.” He lowered his voice after a glance at Nat,
and continued: “Have you heard that the grenadiers and light infantry
have been relieved from duty?”

“Yes,” returned the other, with a laugh. “The excuse is that they are
to learn some sort of a new exercise. It’s a rare good dodge, for of
course they’re being got ready for a march.”

“I fancy you are right,” nodded the lieutenant. “And those boats of the
transports, which were hauled up for repairs, have been launched again
and are now under the sterns of the men-of-war, ready for service.”

Late that night, for he always visited Dr. Warren’s house at hours when
he’d be little likely to be seen, Nat Brewster hastened to Hanover
Street. Revere was with the doctor at the time and they received the
news which he had to tell with set faces.

“Mr. Hancock and Samuel Adams are at the house of the Rev. Jonas Clark
at Lexington,” said Dr. Warren to Revere. “I shall wish you to bear a
letter to them at daybreak to-morrow.”

“I will be ready,” said Revere.

Nat bore the courier company on the following morning.

“The time,” said Revere, soberly, as they jogged along, “is not now far
off.”

“I fear not,” replied Nat. “If Gage strikes, we must strike back. And
that will mean a relentless war.”

“I had some faint foreknowledge of what you told us last night,” said
Revere. “The whisper came to me that Gage intended to seize Mr. Hancock
and Mr. Adams, but just how or when I did not know until you came.”

“If they were taken it would be a worse blow than the loss of the
stores could well be,” said Nat, seriously. “Such an event will, of
course, be especially guarded against.”

“Right,” returned the man in the same tone. “You may be sure that it
will be, if I have any voice in the matter.”

The house of the Rev. Mr. Clark was a wooden one upon a shady street;
as it happened both Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock were at home, and they
received the news calmly.

“We have arranged for just this emergency,” said Mr. Hancock. “There
are safe places at Sudbury and Groton for the stores; within an hour
they shall be on their way.”

“And no British column, no matter how strong, will be able to get that
far in search of them,” added Mr. Adams, grimly.

Revere and Nat rode back by way of Charlestown, and here they met
Colonel Conant of the militia, and some other gentlemen warm in the
cause.

“It puzzles me,” said Revere, after some talk, “how we shall get word
across the river when the troops are about to start.”

“I had thought of that,” answered Conant. “From where we stand, the
tower of Old North Church is plain to be seen in day-time. When the
troops start, climb to the windows in the steeple and signal us by
flashes of light--one if they are going by land, two if by water.”

“Good,” praised Revere, “a fortunate idea, colonel. We will act upon
it. Don’t forget,” as they were going, “two flashes of a lantern if
they go by water--one, if by land.”

When they reported to Dr. Warren he breathed a sigh of relief.

“It now only remains for us to keep a strict patrol,” he said, “and
give the signals promptly. Do you,” to Nat, “watch like a hawk. And
you,” to Revere, “see to it that your men do the same.”

Monday passed, and Nat, still employed at the officers’ quarters, noted
many things that gave him alarm. Late in the afternoon he saw a dozen
horses brought out and a group of laughing, chatting officers all ready
to mount.

“I think,” said the strapping ensign whom Nat had heard talk a few days
before, and who now made one of this party, “that there will be little
need for us to watch the roads. The Yankees know nothing, and therefore
can send no warning to the peasants in the out-sections.”

Nat did not desire to hear more. In a sheltered spot he scribbled a few
words upon the face of a smooth pine block with the point of a nail;
hiding this beneath his coat, he made his way to a point beyond the
barracks.

“It’s lucky that I thought to tell the Porcupine to hold himself ready
to carry a message,” he said as he hurried along.

Rounding the far end of the barracks, he heard a door close, then he
caught a quick, sure tread upon some wooden steps; turning his head the
least bit, he got a glimpse of the newcomer out of the tail of his eye.

[Illustration: _HE GOT A GLIMPSE OF THE NEWCOMER_]

“Ezra!” almost cried Nat, in dismay. But he choked back the
exclamation, lowered his head and walked steadily on. Even though his
back was now squarely toward the other, Nat knew that the boy had
halted and was watching him. But it was only for a moment, then the
same light footstep resumed, now upon the plank walk; and Nat, with
a keen, quick glance over his shoulder, saw him hurrying away toward
the group of officers who were still gathered, awaiting the command to
mount.

As luck would have it, there was a sharp turn around some buildings for
Nat to make in order to reach the place where he had told the dwarf to
await him. As he rounded this he was screened from view and broke into
a run.

With set face he sped forward, not knowing what another moment would
develop. And, as it happened, the very moment that he caught sight of
the grinning face of the Porcupine, he also heard the roar of hoofs
upon the planks of the barracks road. In a flash he tossed the dwarf
the pine block.

“To Dr. Warren--and get out of sight quickly!” he said, hastily.

The keen perceptions of the dwarf grasped the situation instantly.
Clutching the block, he vanished between two buildings; and Nat, his
head bent, as though totally unconscious of everything but his own
private affairs, continued on up the street. Nearer and nearer sounded
the hoof beats; then two horsemen drew up beside him.




CHAPTER XX

NAT BREWSTER IS TAKEN BY FOES AND PAUL REVERE BEGINS HIS MIDNIGHT RIDE


Nat gazed up in assumed astonishment at the two excited faces that bent
over him. He knew that the dwarf was safely away, and all his native
coolness returned to him.

“What now, my lad?” demanded one of the horsemen, a puffy faced captain
of light infantry. “Where are you going?”

“I’m on my way home,” answered Nat, innocently enough.

“I think,” said the puffy faced captain, “you’d better delay that for
awhile and come back to the barracks. A few words with you may do no
harm.”

“Very well,” agreed Nat, promptly.

And with that he turned and started back over the road he’d just
traveled. His willingness to do what was demanded of him seemed to take
the two officers by surprise; the second of them, a lank youth with
vacant eyes, drawled:

“Why, this fellow is too wooden-headed to be dangerous, captain. That
lad must have been hoaxing us.”

“It’s not for us to judge of that,” replied the puffy faced man, who
seemed a competent officer. “Major Pitcairn told us to bring him back,
and that’s what we are going to do.”

“Oh, of course,” the lank youth hastened to say. “We’ll do that surely.”

So Nat was marched back within the British lines. Where but ten minutes
before there had been laxity and careless superiority, all was now
tense excitement and bustle. The group of officers were in the saddle;
guards were being placed at many points where it had never been deemed
worth while to have them before. Scowling looks met the boy as he
trudged calmly along before the two riders.

At Gage’s headquarters they drew up; dismounting, the officer led Nat
past the sentries into a long room where sat the governor, a stout,
bluff Englishman in undress uniform.

“Is this the fellow, Pitcairn?” demanded Gage of an immaculately
dressed officer across the table from him.

Major Pitcairn surveyed Nat carefully.

“I’ve seen him among the workmen for some months past,” said he. “But
I’m not sure of anything else.”

“Ask Lieutenant Chesbrook to step in,” said General Gage to an orderly
who stood at the door. “And tell him to bring his friend.”

In a moment the tall naval lieutenant stalked into the apartment, and
following him was young Prentiss. Nat met the latter’s eye with a
steady, accusing gaze. But the Boston boy did not flinch. He merely
gazed back with inquiring interest, nodded and smiled genially.

“Yes,” replied the hawk-nosed lieutenant, glancing at Nat and replying
to a question of Major Pitcairn’s. “That is the person.”

“You are quite sure, lieutenant, that he is in sympathy with the
rebels?” asked Gage.

“I am positive,” answered Chesbrook.

“And you?” turning to the other.

“It is the same boy,” replied young Prentiss.

There was a moment’s silence, broken by the rattle of hoofs. At the
sound, Gage glanced at Pitcairn and the major nodded.

“They are off,” said he, briefly.

“Tell Smith to get his men ready with all despatch,” commanded Gage.

Pitcairn arose and left the room; then the governor turned his bluff
countenance upon Nat once more.

“So, young man, you’ve been spying upon us,” said he, sternly.

Nat saw that there was no use denying anything that was charged against
him. The best way, so he concluded, was to put a bold face upon the
matter, for it would be as likely to carry him through as anything else.

“Yes,” he answered, “and have also been doing some rather competent
work as a carpenter. If one is to count against me, I trust you will
not fail to credit me with the other.”

A smile stole over the British general’s face.

“You do not lack coolness,” said he. “But that alone will do little for
you. You admit that you are a spy. Do you know the fate of such?”

This last was asked in a sharp, stern way. Instantly young Prentiss
took a quick step forward as though to protest, but the hand of
Chesbrook closed upon his arm and drew him back. A moment later the lad
left the room. Nat looked steadily into the British general’s face,
paying no attention to this by-play.

“You mean that spies are shot?”

“Or hanged,” added Gage, grimly.

“In time of war--yes,” said Nat. “But not at such a time as this.
Another thing. I am not a spy in a strictly military sense. Such a
person would be an enemy to the king--which I am not.”

“No?” and the governor looked at him with interest.

“I came here for the same reason that you did,” declared Nat, boldly.
“And that is to prevent war.”

“Your argument is ingenious enough,” said General Gage, “but it
scarcely meets the facts solidly. However, I have no time now to
examine you. I’ll have you put under a guard for a few days until I get
some important matters off my mind.”

“If the taking of the colonial stores at Concord is one of them,” said
Nat, coolly, “you may as well rid yourself of it now.”

General Gage’s face was naturally red, but at this it grew much more so.

“It seems to me,” remarked he, with a nod of the head, “that your time
here has not been wasted.”

At this moment Major Pitcairn reëntered and the governor turned to him.

“Pitcairn, see to it that parties are set to guard all the roads. No
one is to leave the city.”

“Have you learned anything?” asked the major, with a quick look at Nat.

“No. But our young rebel here has set me thinking that our plan may not
be so secret as we think.”

Once more Pitcairn disappeared. As he did so, Lieutenant Chesbrook
stepped forward and saluted.

“General,” said he, “if I may be permitted to do so, I’d like to offer
a suggestion.”

Gage glanced at him inquiringly. There was something in the set of the
thin lips and the expression in the cold, light-colored eyes that gave
the impression that Chesbrook’s suggestion might have value.

“I shall be happy to listen to you,” answered the soldier readily.

Lieutenant Chesbrook bowed his thanks. With his finger-tips on the edge
of the table he said:

“Some time ago I was detailed by the admiral for shore duty--of a
certain kind.”

Gage nodded.

“Yes; the admiral spoke to me of it at the time. He said that you had
peculiar persuasive powers,” with a laugh. “Indeed it was his opinion
that no one could resist you if you chose to set yourself to convince
him.”

“The admiral is most flattering,” spoke Lieutenant Chesbrook. “But
then, I’ve given him proof upon more than one occasion, so he speaks
from personal knowledge. But what I was about to say was this: I intend
riding with Lieutenant-Colonel Smith’s column to-night; and I think if
this boy,” indicating Nat, “were permitted to accompany me, he would be
of considerable service.”

“In what way?”

“In several--but more especially in recognizing and pointing out
persons whom it would be worth while taking into custody.”

Gage’s eyes snapped.

“Bravo!” exclaimed he. “That is a most excellent idea. It never
occurred to me. Take him, by all means.”

“Thank you,” said Chesbrook, and his cold eyes had an odd expression as
they measured Nat from head to foot.

But in reply to the look, Nat merely laughed.

“You surely do not think,” said he, “that I will recognize and point
out people, as you put it, or, betray my friends, as I would put it,
just at your request.”

“I don’t think when a little matter like this presents itself. I act,
as you will learn at no distant time,” replied Chesbrook. “Recollect,
my lad, I have no great love for you.”

“A small thing like a fall from a porch roof should not be permitted
to sour your temper so,” said Nat, evenly. “I would have thought that
Lieutenant Chesbrook of His Majesty’s navy was beyond that.”

But Chesbrook made no reply to this. The puffy faced captain called a
file of men and the boy was seized.

“Be careful of him,” warned Major Pitcairn, who had reëntered in the
meantime and to whom the arrangement had been explained. “Lock him up
securely and keep a guard over him--a strong guard.”

The captain and his men saluted. The boy from Wyoming was placed in the
midst of them and led away.

He was placed in a room in a small stone building not far from the
barracks. This was generally used for refractory troopers and contained
a chair, a table, and a heavy chain fastened to the wall, on the end of
which was an iron band which was now locked about Nat’s waist.

Hour after hour went by; the footsteps of the double guard outside his
prison door went steadily up and down; now and then as the men passed
one another their voices were heard murmuring. Through a small window,
barred and high up in the wall, Nat got a glimpse of the sky; it was
black and a few pale stars burned against it waveringly.

The boy sat with his head drooped forward upon the heavy table and the
thoughts that filled his mind were gloomy enough.

“Suppose,” reflected he, “my message did not reach Dr. Warren; suppose
he does not send Mr. Revere to warn Mr. Hancock and Mr. Adams and
rouse the minutemen in defence of Concord. If General Gage can deal
them this blow, the cause of the colonies may be wrecked.”

He pictured to himself the dark, midnight roads; the armed British
troopers that guarded them. All along the route to Lexington, so ran
his vision, the houses of the colonists were without lights; the
inmates were wrapped in slumber. He imagined the party of officers
riding far ahead with ready swords and pistols; then came the column of
troops, solid, compact, dark, winding slowly along the highway like a
huge serpent. And nowhere was there any one to oppose their progress;
nowhere was there a voice raised to warn the sleeping ones of the
danger that was approaching, slowly, deliberately, like Fate.

It was Nat’s helpless situation, chained, locked in a strong room,
guarded by watchful soldiers, that so tinged his thoughts. The truth
was that matters were not nearly so hopeless as he pictured them.

The Porcupine, breathless, pale of face, had reached Dr. Warren’s door.
Scarcely could he reach the knocker, even by standing upon his toes;
but when he did reach it, its “rat-tat-tat” awoke the echoes in Hanover
Street. It was the doctor himself, anxious, expectant, who came to the
door and received the queer message. As he read it his mouth tightened.

“And where is Nat?” inquired he.

“I think they’ve got him,” said the Porcupine. “They were after him
when he passed me this and told me to run.”

Warren said nothing to this. Bidding the dwarf sit down, he scratched
off a note and sealed it.

“You’ll take my horse and ride to North Square,” he said quietly. “Mr.
Revere will still be at home,” with a glance at the clock. “You’ll give
him this note. Don’t fail. A great deal depends upon it.”

In an incredibly short time the dwarf pulled up at Revere’s house, and
walking in presented the note, which that gentleman immediately read.
It was past dark by this time and some candles burned in the room.
Revere twisted the note into a spill, touched it to a flame and watched
it turn black and crumble away on the floor.

“I’ll go with you at once,” he said quietly.

So he pulled on his heavy boots, buttoned his surtout, took up his
three-cornered hat and started back to Hanover Street with the dwarf.
Once there, Warren received them with great eagerness.

“I have just sent off William Dawes by the long way ’round the neck,”
said he.

“It would be as well,” spoke Revere, after some discussion, “for me to
make a personal examination of things and be sure that the expedition
is really about to start.”

This was agreed to, and off the engraver started, the dwarf still with
him and riding Warren’s horse. They had reached the Common when they
noted considerable movement; rows of boats were drawn up at the water’s
edge at the bottom of the Common, each bearing a light in its bow.
Approaching these were a body of troops armed and equipped as for a
march.

“That means two flashes of the lantern in the North Tower,” said Paul
Revere, with a suppressed laugh. Then as though a thought had just come
to him, he added, in a changed tone, “But suppose by some accident
they do not see the signal?”

The idea apparently troubled him; for a moment he stood still; then he
turned suddenly to the Porcupine.

“You know the sexton of North Church, do you not?”

“Yes,” came the reply.

“Ride there at once,” directed Revere, with the manner of one who has
made up his mind, “ask him to give you the lantern which he has ready,
and do you give the signal.”

Without a word the Porcupine turned the horse and galloped off over the
soft sod toward the north. Revere hastened toward the river; at the end
of a deserted wharf he uttered a whistle and two men came forward from
some unseen hiding-place. Without any explanation being necessary, they
drew a dory from behind some piles; all three got into it and pulled
sturdily across the river.

Upon the farther side they found Colonel Conant and a group of others
upon the bank, and the militia officer greeted Revere hurriedly.

“We just now received the signal,” said he, “and had secured a horse
from Deacon Larkin upon which to send a courier with the news.”

“I’ll go myself,” said Revere, promptly, and he vaulted into the saddle
of a strong looking horse which a lad was holding by the bridle. “Tell
the deacon that I’ll ride his beast as carefully as I can, but not to
expect too much, for speed is the thing that will count to-night.”

And then, with a wave of the hand, along the midnight road, bearing the
alarm that was to awake the whole world to liberty, sped Paul Revere.




CHAPTER XXI

NAT BREWSTER MARCHES WITH PITCAIRN TO LEXINGTON


It was about the time that Revere and the Porcupine first sighted the
troops on the Common that Nat Brewster heard a rattling at his prison
door; lifting his head he saw it open and admit the guards, bearing
lighted candles.

“We’ll take that little girdle off you, my lad,” said a grizzled
sergeant of infantry who seemed to be in command. “I suppose you’ll not
make any objection to that.”

“I’m to be removed from here, then,” spoke Nat, as the soldiers began
unlocking the steel band that encircled him.

“Yes,” replied the sergeant with a laugh. “We thought you’d need a
trifle of fresh air.”

“Where am I to be taken?” asked the boy.

But the sergeant shook his head at this.

“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies,” answered he. “But,”
with a renewal of his laugh, “you might ask that navy lieutenant;
perhaps he’d be pleased to say.”

The lock of the steel girdle seemed to work stiffly and the soldiers
grumbled and strove at it angrily.

“I’d not like to have that same lieutenant in charge of me,” said a
youthful, flaxen-haired corporal who made one of the party. “He’s a bad
one, I can tell you.”

The grizzled sergeant nodded, watching the efforts at the lock and
frowning at the delay.

“I think,” continued the flaxen-haired corporal, “that he knows more
ways of getting a groan out of a man than the Grand Inquisitor himself.”

“Ah! I think I understand,” said Nat, and his mouth tightened.

“If he’s got anything ag’in you and there’s anything he wants to make
you tell, you’ll understand right enough,” said the old sergeant,
grimly.

“I’ve seen a good bit of punishment since I joined His Majesty’s army,”
said the corporal, who seemed of a talkative disposition, “but that
naval chap do beat all. Mind how he took it out of that private of the
forty-seventh the other day?” to the sergeant.

“Torture?” asked Nat.

“You may well say so,” returned the flaxen-haired one. “And when he’d
made the private confess, he took the man charged with trying to get
him to desert and manhandled him in a way I never heard of before. Did
you see the little parade of tar and feathers through the streets?”

“Yes,” replied Nat.

“That was an idea of Chesbrook’s; sort of a finishing off, you might
call it.”

Here the band and chain clashed to the stone floor; with muskets at
their shoulders, the guard fell in line, Nat in their midst.

“As a last word, lad,” said the grizzled sergeant, not unkindly, “let
me say you’d better do anything that shipman tells you. It’ll save you
a lot, perhaps.”

“Thank you,” said Nat.

At a sharp word from the sergeant the guard marched out of the room and
into the open air. There were very few lights; but the bustle told Nat,
at once, that there was something under way; and then as he saw line
after line of fully equipped soldiers pass by, he understood.

“It’s the column being sent to Concord!” he breathed. There was a queer
tightening at his heart and throat as he watched the trained redcoats
trudge stolidly toward the river. Their compact organization was plain;
like a machine they moved at the command of watchful officers. Behind
them were centuries of discipline and British prestige, proven upon
countless battle-fields. And, at the very best, there would be to
oppose them a but few bands of roughly organized farmers and workmen,
called hastily from their occupations to take up arms.

“What chance have they?” thought Nat, gloomily, still burdened with his
captivity. “Even if they have been armed, what chance have they?”

But he had no great time to think over this or anything else; being
led to the line of boats he was forced into one of them; and in a few
moments was in midstream. The lights of the “Somerset” man-of-war,
which lay near at hand, burned clearly, and the tide was at young
flood. Overhead the moon was like a silver disc; and the sprinkling
stars wavered and sparkled like myriads of eyes, gazing down at the
darkness of the world.

The troops were ferried across the river with a despatch that spoke
well for Gage’s preparations. Immediately they were formed in column
and the eighteen-mile march to Concord began.

Nat now found himself well in the rear under a close guard; near him
rode Major Pitcairn, the commander of the column, Lieutenant-Colonel
Smith and Chesbrook, all of whom seemed engaged in earnest
conversation. No one spoke to Nat, save now and then the grizzled
infantry sergeant; but at length a horseman dropped back from the
front, dismounted, gave his steed in care of a soldier and approached
him.

But the young mountaineer’s head was bent and he did not notice the
newcomer until he spoke. Then the head went up swiftly; the darkness
hid the scorn in Nat’s eyes, but nothing could deny that which was in
his voice.

“Oh, it’s you, Prentiss, is it?”

The other laughed frankly, honestly. It was the same laugh that had
caught the fancy of the cobbler at the ferry road.

“You don’t make me very welcome,” said the New England boy.

“If there is any reason why I should,” spoke Nat, “just give it a name.”

“Why,” said the other, “I can think of none. From your point of view I
suppose I am a very great rascal, indeed.”

“There can be no greater crime,” said Nat, “than to turn traitor to
one’s country and friends.”

“I agree with you in that,” said the other, gravely. “But,” and there
was a new note in his voice, “of what does treachery consist?”

He did not give Nat an opportunity to reply, but at once proceeded.

“Two people may love their country; they may desire with all their
hearts to serve it--but each may have a different idea as to how it
should best be done. You, for example, think that to defy the king and
parliament, to follow the leadership of Messrs. Adams, Hancock, Warren
and their like, to take up arms against the lawful governor, is to
serve the colonies. But I think the reverse.”

“There can be no doubt of that,” replied Nat, drily.

But the other paid no heed to the sarcasm.

“I, too, desire to see the colonies dealt justly by,” he went on. “I
also can see very plainly the wrongs that have been done them. But I
do not believe in seeking to right them by any method that will end
in bloodshed. An appeal to the liberal minded English nation will set
everything right.”

“Has that not been tried?”

“In a way--yes. But not in the right way. The British mean kindly by
us; and if the Whigs would cease threatening, we’d quickly get our
rights.”

“It is not we who threaten,” said Nat; “it is they. You say you do not
believe in methods that might end in bloodshed--then what do you think
of this present expedition?”

“It is a peaceable one--a demonstration only.”

The boy said this eagerly, with the manner of one who is anxious to
defend a thing which he strongly desires to be true--but of which he is
not altogether convinced.

“Peaceable!” Nat laughed, mockingly. “Why, there are above a thousand
men in this column, each with musket and bayonet, powder and ball.”

“Nevertheless, their errand is peaceful,” argued the New England lad.
“We but seek to take the leaders of this sedition that they may not
tempt the people; we mean to seize the magazines that no madness may be
committed that would bring on a war.”

“I begin to see your position,” said Nat. “And so,” sternly, “you think
that to bring these things about, any deceit may be practiced, and
treachery resorted to.”

“Those are hard words,” said the other, quietly.

“But they are true ones. Was it not treachery to plan the capture of
your kind friends Mr. Adams and his brother by the Tories? Was it
not deceit that you practiced upon Mr. Cooper and Ben, who trusted
you--upon Dr. Warren, upon Paul Revere?”

Near at hand a smoking lantern, borne upon a pole, threw off a red
flare of light; in this the face of the New England lad took on a
sudden troubled look. He laid his hand upon Nat’s arm and was about to
speak; but at that moment the grizzled sergeant broke in upon them.

“Sorry to interrupt, my lads,” said he, in his gruff way. Then
addressing himself to Nat, he continued: “You’re wanted back here a
piece by Lieutenant Chesbrook. And,” lowering his voice so that no one
else might hear, “now is the time to remember what I told you in the
guard-house awhile ago. I think you are going to have use for it.”

The British column had advanced steadily along the old Charlestown and
West Cambridge road until it had now reached Menotomy. Lights could be
seen flickering at windows; and as the head of the brigade came on,
dark forms went flitting and vanishing into the night.

But Nat saw none of this; he was hurried toward the group composed
of Lieutenant-Colonel Smith and his aides, which had drawn up before
Newell’s tavern. The hoofs of the horses rang loudly as they stamped
upon the stones; their bridle chains jingled and they snorted
impatiently at the delay. A party under several officers had just been
sent to enter the inn.

“My information is positive,” Nat heard Lieutenant Chesbrook say to
Major Pitcairn, as he came up. “The rebel Committee of Safety met here
to-day; and I have not much doubt but that some of them are passing the
night under the same roof.”

“We’ll root them out, if they are,” returned the immaculate major. “I
suppose you’ll know them, if taken?”

“No, but our young friend here will, I think,” and Chesbrook waved his
hand toward Nat Brewster.

Just then there came the sound of loud voices at the inn and the sound
of splintering woodwork as the doors were forced.

“You give me credit for more knowledge than I possess,” said Nat,
coolly. “The Committee of Safety is largely composed of gentlemen who
are strangers to me.”

Lieutenant Chesbrook touched his horse with the spur; in a moment he
was at the boy’s side and saying in a smooth, persuasive voice:

“It would be altogether better for you if you would not assume that
attitude. You possess information which I want and which I mean to
have. So you will profit a great deal by falling in with my desires.”

But Nat looked up at him and replied, calmly:

“I am the person to judge of what is best for me, Lieutenant Chesbrook.”

“I think not,” said the naval officer. “You see, you don’t know just
what it will mean to refuse. I have with me some few ingenious little
contrivances which are much used upon shipboard in compelling our men
to do that which they are disinclined to do. So don’t compel me to
bring them out; you’ll be sorry for it if you do.”

There was a stir among a group of officers; a boyish figure darted
through them and stood beside Nat.

“Lieutenant!” cried this person in a warning voice; and instantly
Chesbrook wheeled in his saddle.

“Well?” demanded he, harshly.

“It was understood between us----” the boy got this far when the man
interrupted him.

“Have the goodness not to interfere with my work, Prentiss,” said he,
sourly. “This is no time for boyish notions.”

“But you promised that no one was to be injured!” There was a note of
pleading in the lad’s voice; he clutched the stirrup of the officer and
held tightly to it.

Chesbrook laughed.

“If you were fool enough to think that matters of this kind,” with a
wave of the hand at the marching column, “could be carried through like
a tea-party, it is no fault of mine.”

Nat saw the boy stare up at the speaker, his face suddenly drawn.

“Then,” said he, slowly, making almost the same gesture as the other,
“this means war?”

“Of course it does!” rapped out Major Pitcairn. “The king’s troops
exist for the purpose of making war.”

Before the boy could make reply, an officer came hastily from the inn.

“No one there but the servants and such,” complained he.

“Bring them out,” directed Lieutenant-Colonel Smith, angrily. “And
bring all of them.”

In a few moments a little line of half-dressed folk blinked
bewilderedly in the light of the flaring torches as the British
officers narrowly examined them. But they were so unmistakably what
they claimed to be that they were quickly dismissed.

“Get back with you!” cried Lieutenant-Colonel Smith in a fury. “And if
I ever hear one word against you regarding harboring rebels it will be
the sorriest day for you that ever dawned.”

So with that the officers pressed after the column; and Nat was once
more placed in the midst of his guard, which went trudging sullenly
forward. And as the “tramp-tramp” grew fainter, the inn people began
to laugh. For safe in an adjoining field were Messrs. Gerry, Lee and
Orne, of the patriot committee. They had been roused by messengers as
the head of the column passed beneath their bedroom windows, and had
slipped out by a back door as the British broke their way in by the
front.

As the brigade advanced, guns began to boom in the distance and bells
clanged a sonorous warning to the countryside.

“The entire section is up,” growled the commander. “Some warning must
have been sent after all.”

After a very few miles, Major Pitcairn was ordered forward with a body
of light infantry.

“Pick up any one you find on the road and secure the two bridges at
Concord,” directed the lieutenant-colonel, curtly.

“It has a bad look,” said Pitcairn, as he sat his horse, awaiting the
formation of the six companies which were to make up his command. The
clangor, dim but continuous, crept toward them across the level fields;
and for the first time a serious look had settled upon the faces of the
king’s officers.

“I fancy,” said the commander, “that a reinforcement would do no
harm; indeed, judging by all the commotion ahead, it might be of good
service.”

So a rider was despatched instantly to Boston for additional troops;
and as he dashed eastward, the light infantry battalion under Pitcairn
took its way to the west. Chesbrook accompanied this advance force, and
Nat, his captors having their original plan, apparently, still in mind,
was ordered with them also.

“But I recognize no man that is captured on the way,” vowed the boy,
his jaw set. “Let them do as they will, I’ll stick to that.”

Dawn was beginning to streak the east with lines of gray when Nat made
out young Prentiss forcing his way afoot through the compact mass of
the battalion.

“It will soon be daylight,” said he, when he had approached near enough
to speak.

Nat gave a look at the sky.

“Within an hour,” returned he briefly.

Somehow his resentment against the New England boy was not at all
as strong as he thought it should be. Treachery, all forms of
unfaithfulness and deceit had long been Nat’s pet aversions, but for
all that he could not lift himself to the pitch of anger that he felt
the other’s acts deserved.

The rhythmic tramp of the troops continued and the rattle of equipment
was sharp and distinct in the dawn. Now and then the low command of a
sergeant was heard, but all other voices were silent.

“Another hour till daylight,” said Nat, after a pause, “and then, I
fancy, we shall see desperate work!”

“Do you really believe that?” asked the other boy, and his tones were
anxious and eager.

“I do,” replied Nat; “the minutemen are up. Surely you heard the guns
and alarm bells awhile ago.”

“Yes, I know. I understand. But,” hurriedly, “the British officers will
not fire upon them--they will not permit their men to do so.”

Nat turned his face toward the speaker curiously.

“You seem to be very anxious to make yourself believe that,” he said.

“If I did not believe it,” replied the other boy, “I should not be
here.”

A thought came to Nat like an inspiration. Lowering his voice to almost
a whisper, he said:

“I think I understand. You mean that if you thought they would fire
upon the colonists, you would not be upon the British side.”

“Yes,” returned the other.

“And that can only mean that you would be----” Nat paused without
completing the sentence.

[Illustration: _THEY CAME WITHIN SIGHT OF LEXINGTON_]

“Upon the side of the Provincial Congress,” returned the other without
the slightest hesitation.

As they marched along the wheel-cut road toward Lexington, Nat now and
then stole a look at the boy at his side. The pale dawn made things
visible in a dim sort of way, and the young mountaineer noted that the
other’s head was bent and that he seemed deep in bitter reflection.
There was something in his manner that drew Nat powerfully; but in
spite of this, he did not believe in him.

“He deceived me before,” thought Nat; “and he deceived others to whom
he owed every allegiance. How am I to know but that this is another
attempt to do the same thing.”

But he had not a great deal of time to revolve the situation, for,
still in the gray dawn, they came within sight of the town of Lexington.

Directly ahead was the village green, with the town meeting-house
facing it. Two thin lines of men, with rifles in their hands, were
gathered here, and as the British came in sight, a drum rolled
warningly from their midst. This sound Pitcairn instantly accepted as
a challenge; and at once the battalion halted.

“Load with ball--prime--fix bayonets!” came the curt commands. Then
forward went the six companies at double quick.

Nat saw Captain Parker of the militia, whom he knew by sight, and also
Sergeant William Monroe, walking up and down before the two lines of
minutemen; and from their gestures he knew that they were speaking
encouragingly.

Then, unconsciously, his eyes traveled beyond the militia; three
figures stole from the shadow cast by an inn near the meeting-house;
two of them bore a square, heavy looking box between them, and Nat gave
a start of wonder as he recognized them.

“Mr. Revere!” he cried, “and Ben Cooper!”

At the same moment he felt a hand touch his elbow and heard the boy at
his side say, quietly:

“But the third one--look at him.”

The last of the three was a boy; he held a rifle in his hand and
seemed to be guarding the two with the box. The face was turned with
eagerness toward the British, and as Nat’s eyes fell upon it, he
stopped, rooted to the spot with bewilderment.

For the boy was Ezra Prentiss!




CHAPTER XXII

TELLS HOW A MYSTERY WAS SOLVED AND HOW VICTORY CAME TO THE COLONIES


For an instant only did Nat Brewster stand still; the British
battalion, pushing forward, forced him on. But as the boy still
remained at his side, Nat clutched him by the arm and demanded:

“If that is Ezra Prentiss, who are you?”

The other looked at him squarely; even through the trouble that was
plain in his face, a flicker of amusement showed at Nat’s amazement.

“I am his twin brother, George,” he answered, quietly.

At this Nat was almost overwhelmed once more. Then his mind began
to work like lightning. He had been mistaken all along. It was this
brother--this twin, who looked so astonishingly like Ezra--who had
figured in all the incidents which he had accepted as proof of
treachery. One by one he began to go over them; but just then he was
aroused by Major Pitcairn calling sternly and at the top of his voice:

“Disperse, ye rebels! Lay down your arms!”

All else was instantly forgotten; the drama being enacted before his
eyes was more compelling than even his exciting thoughts. Once more the
command rang out:

“Why don’t ye lay down your arms, ye villains! Disperse, I tell you.”

But the two thin lines of alarm men held their ground. Then came the
report of a musket; Nat saw a British infantryman, his piece at his
shoulder, the smoke curling from its muzzle. Another and another shot
rang out from the battalion. Pitcairn, frantic with passion, turned
upon his men and shouted for them to cease firing. But it was too late.

A scattered volley came from the rifles of the minutemen; Pitcairn’s
horse went down with a crash, and the bullets drove above the massed
infantry, doing no other harm. Then the British began platoon firing,
in regular order, calm, methodical and effective. The patriots
responded from behind stone walls and other sheltered places which
they had now broken for; and as the leaden messengers began to whistle
about his ears, Nat heard a voice say:

“I think we had better get out of this. It is getting a little too warm
for comfort.”

It was Ezra’s brother who spoke; and as he saw Nat dart a quick glance
about at the soldiery, he added:

“They are too much engaged now to pay any attention to us. But we must
be quick.”

So with that the two darted out of the road and behind some buildings.
Like deer they raced along the streets, now filled with terrified women
and weeping children.

The firing abruptly ceased; and in another moment they noted a little
body of minutemen in retreat across a swamp to the north of the Common.
Upon a piece of rising ground the boys halted; they saw a full score
of dead and wounded lying upon the village green and the huzzas of the
British came faintly to their ears.

“You see,” said Nat. “I was right.”

“And I was wrong,” answered the other. “I was wrong from the beginning.
But,” with a sudden lift of the head, “they have not yet reached the
end. Chesbrook and some others deceived me shamefully up to this. But
at Concord I’ll try to prove to them that they can do so no longer.”

“Come, then,” said Nat, briefly. “Here is the road. In a little while
the British will be once more on the march.”

The two lads faced the way to Concord and went off at a long, swinging
lope. The pace was not a hard one, but it took them swiftly over the
ground. They had covered some two of the six miles when figures were
seen ahead in the uncertain early light of the April morning.

“Halt!” rang out a sharp voice. They saw the long barrel of a rifle
poked out from behind a tree at the wayside and cover them. But only
for a moment. Then there was a sharp exclamation, the muzzle was
lowered and a form leaped into the road.

“George!” cried a voice.

“Ezra!” replied Nat’s companion; and the next instant the two brothers
stood with clasped hands, looking into each other’s eyes. But after a
moment Ezra turned to Nat.

“Now,” said he, gravely. “You understand?”

Nat held out his hand.

“I beg your pardon,” said he, simply, as they shook hands. “But,” as
the thought came to him, “why did you not explain it all when you saw
that I suspected you?”

“If I had,” spoke Ezra, “is it a thing you would have believed?”

Nat reflected and then shook his head.

“It is more than likely not,” he replied.

As the brothers turned to each other once more and began to speak
low and earnestly together, Nat looked expectantly along the road to
where he had seen the figures ahead. They were now coming anxiously
toward him, and with delight he recognized Paul Revere and Ben Cooper.
Advancing to meet them, he gripped their hands warmly.

“Hot work back there,” said Revere, nodding his head in the direction
of Lexington.

“You succeeded in arousing the towns, I see,” spoke Nat.

“Thanks to your message to Dr. Warren--yes. But I almost made a failure
of it at the very start; for I had not gone far on the road through
Charlestown, when two British officers, who seemed to be patroling the
road, popped out upon me. But Deacon Larkin’s horse was a good one, and
I escaped, going through Medford and alarming almost every house on the
way to Lexington. At Clark’s, where you and I went together a few days
ago, I roused Mr. Hancock and Mr. Adams; and while they were getting
ready to leave, William Dawes, who was also sent out to spread the
alarm, arrived. He and I set off to Concord to continue our work, and
on the road met a young man named Prescott who agreed to give us his
help.

“A little farther along here,” and Revere pointed up the road, “the
other two stopped at a house to awake a man; but I rode on, and I had
scarcely gone two hundred yards when I ran suddenly into a nest of
British officers who clapped pistols to my head and bid me stop.”

“And you did?” laughed Ben Cooper.

“Can you doubt it?” asked Revere. “But let me go on. They took down
some bars and led me into a pasture; there they threatened me with
pistols once more and demanded to know who I was and upon what errand
I was riding.”

“But you did not tell them,” said Nat.

“I did,” declared Revere, proudly; “and in return I suffered great
abuse. But one of the officers seemed much of a gentleman, for he said
to me that none should do me harm. What I told them seemed to startle
them much; they started toward Lexington with me in the midst of them,
my horse being led and a man with a drawn pistol on each side of me. We
were nearing a meeting-house when we heard a gun fired and a bell begin
to ring.

“Then they took my horse and dashed away toward Cambridge, leaving me
standing in the road. I returned at once to Clark’s. Mr. Hancock and
Mr. Adams had not yet gone, and I warned them of what had occurred.
They departed at once from the house, I going with them several miles
on the way. Mr. Hancock then told me of a trunk filled with papers
which he had left at the village inn and asked me if I’d return for it.
After I had rested a bit, I did so and Ezra and Ben bore me company.”

“And where did you come upon them?” asked Nat.

“They were at Mr. Clark’s when I returned there, and were urging Mr.
Adams and his friend to flee.”

Nat turned to Ben, a question in his eye. But Ben laughed.

“I know what you’re going to ask me,” he said. “But I’ll not answer,
for I think,” with a nod of the head toward the Prentiss brothers,
who stood some little distance off, “there is a great deal for you to
hear, and as my little story is mixed up with it, you’d better hear all
together.”

Nat noticed that while Revere and Ben both kept casting marveling
glances at the twins, neither of them seemed greatly astonished.

“Is it possible that you have known of this twin brother all along?” he
demanded.

“Not I,” and Revere shook his head. “I heard of him for the first time
last night.”

“And I,” said Ben Cooper, “never knew of his existence until after I
left Boston last fall.”

They were all three looking attentively at the brothers when the
latter turned. Nat Brewster never saw a more delighted look upon the
face of any one than was upon that of Ezra Prentiss at that moment.

“He looks,” whispered the young mountaineer to Ben, “as though the most
pleasant thing in the world had happened to him.”

“You have no trouble telling one from the other, then,” smiled Ben.

“Not now. Together I can see a difference. But,” hesitatingly, “if they
were separated I might be puzzled once more.”

“That’s usually the case in the matter of twins,” said Ben.

“Ben,” said Ezra, as they came up, “this is my brother George--George,
this is Ben Cooper, and Mr. Revere.”

The three named shook hands; then Ezra continued, addressing Nat and
Revere:

“There is a great deal to explain to you and to others of my friends,
who have seen and heard things that--that they have not understood.
Ben has known something of it, but as you two have not, I’ll begin at
the beginning; and if there are any places where the light does not
strike, don’t hesitate to speak of it.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Paul Revere. “But there is a chest of
important papers in the bushes some little distance up the road, that
needs careful carrying to Concord. And as the British may happen along
at any time now we’d better be off with it.”

“You are right,” said Ezra, “and the story will keep until we get under
way.”

The five hastened forward; the chest was dragged from its hiding-place;
Nat and Revere each seized a handle and off they set, trudging
manfully. They had gone but a little distance when Nat said to Ezra:

“Now for it; I’m so full of curiosity that I can wait no longer.”

“You see,” began Ezra, “George has been brought up by our grandfather,
who is a Tory. All his friends have been king’s men and he has been
taught to believe in British rule. As for myself, I have always been a
strong Whig like my father--so strong a one,” and he colored a little,
“that I never spoke of my brother, fearing that some one would learn of
his way of thought.”

“I was always as strong an American as you, Ezra,” said George,
smiling. “Our methods were different, that’s all.”

“Perhaps so,” answered Ezra. “But, you know, it is how we apply our
beliefs that counts.” Addressing himself to the others, he went on:
“When the trouble commenced, George began acting with our enemies. I
pleaded with him, but he would not listen. He said I had been led away
by demagogues--for such he had been taught to believe Mr. Adams and Dr.
Warren. When I set out for Philadelphia I learned that he had formed
the plan to take John and Samuel Adams on the road and that he was
ahead of me.”

“And you left your party as it neared the city,” said Nat,
understanding, “that you might overtake him.”

“Exactly,” said Ezra, eagerly.

And then he went on to account for his absence from the City Tavern at
Philadelphia on the night that Ben first called to see him, in the same
way. George had laughingly told him that Washington and Henry would
soon be prisoners, and not daring to inform any one of the facts for
fear and shame of what might befall his brother, Ezra had set about to
follow him and thwart the plan alone.

Nat laughed when Ezra came to their conversation upon the pavement
before the City Tavern, in Philadelphia.

“And to think that you were only trying to tell me that Washington
and his friends would probably remember my work to my advantage and
that the Tories would do the reverse,” said he. “I understood it as a
threat. When you referred to it afterward on the road to Bristol you
meant, I see now, to show that you were grateful to me. But do you
know, I was convinced just the other way about.”

The boy that the Porcupine had seen leave the Cooper place in the night
and make his way toward Cliveden had, of course, been Ezra, still
in search of his brother; but the one whom he saw in consultation
with Mr. Chew and Mr. Dimisdale had been George. The nervousness of
Ezra upon the road to Bristol was because he feared just what Nat’s
keen eyes showed to exist--an ambush. He had begged Revere to take
an unfrequented road, thinking to escape one; but the Tories had
out-thought him.

“I knew from your cold manner,” said Ezra to Nat, “that you believed
me guilty of treachery; but I could not explain it to you, as you can
now see. But Mr. Adams knew all, for I had told him everything; and
when Dr. Warren’s letter reached Philadelphia he was, of course, not
surprised. However, we thought it best to keep the matter strictly to
ourselves. I told Ben a part, as I have said, that he might be enabled
to work with me intelligently when we returned to Boston the second
time.”

“We had formed a compact,” said Ben, laughing and turning to George,
who had been listening soberly, only now and then adding a few words
to the story, “to save you from the British. And we’ve been quietly on
your trail ever since we came north.”

“I felt that some one was,” returned George. Then he reached out and
put his hand upon Ezra’s shoulder. “So all the things that I have done
have fallen upon you!” he said with feeling. “Forgive me, Ezra, if you
can; and believe me that the possibility of such a thing never entered
my mind until this morning.”

For answer, Ezra patted him upon the back encouragingly.

“Never mind that,” said he. “It’s all over now.”

“Yes,” returned George, firmly; “it’s all over; and anything I do
in the future, Ezra, even so warm a patriot as yourself will not be
ashamed of.”

Now and then they were overtaken by horsemen, or wagons containing
people, heading for Concord; and Nat smiled to see that all bore rifles
and that their faces wore looks of determination.

“There were only a few of us at Lexington,” cried a young farmer as he
tore by upon a plough horse, “but there will be a different story to
tell farther on.”

Now and then the strong box changed hands; but the five never stopped
for anything else, tramping steadily on until they sighted the town.

Concord at that time was a fair-sized place and contained a church, a
jail and a court-house. There were two spans across the river, one
called the Old South and the other the Old North Bridge. The parade
ground was near the meeting-house, and upon it were companies of
minutemen, their ranks constantly swelling, and even now being put
through their routine by careful officers. Anxious inquiry on the part
of Revere told them that the last of the stores had been carted away to
safe hiding-places hours before; and also that the militia at Lincoln
was already upon the ground.

“Now,” said Nat to Ben Cooper, after Mr. Hancock’s property had been
placed in security, “let us stand close together in whatever befalls.
Because if you get away from me again, of course you’ll not take the
trouble to hunt me up.”

The latter part of this speech was uttered in a jesting tone, but for
all that Ben saw that his cousin more than half meant it.

“You know, Nat,” said Ben, “it was not altogether my fault that I did
not find you at once upon my return to these parts. But you had left
the ‘Dragon’ and I did not care to make inquiries of Dr. Warren or Mr.
Revere because--well, because I knew that Ezra would rather I should
not.”

At Revere’s solicitation, rifles were given to Ben, George, Nat and
himself, also powder and ball; then they hurried out to join the
patriot band upon the square. A party of the Lincoln minutemen had gone
forward on the Lexington road to meet the British, but they now came
pouring back into the town.

“The ministerial troops are only about two miles away,” announced the
Lincoln captain, William Smith, “and they are more than treble the
number of all that we can muster!”

With that the entire American force fell back to an eminence behind the
town and formed in two battalions. Colonel Barrett, who had worked all
the night superintending the removal of the stores, joined them here
and at once placed himself in touch with the situation.

“I am none too soon,” remarked this officer, pointing with his hanger
down the Lexington road. “Here they are, and marching as though they
meant to finish us without delay.”

Sure enough the British had come in sight. The early sunshine struck
their burnished arms and they glittered bravely in response; the red
coats, white cross belts and high head pieces added to the gallant
appearance of the compact column. Hotheads among the Americans were for
at once offering battle. But the wise Colonel Barrett shook his head.

“Just now,” said he, “they are too strong for us. Men are flocking in
from all points of the compass; in a short time we’ll be able to make a
stand, but not yet.”

So he ordered a retreat across the North Bridge to another eminence
which was about a mile from the center of the town.

The British advanced into Concord, and at once the North Bridge was
secured by two hundred men. Six companies were sent to destroy the
magazines of stores, but, for the most part, found them empty. In
the center of the town they seized and broke open some threescore of
barrels of flour, knocked off the trunnions of three cannons, burnt
some wheels, newly made for gun carriages, and also a few barrels of
wooden trenchers and spoons.

While this was going forward, the British all the while conducting
themselves after the fashion of people highly amused, the alarm men
were flocking to the hill outside. They came from Carlisle, from
Chelmsford, from Westford, Littleton and Acton. They were lined up in
rough order to the number of almost five hundred when several pillars
of black smoke began to mount from Concord, and a cry of rage at once
arose from the colonial force.

“They are burning the town!” was the cry.

Colonel Barrett, who had been calmly studying the situation, now
decided to act.

“The guard at the North Bridge must be dislodged,” said he curtly. “Who
will volunteer?”

A mighty shout went up. With a face shining with pleasure, the leader
at once told off the companies he desired for the service. Major
John Buttrick was placed in command, and to the number of some three
hundred, the party started down the hill in double file and with
trailed arms.

“You are required to cross the North Bridge,” were the commander’s last
words to Major Buttrick; “but do not fire upon the king’s troops unless
they fire upon you.”

Nat, Ben Cooper, Ezra and his brother were all with the party. Nat and
Ezra marched shoulder to shoulder and as they neared the river, the
latter said in a low tone:

“I suppose this is a more or less dangerous undertaking, but do you
know, I have never been so glad to do anything in my life.”

“We are all glad to get a chance to back up our words, I suppose,”
answered Nat.

“It’s not that altogether,” said Ezra.

And Nat saw the look which the speaker gave the unconscious George, who
was trudging determinedly forward, his cartridge box pulled round ready
to his hand.

“He’s going to get a chance to prove that he is a patriot at heart like
the rest of us,” said Ezra. “And,” contentedly, “I have no fear but
that he will.”

“Nor I,” said Nat, assuringly.

The two hundred British were upon the west side of the river; but upon
seeing the provincials approach, they retired to the east side and
formed for a fight; also a detachment was sent to tear up the planks of
the bridge.

Seeing that this must be prevented, Major Buttrick called upon them to
stop, but as they paid no heed, he said sharply to his command:

“Forward, lads, at the quick!”

The colonists increased their pace. Instantly a rattle of musketry came
from the king’s men. A fifer in the Acton company dropped with a bullet
through him; almost immediately Captain Davis and a private of the
same company were killed. Seeing the deadly effect of the volley, the
American leader cried:

“Fire, fellow soldiers, fire!”

The American riflemen at once obeyed; as the leaden couriers began to
whistle about them the British fell into great confusion and retreated
back upon their main body. With defiant shouts, part of the colonists
crossed the bridge and took up a position on a hill commanding the main
road; the others, bearing their dead, returned to their starting point,
and all rested upon their arms watching the redcoats like hawks.

By this time it was well upon noon, and while Concord was holding the
column in check, the news of the hostile march of the king’s troops
was spreading rapidly through all sections round about, and hundreds of
men were hastening toward the scene of action. All the roads that led
to Concord were thick with them; they carried the firelock that perhaps
had fought the Indian and the drum that beat defiance to the French at
Louisburg. And they were led by men who had served with Wolfe at Quebec
and suffered the rigors of the seven years’ war.

At noon, Lieutenant-Colonel Smith concluded that nothing further was to
be gained by an advance; so he gave the word that the column fall back
toward Lexington and Boston. His left was covered by a strong flank
guard that kept the height that borders the Lexington road; his right
was protected by a stream of water. They had not gone very far when
they began to understand how thoroughly the country had been aroused.
It seemed as though men dropped from the very clouds. From behind every
tree, every stump, every rock, a rifle spat its anger at them.

Near Hardy’s Hill, the Sudbury company attacked the British flank
guard; there was a fierce fight on the old road north of the
schoolhouse. Here the way was lined with woods upon both sides and the
minutemen swarmed upon them from this shelter like gnats. A guard on
the left flank was ordered out in desperation; but it proved only a
fairer mark to shoot at, and was instantly ordered back.

This woody defile stretched away for three or four miles, and while in
it the British suffered terribly.

“From their look,” said Nat Brewster, reloading his piece and wiping
the sweat from his face, “they have ceased to regard their expedition
as a sort of excursion.”

Ezra Prentiss, to whom these words were addressed, raised his rifle to
his shoulder and its report was added to the din.

“And, I think,” said he coolly, as he thrust his hand into his pocket
for another cartridge, “that they will never start upon such another
one again.”

It was at this point that Woburn added one hundred and eighty men to
the little provincial army; at Lincoln, the Lexington company again
appeared upon the field.

The British carried the greater part of their wounded, but the dead
were left in the road behind them. At Lexington, Lieutenant-Colonel
Smith was shot in the leg. Here, also, the British found that their
ammunition was fast failing; the men were growing so fatigued as to be
almost unfit for service; confusion began to grow among them and their
officers were compelled at times to threaten them with drawn pistols,
to keep them in order.

Under the murderous fire sustained by the Americans the column was at
last halted and formed into a hollow square to await the reinforcement
which Colonel Smith had sent for at daylight. It was here that Lord
Percy, at the head of three regiments of infantry, two divisions of
marines and carrying two field-pieces came upon them, harassed, worn
and almost upon the point of surrender. Percy himself had had no
easy time in advancing to the rescue. He had found the planks of the
Cambridge bridge taken up to delay his crossing the river; then the
patriots had cut off his provision train and left his men to the hunger
of the march.

At once the field-pieces began to play upon the colonists; houses and
other buildings were fired wantonly in Lexington, others upon the route
of the retreat, now resumed, were broken into and plundered.

Dr. Warren had joined the patriots just before the arrival of Percy;
and in the midst of the party that came with him the boys were
delighted to find the Porcupine, perched upon a tall horse and with a
huge pistol in his belt. At sight of them he grinned and smoothed back
his stiff crest of hair.

“Had quite a time getting here,” said he, “but it’s worth all the
trouble. I’ve always wished I’d have a chance to get in the first
fight, and I hope it’s come true!”

“You’re here in time,” said Nat, with a laugh. “The troops that have
just come up look fresh and full of spirit, so it is not all over yet.”

But though Lord Percy had almost two thousand men in all, he showed no
disposition to do anything but get safely back to Boston. Dr. Warren
rallied the patriots, who had been shaken by the cannon, and they
pressed relentlessly after the invaders.

“Keep up a brave heart,” said Warren to the riflemen. “They began it;
but see to it, lads, that we end it.”

Through West Cambridge they fought. Again the British ammunition ran
short, and the field-pieces became silent. At Charlestown the main body
of the patriots hung upon their rear and another force was marching
upon them from Roxbury, Dorchester and Milton.

It was sundown when the harassed column staggered down the old
Cambridge road to Charlestown Neck, fighting every step of the way,
but glad to find protection at last under the guns of their ships of
war. Out of gunshot, the provincials halted; but there they hung like
a cloud, ominous and dark in the twilight. Next day the shattered
battalions crossed into the city; and at once the Americans tightened
their line; at once the work began of making the militia and the
minutemen a compact fighting machine of the sort whose operations would
spell victory.

It was the next morning that the five boys stood upon the hill and
watched the sun come up over the city.

“Well,” said Nat, “we’ve got them walled up in Boston.”

“Yes,” replied Ezra Prentiss, as his sober gaze dwelt upon the still
slumbering town. “And it will not be a great while before we drive them
ever from there.”

And the events of the days to follow proved him to be a true prophet.


THE END




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:


  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Superscripted letters are preceded by a carat character: M^cIntyre.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.