“GET OUT OF THE WAY,
MY HEARTY”

The Young
Continentals
at Trenton

by
John T. McIntyre
Author of
“The Young Continentals at Lexington”
“The Young Continentals at Bunker Hill”

Illustrated by Ralph L. Boyer.

The Penn Publishing
Company Philadelphia
MCMXI

COPYRIGHT
1911 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Introduction

“The Young Continentals” series deals with the experiences of four boys in the American Revolution. One of them, Nat Brewster, is from the hills about Wyoming, Ben Cooper is from Philadelphia, while the Prentiss twin brothers come from Boston.

In the first book of the series, “The Young Continentals at Lexington,” Nat Brewster played the leading part—a part full of daring and enterprise. In the second book, “The Young Continentals at Bunker Hill,” Ezra Prentiss replaced Nat as the principal figure, while in the present volume, George Prentiss steps into the foreground.

The first book dealt with the revolution from the stirring of the wrath of the colonies to the first blows struck at Lexington and Concord Bridge. The second began where the first ended, and related the events that took place during the siege of Boston, including the fight on Breed’s Hill and ended with the evacuation of the city by the British.

The present, or third, takes up the thread of the great struggle where the second laid it down; it deals with the preparation for defending New York City, describes the battle of Long Island, the crossing of the Delaware and the capture of the Hessians at Trenton.

The fourth book, “The Young Continentals at Monmouth,” takes in the encounters around Philadelphia, including the battle of Germantown, and ends with Washington’s brilliant success at Monmouth. Ben Cooper fills the eye in this volume; and during the course of the story appears the celebrated Molly Pitcher, the girl who served a gun at Monmouth and whom Washington afterward made a sergeant on the field of battle. This volume is now in preparation.

Contents

I. | Shows How Merchant Dana Boarded the “Nancy Breen” and What Came of It | 9
II. | Shows the Reception George Prentiss Met With in New York Town | 34
III. | Tells How a Bully Entered the “King’s Arms” | 52
IV. | Tells How the Bully Changed His Mind, and How George Was Sent for in Haste | 64
V. | In Which General Putnam Has His Say | 75
VI. | Explains How George Prentiss Becomes a Guest at the “Wheat Sheaf” | 82
VII. | Tells How Three People Made a Dash for Freedom | 111
VIII. | Tells How Peggy Gave a Warning | 122
IX. | In Which George Prentiss Receives an Invitation | 129
X. | Shows How Washington Came to New York | 138
XI. | In Which George Prentiss Makes a Sudden Resolution | 152
XII. | Tells How Two People Peered Through the Window of the Old Mill | 163
XIII. | In Which Peggy Camp Shows Her Courage | 171
XIV. | Shows How the British Ships Came Into the Bay | 181
XV. | Tells How George Visited the House in Crown Street | 190
XVI. | Peggy Speaks Her Mind | 204
XVII. | Shows What Happened in the Tapestried Chamber | 217
XVIII. | In Which is Fought the Battle of Long Island | 229
XIX. | Describes How George and His Friend Start Upon a Dangerous Mission | 255
XX. | Tells of Two Patriots in Trenton | 274
XXI. | How Colonel Rahl Proposed Giving a Christmas Concert | 283
XXII. | Tells How a Fire Was Kindled on a Hillside | 301
XXIII. | Shows How the Concert Was Interrupted | 317

Illustrations

| PAGE
“Get Out of the Way, My Hearty” | Frontispiece
General Putnam Glanced Up | 47
“I Walked Into a Nest of King’s Men” | 89
Lord Sterling Broke the Seal | 156
“Alexander Hamilton,” He Replied | 184
The Hand Paused | 221
“It’s the Army of Washington” | 315

The Young Continentals at Trenton

CHAPTER I
SHOWS HOW MERCHANT DANA BOARDED THE
“NANCY BREEN” AND WHAT CAME OF IT

A dry, weazened little man with a halt in his step passed “The Brigantine” inn which faced the East River at the foot of Broad Street; and as he did so, he peered in at the windows and doors, for it was a fine spring morning and they stood wide. “The Brigantine” was a place for captains and mates and merchants to congregate; and all about it were warehouses, shipping offices and places for the sale of maritime stores.

Apparently what the weazened little man sought was not visible in or about the tavern, for he went halting across the roadway and out upon the wharf, peering inquisitively here and there through a pair of huge, horn-rimmed glasses.

A good-sized shallop was moored to the wharf. She had come down the Sound during the night; a lean looking lad with a vacant grin upon his face was furling her clumsy lugs, and in the waist the skipper was coiling a line with expert neatness.

The dry little man limped to the string-piece; readjusting his glasses, he inquired in a high thin voice which squeaked when he sought to raise it:

“Just in to-day, captain?”

“An hour ago,” replied the skipper.

The little man stepped upon the rail and then with great care reached the deck. Approaching the skipper, he proceeded with marked anxiety and some craft:

“I suppose you hail from Newport?”

“New London,” replied the shallop’s master.

The anxiety of the little man now became tinged with eagerness.

“You did not bring a passenger, I know,” said he.

“Wrong, master,” returned the sailor. “I did, and there he sits, as natural as you please.”

A bronzed, well-made youth was leaning over the craft’s stern, gazing out over the waters of the bay to where several black hulled frigates swung frowningly at anchor; his eyes seemed to soberly measure the flaunt of their colors, and the bravado of their staring ports.

At once the weazened little man was at his side.

“Good-morning, young gentleman,” said he, with a squeak. “It is a beautiful day, is it not?”

The young man turned and surveyed the newcomer.

“Yes,” he returned, “it is a fine day enough.”

“You came down from New London, I understand,” questioned the dry little man. The youth nodded rather absently. However, the other rubbed his hands with quite a degree of briskness and seemed greatly pleased. “And,” said he, positively, “you were required to deliver—ah—something to—ah—some one?”

The youth was alert enough now; he examined the little man with inquiring eyes.

“Quite so,” he replied.

The hand rubbing now indicated vast relief; but in a moment it ceased, and an expression of disquiet came into the wrinkled, high-featured face.

“Of course,” spoke the little man, eagerly, “this vessel is the ‘Nancy Breen’?”

“It is,” answered the other.

The disquiet instantly departed; the squeak in the voice was full and content as the newcomer said:

“I had really forgotten to inquire; and it was a rather important question, too. But no matter.” Here the voice lowered itself into a pitch of confidence. “I was sent to give you a few instructions.”

“From headquarters?”

“Yes. You are not to make yourself known. I was to impress that upon you fully. Neither are you to call at any one’s lodgings.”

The young man seemed puzzled.

“That has rather an odd sound,” said he. “Where am I to transact my business?”

“There are many places where it may be done without attracting attention. But the best of these perhaps is the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’ an inn just above the city.”

“I don’t quite understand it,” said the other. “Will you be kind enough to explain why all this secrecy is necessary?”

“Secrecy,” and the weazened little man made a wide gesture, “is never a bad thing. And while some of the reasons for this exercise of it are most obvious, others are as unknown to myself as to you. I am not a person of sufficient consequence to warrant my being told any but the outside facts. If you desire to learn more, you’d do well to inquire of those who are better informed.” He seemed about to take his departure at this, but paused. “Shall we say the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’ then, to-morrow night at nine?”

“If it is necessary,” said the young man.

“Believe me, it is necessary, or I should not have been sent to you.”

The little man walked haltingly to the rail, climbed upon it and then upon the wharf.

However, he had not gone a dozen yards when he was halted. A stout, choleric old gentleman came stamping along; he had an oaken staff in his hand, and its tip rang angrily upon the stones.

“Ah, Mr. Dana,” cried he, “well met.” He paused before the dry little man and seemed to bristle with indignation. “I have been given to understand, sir, that the ‘Sea Gull’ is not permitted to sail.”

“I am sorry to say, Mr. Camp,” replied the other earnestly, “that your information is quite correct.”

At the mention of the name of Camp, the youth on board the “Nancy Breen” became more attentive; indeed, the expression upon his face seemed one of recognition.

“Do they mean to ruin us between them?” demanded the stout old gentleman. “Do they insist upon making beggars of us?”

He flourished the oaken staff and his face grew redder still.

“I will face these miscreants,” declared he. “I will have an understanding. Four of our ships have been held up in a month. Four in one month, do you understand? But still you do nothing!”

“If you will but listen to reason,” Mr. Dana said, but the angry old gentleman took him up in an instant.

“Reason!” cried he. “Reason! Was there ever a time, Mr. Dana, that I refused to harken to it? Answer me, sir! Specify an instance when I turned away from even common sense. I defy you to do it, sir; I defy you!”

“Now, now, Mr. Camp, don’t be vexed. I did not mean to insinuate that you were not open to reason. Nothing of the sort, dear sir, believe me. I merely desired that you listen to my remarks on the situation.”

The other planted the point of his staff firmly upon the stones.

“I have great respect for your capabilities, Mr. Dana,” said he. “No man more so. But the thing is beyond explanation. The vocabulary of Dr. Johnson himself would throw no light upon it.” He lifted the staff and pointed across the peaks of the buildings to where the British flag flew from a pole in the fort. “Do you see that? It should be an emblem of authority—the symbol of law. But it’s not! It should mark the power of the English nation—of English civilization. But it does not. Authority, law, the British nation, and its civilization as well, are a jest, Mr. Dana. Singly and together they are a jest for every low fellow in the town.”

“But,” expostulated the other, “can you not see that it will not last? It is only a momentary turbulence. It will pass. The good folks will come to their senses by and by.”

“That may be true enough,” said the old gentleman. “Indeed, I have no doubt but that it is, for the sight of bare bayonets in the hands of resolute fellows will make them run fast enough, I warrant you. But, nevertheless, that does not alter the present condition. It does not remove the fact that an English governor is penned up in Fort George, that English troops with muskets, cannon and other equipment sit idly by and permit His Majesty’s town to be overrun by rebels.”

“When Tryon returns he will make an end of it. He is even now on the sea, so I have heard. The situation needs only a resolved man,” and the little gentleman waved a hand assuringly.

But the other was not in the least quieted by this view.

“The people of New York,” said he, bitterly, “would, from what I have seen of them, dare do anything against the peace, if it be agreed with their rebellious fancies. The king’s desires are not enough for them. They must have representatives in Parliament, forsooth! They must not be taxed without their own consent! Nothing must be done in the matter of the colonies that they don’t, in their pride, consider fit and proper.” Mr. Camp laughed scornfully. “Oh, no, no, Mr. Dana, you are a good man of business and far-sighted enough in trade; but you are blind to what is going on around you.”

This conversation was plainly heard by those on board the “Nancy Breen.” The skipper winked at the bronzed young man.

“The old gentleman seems to fancy a spell of bad weather,” said he.

“And he doesn’t seem the sort to strip and run before a gale,” returned the young passenger. “Do you know him?”

“By reputation only, Master Prentiss. He’s a merchant in the West India trade, now retired from active service. He’s said to be as rich as the king himself; anyway, he lives somewhere in the Jerseys in a fine manor house and comes to New York but seldom.”

“For a retired merchant,” commented George Prentiss, “he takes an uncommon interest in shipping.”

“Oh, as for that, he’s retired only from the active work of it. He still has his moneys in the trade, I’m told. The gentleman who just now boarded us is his partner. But,” and the skipper looked at George inquiringly, “of course you knew that.”

But George shook his head.

“Merchant Camp I know something of,” said he, “but Mr. Dana I never laid eyes upon before.”

Lexington had been fought and the sneering British column driven back upon Boston. Then that city had been besieged by an army of farmers and mechanics; and Breed’s Hill had witnessed its desperate defeat, though we commonly now speak of the fight as the battle of Bunker Hill. And, finally, the British had run from Boston to their ships under the pitiless cannonading of Washington’s batteries.

New York was trembling and expectant. Any day might witness the arrival of a British fleet; and in the meantime the colonists were preparing its defenses. George Prentiss was thinking of these things, his eyes once more fixed upon the frigates afar off. The skipper having coiled the line to his satisfaction came toward him.

“When you first came aboard me at New London,” he said, “I judged by the trim of your yards that you were from the army up Boston way.”

George nodded, and the skipper, twisting a strand of rope between his tarry fingers, proceeded:

“I’ve seen a good many of them of late, and have come to know them at sight.” He bent nearer to his passenger. “Maybe you’ve come to New York on special business.”

“Perhaps,” said George.

“And maybe,” suggested the shallop’s master, “you have particular documents stowed away under hatches.” George did not reply to this, and the sailor proceeded: “Don’t think me prying, Master Prentiss, for I’m not. I don’t poke about meddling in other people’s affairs. But I couldn’t help hearing most of what old Merchant Dana said to you a few moments ago; and if you’ll take my word for it, you’ll have nothing to do with his instructions.”

George looked into the candid face of the speaker inquiringly.

“He’s not of the sort I take you to be,” explained the sailor. “Old Camp there,” pointing to the stout old gentleman with the oaken staff, “is said to be the most rabid Tory in all New York. But I’ve heard that questioned. Merchant Dana is a milder mannered man, to be sure; but those that know claim he’s more to be feared than his partner.”

George looked toward the two merchants, who were now pacing the wharf. There was no abatement in old Camp’s anger; and Mr. Dana, halting along beside him, still strove to calm him.

“My dear sir,” stated the latter with confidence, “we shall have but a short time to wait. It can’t be otherwise. When the ships of the line and the troopers, bearing His Majesty’s army, left Boston, where do you suppose they were headed?”

Mr. Camp sniffed and snorted in great disdain.

“What does it matter,” asked he, “where they were headed? Apparently they are of no great consequence, or they would have been able to hold Boston. And more than that, sir. If they had been worth the rations fed them by King George, they would have gone out and soundly beaten the rabble that opposed them as well.”

But Mr. Dana patiently evaded this.

“Without a doubt they are coming to New York,” declared he, hopefully. “Without a doubt, Mr. Camp. We shall then see what we shall see.”

“Ay,” said the indignant gentleman, “so we shall. But I expect little. Lord Howe may be a very excellent officer, but he has yet to prove it upon this side of the world. It seems that he is much of Colden’s kidney. He’d rather parley than act. To show these fellows who’s master needs a strong hand—not a long tongue.”

“But, my dear sir——” began Mr. Dana, but the other waved his words away with a sweep of the heavy staff.

“There is that rascally renegade whom Washington sent here,” he exclaimed. “I refer to Charles Lee. Though a greater villain never lived, still he had a grasp of matters that our own leaders might pattern by. Did he parley and hesitate when he arrived? He did not, I warrant you! He set to work in spite of all opposition. The king’s men threatened him; the soldiery made shift to show their teeth and the shipping in the bay cleared their decks. But without stopping to ask their leave, he seized upon the persons of his most outspoken opponents; then he stared the troops out of countenance and defied the frigates. Finally he stripped the British batteries of their guns, began to recruit an army, and build forts and redoubts to guard all the approaches to the city. While this man, Mr. Dana,” and the staff rang upon the stones, “has my unqualified disapproval, I cannot refuse him my admiration. He understands his duty and he does it.”

“Well, thank goodness, he’s been ordered from the city by his chiefs,” ejaculated Mr. Dana, fervently. “One could scarcely count upon one’s liberty while he was here.”

“This hectoring fellow, Putnam, who is now in command, as he calls it, is little milder in his arrestings and confiscatings,” complained Camp. “And I understand that the arch-rebel himself is even now upon his way here. When he arrives, I suppose there’ll be scarce a tree or pole in the town that’ll not have the body of some poor Loyalist gentleman dangling from it.”

“Do you actually believe that Washington will have the effrontery to show himself here, with the king’s fleet and an army due at any time?”

His companion snapped his fingers. “Mr. Washington,” declared he, “is to all appearances a man of enterprise. To be sure he’ll come here, and he’ll bring his rabble of raw countrymen with him to overawe us.”

During the period in which he had engaged his friend and business partner as above, the angry manner of Mr. Camp and his excited gestures had not failed to attract attention. Workmen, carters and merchants’ clerks had gathered into little groups; seamen upon the decks of vessels near by grinned and pointed him out to their mates. Few could hear his words; but his anger was so demonstrative, his gestures so eloquent that none missed his meaning. A lot of rough-looking fellows were lounging at the end of the wharf upon an upturned yawl; they had the appearance of deep-water sailors, wore knives in their belts and possessed an altogether ugly look.

The words of the old gentleman were perfectly audible to these men, as they were no great distance from him, and their frowning brows and muttered remarks showed that they did not take the matter as good-humoredly as those upon the shallop.

Mr. Dana grasped at his companion’s disparaging reference to Washington’s army.

“Raw countrymen,” said he, “describes them exactly. And do you suppose that such an array can hope to stand before the trained regiments of England?”

“Not if the trained regiments of England are properly directed. But I have little expectation that they will be. And in the meantime, our business—everybody’s business—is at a standstill. It is an outrage—a scandal! The leaders of this shameful revolt should be whipped at the cart’s tail!”

As he spoke these words, the pair in their pacing had arrived at a point very near to the group of seamen before mentioned. One of these, a hulking fellow, with a bare, bull throat and a particularly unprepossessing face, lifted himself from his lounging posture against the yawl.

“Don’t speak so sharp, Master Camp,” said he. “There are those here by whom your words are not favored overmuch.”

The old gentleman turned upon him wrathfully.

“None of your impudence, sailor!” cried he. “Speak when you are spoken to.”

The seaman sneered. “You are very high and mighty, Master Camp, I know,” said he. “But you and your like will change your manners before long.”

The short temper of the stout old Tory flared forth. “Before matters are done with,” exclaimed he, “I’ll see such as you soundly cudgeled. I knew what would come of flying in the face of the king and resisting his just tax. One meets with impudence at every turn; an upholder of law and decency is insulted by every low fellow who chooses to turn his tongue upon him.”

Here the cautious Mr. Dana took his friend by the arm and tried to draw him away. But the wrathful old Loyalist shook him off, and swept into a bitter tirade in which he reproached and abused all who opposed the king’s government. His furious manner and high-pitched voice drew a highly entertained crowd; and through this came a young girl.

“Oh, my dear Miss Peggy,” squeaked Mr. Dana, greatly relieved. “I am delighted that you have come.”

“What is it?” asked she, quietly.

“He has gotten upon politics again, and I can’t control him.”

Peggy listened for a moment to the highly colored language of the old Tory. Mr. Dana, with a nervous glance about, proceeded in a lowered tone:

“Such sentiments as his are not altogether popular in this part of the town. Indeed, I don’t know but what they are actually dangerous.”

George Prentiss was watching the girl. There was a proud, perhaps even a scornful lift to her chin; and now, when she, with much composure, approached the furious old king’s man, his interest increased.

“Uncle,” she said. Instantly the torrent of heated words stopped and he turned to her. “Please come away. You will make yourself ill.”

“In a moment, my dear,” returned Merchant Camp, “in just a moment. First,” facing the throng, “I must try and bring these people back to a sense of their duty. I must endeavor, as an honest man, to make them see the scandal of their attempts to undermine the power of a kind sovereign.”

“Kind,” cried a voice. “Kind, did you say, Master Camp?—and he hiring Hessians and Brunswickers to cross the seas and murder us?”

“And why should he not?” the old Tory demanded. “Why should he not? Is it not given to him to chastise his rebellious rascals in whatever manner he will? Who are you—what are you that you should oppose the king’s desires, whatever they may be? A pack of scurvy villains, most of you. A parcel of rogues that should be ironed in the hold of one of yonder frigates. If I had the will of you, I’d——”

But here he was interrupted by the bull throated seaman, who had by this time risen to his feet.

“Belay, master,” said he. “The time has gone by when such as you can hector us as you please. It would be better for you if you kept your tongue between your teeth, old gentleman,” added the sailor. “As the matter rests, if you were a younger man, I’d try something else on you beside words.”

“What, you rascal!” sputtered the king’s man, wrathfully, “would you threaten me?”

He lifted his staff and made a quavering blow at the other; the girl cried out sharply, as the seaman tore the weapon from the old man’s hands.

“You would, would you, you old walrus,” cried the brawny tar. And with that he lifted his brawny fist. Once more the girl cried out. She sprang between the two.

“For shame!” she cried.

But the brute in the seaman was aroused; with a rough push he forced her aside; then he took a menacing step toward the old man, his hand lifted once more.

This time he found himself face to face with George Prentiss, who had leaped from the deck of the shallop at the girl’s first cry.

“What, sailor,” cried the young man, placing one hand against the tar’s broad chest, “a fair and fit lad like yourself is surely not going to grapple with an old man.”

“That he’s an old un is not my fault,” growled the other; “so get out of the way, my hearty, before I hurt you.”

But young Prentiss laughed.

“As for that,” he said, “you may be able. But then again, you may not.” Then over his shoulder he spoke swiftly to Mr. Dana, “Take him away—and the young lady, too.”

The seaman’s hard face had darkened. “So, my young ship-jack,” said he, “you’ve got your doubts, have you? You don’t think, then,” with a sneer, “that you’re as much too young as the other is too old?”

“Not in the least,” said George, still good humoredly. “But nevertheless, sailor, we’ll try to pass it all by. No harm has been done any one; so we’ll say no more about it.”

“He’s trying to get the weather gauge of you, Ben,” called one of the seamen. “Belay the jaw-tackle and give him your starboard gun.”

“Ay, ay,” chorused the others, while the assemblage voiced their approval. “Rake him, mate.”

But the tar did not require encouragement; he shoved his face within an inch or two of the youth’s and said:

“King’s men are not liked, my hearty, in New York port, no matter if they be old or young.” And with that he made a short, wicked chop at the young fellow’s head. But George evaded it like a flash, and both his fists began to drub at the tar’s stomach and ribs. Then as the man swung once more for his head, the youth leaped out of distance; but like a flash he closed in with a driving hit to the body, followed by a perfect fusillade of shorter punches. Again he drew back; the tar, breathless and gasping, stood still and gazed at him.

“You’re well braced and bolted, sailor,” said George, still smilingly. “I’ve seen them strike under less than that.”

“Well, it’ll not be me, my lad,” gasped Ben Buntline. “You’re a good hand, but look to yourself.”

And with that he rushed in, his thick arms swinging like flails. But George stepped briskly to and fro; none of the blows seemed to come within a foot of him; and so ludicrous did the seaman’s attempts to strike him become that the gathering began to hoot and cheer. This not only angered the man himself, but also his mates. They arose at once; several drew their knives, while one exclaimed:

“What, you land sharks, will you make game of us!”

One or two rushed to the assistance of their friends; and seeing this, the smile vanished from George’s face; he began striking with a speed and power that soon brought his antagonist to his knees. But just then there came the tramp of hoofs upon the stones of the wharf, and the voice of Mr. Dana cried thinly:

“It’s Herbert! This way, lieutenant, this way!”

The crowd scattered; the seamen quickly grasped the situation, for they picked up their dazed comrade and bustled him away just as a troop of mounted militia rode up.

The officer at the head of the party was a heavy-browed, sullen looking young man in a lieutenant’s dress. As none now remained of the throng save George, this person rode up to him and said curtly:

“Well, sir, and is General Putnam’s plain order against rioting not enough for you? Do you require to be personally warned?”

George Prentiss looked quietly into the frowning face.

“Perhaps,” said he, “it would be as well for you to inform yourself as to what has taken place.”

The lieutenant was about to make an ugly rejoinder, but just then the girl came forward.

“Brother,” she said, and it seemed to George that the proud lift of her chin was more accentuated than it had been before, “this gentleman is in no way to blame. If it had not been for his kindness, we might have fared rather badly.”

Here Merchant Camp also came forward. “Nephew,” said he to the colonial lieutenant, and his voice was not without a trace of humor, “I had not thought to ever welcome any one who wore that uniform. But I was well enough pleased to see you just now. As for the youth, it’s just as your sister says. He’s a fine up-standing fellow, whoever he is, and I shall be delighted to see more of him.”

Here he shook George warmly by the hand, and proceeded:

“Very like you know the business place of Mr. Dana. If you have nothing better to do some day, pray come and see me there. I shall think it a kindness.”

The merchant remained in conversation with George, while the lieutenant, dismounting, dismissed his troop in charge of a sergeant; then leading his horse, he walked up the wharf at the side of his sister. When old Camp had said good-bye and also gone stumping up the wharf, Mr. Dana brought his wrinkled, high-featured face close to the young man’s.

“Don’t forget,” said he, “it’s the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’ and the time is nine to-morrow night.”

And so he limped after his partner with many a backward glance and nod.

CHAPTER II
SHOWS THE RECEPTION GEORGE MET WITH IN
NEW YORK TOWN

When George Prentiss stepped aboard the shallop once more he found the master and crew of one awaiting him in high admiration.

“Well, lad,” cried the former, in a tone of satisfaction, “you can manage yourself as trimly as any craft of your tonnage that I ever clapped an eye on. Give me your fist!

“I was surprised,” he added, “to see you go over the side to the rescue of that scolding old fellow. A lad that’s exchanged shots with the British at Boston, as I have no doubt you have done, could hardly be expected to take up the quarrel of a Tory in New York.”

“As it happens,” said young Prentiss, gravely, “Mr. Camp is a sort of connection of mine. The girl you saw just now and the young militia officer are my cousins, though, indeed, I never saw them before. In a time like this families are divided—some members of it are upon one side, and some upon the others. This teaches me to be a trifle tolerant.”

“Ah, yes,” said the master of the vessel, “I understand. Well,” with a lifting of the brows, “if you have Tories in your own household, I’m sorry for you. It must be lowering to a man’s pride to know that his own kin would stoop to such ideas, and when they are once set that way there is little hope of ever making them alter their views. Once a Tory, always a Tory.”

“Not always,” and George shook his head. “I was, in the beginning, a king’s man myself. My friends convinced me that the king’s way was the best—that the colonists should submit—that they were rushing to destruction in making an armed resistance. They assured me that Gage’s force would deal gently with my countrymen—that not a shot would be fired in anger upon them. But Lexington showed me the falseness of this. I knew then that the Americans had taken the only hopeful way to secure justice; and from that time on I was one of them.”

But the seaman shook his head.

“When you tell me this is so, lad, I believe it,” said he. “But it’s only an odd case. The Tory, take him all standing, is a narrow bigot who cannot see beyond the tip of his nose. He was brought up to believe that King George and his government were ordained by Providence; and the stiffest gale that ever blew would not sweep him from his moorings.”

George Prentiss did not reply to this; he had no keen reason for converting the shallop’s master to an opposite way of thinking; and even if he had, he knew it would be of no use to try.

“I think I’ll be setting about my affairs,” he said. “It’s coming on midday.”

The skipper hitched up his trousers. “Of course,” stated he, “I don’t know what your affairs are; but, as I said before, I have suspicion of them. And look you, my hearty, give no heed to old Dana’s talk. Go about your business in your own way.”

“Thank you,” said young Prentiss. “I had made up my mind to do that. Mr. Dana,” he added to himself, “has been mistaken; he expected one passenger, evidently, and found another.”

Directly up Broad Street he made his way until he came to Beaver; here he turned in toward the Parade at the foot of Broadway. The red-coated sentries were mounting guard upon the walls of the fort; the British ensign floated from its tall pole; but the streets were filled with the blue and buff of the young American army, and the numerous and strangely devised flags of the revolution.

Apparently the Parade was a favorite place for the showing of oneself in the middle of the day. Ladies in carriages and upon horseback drove and cantered up and down the paved ways; groups of citizens and scores of militia officers stood here and there; companies of raw troops were being put sternly through the manual by hard-faced sergeants.

As George walked across the Parade he gained not a little attention, for the dispatch bag which hung across his arm, the broad shoulder belt supporting a steel hilted hanger, the pistol butt which showed beneath his coat, gave him a particularly businesslike appearance. And then his bronzed looks, the breadth of his shoulders, and the cock of his hat, spoke of a youth to be reckoned with in any company.

Pausing before one of the numerous groups, he inquired politely:

“Will you have the goodness to direct me to headquarters?”

A foppish young dragoon officer with a mincing manner, who had been entertaining the occupants of a carriage beside which he stood, turned upon the speaker.

“Hah!” said he, “you have news for old Put, have you?”

There was something in the cheap familiarity of this that aroused the anger of young Prentiss. He had seen the bluff, straightforward Putnam face a thousand dangers that night upon Breed’s Hill, he had seen him storming in the midst of the rout, striving to rally his men, pleading with them to make one more desperate stand. And now to hear him so referred to by this mincing fop filled him with resentment.

“My business is with General Putnam,” said he, stiffly.

The dragoon marked his manner and laughed, while at the same time his glances bade the ladies in the carriage mark his wit.

“What?” cried he. “Here’s a right proper New Englander, indeed.” He smoothed the sleeves of his well fitting coat and flecked some invisible specks from his epauletted shoulders. “They hold their officers as something more than human at Massachusetts Bay,” he proceeded, addressing the group of militiamen. “And one must not style them with anything less than their full dignity.”

The militiamen smiled broadly, while the citizens guffawed; the ladies in the carriage tittered, and cast mirthful looks at the youth from the northern colony. But one among them did not smile; and George noticed this at the moment in which he recognized her. It was Peggy Camp.

“A man wearing a uniform for the first time,” said George tartly, and with a sweep of the eyes that took in the other’s immaculate costume, “should show a little respect for a soldier of the general’s known service. At least that is the belief generally held in Boston.”

The fop choked, stuttered and grew red at this biting answer. The mirthful looks of the ladies were now turned upon him; and while he was mentally casting about for some witty rejoinder, a soggy looking man in the dress of a merchant and a countenance like a point of interrogation, took young Prentiss eagerly by the sleeve.

“There is fresh news, then, from Boston way? Of what nature is it, young man?”

“Any news that I personally have,” said the youth, “is very commonplace and of no value.”

“That you personally have? Ah, yes, perhaps,” and here the man’s face grew more interrogative than ever. “But your dispatches?”

“They are for the eye of the commandant of New York,” replied young Prentiss, annoyed.

“But surely,” and the merchant smiled in a very knowing way, “you had a little glance at them on the way—the briefest, of course, but still a glance.”

The youth’s face flushed beneath the bronze. “Do you speak in ignorance of a soldier’s duty, sir?” demanded he; “or is this meant for an insult?”

The inquisitive face of the merchant paled. “No, no!” cried he in much haste. “An insult! Goodness bless you, young man—no! Why, I thought the thing would be the most natural in the world. Just a slight glimpse, you see. What hurt would it do? I’ll leave it to any gentleman here.”

But none of the party saw fit to support him; and much abashed he fell to the rear, not relishing George’s looks. The foppish dragoon had by this time recovered, and now put himself forward.

“I presume by your tone,” said he, acidly, “that you hold the commission of Congress.”

But George shrugged his shoulders.

“What!” and the presumption of the dragoon immediately began to mount. “A common soldier, and have you the effrontery to use this manner to officers and gentlemen?”

There was a stiffening among the militiamen at this; they had re-collected themselves and were beginning to feel their superiority. But George, his temper returned to its level, only smiled.

“Sirs,” said he, “I stopped to ask a civil question in a civil manner. If this gentleman has received what he considers a sharp answer, he has himself to blame for it only. And as to the commissions,” here George squared his shoulders and drew himself up proudly, “don’t forget that they are harder to come by in the face of the enemy than here in New York, where influence will get one, apparently, for any jack-a-dandy.”

“Take care, sir,” cried an officer.

George smiled, flipped his hand to his hat in a most cavalier manner and stepped briskly away across the Parade. But through the tail of his eye he saw a grave officer, who had just come up, halt at the carriage before referred to; and he also saw Peggy Camp lean forward and whisper something to him swiftly. Then the officer motioned a young ensign forward, said something in turn, and the ensign made after George with all speed. Overtaking him, he said, politely:

“Pardon me, but I understand you are looking for headquarters. It is just above here. Lord Sterling requested me to show you the way.”

“Lord Sterling!” echoed George, and he could not help a backward glance at the officer who still remained beside the carriage speaking with Peggy Camp and her friends. Of late he had heard much of the distinguished man who, born in New York, had made such a great fight in the English courts for the earldom of Sterling. He had failed in this; but all America believed him the rightful heir, and so called him. His service to the colonial cause had already marked him; and he had been created general of brigade.

“You are a friend to Miss Camp, I take it,” said the ensign. But George shook his head.

“What, no! I thought from the interest she took in your welfare,” with a laugh, “that you were. And, too, she appeared quite delighted at your brisk handling of young Henderson. You seem to be quite fortunate.”

There was considerable stir about the doorway of the building which the ensign pointed out as headquarters; a sentry passed them at a word from this same obliging young officer.

“If you desire to see General Putnam in person,” said the ensign, “you’ll first have to see Major Hyde. And as he happens to be our cousin to Peggy Camp, you’ll no doubt get along famously with him.”

The laugh that followed this sally was still ringing in George’s ears as he crossed the room to speak to Major Hyde, who was seated at a big table engaged in writing. The major was a young man of sallow complexion and with a cold, supercilious manner.

“Well,” demanded he, his lip drawing back from his fine teeth in a sneer that seemed one of his characteristics, “what now?”

George resentfully slapped his dispatch bag upon the table, being careful, however, to keep a grip upon it.

“Dispatches,” said he, bluntly, with a salute. “From General Washington to General Putnam.”

“Ah, yes.” Major Hyde’s hand went forward toward the packet. “I will take charge of them.”

But as the hand advanced, the packet retreated. “My orders,” said young Prentiss, drily, “are that these dispatches be delivered into General Putnam’s hands only.”

There were several other officers seated about the room transacting headquarters business; at the young man’s words they looked up, surprised. Major Hyde sprang to his feet, his eyes snapping with anger.

“What do you mean?” cried he. “You’ll do as I bid you. Don’t forget that! I am your superior officer.”

“I am aware that you are,” replied the young man, “but my orders from General Washington are unmistakable, sir. And he is your superior officer.”

For a moment Hyde remained standing with rage; then he sat down abruptly and rapped upon the table for an orderly.

“Dispatches from Boston for General Putnam,” said he shortly. “Tell him so.”

George stood back and awaited the soldier’s return; and as he waited he could not help wondering at his odd experience in New York.

“I have been on shore but a bare hour—scarcely that long—and I have met with nothing but affronts and rebuffs,” he said to the young ensign who sat in a window overlooking Broadway. “I can’t understand the attitude of the colonists here. At Boston, one has but to be a patriot to meet with consideration. But in New York, apparently, it makes little difference what your sympathies; you have but to be a stranger to be marked for insolence.”

“New York,” said the ensign, who seemed a person of some intelligence, “is very different from Boston—from my own city, Philadelphia, or from any other place in the colonies, for the matter of that. It was settled by mixed races—Dutch, Huguenots, English and Scotch. Their interests, desires and ideals have been different from the beginning. They have become so accustomed to facing each other down and sneering at each other’s social peculiarities that it has, so it seems, grown to be a part of their deportment.”

Here the speaker was about to plunge into an elaborate discourse upon this subject, but George was saved from listening by the orderly reappearing from an inner room and beckoning him forward.

“The general will see you,” said he.

In another moment the young man found himself in the presence of the stout, red-faced Putnam who sat puzzling over some intricate maps at a great table. Beside him sat another officer whom George at once recognized as General Sullivan, and standing near by was General Heath, who had done so much to train the raw levies for the fight at Breed’s Hill.

GENERAL PUTNAM GLANCED UP

General Putnam glanced up as George entered; his good-humored face took on a smile, and he at once threw aside the map, which, to speak the plain truth, did not greatly interest him.

“Ah, Prentiss,” said he. “So it’s you, is it?”

George saluted; drawing the packet of sealed dispatches from his saddle-bag, he laid them before the bluff commander. The latter tore it open eagerly; one by one he mastered the contents of the papers, and as he did so, passed them on to Sullivan, who in turn read and handed them to General Heath.

“And so General Washington will be with us within a few weeks,” said the latter, upon finishing the last of the dispatches. “Excellent!”

“It is all we require to make the place safe,” said Putnam. “The batteries are planted, the redoubts completed and the passes all made good. With the main body of the army here we can welcome the enemy at any time he chooses to show himself.”

“The general is bringing the forces on by way of Providence, Norwich and New London,” spoke Sullivan, referring to one of the papers, “and says that he will remain with them until they are safely embarked at the latter place.”

Here Heath and Sullivan fell into a debate as to the probabilities of the main body’s securing sufficient suitable craft to carry it expeditiously from the Connecticut port to New York; and while they were so engaged, Putnam arose and crossed the room to where George Prentiss was standing. In his hand he held a slip of paper which he had not passed on to his brother officers; and he folded and refolded it carefully with his strong, thick fingers, as he said:

“And so the general has made you a bearer of his dispatches.”

A flush of color came into the young man’s face, and he replied earnestly:

“I was proud indeed to be called upon for such service. I had had no thought that I might be so trusted.”

“Tut, tut,” said the kindly Putnam, “if you made a mistake at the beginning, you but showed that you were human. We are all likely to do the same. All of us were at one time or another king’s men; and if you were somewhat late in renouncing your allegiance, so to speak, what great matter? You are as determined upon liberty now as the best of us. You proved that a score of times about Boston and Cambridge last winter.”

“I am pleased that you hold so good an opinion of me, general,” said young Prentiss, “and, believe me, I shall try to be worthy of it.”

“I understand your feelings,” and Putnam laid a big hand upon his shoulder. “So we’ll say no more about it. And now, good-bye; I have some matters to attend to. But leave word with Major Hyde where you can be found. I may want your service upon business of importance.”

George saluted; and as the sturdy old soldier turned back to the table, the young man left the room. He inquired of the ensign, whom he found still at the window, as to the inns and lodging places.

“The ‘King’s Arms’ is the place for you. It is but a step or two above; look,” pointing from the window, “you can see its sign-board from here.”

Thanking the affable young man, George turned to Major Hyde and gave the “King’s Arms” as his address, after which he left the building and took steps to install himself at the inn.

It was something past high noon by this; and as he sat at a table in the “King’s Arms” discussing a beefsteak pie and a brown loaf, he chanced to glance from the window near which his table stood. Upon the opposite side of the way stood Major Hyde and Henderson, the foppish officer of dragoons; in earnest conference with them was a burly personage in a long skirted coat and having the manner of an ill-trained mastiff. Every now and then Hyde would punctuate his remarks by pointing at the inn, and each time the little, fierce, deep-set eyes of the burly man would follow the gesture with satisfaction. After some moments, during which George observed all three closely, they appeared to come to some sort of understanding. The burly personage, after assuring them of something, at once crossed the street toward the “King’s Arms.”

CHAPTER III
TELLS HOW A BULLY ENTERED THE
“KING’S ARMS”

There were sundry other patrons of the “King’s Arms” gathered in the public room at the time, dining on the wholesome food for which the inn was noted. There were officers of the colonial army; there were, also, citizens of the town, who, judging from their discourse, were of various political complexions; and, also, there were many smartly attired ladies of apparent consequence.

The peppery Lee and his successor in command of New York had shown a marvelously short temper in their dealings with the more vigorous of the Tories; but for all that there were many of them left in the town, and, too, they were not of the sort that keep a still tongue to gain favor.

Indeed, as he listened to the conversation going on upon all sides, young Prentiss was greatly astonished. Round about Boston, the king’s men had not dared to express themselves since Boston fight; but here they not only proclaimed their views, but the patriots listened patiently.

“It is because the matter has not progressed so rapidly here as in Boston,” he reasoned with himself. “The king’s army is not strong enough to take the initiative—and the friends of liberty have not yet abandoned hope of patching up matters with the ministers at London.”

Very near to George, one of these discussions was fast gathering volume, but, as his breakfast on board the “Nancy Breen” had been of the slimmest, he gave more attention to his dinner than to the dispute. But gradually, as the voices grew in sternness, the young fellow noticed something familiar in them; so turning his head he recognized Merchant Camp, his partner Dana, and the heavy-faced young militiaman, Camp’s nephew.

The old Tory merchant, a napkin tucked about his neck, was flourishing his fork and airing his opinions with much relish. He sat directly facing his nephew, and seemed to be scorching him with sarcasm and his private version of the facts.

“Keep to your opinions, if you style them as such,” he was saying. “You are only a lad and I will not quarrel with you because of them. But, as sure as the sun shines at this moment, there will be wreck and ruin for many because of the loose thinking of you and the like of you.”

He put down the fork carefully upon his plate and now shook his finger beneath the sullen young man’s nose, while he went on:

“Because your party has forced a handful of king’s troops to keep behind the walls of the fort—because you have taken the government’s cannon with none to prevent you, you must needs fancy yourselves great fellows, indeed. And because the king’s frigates do not open upon you, you think it is because they fear you. Bah, sir, bah! I never credited reasoning creatures with so little sense. The reason why the garrison remains quiet—the reason why Lee and Putnam were permitted to seize the guns—the reason why the frigates below there have withheld their broadsides, is because they are biding their time. The answer will yet come, never fear; and when it does, trust His Majesty’s officers to make it full and complete.”

The heavy-browed young man shook his head, stubbornly, and looked more sullen than ever.

“They are awaiting reinforcements,” said he. “We all know that. But what difference does it make? Let them come. By the time they get here, General Washington will also have arrived with the American army. He drove the British out of Boston, and he’ll drive them out of New York.”

“He drove them out of Boston—I grant you that. But it was because vigorous measures had not been taken in the first place. Gage was too lenient—too easily gulled. He did not dream that British subjects would ever take up arms against their sovereign. But here it is different. Howe knows the full measure of this treason, and he should come prepared to cope with it. He’ll be provided with fleets and armies and equipment; and no doubt he’ll have his instructions as to how to act. It’ll not be the case of Gage over again. Trust the king’s ministers for that. And another thing,” here the old man’s voice was pitched a key lower, “in the colony of New York, your brave Washington and his fellows will have a different people to deal with. The countryside will not be with him as in Massachusetts. There will be thousands of loyal gentlemen; and besides, there will be the Johnson family.”

In spite of the lowered voice, the words were caught by those seated close by; and George Prentiss noticed that every one near paused and looked up.

“Hah! Those Johnsons!” grumbled a gentleman of undoubted Dutch extraction at the table at George’s right. “A dangerous set of rascals, indeed!”

“If I may make bold, sir,” asked the young man, “to whom does he refer?”

The pursy gentleman looked astonished at this.

“Is it possible,” said he thickly, “that there is any one who does not know of Sir William Johnson, once His Majesty’s Indian agent?”

“But is he not now dead?”

“Yes, but his descendants still live,” complained the other, his broad Dutch face full of indignation. “Sir William made vast wealth in his office; he was almost actual sovereign of the Six Nations. His family have all his riches and all his power over the Indians, and they threaten to bring the tomahawks upon us if we persist in our demands for justice.”

George could not help a shudder at this; that the British might resort to the Indians to help their cause had never occurred to him.

“And, uncle,” demanded the heavy-browed young man, “do you approve of so barbarous a method of putting down the popular will as Guy Johnson or Colonel Claus could supply?”

Here Mr. Camp was seized with a fit of coughing; that he did not approve of it was plain enough; but he was not the man to give an opponent in debate the slightest advantage. It was Mr. Dana who next spoke.

“Far be it from any of us to desire bloodshed of whatsoever kind,” said he. “For my part, I fervently hope that the misguided people of these provinces will shortly see their error, and abide by what the law plainly requires them to do.”

Here the sullen young man laughed scornfully.

“There will be blood letting and plenty of it, never fear,” exclaimed he. “The Sons of Liberty will never give a step in their demands; and England’s present ministers are not of the sort to let a rich prize slip from them without a struggle.”

“And why should they?” demanded Mr. Camp in a high voice. “Why should they, nephew? These colonies cost men’s lives and much treasure to acquire, and why should the government not defend them?”

Here he plunged into an angry defense of any action that the ministry might take; his voice was so unguarded and his manner so violent that the waiters went scurrying here and there; and finally the landlord himself approached hastily.

“I must beg of you, Mr. Camp,” suggested he in a smooth voice, “that you moderate your language. You are giving offense to my guests, sir.”

For a moment it seemed as though the short-tempered old king’s man was about to flare forth as he had upon the wharf earlier in the day. But a remembrance of what had followed that outburst, perhaps, deterred him. He waved his hand, and said:

“Ah, yes; I had forgotten. I ask your pardon.”

Highly gratified at quelling a possible disturbance so easily, the landlord was about to turn away when a voice bellowed:

“Come now, a place—a place! Must I be kept waiting as though my money were not as good as another’s? Get me a place, blockhead, or I’ll see what cudgeling will do for you.”

A frightened little man in a huge apron fluttered about somewhat helplessly.

“Here is a place,” said he, drawing back his chair at a table in a shadowy corner. “And a very good place, too, sir. Much to be desired, indeed.”

“You’ll tempt me to lay my stick over your back yet,” bellowed the impatient guest. “What sort of a situation is that for a man of my quality? A fitting place for a dog to curl up, but not for a gentleman to eat his dinner in.”

“This way, sir,” interposed the host, much in haste, for complaint was distasteful to him. “This way. Here is a place well lighted and well aired,” and he drew out a chair at George’s table. “The young gentleman will not object, I’m sure,” and he bowed to George.

“Not in the least,” said George, and as he spoke he glanced up. At once he recognized in the noisy, ill-tempered guest the burly personage whom he had seen a few minutes before in conference with Major Hyde and the dragoon officer, across the way.

“Object!” said the big man in a harsh voice. “Object! Why should he, I’d like to know? This is a public inn, and I think I know my rights in such a place.”

So saying, he slapped his dusty beaver hat upon the table and sat down facing George with noisy ostentation. There was something deliberately offensive in the man’s manner, and George darted a sharp look at him, though he said nothing. The newcomer noted the look, and thrusting his head forward inquired, bluntly:

“You have nothing to say, I trust, young sir?”

“In my turn,” replied young Prentiss, quietly, “I trust that I shall have no occasion to say anything.”

The burly man did not seem to know how to take this; but evidently he suspected some hidden meaning in the saying, for his little eyes began to snap.

“I make it a point to pay as I go, and ask favors of no one,” declared he. “What have you to say to that?”

“It’s a good resolution, as such things run,” returned the youth. “But, believe me, sir, I can do very well without the particulars as to your private affairs.”

The burly personage was taken somewhat aback at this, and his surprise was so evident that several persons who had been listening laughed outright. Among these was Herbert Camp, and instantly the big man selected him from the others and whirled round in his chair.

“I hope, sir,” said he, with much directness, “that you are not laughing at my expense.”

The sullen-faced lieutenant flushed as he saw the eyes of all within hearing turn upon him. But he answered readily enough:

“I would be very sorry, indeed, to do anything at your expense.”

“Ah, would you so?” and the man eyed him with singular intentness. “Well,” with a nod of the head, “I’ll bear you in mind, my lad. It is possible that I’ll make some small effort in your direction before a very great while.”

From the time that he had seen his neighbor in conference with Major Hyde and the officer of dragoons and had caught their gestures, George had had no doubt but the man’s intentions in entering the “King’s Arms” was in some way connected with himself. He had given both officers offense during the morning, and he had felt that the burly one’s errand was some scheme of retaliation.

The offensive manner of the man toward him seemed to clinch this belief; but now, as George went sedately on with his dinner, all the time observing his neighbor, his suspicions gradually changed. The newcomer paid no further attention to him; indeed, for all the knowledge he betrayed of his presence, young Prentiss might as well not have existed.

This seemed odd to George and piqued his interest; he was still speculating upon its meaning, when he made a peculiar discovery. The man before him sat, as stated, with his arms folded across his chest; his eyes had also closed, and a casual observer would have pronounced him fallen into a doze. But several little things pointed out the real facts to George. The big man was intently listening to the conversation which had been resumed at Mr. Camp’s table.

CHAPTER IV
TELLS HOW THE BULLY CHANGED HIS MIND AND
HOW GEORGE WAS SENT FOR IN HASTE

This discovery, as may well be imagined, increased the interest which George Prentiss felt in his surroundings; the aspect of his ill-mannered, loud-mouthed table companion immediately underwent a change. From a hired bully, the fellow was at once transformed into something more subtle—a spy—a creature whose employment was as underhand as his appearance was blunt. But what made the occasion more surprising than anything else was that the spy was, apparently, in the pay of Major Hyde—and the object of his surveillance was perhaps the major’s uncle.

And so as the burly man listened to the conversation at Mr. Camp’s table, George listened also, proceeding leisurely with his dinner, and always keeping his eyes upon the face opposite him.

Mr. Camp still clung to the political situation as a subject for remark.

“Brother will be arrayed against brother,” said he, “and father against son. The separations and heart burnings will be dreadful to think about, for it is really civil war that these rogues seek to bring upon us.”

“But,” said Mr. Dana, earnestly, “would it not be well to wait until matters are further developed before prophesying evil?”

Mr. Camp grew irate at this. “Hah!” cried he. “Let me assure you, sir, that it requires no prophet here. The things that I speak of have already come to pass. My nephew Robert Hyde has gone over to the enemies of the king, as you know. And I ask you to look at Harry here. What uniform does he wear? They have poisoned him also with their doctrines; nothing will do him but that the king’s officers be taken by the scruff of the neck and bundled on board ship, never to return.”

“A gentleman must always follow the dictates of his conscience,” returned Harry. “Yours leads you to support the king—mine impels me in other directions.”

“Impel is a very good word,” commented Merchant Camp, addressing Dana. “I could not pick one that described it better if I tried. But,” and he turned to Herbert, “look you, young man. You are not the only one that feels the impulse of change. It has occurred to me many times of late that my will also needs a bit of altering.”

For a brief moment George, who had turned his head, saw Herbert Camp’s face go blank.

“Why, as to—as to a mere matter of money,” stammered Herbert, obviously endeavoring to make his voice ring angrily, “that can have no effect upon a person of honor.”

“Not a trifle like sixty thousand pounds, mark you,” said the old Tory to Dana. “They hold themselves high, these patriots.” And once more addressing himself to Herbert, he continued: “Do you recall that some days ago I asked you to change the color of your coat?”

“I do,” replied the young lieutenant.

“It was a week, I think, that I gave you.”

“It was.”

“Very good. There are a couple of days yet to go. So consider the matter well. Change your coat, or I change my will.”

George felt the table shake; the big man had twitched spasmodically, and his knees had knocked against its legs. Young Prentiss flashed him a searching look; but in no other way did the bully manifest interest.

“Your money is your own to do what you please with,” said Herbert Camp to his uncle, but for all his effort, there was a certain waver in his voice and tones. “And you would not have me sink my principle to get it, I know.”

“To be sure not, nephew,” said the old gentleman. “But be assured of this: My money will never go to any one who upholds the rebel cause. I would not buy your allegiance, nor that of any other person; but the facts are as I have stated them.”

The nephew drummed upon the edge of the table with his finger-tips. Things were at this stage when a waiter approached, bearing the burly man’s dinner; this he placed before him with care, then shook him gently.

“Your dinner, sir,” suggested the waiter, not without some caution. The burly man opened his little eyes.

“Ay, ay,” said he, “I see it. And I’ll warrant it has no more seasoning than a brindle cow’s milk.”

But the waiter hastened to reassure him upon this point; and so the man began to eat with an appetite but with much muttering and complaining. The conversation continued at the Camp table, the youth Herbert rather weakly maintaining his position, and his uncle proclaiming his fixity of purpose. But the spy took no more notice of them or their sayings. Strangely enough, as George Prentiss thought, he had lost all interest in them.

Indeed, even when they had finished their meal and their discussion and arisen to their feet, he did not lift his head. But old Camp’s nephew, apparently in an ill-humor, did not forget him. The youth in turning stumbled across one of the man’s legs, which were needlessly sprawled out.

“Perhaps,” said the young man, tartly, after recovering himself, “this is the recognition which you just now promised me—trying to dash out my brains among the inn furniture.”

The man looked up at him insolently.

“Did I promise you anything?” asked he.

“You did, sir,” replied the lieutenant, paying no heed to Mr. Dana’s plucking at his sleeve.

“Ah, well,” said the man, “sometimes little things happen which prevent our keeping promises hurriedly made.” There was something like a laugh in his voice as he added, “Perhaps some such little thing has happened since I spoke to you last, sir.”

The young militiaman grew very indignant at this and seemed about to make a heated rejoinder; however, the two merchants pushed him on ahead of them.

They had paid the reckoning and left the inn; and George was examining his own score, when the burly man suddenly lifted a hand and called out:

“Ah, this way, sir, this way!”

Major Hyde, his dark face full of eagerness, approached; and at his heels was the foppish dragoon, Henderson.

“I just now saw them leave,” said the major. “Did you find an opportunity, Slade?”

The burly man shrugged his lumpy shoulders carelessly.

“Oh, yes,” answered he. “It wasn’t difficult. But I let it pass.”

“What’s that?” and there was a note of menace in Hyde’s voice.

“Do you call that living up to a contract?” asked Henderson. “Seems like downright neglect to me.”

“There was no occasion to follow out your plan,” said Slade. “I have lived by quarrels these many years,” with a laugh, “but for all that, I don’t believe in them much unless they are necessary. I had your young blade fast enough and could have had it out with him very nicely. But as it turned out——”

Here Major Hyde noted George for the first time and instantly his gesture stopped Slade’s mouth. Affecting a careless laugh, although all the time there was an evil look upon his face, he said:

“Ah, well, it makes no great difference, either way. It was but a stupid sort of jest to say the best of it. At another time, we’ll have our laugh out to the full. But come, let us be going. I have some business to see to.”

“I have but begun my dinner,” said Slade in protest.

“Dinners,” spoke the major, “can be had at any time; but these affairs of mine must not be kept waiting.”

With much complaint Slade left the table, casting longing looks at the smoking dishes thereon. They had reached the door of the public room as George arose and began readjusting his shoulder belt, of which he had freed himself when he sat down. He saw Hyde lean toward Slade and say something in a low tone; then he noted the latter’s quick, furtive, over-the-shoulder look in his direction; after this they passed out, and he could see them through the window, walking arm in arm down Broadway, their heads very close together.

When George in his turn left the “King’s Arms” he was busily revolving what he had seen and heard.

“It has an odd look,” mused he. “And I don’t just get the meaning of it all. There can be no doubt that Major Hyde sent this man into the inn for a purpose. But what was this purpose? Hyde’s words might lead one to believe that it was the carrying out of some sort of idle jest. But I doubt that. He gave that turn to the matter only when he recognized me, and felt that I had overheard what he had said.”

Slowly he walked along Broadway past Wall Street and the English Church, still going over the situation.

“The first words that Hyde said to Slade upon entering were: ‘Did you find your opportunity?’ And Slade answered that he had, but had let it pass. Then he said he’d found there was no occasion to follow Hyde’s plans, and that he had heard something——Now the only thing which he heard that seemed to greatly interest him was that——”

Here the young man’s muttering stopped; his thoughts took a wild leap; for a moment or two they were a jumble of extravagances; then order began to reappear.

“Mr. Camp, it seems, is enormously rich,” was the new train of thought. “Major Hyde is his nephew, as is also this young man called Herbert. And Herbert, apparently, was to be the heir; a thing which was distasteful to Major Hyde. So the major sent this bully who sat at table with me to pick a quarrel with the lucky nephew. A duel would perhaps have been the result; and the course of the old man’s money shifted.

“But the bully proved a man of cunning as well as ferocity. When he heard that Herbert would likely be disinherited because of his political leanings, he saw that the fight would be unnecessary.”

Here, however, the chain of reasoning showed a missing link.

“If Herbert is to be disinherited for holding to the cause of the colonies,” George asked himself “how can Major Hyde, who also advocates that cause, hope to replace him?”

This seemed to unsettle the foundation of all that had gone before, and he shook his head more puzzled than ever. But in a moment or two he put the entire matter aside.

“I don’t know why I am bothering about the interests of strangers,” said he, impatiently. He had about dismissed the matter from his mind and was looking curiously at some of the quaint old Dutch houses still standing when there came a beat of hoofs upon the stones of the road; and the horseman drew up beside him.

“Ah, well caught, Mr. Prentiss,” laughed the horseman, jovially. “I asked for you at the ‘King’s Arms,’ and they told me that you had just gone. So I took the liberty of guessing which direction you had taken.”

It was the ensign with whom George had previously spoken; he rode a strong-looking gray horse which chafed at the bit and pawed nervously at the ground. The ensign had struck young Prentiss from the first as being a likable sort of fellow, and so he greeted him in friendly fashion.

“You had not been gone from headquarters above an hour when General Putnam asked for you,” said the rider. “Major Hyde had left some time before, and none would have known where you were to be found had I not happened to be still lounging about. And so,” with a laugh, “here I am to take you back with me in all haste.”

CHAPTER V
IN WHICH GENERAL PUTNAM HAS HIS SAY

“It is a matter of importance, then?” said George, as he walked along at the horse’s side, his face now pointed in the direction of the fort.

“I should hazard that it is of unusual importance,” returned the ensign; “though I have not the faintest knowledge of its nature.”

A few minutes’ brisk traveling and they reached the headquarters; George was at once admitted to the room where he had previously spoken to General Putnam.

The latter was still there, as was General Sullivan, and with them was an artillery captain who was talking volubly and with much excitement. But as George entered he ceased, at a sign from General Putnam.

“Prentiss,” said Putnam, after a moment’s pause, during which he studied the young New Englander carefully, “I have several times had occasion to benefit by your service in somewhat venturesome matters. And now,” here he bent forward a trifle, his hands upon the table in front of him, “that an occasion has arisen, I can offer you another service, which while it may not prove dangerous, seems sufficiently interesting to occupy a youth of your inches for some little time. Would you care to undertake it?”

“That you think it necessary that the thing be done is enough for me,” replied George.

“That is an excellent answer,” said Putnam, his big, round face beaming. “There are, no doubt,” he proceeded, and he glanced at General Sullivan as though in explanation, “numbers of young men in every branch of the service here in New York who could bring this matter to a highly successful issue. But as I am not acquainted with their individual merits, I might make a sad mistake in trying to select the proper one. Here,” and he nodded toward George, “is one of whom I have personal knowledge. That is why I have preferred him.”

The others signified that the reason appealed to them as being a perfectly just one.

There was a short pause. General Putnam seemed to be marshaling his thoughts together; then he said, addressing George:

“New York has been most difficult to control in the present crisis; there were many Tories about Boston, but here they number fully half the population. And their numbers make them dangerous. We have seized upon the persons of the most aggressive of them; but in spite of this a steady opposition continues to be made to everything we do. If this were openly done, it would be a simple matter. But it is carried on secretly. Information of some of our most intimate designs, so we have discovered, is regularly had by our enemies. Our troops are being corrupted; our stores and magazines are in real danger of destruction.

“Of late this Tory system seems to have selected our posts upon the Highlands for especial attention,” proceeded Putnam, and the artillery officer pursed his lips and wrinkled his brow as though in agreement. “Nothing, mind you, is definitely known, but there is a feeling among us all that our work is in some way being steadily undermined. Recruiting has been brought almost to a standstill because we have become convinced that many of those offering themselves have other motives than the preservation of our liberties.

“To-day Captain Hall unearthed some traces of what might possibly be a plot. But I am sorry to say that what he has discovered is not of sufficient directness to warrant our arresting any one. However, it affords us a most excellent beginning for a counter system of espionage; and that is what we have concluded to organize. It is well at first, though, to make no ornate attempts upon them; a modest beginning may bring much better results.”

“The fact that you are unknown in these parts is of some value,” spoke General Sullivan.

Putnam nodded.

“What we have learned shows that stranger recruits are more apt to be approached by the secret agents of the Tories than those known in New York and of settled local convictions,” said he. “And that, as General Sullivan wisely remarks, has value. What we propose is that you make your way to Harlem Heights, say to-morrow, spend a day or two in idling about in a desultory, unattached sort of way. Then go through the form of enlistment with Captain Hall, here, and after that follow up any track that circumstance leads you upon.”

“If you have any facts for me,” said George, “I will take them now; and to-morrow I will do as you suggest.”

“These papers,” said General Putnam, taking up a slim packet, “contain all the information that we have upon the subject. Take them into that room,” pointing to a small inner apartment, “and study them. But commit nothing to writing that might betray you, if found.”

George took the packet and entered the room indicated; seating himself at a window he began to examine the writings, document by document.

However, they yielded no great amount of data, being largely the names of suspected persons and their places of resort. Carefully he read down the list, thinking to come upon something that would give him a handhold.

“The sloop ‘Shark,’ Nathan Parks, master, suspected of carrying information to the British frigates,” met his eye without much meaning.

“Corporal Bacon of the artillery, thought to be in the pay of the Loyalists.

“Thomas Friend, a peddler, and said to be a spy in the pay of Governor Colden.

“Ann Jane Trout, landlady of the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’ an inn long suspected of being the gathering place of the enemies of popular rights.

“The ‘Wheat Sheaf,’” said George, his mind at once focusing upon this name. “That is the place that Merchant Dana directed me to.” He gazed reflectively at the paper for a moment and gradually a smile came into his face. “At nine to-morrow night he specified, I think. I had not thought to go there; but now,” and here the smile grew broader and a sparkle began to dance in his eyes, “well, now it promises to be different, for something may be gained by it.”

Earnestly he scanned the documents. Traces of suspected plots were recorded, especially the one which Captain Hall had come upon the day before. For the most part they seemed the stories of imaginative persons, lacking all the vital points of convincing evidence.

“And yet,” mused George, “where there is much smoke, there may be some fire.” He retied the papers and arising, went into the other room where he laid them upon the table before General Putnam, who was now alone.

“I am ready,” announced he, in reply to the officer’s mute inquiry.

“Good lad,” said the general, heartily; “to-morrow, then, you make a beginning. I’ll have a sum of money sent you to-morrow at your lodgings, for you’ll have some small expenses, no doubt. And now, good luck. Do your best.”

George saluted.

“You may trust me for that, sir,” said he. And then he went out.

CHAPTER VI
EXPLAINS HOW GEORGE PRENTISS BECAME A
GUEST AT THE “WHEAT SHEAF”

True to his word, General Putnam sent George Prentiss a handful of gold coins next morning and George, toward noon, engaged a horse of the landlord which he promised to send back by a wagoner on the day following. Mounting, he set out up Broadway, turned into the Bloomingdale Road, and then along the Hudson until he came to the sharp turn to the right which brought him into the Kingsbridge Road not far from Burdett’s Ferry. Directly ahead, Harlem Heights bulked densely; to the east could be seen the wooded sides of Mt. Morris, while from the high shoulder of the road, an occasional glint was to be had of the Harlem River as it slipped along toward the Sound.

The young man drew up his horse at this point and looked about him.

“The reports placed the ‘Wheat Sheaf’ at no great distance from here,” said he to himself. “And as it’s wearing toward evening I may as well take my dinner there.”

As he sat his horse he heard the ring of a hammer striking hearty blows upon an anvil; then a sledge joined in and a clangor of sound swept upward. George shook the rein, and about fifty yards further on, in a sheltered spot a little back from the road, he came upon a small smithy.

George dismounted and stood watching the smith and his assistant for a space; then the iron was apparently beaten into its true shape, for it was laid aside and the two stood mopping their faces with damp towels.

“Good-day,” greeted George.

“The top of it to yourself, sure,” returned the smith, who was a freckled Irishman with fiery red hair and a droll look.

“That seemed like a hard task,” commented the young man, coming nearer.

“Why, then,” returned the smith, “it’s little else we’re getting nowadays. Since they’ve took to fighting all about the place, sorra the bit of work do we get but bayonets, swords as long as your arm and bits like this,” with a jerk of his thumb toward the still glowing forging, “for the big guns.”

The apprentice, a huge limbed youth with a small, sloping head, was observing young Prentiss’s shoulder belt with its heavy hanger, and the pistol butt that protruded from a holster.

“Are you in General Putnam’s army?” asked he, all agape.

“No,” replied George, truthfully. “I am not.”

“Small blame to him for asking you that,” said the Irish smith, “for it’s few that go by now but Putnam’s sogers—or the other sort.”

“The other sort!” echoed George, catching at this instantly. “What do you mean?”

“Are you for the king or for Congress?” asked the smith.

“For Congress,” returned George, promptly.

The other came forward and extended a brawny fist.

“Good luck to you, for you’re the right stripe,” said he smiling broadly. “It’s meself that knows but little about the Congress beyant there and what they do be about; but I’m hand and foot with them against the Sassenach, no matter what it is.”

George laughed at this frank declaration of purpose; but instantly came back to the matter of interest.

“The ‘other sort’ I suppose are Tories?” said he.

The smith nodded. “Faith,” spoke he, “they’re fair pisonous with the venom that’s in them; and hereabouts they do be as thick as the gnats in the swamps.”

“But the army being in possession prevents them being at all dangerous,” said George.

The other shook his head. “The army can do nothing against such as these,” said he. “You might as well put that horse of yours, there, to catching a mole. Sorra the sound do they make, and never a sight of themselves do they give any one.”

“But,” and George smiled a little, “it would seem that you have both heard and seen them at some time or other.”

The Irishman laughed loudly at this remark. “Why, then,” said he, “you’re the shrewd felly entirely. But you’re right,” and here he lowered his voice. “You’re right. I see more than some; and be the same token, I hear more than most.”

He nodded mysteriously. As there appeared to be something gained by it, George slipped from his mount, tied it by the door and entered the smithy. Leaning against a broken gun carriage, he began slowly drawing off his gauntlets.

“I have heard a great deal, in one way and another, of the plots of the Loyalists,” said he with an air of doubt, “but to be entirely candid, I have seen scarcely anything in the way of proof.”

“Proof!” said the smith, with energy; “it’s proof ye want, is it, me lad? Oh, well! them that have it could supply plenty of it.”

“Why don’t they come forward with it, then?” demanded young Prentiss, bluntly. “Why hide it?”

“Perhaps,” said the other, “they have small bits of childer and are not wantin’ the houses burnt over their heads.”

“It’s fear, then, that stops their mouths,” stated George. “They are afraid of the king’s men!”

He had calculated well; the Celtic ire of the smith began to rise; his big fists doubled up; his freckled face began to flame.

“Afraid, is it!” cried he. “Afraid! If you knew them you wouldn’t say that. When you live in a lonely place, my lad, and have desperate enemies with revenge in their hearts again’ you, you must take care. And when wife and childer are depending upon the man for the bite and the sup, he thinks twice before he puts himself in danger.”

“But how is one to know that there is real danger?” said George. “It may be that it has no existence save in the mind of the person who dreads it.”

This exasperated the blacksmith. He had been holding himself in check with great effort, but now he burst out:

“Bad luck to ye, is it imagining it all that you think I’ve been doing? Is it imagination, me son, when a man sees them with his two eyes——” Here he caught sight of the apprentice, standing with his head thrust forward and his mouth agape. “And have you nothing at all to do, Peter?” he demanded, sharply. “Away with you to Van Tile’s and fetch the horse that he wants shod. Stir yourself, now, or it’ll be dark again’ you get back.”

Vastly disappointed, the apprentice took off his leather apron and departed on his errand. Then the smith gave his attention to George once more.

“He’s a good, hard-working lad,” said he, “but he’s not over bright in some things, and lets his tongue run too free when he shouldn’t.”

He poked his fire and threw on more fuel; then seating himself upon the anvil, he went on:

“People do imagine a good many things,” nodding wisely. “I’ve listened to them myself many a time. But is it imagination when a man comes in the night, calls you to the door, and you wide awake, pokes a lantern in your face with one hand and a pistol with the other and bids you hold your peace?”

“Did that happen to you?”

“To no one else. And why? Because I knew more than it was thought fitting I should know. Because I had seen things. Because I had heard things. Because if I told the half of it, I’d be putting ropes about the necks of a dozen or more.”

“I WALKED INTO A NEST
OF KING’S MEN”

George laughed. “More than likely it was some sort of a rough joke that your visitor was enjoying at your expense,” said he.

Again the ire of the smith began to mount.

“Joke?” cried he. “Joke, is it? You know nothing of me, me lad, or you’d be sure no man would play the merry Andrew in that style with me. And maybe you think,” here he pointed one challenging finger at George, “that it was a joke that I see carried on that same night, only a bit earlier, at the ‘Wheat Sheaf’?”

“What was that?” asked George, allowing quite a tone of scepticism to creep into his voice.

The Celt recognized the doubtful tone, and the warmth of his manner increased.

“I made a bit of a mistake that night,” spoke he, trying to keep from flying into a rage. “I opened the door to one of the private rooms and walked into a nest of king’s men, up to their eyes in plotting. And that was not all—in the midst of them was some one that’s supposed to wear an entirely different kind of a coat.”

“You mean,” said George, eagerly, “that you saw engaged with the Tories one who is known as a patriot?”

The interest in his voice was too plain to escape the smith; instantly the man’s heat vanished; all his excited desire to show that he had real cause to fear the anger of the conspirators disappeared.

“What I mean,” said he, in a greatly altered voice, and as he spoke his eyes were full of suspicion, “is no matter. I saw what I saw; and if anybody wants to know the meaning of it or the particulars of it, let him search them out for himself.”

“But,” demanded young Prentiss, “do you really mean to keep important facts from the authorities?”

“I mean to try and keep a roof over my head, and life in my body,” said the smith, thrusting a bar of iron into the fire and beginning to blow the coals into a higher red. “It’s all very well for those in the town to speak out boldly; but this is a lonely place; and as I said before, a man with a wife and childer can’t run himself into danger.”

The return of the apprentice, leading a plow horse by the bridle, put an end to the talk. So George mounted and, gathering up his reins, said:

“The ‘Wheat Sheaf’ is not very far away, I believe?”

“A matter of a half mile,” answered the mechanic.

“I’ll dine there, like as not,” said George. And then he added, with a laugh: “Perhaps it will be as well for me to keep my eyes open also; I may see something upon my own account.”

Then he waved his hand in a good-bye and set off along the road once more. The patriot batteries mounted upon the Heights were in view through the dusk when he sighted the “Wheat Sheaf,” which was a large rambling structure with a veranda upon two sides of it and a great number of small-paned windows through which the lights were already beginning to glint.

No one was visible, and George called loudly as he pulled up at the door:

“Ho, the house! Landlord!”

From somewhere in the rear, a sharp-faced woman made her appearance. She was very tall and angular, her movements were awkward, and when she spoke her voice was high.

“Hoighty toity!” she cried, “and must we make all this noise at a decent inn? What is your wish, young man?”

“I’ll have some one take my horse, mistress,” replied George, “and I desire him rubbed and given a good feed of clean grain.”

The woman turned toward the barn and called shrilly:

“Job!”

She had repeated the cry several times before there was any response; then a man came out of the barn, rubbing his eyes and shuffling his feet.

“You’ve been asleep again,” charged the woman. “You are the most idle, good-for-nothing rascal in Harlem, I really believe.”

The man blinked ill-humoredly. “Fair words, Mistress Trout,” spoke he. “They go farther than the other sort.”

“Don’t answer me back, you wretch,” cried Mistress Trout. “Don’t do it. And you’d better mend your ways, sir, or I’ll turn you off; and you’ll have a time of it getting another situation, I promise you.”

George dismounted and gave his horse to the hostler.

“I hope,” said he politely to the woman, “that I am not putting you about; but I’d like a snack of something, if I’m not too late.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Mistress Trout, “traffic hereabouts is not so great that we have all the victuals bespoke.” Then turning to the hostler, who was yawning behind his hand, she cried sharply: “Well, and are you going to see to the gentleman’s horse, blockhead? Or do you mean to fall asleep as you stand?”

“A man must have sleep some time,” growled Job, as he took the nag by the bridle. “If I’m kept up at night, mistress, by people that go and come at all hours, it’s little to be wondered at if I try to catch a wink or two by daylight.”

The landlady of the “Wheat Sheaf” gave him a look full of anger.

“That will do,” said she. “You have said quite enough. Now, be off and attend to your work.”

Grumbling, the man led the horse toward the barn; and George followed Mistress Trout into the inn. The public room into which he was shown was huge and square and furnished with heavy tables, settles and high-backed chairs. There was a brick fireplace at one side; the evening was a crisp one with a breeze that rattled the many window frames, and in consequence a heap of billets crackled on the fire-dogs.

“You have it snug enough here,” observed George with satisfaction, as he hung his hat upon a peg and began to remove his gloves. “Facing the spring wind makes a small fire seem a most comfortable thing, indeed.”

“And a pretty penny it runs into for cut wood,” objected the landlady. “But what is a tavern-keeper to do when people come in and hector and bully?”

There came an impatient creaking of a settle near the fire; a head lifted up from a leather cushion, and a voice demanded:

“Am I not paying for all I get, madam? Is the fire-wood not included? No, don’t say anything,” and the speaker gestured impatiently; “put it in the bill, and don’t worry me with your conversation.”

Mistress Trout tossed her head at this, and after receiving George’s order, left the apartment with a wrathful countenance.

Curiously, George approached the fire; holding his hands out to the blaze, he looked into the upturned face, and to his surprise recognized the heavy brows and sullen expression of Lieutenant Camp. As he was still surprisedly gazing into the young man’s face, the eyes opened; seeing himself closely observed, the latter sat up instantly.

“Hello,” said he, rather roughly. “What brings you here?”

“The fire, latterly,” smiled George, still holding his hands extended over the blaze. “But the prospect of a hot supper, mainly.”

The heavy brows of the young man upon the settle gathered in a frown; his eyes searched George’s face with a peculiar look.

“It seems to me that I’ve seen you before,” said he.

George nodded, but just as he was about to point out where they had met on the day before, he caught the odd look in the other’s eyes, and with a quick impulse checked himself. So he merely said:

“It is very likely.”

There was a moment’s silence; the young man upon the settle clasped one knee with his hands and studied George intently.

“You are a stranger hereabouts, I take it,” said he.

George nodded. “Yes,” was his brief reply.

Again there was a silence. Young Prentiss, without seeming to do so, examined the other as intently as he was himself being examined. And, gradually, the impression grew more and more upon him that Merchant Camp’s nephew was keying himself to say something which he considered of much importance. Several times the lieutenant bent forward and seemed upon the point of speaking; but each time he sank back, his lips still closed and an expression of indecision upon his face. At length, however, he seemed resolved to make the plunge. With voice so lowered as to be almost a whisper, he said:

“It is rumored that Washington will soon be here.”

George stared at him; so ludicrously tame did the saying seem after all the cautious hesitation that had preceded it that he almost laughed. But the expression upon Herbert Camp’s face prevented this; it was one of eager expectation—of almost painful interest. A suspicion flashed upon George; a suspicion and a fear.

“It’s a great deal like a test—a signal by which one person makes himself sure of another,” he told himself.

Instantly he was all attention. Bending his head courteously, he replied:

“I have heard the rumor myself, and think that it is true.”

This answer did not repel the other; but at the same time it did not satisfy him, either. He arose and leaning against the brick mantle began slapping at his boot leg with a riding whip.

“Which way are you traveling?” he asked.

“North,” returned George.

The face of the other grew brighter. He endeavored to assume a light manner, and laughed a little as he said:

“Perhaps you think that there will be more to interest you in that direction than in another.”

“One usually travels in the direction in which one’s interest lies,” replied young Prentiss in the same tone. “And I am like most in that.”

Herbert Camp nodded and pondered. For a few moments he stood alternately glancing at George and then toward the window; the lash of the whip continued to cut at his boot leg and to lay long welts upon the sanded floor.

“You came alone?” asked he, finally.

“Yes,” answered George.

“Isn’t it somewhat dangerous to take the north road unaccompanied?”

Young Prentiss smiled. “You did not seem to think so,” said he.

“With me it is different,” spoke the lieutenant with a meaning in his voice that George did not grasp. “But for strangers the way is unprotected. Did you meet no one upon the road?”

“No one.”

“That is strange. Though, as I said, it’s a lonely way, still one is apt to meet a peddler now and then.”

George noted a peculiar stress upon the last part of the sentence, and his mind began to cast about for its meaning. Almost instantly he caught it, and self-control alone prevented his exclaiming aloud. The papers given him to examine by General Putnam had named one Thomas Friend, a peddler, as a suspected person. Was Lieutenant Camp, in his guarded utterance, referring to this man? Like lightning George’s mind was made up; and with a calm voice and a careless manner he said:

“I came upon no peddlers to-day; but,” and he fixed his eyes steadily upon the other’s face, “peddlers are merchants of small degree, perhaps, and I had a visit yesterday from a merchant aboard ship.”

Recollection instantly swept into the lieutenant’s face; dropping his whip he brought his palms together with a smack.

“Now I remember where I saw you. It was on the wharf near ‘The Brigantine’ inn. I am glad indeed to meet you!” He seized George’s hand and shook it energetically; then he added, eagerly: “It was Dana who told you to come here?”

George nodded; he was afraid to do more, not yet being sure of his ground. Young Camp sat down upon the settle and roared with laughter.

“No wonder,” he gasped, “you didn’t grasp my meaning readily. I thought it was Tom Friend, the peddler, who was to bring you here. By Jove, how you stared and winked.”

“The owl,” said George, “does a lot of staring and blinking. And it’s reckoned a wise bird for no other reason.”

“Right!” said Lieutenant Camp. “Right! What you did, you did well. I have no fault to find with you; the only hitch has been in my misinformation. I wonder,” said he, “just how that came about?”

“Sometimes,” replied George, slowly, “it chances that old men are erratic.”

Young Camp slapped his knee.

“There!” he cried. “I never gave a thought to that; and now you mention it, I have no doubt that is what’s to blame in this case.”

Here a waiter, under the personal direction of Mistress Trout, entered bearing George’s supper, smoking hot and very savory and tempting. It was placed upon a table near the fire, which had been laid with a clean cloth, much white napery, and shining table ware. With great satisfaction, George sat down to it.

“I hope,” said he to the lieutenant, “that you’ll join me. Dining alone is sometimes a tiresome business.”

But the other gestured in the negative.

“I had just finished when you rode up,” he said. “Pray go on, and pay no attention to me in that respect.”

George did as he was bidden; and he had already made considerable inroad upon the hot dishes from Mistress Trout’s kitchen when Herbert Camp spoke again.

“I should have thought,” said the latter, “that you would have come here as soon as you got ashore.”

“As it is,” returned George, “I am hours before my time.”

“Then a time was named?”

“To-night,” said George.

The other leaned back upon the settle and shielded his face from the fire; George’s efforts upon the logs had not been without effect, for the blaze was now brisk and high; the sparks shot up the wide chimney in showers.

“At half after nine, I think,” said Lieutenant Camp.

“At nine exactly,” returned George.

The lieutenant here fell back into a long silence. He shielded his face from the heat with his hat and sat looking at the darting sparks as they leaped upward. George, as he proceeded with his dinner, watched him; the face was deeply shadowed by the upheld hat, but the young soldier’s attitude was full of meaning, the changing lights in his eyes spoke of a mind not at rest.

As he watched him George recalled old Merchant Camp’s words of the day before.

“But look you, young man,” he had said, “you are not the only one that feels the impulse of change. It has occurred to me many times of late that my will needs a bit of altering, too.”

Distinctly young Prentiss recalled the blank look that crossed Herbert Camp’s face at this saying. True, he had stammered something about a mere matter of money having no effect upon a person of honor.

“But,” was the thought that crossed George’s mind, “the protest was rather weak. ‘Change your coat, or I change my will’ was old Camp’s next saying, and the young man’s answer to this was more wavering still.”

The old Tory had also said that there still remained a few days more to effect the change he desired.

“And it would seem,” thought the young New Englander, indignantly, “that he’ll get his wish. This young man spoke of principle yesterday; it seems that he’s thought better of it to-day. Sixty thousand pounds has been too great a lure to resist; his greed was greater than his patriotism.”

However, despite his indignation, he went calmly on with his meal; and while he ate, Herbert Camp continued in the same attitude, apparently thinking deeply. Both were engaged in this way when there came a bustle from the road before the inn; glancing through the window, which was on line with his table, he saw in the light of several lanterns a queer looking man mounted upon a tall, bony horse and carrying before him a huge pack. Both Mistress Trout and the hostler, Job, had gone out to receive the newcomer, who slid awkwardly from his pad-saddle, dragging his pack along with him.

From his gestures, George saw that the man was making quite a speech regarding the caretaking of his bony nag; Job listened with great patience, and led the animal carefully to the barn when its owner had done. Then the man, staggering under the pack, followed the landlady to the inn.

Into the public room he shambled; depositing his burden in a corner he stood erect, his breath coming in deep gasps.

“Time was,” said he, “when I could have borne that load and not made half the ado.”

He was a square-built, stocky man, with thick, bowed legs and a partially bald head. He had prominent outstanding ears and tremendous hands, corded and knotted like those of a giant.

“You do very well as it is, sir,” spoke the landlady. “There’s scarce a man in Harlem that could carry so much.”

The man mopped his bald head with a yellow handkerchief and laughed. “Ah, good lady,” said he, “you’ll be seeking to get the better of me in a trade before I’m gone. Sweet words mean only one thing to a man of my business—they seek to take the place of halfpence.”

“Indeed, then,” cried Mistress Trout, “I’ll have no trading with you. I have no time to haggle, and no use for your goods.”

And with that she whisked angularly from the room, leaving the newcomer in a broad grin.

“Now,” declared he with great gusto, “is not that like a woman in every way? ‘I have no use for your goods,’ says she—and never a sight has she of what I have to offer.”

This speech he directed at George, who nodded good-naturedly; the man then put his great thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and proceeded:

“But women folk are ever hard to trade with, sir; thirty years have I ridden these roads with a pack before me, and that is one of the things which I have learned. They have no judgment; caprice rules them; they’ll bargain for hours over a staple article of known value, and then squander their shilling without a word on trash.”

“You are harsh, I think, sir,” said George.

“Sir,” returned the peddler, “that I am not. I know them. Thirty years on the road has taught me something.” Here he approached the fire. “By your leave, sir,” said he to the lieutenant, and sat down upon an end of the settle. The lieutenant nodded curtly and gave him little direct attention. But out of the tail of his eye he observed the peddler narrowly, as George did not fail to observe.

The stranger crossed his thick, bowed legs and held his hands out to the fire with much satisfaction.

“There is still a tang in the air,” said he. “Winter is not quite gone, even yet.”

“No,” returned George, “and further north, it is colder still.”

The saying was entirely unpremeditated; but instantly he realized that it bore an apparent significance, for the peddler shot him a glance of surprise, and then coughed in a warning way behind his hand. Then, as though to cover an awkward happening, the man thrust a thumb and forefinger into his waistcoat pocket and produced a massive watch. Holding it up that George might have a good view of it, he said:

“There is a rare sight for you; I dare venture to say you don’t often see its like. The king puts no finer gold in his guineas, and the cogs and springs and balances are miracles of art.”

“It looks very fine, indeed,” praised George.

“I offer such rarities only to certain gentlemen of quality,” said the peddler; “but,” and he made a wide gesture, “things are not what they were, and I am scantily furnished with money just now.” He bent toward George. “If you fancy such a thing you shall have it at a small price.”

But George shook his head.

“Have you examined it well?” The peddler got up and stood with his broad back to the lieutenant, his head lowered toward George and his face away from the firelight. “It is a surprising watch in more ways than one. Look; could anything be finer?” So saying he snapped open the heavy case and bent still nearer to the young New Englander. Then his voice sank lower and he whispered:

“What ship?”

“The ‘Nancy Breen,’” in the same tone.

“Does the other,” and a twitch of a mouth corner indicated the lieutenant, “bear you company?”

“No.”

“Oh, very well,” said the peddler, his voice lifting plainly, and his manner that of a man rebuffed. “If you have no need of it, why, then, all’s said and done.”

So saying he stuffed the watch into his pocket, rebuttoned the flap, sat down upon his end of the settle once more and began staring fixedly into the fire.

“I suppose,” spoke Lieutenant Camp, after a few moments of silence, “that you pick up many quaint and curious things in your journeyings here and there.”

The peddler gave him no very tolerant look and replied, shortly:

“Ay, that I do, sir.” Then with a bending of his brows and a shake of his bald head, he continued: “But I always make shift to mind my own business, young sir.”

The lieutenant sat up stiff upon the settle. “Do you mean to infer that I do not, my man?” demanded he.

The peddler turned squarely upon him and looked him in the face.

“I was not aware that I called you by name, sir,” said he pointedly.

“Not having a name to call me by,” said the lieutenant, “it would be a difficult thing to do. But, perhaps, if I gave you one, you’d be more civil.”

He stooped and spoke a word or two in the ear of the peddler; and instantly the latter’s dogged look vanished.

“Well, well!” exclaimed he in friendly fashion, “who’d have dreamed it! Who’d have dreamed it!” He struck the oaken settle a resounding blow with the heel of his hand. “We’re coming on, sir; we’re coming on mightily!”

He beamed genially upon the young men, and seemed quite delighted; and just as he seemed upon the point of launching upon matters that George thought might prove most interesting, there came a clatter of hoofs from the road and the jingle of chains and military equipment. The face lost its cheerful look as a voice gave an unintelligible, grumbled order; heavy feet tramped up the path and upon the porch; then the door was flung open and a party of armed men in the colonial buff and blue thronged into the room.

CHAPTER VII
TELLS HOW THREE PEOPLE MADE A DASH FOR FREEDOM

The leader of the colonials was a tall man with wide, sloping shoulders and a harsh face. He had quick, eager eyes that snapped inquiringly and questioned everything upon which they rested.

Halting his men in the center of the public room, he surveyed its three occupants.

“Your position and consequence, gentlemen?” said he. “And how is it that you are here to-night and not at your homes?”

The peddler chuckled and cracked the great fingers of each hand.

“A person of my station, sir,” he made answer, “is at home wherever night overtakes him. I am by occupation a peddler, selling honest stuffs and asking ready silver in exchange.”

“Your name?” demanded the officer, and his eager eyes snapped more than ever.

“Thomas Friend.”

Watching the officer’s face, George saw it change grimly at this answer; he made no remark, but turning to Herbert Camp, inquired:

“And how is it with you, my lad?”

“My name is Bardwell,” returned the young man, composedly. “I suppose, sir,” with a glance at the party of soldiers, “that you have a right to make these inquiries?”

“Ay,” replied the officer, “that I have; and I’m not called upon to show any credentials, either. This uniform will do all that,” and he slapped himself upon the chest, “and so out with the rest of it. What are you, and what is your errand here?”

“I am clerk to a mercer in the city,” replied young Camp—“Mr. Nathan in Maiden Lane, to be exact. And I’m on my way beyond the Harlem upon some matters of business.”

“You could have gotten beyond the Harlem if you had had the mind,” spoke the leader of the party, positively. “There was no reason for your stopping here.”

“I dislike traveling at night,” said the other.

“Then you should have started earlier in the day.” And with this the officer turned upon George. “And you, sir?” he demanded, peremptorily. “What have you to say?”

“I am from Cambridge,” replied George. “I arrived in New York only recently and am traveling about.”

“You selected a most indifferent time and place to do it in,” the other made answer. Then with a gesture that took in all three he added: “You are under arrest.”

Herbert Camp was upon his feet instantly. George fancied he saw his face paling.

“But why?” asked young Camp. “You have no right to interfere with inoffensive people.”

“Not if I know them to be such,” replied the officer, and he laughed harshly. “But my orders are to take all suspicious characters in charge. This man,” and he pointed to the peddler, “I have orders to take wherever and whenever found. You two,” and his snapping eyes shot glances at the two young men, “I’ll take charge of for further examination. I have no desire to inflict hardship upon you,” with something like an apologetic note in his voice, “but these are troublesome times, and we have suffered a great deal through secret agencies. If you are what you claim to be, you will be put to as little disadvantage as possible.”

With that he made a sign to his men; they immediately approached the three guests of the “Wheat Sheaf” and laid hands upon them. But if they expected unresisting submission, they reckoned without the spirit of the strong-limbed peddler. With a sweep of his arms he dashed the troopers aside; then with remarkable agility he bounded to a window; there was a smashing of glass, a rending of wood, and he was gone. Several muskets flashed after him, their reports sounding like thunder in the low ceilinged room.

A soldier had apparently been left to guard the horses.

“Halt!” he cried as his charges began to stamp with fear of the musket shots.

Then there came a racing of hoofs and the sound of a discharging pistol. At the command of their officer, some of the soldiers rushed out after him; the remainder seized upon George and Herbert Camp roughly; their arms were pinioned in an instant with a couple of stout leather belts.

There was a roar of firearms, and hoarse, excited shouts sounded from the darkness; then nags were evidently mounted in haste; the rattle of hoofs sounded as the riders plunged away in pursuit. But that all had not started in the chase was soon made plain. Voices, loud and interrogatory, came from without. Apparently some one made answer; but the answer was not of the sort to satisfy, for again the voices chorused their inquiries. The reply to this was also unsatisfactory and still inaudible to those in the public room. Then came the sound of heavy steps upon the porch; in the hall there was a slight scuffle and then the slope-shouldered officer entered. And after him two of his men led between them—Peggy Camp!

A cry of astonishment broke from the lips of her brother, while George Prentiss gave a gasp.

“Peggy!” exclaimed young Camp.

The girl’s eyes mutely commanded him to be still; but the eager-eyed officer caught the look.

“Too late,” laughed he. “The young man is evidently not accustomed to surprises.” His gaze went from Herbert to the girl with great enjoyment. “And so,” said he to the young man, “you are acquainted with this lady?”

Young Camp made no reply; Peggy stood stiffly upright with her chin tilted proudly, an expression of scorn in her eyes; and she also was silent when the man turned his glance upon her once more.

But for all her pride of bearing, for all her scorn of her captor, George noted a small tremble of the lower lip; it were as though her restraint would goat any moment and the tears begin to flow. And as he watched he saw the resentment in her eyes now and then give place to something else. It was fear; the shivering fear of one who is helpless.

The officer addressed her. “It may be,” said he, “that you can explain your presence outside.”

“Perhaps I could,” she returned, and if there was fear in her eyes, there was no trace of it in her voice.

“It would be somewhat interesting to hear your reasons for lurking about.”

“It would be equally interesting to hear your reasons for treating me as you have done,” answered Peggy, quietly.

“As to that, I have my orders,” and the man laughed, not without good nature. “And in the face of what has just now occurred, I am bound to be even more strict than ever in carrying them out.”

While the officer questioned and the girl answered, her glances went here and there about the room like those of a hunted thing seeking a way of escape. The eyes of George Prentiss closely followed after; but they saw things that her startled glances passed over.

He noted four muskets stacked near a window. These belonged to the men who had pinioned Herbert Camp and himself. The men who had brought Peggy into the room each held one.

“But they,” reflected George, “were fired after the peddler, and have not been reloaded. The same is true of the pistol in the belt of the officer.”

Also he noted something which Peggy could not see. This was that the belt which held his arms behind him had begun to slip; he felt that at any moment he desired he could free himself from it.

He found himself thrilling at the thought. His entrance into the “Wheat Sheaf” had put him upon the track of a promising Tory plot, the coming of the soldiers had all but ruined his chances of getting to the bottom of it; but now hope sprang up once more. If he could help Herbert Camp to escape from the colonials, he felt that he’d have even more chance than before to sound the plot, whatever its nature, to the bottom.

Mistress Trout, the man Job, and all the other inn servants had been greatly put about by the events of the last half hour. As the worst seemed over, they had ventured into the public room and stood listening with much attention to what was being said. The landlady at length took courage; at first this found expression in low-voiced but acid comments upon the proceedings; but when the officer turned to his men and gave orders that the prisoners be removed, she broke out:

“It is a disgrace and a shame, sir, that an inn that has been respected for forty years must be invaded this way, and its guests carried off like common thieves.”

The officer favored her with no very friendly look.

“Perhaps if your inn had not been respected for so long, mistress,” said he, “things would be in a better way for us all. As for these,” and he pointed to George and Herbert Camp, “perhaps common thieves would be far less dangerous to the public good.”

“How dare you hint that I would harbor such!” stormed Mistress Trout. “How dare you, sir! Oh, things have come to a pretty pass, indeed, when honest people must submit to insult from a parcel of upstarts!”

“Hard words, landlady!” said the officer sternly. “You had better put them in your pocket, for you are not so trusted as to be greatly in favor. You are known to have given house-room to plotting king’s men these many weeks back; indeed, there’s not been such another nest of rascals in all the country round about—and that’s saying a great deal.”

The angular Mistress Trout was about to reply, and Herbert Camp and Peggy were being led from the room, when George Prentiss suddenly slipped the belt from his arms. Like a flash he whipped up the four loaded muskets and hurled them through a window at the back; and with a bound he reached the door leading to the hall, flung aside the two soldiers who had charge of Peggy and her brother, slapped the door in their faces, slipped a bolt into place and went racing down the hall. He drew the girl along with him, and young Camp was hard at his heels.

In the light of the inn’s outside lamp he drew his hanger, of which they had not deprived him, and slashed Herbert’s bonds away.

“The horses!” he breathed; “it’s our only chance.”

He had counted upon the horses of the remaining troopers being still outside, and probably unguarded. And in this he was right; there stood the troop in a line, the bridles cast loosely over the hitching-posts. Lightly, George tossed Peggy upon the back of one of these, while Herbert leaped upon another. The young New Englander was in the saddle instantly, and casting loose the other horses, with shouts and blows, sent them scattering down the road.

All this only occupied a few moments; and those few moments the soldiers wasted in endeavoring to force the door which George had bolted in their faces. Their officer was the first to recover his wits, and with excited shouts he drove them to the windows. Out they came, leaping like so many jacks-in-the-box; but the escaping three were already mounted, had given their nags rein and were speeding along the dark road. In a fury the officer drew his pistol and snapped it; the two soldiers followed his example with their muskets. But they were empty, as George had guessed.

And when they had rammed fresh charges home, the flying trio were beyond range. Indeed the sound of the horses’ hoofs had almost died away.

CHAPTER VIII
TELLS HOW PEGGY GAVE A WARNING

The three horses proved to be hardy and fleet; and they seemed to see almost perfectly in the dark. For almost a half hour they were kept at a free gallop, then their riders, feeling them beginning to blow, drew them down to a walk.

Turning in his saddle, George listened, but there were no sounds of pursuit, and he laughed.

“I think our little plan carried very well,” said he.

“Our plan!” It was Lieutenant Camp that spoke, and his voice contained a note of protest. “Yours, you mean; and believe me, sir, the very cleverest that I ever saw executed.”

George laughed again.

“You are giving me credit for a great deal that was purely chance,” said he, lightly. “The bolt upon the door, for instance, and the fact that the horses were not tied fast.” He turned to Peggy, who rode upon the other side of him, and added: “The element of chance is the great factor in most enterprises; don’t you think so?”

She made some reply, but in a voice so low that he did not catch the words.

“We plan as carefully as we can, we weigh and calculate every possibility that presents itself; and then when the time for action arrives, some utterly unlooked-for thing happens that brings us victory or defeat.”

He paused, expecting her to make some reply to his philosophizing; but she did not do so; steadily she sat her horse, and from the vague outline that he had of her, he fancied that she was looking straight ahead. Plainly, she desired no part in the conversation. They had kept to the Kingsbridge Road, and now pressed south as soon as their horses had recovered from their long gallop. Little was now said except upon the part of the lieutenant; he talked eagerly and largely upon the topics of interest to Loyalists. At another time George would have been vastly interested in his remarks, but now he gave them small attention.

Somehow the silence of the girl at his side piqued him; her manner was a subtle irritation. He took exception to her attitude toward him; he felt that a more friendly aspect was but his due.

Mile after mile fell behind them; they passed the long bends in the road that lay just opposite Hell Gate, and then into the straight length near Horen’s Hook. However, they had reached the junction of the Bloomingdale Road below Kip’s Bay before Peggy Camp spoke again.

“Perhaps, Herbert,” she said to her brother, “we are presuming too much upon this young gentleman’s good nature.”

“What’s that?” and the lieutenant was plainly surprised.

“He may have his own affairs to attend to,” she said. “And we should not keep him from them.”

“Oh, I say now,” protested Herbert, “that is just a trifle unfriendly, Peggy. He is going to ride with us into town.”

“It is just as Mistress Camp desires,” returned George, distantly, and sitting very stiffly in his saddle.

“It was a mere suggestion upon my part,” she said, and her voice was as cold as his own. “I have no great interest either way.”

Her brother brought his horse around until he gained her other side; and from the way the animal reared, it was plain that its rider was angry.

“What in the world ails you to-night, Peg?” he demanded heatedly. “One would think that you had been affronted. We all ride together to town. There is some business to transact.”

To this Peggy made no answer; but George, though he could make her out but dimly, knew that she was riding on with head held high, and he also felt sure that her eyes—if one could but have had a glimpse of them—bore the proud look that he had seen in them more than once before.

When they reached the line of defenses that ran westward from Corlear’s Hook, a voice challenged them out of the darkness. Lieutenant Camp rode forward to answer; and no sooner had he vanished than George felt Peggy’s horse press closer to his side.

“Sir,” she said hurriedly, in a low voice, “I must beg of you not to ride into town with us.”

“I don’t understand,” said the young man.

“It is plain that you do not,” she returned, “or you would not be so willing to go.”

He considered for a moment, his eyes trying to search her face.

“Perhaps,” said he, “you could make it clear if you had the mind.”

“It may be so,” she answered. “But I cannot do so. Even in warning you so far I fear I am doing wrong. Nevertheless you have twice been of service to me, and it’s only a poor return to tell you that you are in danger.”

“Danger!” He laughed a little. “In times like these, one is constantly in danger.”

“But not such danger as this.” He felt her hand touch his arm and noted that it was trembling. “There are some dangers that a person of courage can face and overcome. But this——” and her voice trailed away into an unintelligible quaver.

George was about to make answer when they heard the clup-clup of horses’ hoofs and the voice of Lieutenant Camp calling:

“All’s well. You may come forward.”

The girl bent toward George imploringly.

“For the last time! Will you be warned by me?”

“I don’t understand,” he said. “And I would much prefer to go on. But to do so would apparently worry you; and I have no desire to do that.”

“Go now,” she said, eagerly. “Don’t stay. I will ride forward and explain your disappearance as best I can.”

He wheeled his horse and rode back along the road; pausing at a little distance he heard the voice of Lieutenant Camp as he loudly gave the countersign; and again as the lieutenant made an angry exclamation. For a time George expected that the young officer would ride back in search of him; but this did not happen, and in a short space he heard brother and sister pass the sentries, and then all was silent.

The girl’s meaning was shadowy and mysterious; he could not conceive, even in part, what danger could threaten him in the city that did not also threaten them.

“Why, not so much, by far,” he told himself. But then in a moment came another thought. “It is possible,” he reflected, “that she fancies her brother’s known rank in the American army will serve to save him; and that I, being a stranger, would fall under suspicion.”

However, still another thought upset the preceding one.

“She heard me, only yesterday, declaring that I bore dispatches from Boston to General Putnam. That must have convinced her that I, too, am fairly well known.”

For some time he sat in the saddle pondering this puzzle but at last he gave it up.

“No matter what her meaning,” he told himself, cheerfully, “there has been no harm in doing what she requested. It is not as though the brother were unknown to me. I can pick him up at any time—to-morrow perhaps—and resume the matter just where it was broken off to-night at the inn.”

Riding back some little distance he found a road that led westward and brought him to Broadway; and then, after passing the guard, he made his way to the “King’s Arms” and went quietly to bed.

CHAPTER IX
IN WHICH GEORGE PRENTISS RECEIVES AN INVITATION

Next morning George Prentiss made his way to General Putnam’s headquarters at the foot of Broadway; and, as he went, there was at first some doubt in his mind as to the kind of a report he should make.

He had undertaken readily enough the enterprise upon which he had ridden the day before. The conspiring Tories were enemies to the cause of liberty, and he felt no qualms in matching them in their own style of work. But he had not reckoned on what had taken place. He had not expected to find his cousin concerned in it. True, a soldier of the colonies, who was so base as to betray the cause in order that he might profit thereby, was infinitely worse than any Tory.

“He should receive no mercy,” George told himself with indignation. “And any one having the cause at heart should be only too glad to hunt him out and see him punished.”

But for all his realization of this, he felt no desire to pursue and expose Herbert Camp.

However, he knew which way his duty lay; and so he determinedly tramped into headquarters and asked to see General Putnam.

“Why,” cried the hearty old officer, “what now! I had no idea that I’d see you for days.” Then noting an expression in the young man’s face that was not easily read, he added: “Something has happened.”

“Quite a deal has happened,” returned George, “and I thought it best that I make a report to you at once.”

“Out with it,” invited Putnam. “I can see that it is a matter of interest; so lose no time.”

Thereupon George related his adventures of the night before; not a detail escaped the telling, and the general listened with the greatest interest.

“Why,” cried Putnam, when George had finally finished, “here’s a surprising circumstance, indeed. And it would seem that the situation is made to fit you as the coat upon your back. There is nothing for you to do but to take up the scent that is plain before you; and within a week, I warrant you, the solution of it all will be in your hands.”

But George shook his head.

“I’m afraid,” said he, slowly, “that I have no keenness for the work. I felt bound in duty to report what I had seen and heard; but now I ask to be relieved of the matter.”

The general stared at him for a moment in wide amazement. Then the habitually jolly look upon his face died out, and one of coldness replaced it.

“When once a soldier volunteers, it is considered that he is willing to go on until he is directed to halt,” said he.

George lifted his head proudly.

“I, too, am perfectly willing to do that, general, if commanded. But I felt that you were not only my officer but my friend; and that if I told you there was something which made the duty personally distasteful, you would release me from it.”

General Putnam regarded him earnestly for a moment; his face gradually softened.

“You are right, my lad,” spoke he, “I am your friend. This duty, which you have so far carried out smoothly and well, shows itself to be of great importance; and it would be well for us if you could continue it. To be sure, we could arrest young Camp and the merchant Dana at once if need be; but there is still little or no convincing evidence, and a thousand loopholes by which they might escape. The proof necessary could be best secured by you; but if you feel a real repulsion to the work—one that you cannot readily overcome—you may have your wish.”

“Thank you,” said George. “Anything else, general, and you may command me to any length; but not in this.”

Again the general studied him; and then a light crossed his face.

“I think I see,” he said. “This young officer Camp—and his sister—are somehow responsible for your change of front.”

“Yes,” replied George. “They are my cousins—son and daughter of my mother’s sister.”

“I see, I see. And your desire to have no further hand in the thing is perfectly natural. Ah, well, well—the world is a queer place, indeed—a jumble of causes and desires—of hopes and dreads. But,” with a wave of the hand, “that will be all now. I will replace you in this; however, keep in touch with me—there may be something else in which you may prove more ready.”

Again George saluted; and as he left headquarters he encountered Major Hyde upon the sidewalk. Henderson bore him company; and from the attitude of the two they were awaiting him.

“Well met, sir,” spoke Henderson with a friendly wave of the hand.

“This is my crony, Captain Henderson of Lowney’s City troops,” said Major Hyde, indicating the fop.

“I have met the gentleman before,” answered George, coldly.

Hyde laughed, and exhibited more geniality of manner than George would have given him credit for.

“Oh, come now,” said he. “Don’t bear any hard feelings. Give us both a hand, and let us make a fresh beginning.”

“’Pon my soul!” ejaculated the dragoon. “I no more took you the other day for what you are, than I’d have taken you for the man in the moon.” He grasped the young New Englander’s reluctant hand and shook it effusively. “I’m delighted to meet you.”

Hyde also shook his hand, but with more moderation.

“General Putnam gave us some hint of your service,” said he, “and I beg your pardon for any shortness of manner that I may have used toward you. You see, every day there are persons introducing themselves at headquarters who have nothing but presumption to back them up.”

“And,” said George, nettled, “you took me for one of those, then. Why, thank you,” with a bow; “it was extremely good of you.”

Hyde laughed and clapped him upon the back.

George resented the slap upon the back; he was not the sort who took kindly to any form of familiarity upon short acquaintance. But these men were enlisted in the same cause; and he felt it his place to be on a good footing with them. So the only way his anger manifested itself was in his stepping out of reach of both, and drawing himself stiffly erect.

But Hyde did not appear to notice his manner. “You are quartered at the ‘King’s Arms’ still, I think,” said he.

George nodded.

“It’s a very good place, as such places go,” said Hyde. “But it is apt to stale after a little time spent in it.” He regarded the young New Englander in a most kindly fashion. “Do you intend making any stay in New York?”

“My orders were to put myself under the directions of General Putnam until such time as the commander-in-chief arrived.”

Hyde seemed quite delighted at this. As for Henderson, he slapped his thigh.

“Now, there is luck!” cried he. “I told you, major, that something of the kind must be so. And he’ll be just the fellow for us.”

But Major Hyde motioned for him to be quiet.

“Don’t be quite so ready,” said he. “Perhaps Mr. Prentiss has plans of his own.”

He then turned to George once more.

“You see,” said he, “some of us have grown tired of tavern fare and tavern company; and we have engaged a house in Wall Street, ready furnished and with a black fellow as cook——”

“And such talent!” interrupted the young dragoon, who evidently loved fine food almost as well as he did fine clothes. “Never was there such a cook before. In his hands even so common an article as a joint of beef becomes a thing almost ethereal.”

“I will not go quite so far as that,” laughed the major, “but I will say that we are circumstanced most comfortably. There are four of us, and there is room for one more. Henderson and I have discussed the matter and made up our minds that we owe you something to make amends for a rather boorish greeting the other day. We’d be pleased to have you join us in this venture, and can assure you of greater convenience than you’ll get at an inn.”

But George shook his head.

“It will be but a few days, now,” said he, “before the main body of the army arrives; and my employment will then be such that I’ll not know from one day to another where I shall be. Another thing, I have some close friends with the Massachusetts troops; and shall quarter with them at such times as I shall be disengaged.”

“Oh, see here now,” said the foppish dragoon, “this is most unforgiving of you, ’pon my soul it is.”

“I’m very sorry,” said Hyde, whose disappointment was better tempered, but equally keen. “We had all but counted upon you.” He studied George for a moment, and then added: “But you can come and dine with us now and then, can you not? We shall be pleased to see you at any time.”

At any other time George might have consented to accept their hospitality out of sheer good nature. But now he somehow instinctively drew back. It may have been that his first impression of the two men was still strong upon him; or it may have been something else. He did not, however, pause to work it out; but with a bow and a polite wave of the hand, he said:

“You are very kind. Some other time, perhaps; but not to-night.”

And with that he swung along up Broadway, leaving them standing gazing after him.

CHAPTER X
SHOWS HOW WASHINGTON CAME TO NEW YORK

When George Prentiss told Major Hyde and Captain Henderson that he would remain in New York until Washington arrived with the army from Boston, he had not reckoned with the uncertainties of the service.

That very evening he was called upon to board a swift-sailing ship to New London, there to deliver certain important writings to the officer in command of that division of the army which was expected to have already reached that point. This duty the young New Englander performed with the promptness native to him; and, under orders of the authorities at New London, he rode with other dispatches to Washington at Norwich.

As he dismounted from his horse before the commander-in-chief’s headquarters, he was greeted with a hearty:

“What! do we see you again, old chap? We thought we’d lost you for a week or more.”

The speaker was a stalwart young man in a continental uniform; and beside him stood another, sleek and pippin-faced and with a friendly smile.

“The leaders of this army,” laughed the latter, “seem to know an accomplished dispatch bearer when they see one. It speaks well for their discernment.”

George shook them both heartily by the hand.

“I had not expected to see you, either. I had heard,” to the stalwart one, “that you’d been sent off on a recruiting expedition through the Massachusetts towns.”

Nat Brewster nodded gravely.

“I returned only yesterday. And we had but little success. Now that their own homes are not threatened, the people seem to be losing interest in the struggle.”

The round-faced youth smiled widely at this.

“If they don’t come forward,” said he, “they’ll find themselves worse off than before. The British are swarming over seas, I’ve heard. The stories of the mess-rooms have the Atlantic black with frigates and three-deckers of the line.”

“It’s very likely not as bad as Ben paints it,” said young Brewster, “but at the same time there is good cause for alarm. Nothing is known of the expedition that sailed from Boston under Sir Henry Clinton before the evacuation. It’s a formidable force, capable of striking a crippling blow; and then the army under Howe must be hovering somewhere within easy sailing distance. To meet this and the forces which the ministers at London must now be fitting out against us, General Washington must greatly increase his force.”

“Night and day he’s at it,” said Ben Cooper, in high admiration; “you never saw such a man to work. But the recruits come in like snails. They somehow seem to dread to leave their own states. Just as though,” in disgust, “there were any more danger upon one side of a boundary line than there is on another.”

After George had delivered his dispatches and dined, his brother Ezra, more astonishingly his counterpart than ever before, broke in upon him tumultuously. And after they had exchanged experiences, George related his queer encounters with Herbert Camp and his sister in New York.

“A traitor,” said Ezra, aghast.

“There can be no doubt about it,” said George. “A traitor, bought by the prospects of the old man’s fortune.”

They sat for a long time in silence; then Ezra laid his hand upon his brother’s arm.

“I am glad,” said he, “that you asked General Putnam’s permission to withdraw. Herbert Camp will be taken in the end, but neither you nor I must have a hand in it.”

George was next day assigned, together with his brother and two friends, to service under General Knox in transporting the artillery, and in this work he labored for some days until the heavy guns of Washington’s force were safely stowed in the vessels that were to carry them to New York.

It was on April 13th that Washington finally reached New York City. The populace were thick in the streets and received him with thunderous cheers. Guns were fired, though the ammunition could be ill spared, and a medley of colonial flags fluttered in the breeze.

As it happened, Tryon, the British governor, had just arrived in the “Asia,” a huge ship of the line, to replace Colden once more. Mounting the ramparts of the fort he noted the tumult of color and the seething sea of citizens.

“What,” cried he, to those of his staff who bore him company, “I did not know that I had grown so popular with the townsfolk.”

“The rebel leader, Mr. Washington, has just reached the city, Your Excellency,” said some one; “and I fear that it is he whom they are welcoming.”

Tryon’s face darkened. “Ah,” sneered he, “is it so? Well, we will shortly see how they will welcome the cannon shots that I’ll send about their ears. I doubt if they will then be so overjoyed.”

George Prentiss heard this from the lips of the young ensign who had shown him the way to General Putnam’s headquarters a few weeks before. This young man’s name was Noel, and George, in his few meetings with him, had found him to be a student of the times and of the conspicuous figures therein.

“Quite a setback for old Tryon,” laughed young Noel. “Must have jarred him quite a bit, I’ll warrant you. But the conceit of the wretch, to think that any community would take a step out of its way to cheer him. What else but an uprising could Lord North and the rest of the king’s ministers expect, when they appoint such as he to rule the province?”

“I have heard very little of him,” said George, “except that he is a tyrant.”

“Some ten years ago,” said the ensign Noel, “he was made governor of North Carolina, vice Dobbs deceased. He built a palace at Newberne and gave entertainments that were the talk of the province. And to pay for all this the taxes went up by leaps and bounds; his administration was one black history of crime and extortion; and at last the ‘Regulator’ movement began that ended in his being withdrawn.”

“And not being good enough for North Carolina, they saddled him upon New York,” smiled young Prentiss.

“Precisely. But he’s not for long.”

A number of young militiamen were gathered upon the Parade at the time, and one in the group remarked to George:

“I met your friends Brewster and Cooper to-day. And afterward, some of the Massachusetts men fell to talking of them. Very remarkable young men, I should say.”

“They have seen their share of service,” replied George. “Brewster is from the Wyoming region, and Cooper is his cousin, a Philadelphian. They both got into Boston before the Lexington fight, and there has been little of consequence since that time that they have not had a hand in.”

“I hope,” said Ensign Noel, “that we have as much chance in New York as you fellows about Boston have had. So far there has been little or no opportunity for anything but hard work. Of course the fortifications and the planting of batteries are necessary things; but there is little credit in the work save for engineer officers.”

“You’ll get your fill of fighting, Noel, before you are many months older, or I’m greatly mistaken,” spoke another of the party. “And you’ll not be sorry, either, that some effort was made in the way of fortifications. We may need every scrap of strength that we can muster.”

The defenses planned by Lee had been for the most part completed, some by himself, others by Lord Sterling and General Putnam; and the remainder began to rise like magic under the hand of Washington.

These were the days of great perplexities for the commander-in-chief. New York had now become the grand magazine of the colonies. He had few men to defend it against the weighty force that England was expected to send. Terms of enlistment were about expiring for a great part of the troops that had been brought from Boston; day by day the army was growing less, and yet call after call came to him for reinforcements for the desperately circumstanced force in Canada.

Some weeks after his assuming command of New York, Washington set out for Philadelphia to consult with Congress with regard to the passage of an act that would increase the army in a more permanent way; for he now realized that the transient enlistment of militia would never supply sufficient power to effect real progress against a disciplined enemy.

Meanwhile George Prentiss, who was attached to headquarters, had rather an idle time of it so far as regular service went. He did not waste his days, however; each afternoon he rode out and inspected the roads and outlying defenses; also he made pencil sketches of points which he fancied would be of value, and topographical maps of both Manhattan and Long Island for miles around. This sort of work came naturally to him; more than once his officers had complimented him upon his facility, and found its product of considerable value.

One evening toward the end of May he rode into the city with a bundle of sketches in his saddle-bag; he had been in the district about Kingsbridge, but had made his way back by the roads along the East River. Riding along Queen Street he had all but reached the junction of Crown when he espied a little party that crossed just ahead of him. There was something familiar about them, so touching his horse with the spur he turned into Crown Street after them.

There was a corpulent old gentleman upon a broad-backed Flemish mare; there was a spare old gentleman upon a rangy looking cob; and there was a girl upon a chestnut which champed its bit and seemed to disdain the ground. He had not gone more than a dozen yards into Crown Street before he recognized those ahead of him. They were Merchant Camp, his partner, Mr. Dana—and Peggy.

Before a wide fronted brick house, not more than a dozen yards east of William Street, the party halted. It was undoubtedly old Camp’s city residence, for at his call, a couple of stout serving men hastened out and assisted the three to dismount. The stout old merchant gallantly led Peggy up the steps, while Dana halted along behind them.

Somehow, after this, George found much to interest him in that part of the city. The flower gardens, just beginning to bloom, were full of attraction; the quaint old Dutch houses were rich in lore of times past; he found odd, loitering fellows who could and would talk of their neighbors; also craftsmen who were not in the least averse to an honest gossip while they plied their trades.

An old basket weaver, who sat in the sun which slanted in at his doorway while he contrived articles of reed and cane, had lived and worked there for forty years.

“Things were different when I first came,” said he to George, and he shook his white head in recollection of times past. “I was young then—not yet thirty—work was plenty and times were quieter. Good, God-fearing folk there was then—folk that had need of more baskets and less powder and ball. Then people were glad to be able to do each other a favor; now nothing will do them but that they’ll cut one another’s throats.”

“Times and people are always changing,” said George, agreeably. “But riches change folk more than anything else, perhaps,” he philosophized. “There’s your neighbor Camp, the merchant. He’s altered greatly in forty years, I’ll warrant you.”

“Why, not so much as you’d think,” said the basket maker. “Except for the fact that he prefers to live far away in the country and gives but little of his time to his trade or his ships, he’s much the same as he’s always been.”

George laughed.

“His hard and fast manner did not come with age, then?” remarked he. “As a young man he must have been a most forcible character.”

The old basket weaver nodded. “Always just the same in temper,” said he. “Just as you see him to-day. If a thing didn’t please him, he’d storm like a fury. But he was always good-hearted and honest; I’ll say that for him, Tory as he is.”

“It’s an odd thing—or so I’ve thought sometimes—that a man’s kin are so seldom like him.”

“That’s a true saying,” agreed the basket weaver, as he worked away industriously in the sunshine. “A very true saying, young sir. And perhaps it is even oftener the case than you’d think. In the matter of Merchant Camp, there are few that belong to him that have any but a trace of his quality. Miss Peggy is more like him than any one else. She has his pride in full and a rare bit of his peppery temper. But her brother is a surly young dog. He’s a patriot, of course,” and the old man grimaced, “but his deeds in that way will never break him down.”

“What do you mean?” asked George.

“Why, he went into the army when General Lee came, and strutted with the best of them. But now that there is a chance of employment against the enemy, he’s given up his commission—resigned, they tell me.”

This was news to George. True, he had seen nothing of Herbert Camp since his return to New York; and he had made no inquiries, thinking it best, for one reason and another, to put the whole episode of the “Wheat Sheaf” behind him.

“Of course, a man has a proper right to do as he will,” observed the basket maker, wagging his head. “He had his reasons, they say. However, the matter stands as I have put it. And since his giving up the army, little is seen of him; once or twice I’ve noted him pass my door, and his head was hanging like a dog’s that had been caught harrying a rabbit out of season.”

When George left the basket maker, he rode along Crown Street and passed the Camp mansion at a canter. By chance he lifted his eyes to one of the windows; there stood his cousin Peggy, an arm upraised, holding back the curtains; and as their glances met, she quickly let the curtain fall.

But that one look told him more eloquently than words could have done that Peggy’s mind was not at rest; there was a look of fear in her eyes; her expression was intent and anxious.

And so, day by day, as his affairs took him through Crown Street, he never failed to look up at the window; but not once again did he catch sight of her.

CHAPTER XI
IN WHICH GEORGE PRENTISS MAKES A SUDDEN RESOLUTION

In the meantime Washington had returned to New York. Knowing that if the British ventured against the town, they would at once attempt to seize the navigation of the Hudson, he redoubled his efforts to strengthen the defenses of that important river. Upon his ability to hold this depended the possible safety of the entire province.

Fort Montgomery was planted at the lower part of the Highlands on a tall bluff north of Dunderberg. Here the river was a mile wide, and just opposite was the promontory called Anthony’s Nose, hundreds of feet high and accessible only to goats and men expert in climbing. From this a body of riflemen might sweep a vessel’s decks.

Fort Constitution was some miles higher up and built upon an island. The former fort was garrisoned by about two hundred and fifty of Clinton’s regiment and Wisner’s minutemen; the latter had about half as many drawn from the same source, and all were about half armed and badly equipped. Colonel James Clinton was in command of both posts.

Breastworks were thrown up for the defense of Kingsbridge and another work commanded Spuyten Duyvil Creek. A strong work to crown a rocky height some few miles below the bridge was also planned; this was to be called Fort Washington, and it would command the channels of the Hudson; also, redoubts were to be built on the banks at Jeffreys Point.

While these efforts were being made along the Hudson, Brooklyn was not neglected. Here the talent of General Greene was manifested; and in many other places works were thrown up, batteries planted and redoubts built.

And it would seem they were none too soon; for the rumors as to the coming of a heavy British armament were growing thicker and thicker; some had it that the bay would be full of war-ships before a fortnight had passed.

Governor Tryon had long before given up the attempt to rule the province from the point of Manhattan Island; so he undertook the much more difficult task of transacting its affairs from the after cabin of the “Asia,” which was anchored in the bay. He was in constant communication with the king’s men of Long Island; plot upon plot was hatched upon the ship of the line; some of them carried, some were thwarted, but only one made a great noise and scurrying.

One afternoon George was riding from Washington’s headquarters at Richmond Hill; along a winding path which led through Lispenard’s meadows raced his friends Brewster and Cooper upon horses white with foam.

He hurriedly drew his mount aside, for they never slowed their pace, and as they flashed by he saw Nat Brewster wave his hand for him to follow. At once he wheeled and plunged along after them. At Richmond Hill the two dismounted, and had already been admitted when George rode up; their panting mounts were being led to and fro by an attendant; little groups of officers stood about, conversing in low tones.

George slipped out of his saddle and waited; it was perhaps a quarter of an hour later that young Cooper, his round face running beads of perspiration and his eyes lit with excitement, threw open the door and came hastily out. He carried a paper sealed with a great splash of red wax; and his glance went quickly about until it rested upon George. Instantly he approached him.

“Nat said he saw you,” stated the chubby-faced youth, excitedly, “and that you followed us. And it’s lucky you did, for there’s plenty for you to do, old fellow.” He held up the dispatch. “This is for General Sterling.” He passed the sealed paper to George. “Make all speed. Nat and I and some others are going to carry the alarm to Harlem and the posts on the way.”

“Alarm!” repeated young Prentiss in surprise. Ben took a step nearer.

“A conspiracy! Brewster was put upon it as soon as he reached New York, and he just got to the bottom of it this afternoon.” Here a voice called his name from one of the windows of the mansion. “I must go,” said he, hurriedly. “Ride hard, for moments are precious.”

As Ben darted away into the house, George threw himself into the saddle; giving his horse rein, he galloped off toward the city. General Lord Sterling was not to be found in his quarters in Broadway; but at the “King’s Arms” George discovered him engaged with a dish of mutton chops.

“How now?” said the grave-faced soldier, looking up in surprise. “You seem quite breathless.”

“Important news, general,” said the young man, handing him the dispatches.

Neglectful of the smoking chops, Lord Sterling broke the seal and ran his eyes over the lines of writing. His hand struck the table and the dishes leaped under the impact.

“Done!” exclaimed he. “Done at last! Now, my fine fellows,” folding up the paper and stowing it in the breast of his uniform coat, “let me see you escape the net we’ll spread for you.”

LORD STERLING BROKE THE SEAL

Vigorously he began cutting at his meat, but in a moment he dropped both knife and fork, and said to George:

“Putnam has hinted to me that you have had a chance to hunt out this very matter some time ago, but that for private reasons you gave it up.”

George bowed, but said nothing.

“Well, it seems to have made no difference. Young Brewster has handled the thing most cleverly. And nothing but the severest blows would do the rascals,” continued Sterling. “They aspire to blowing up our important magazines, and not content with that, they must needs have the life of the commander-in-chief.”

“May I ask, general, what names have been mentioned?”

The thought which George had been trying to stifle all the way into the city had finally found expression.

“A sergeant named Hickey is deep in it. You have seen him, perhaps.”

“Frequently. He was a deserter from the British, I think, and was used to drill our men.”

“That is the very fellow. More than likely his desertion was a blind; he was probably sent to take service with us so that he could try his hand at corrupting our soldiers, as he has been doing.”

“Are there any others?”

“David Matthews, Tory mayor of the city, has been distributing money to enlist men and purchase arms. A number of General Washington’s body-guard is mentioned and will be seized as soon as the word is given.”

Lord Sterling paused for a moment, and then continued:

“There is still another person suspected. However, he has been very careful and little has been found against him. And he is, perhaps, more to be feared than any of the others.”

“Has his name ever been upon our list of officers?” asked George, and his voice sounded strangely in his own ears.

The general looked at him in surprise.

“I had not thought you had gone so far into the matter,” said he. “And while I can mention no names, it is very likely the person you have in mind.”

That night, at the place where they had quartered, George had a brief talk with Nat Brewster, who had just ridden in from the Highlands, and was eating a hasty supper.

“I will give you the details later,” said Nat, “but the main facts are these: I intercepted some letters passing between Mayor Matthews at his place in Flatbush, and Governor Tryon on board the ‘Asia’; and in this way secured the vital facts.”

“I see.”

“I never saw any documents richer in facts. They were full of allusions which proved most valuable to me. I recall one in particular which put me on a surprising scent. It said: ‘Don’t hesitate to trust the young man I spoke of to the full. He is a nephew of Camp’s, and as he has proven trustworthy in the past, will no doubt continue to be so in the future.’”

“Is it known when they will be arrested?”

“The present home of Mayor Matthews is no great distance from General Greene’s camp on Long Island. His house is to be surrounded to-night, and he is to be taken. We expect to arrest the other actors in the conspiracy, also, to-night. They are to meet at Corbie’s tavern, which lies just to the west of Bayard’s woods; perhaps we’ll have the good fortune to capture them in a body.”

Nat had time to tell but little more; for instantly upon finishing his meal, he ran out and mounted a fresh horse, which had been saddled for him, and rode off toward Richmond Hill.

For some time after he had gone, George sat upon a bench at an open window and stared out at the June night. The boy’s mind was full of vague trouble; there was something that stirred him strangely. Dully, he realized that it all concerned the prospective arrest of young Camp.

“But he is a traitor,” he told himself. “He deliberately broke his solemn oath to the colonies that he might be enriched with his uncle’s money. He is my cousin, but that he is to be shamed and made to suffer is just and right.”

But then there was Peggy. She had loved her brother and she no doubt continued to love him; she would also suffer, keenly, bitterly, pitifully. George realized that to the full.

“Girls always grieve and break their hearts over a weakling who has done evil and is made to pay,” he muttered, as he clasped his knees and stared out into the darkness. “And the nearer and dearer the criminal is to them, the greater the grief.”

That Herbert Camp was near and dear to his sister had been made evident.

“Did she not ride after him on that night at the ‘Wheat Sheaf,’” he said, “fearing that he would come to harm? And since then what has she not suffered, perhaps, because of him—in forebodings, in fear that he would be found out? For all I know, she has ridden after him more than once since, in the hope of safeguarding him. It may be that even to-night——”

Like a flash he was upon his feet.

“Peter!” he called, sharply. “Peter.”

A thick-set fellow, showing his Dutch descent plainly, lumbered into the room.

“Did you call?” he inquired, stolidly.

“My horse—put the saddle on him as quickly as you can and bring him around to the door.”

Grumbling to himself, Peter quitted the apartment. George adjusted his shoulder belt with its steel hilted hanger; also, he looked sharply to the priming of a pistol which he stuck into his belt; then he paced the floor, waiting for his mount.

The horse’s iron shoes rang upon the stones; and in a few moments George was in the saddle once more and headed away toward Bayard’s woods.

CHAPTER XII
TELLS HOW TWO PEOPLE PEERED THROUGH THE
WINDOW OF THE OLD MILL

The night was without moon or stars, but the low, coppery sky made things distinguishable, and the horse ridden by George Prentiss had no difficulty in maintaining a steady lope.

Once outside the city proper, the rider struck across the meadows, knowing that Bayard’s woods were no great distance from Washington’s headquarters. Entering a path that skirted the wood, he pushed along until he saw the glow of lights through a growth of heavy trees.

“That will be the tavern,” said George. “For none but a public house would have so many candles burning.”

Quietly he rode forward; suddenly his horse snorted and reared; only a good seat and a firm hand saved the young New Englander from a fall. His keen eyes, by this time well accustomed to the semi-darkness, saw a dark shadow flit across his path.

“Hello,” he called, and his right hand clutched the pistol butt, “take care, there.”

The unknown made no answer; and the rustling of the thick, spring growth showed that no pause was made. George held in his nervous horse, his eyes searching his surroundings as best they could. But the shadow had disappeared into the thicker ones beyond, and all was silence.

The lad did not waste any time in search, but speaking to his mount, headed toward the lights of the tavern. Upon the side by which he approached, the land lay low; then the path ascended a knoll, and upon the top of this was a building.

When he had gained the summit of the rise, George recognized that the building was a mill; its solid outline and broken wings showed it to be, perhaps, still another reminder of the Dutch who had held the land in years gone by.

Here the young New Englander dismounted and tied his horse.

He had taken to the path once more and had gone but half a dozen yards, when he suddenly came to a stand. Listening intently, he caught the scuff-scuff of advancing footsteps. Straining his eyes, he dimly made out two figures, arm in arm, and approaching with great caution.

Instinctively young Prentiss shrank back into the shadow of the mill wall; then he waited until the two came up. They were almost abreast of him when they paused.

“This is the place,” spoke one, in a voice strange to the listener. “We can talk inside here without danger of being observed or overheard. Many’s the time I’ve transacted risky business here.”

Once more they advanced, apparently directly toward the lurking figure against the wall; a hand was outstretched, so it seemed to George, to grasp him; but in reality it was to open a door close beside him. The rusty hinges creaked and complained querulously; then the two passed into the mill and the door closed after them.

George waited for a few moments, then he stole to the door. With his ear close against it, he detected the clink of a steel against flint, then through the long seams that now showed between the warped boards of the door he caught the gleam of the spark.

“They’ve lighted a candle,” he murmured to himself.

There was a window some dozen feet above the ground; and he was gazing up at it speculatively when he noticed the shoots of a sturdy vine playing back and forth in the square of light.

Carefully he took hold of this and began to draw himself upward; inch by inch he ascended until finally his head rose above the level of the window. Securing a good foot-hold in a tough fork of the stem, George settled himself to observe what was before him. The room was a fairly large one, having once upon a time been used for a storeroom by the miller for his grist. A candle end sputtered fitfully upon the head of an upturned cask; and beside it sat two figures engaged in earnest conversation.

Looking down at them as he was, George had no very plain view of their faces; but their words came distinctly enough to his ears.

“I wish,” spoke the voice which he had heard a few minutes before, “I had known of your willingness some time ago. You would have been very useful.”

“I may still be so,” replied the second person, and young Prentiss started and barely managed to choke back the exclamation that arose to his lips. The speaker was Herbert Camp!

“No,” said the first man. “Our plans are now complete. Nothing remains but to await the moment when the signal is given.”

“And when will that be?” inquired Camp.

“How am I to answer that?” said the other man. “I know very little of anything except the danger.”

“They don’t tell you the important things, then?”

“Only those that they must. There are men among them that are not half—no, not a tenth as much concerned as I am; and yet they have the details at their fingers’ ends.”

“It would seem to me that you are not well treated, Hickey,” said Herbert Camp.

In the uncertain candle-light George now recognized the uniform of Washington’s guard which the second man was wearing; he had seen the British deserter only a few times, but, now that he was called to mind, the watching youth had no doubt that this was he.

“Did you, or anybody else, ever hear of Tryon treating those that serve him decently?” demanded Hickey. “He’s one of the sort that squeeze you dry—and then drop you. But,” he went on, “when he’s made up his mind to drop me, my pockets will be well lined, for if he does not give me his confidence, he does give me his money.” Once more the deserter laughed.

What answer Herbert made, young Prentiss did not hear; but in a moment the other began speaking again.

“When old Dana recommended you to me, I naturally had my doubts. ‘Is he to be trusted?’ asks I. ‘As you’d trust yourself,’ says he. ‘Are you sure of that?’ says I. ‘As sure as I am of anything,’ says he. ‘It means sixty thousand pounds to him in ready money, real property and some of the finest ships that sail the sea. Oh, yes, you can trust him to any length; he’ll not miss a fortune like that,’ says he.”

“No more would any man,” answered Herbert Camp.

The remainder of the reply was lost to George; for at the moment Camp began speaking, a sound outside the mill came to the ears of the young New Englander. He drew his head down out of the lighted square of the window and listened. But nothing followed.

“It must have been the horse stamping,” was George’s thought, after a few moments. He was about to resume his former position when he caught the soft fall of feet almost directly below him; and while he crouched low, listening, he felt the vine shaking as though under an inquiring hand.

“Some one is coming up,” he breathed. And, sure enough, the stout vine shook and strained under an additional weight; slowly and with much more difficulty than he had had, George felt the unknown ascend. For a moment he fancied that he had been discovered and that the newcomer was swarming up the vine to seize upon him. His hand went to the pistol in the belt, and he awaited the first hostile word or touch to draw it for use.

The window was rather a large one, and the point that George had gained, through pure chance, was to the extreme left of it. And now it also chanced that the newcomer scaled to the right; in the darkness a head came even with the young man, and, indeed, passed him.

With his feet, knees and left hand holding to the thick stem of the vine, George hung, clutching the pistol butt and awaiting the moment to act. But, so it seemed, the stranger had more interest within the mill than without, for the head went cautiously above the window’s edge, the dim yellow rays fell upon the face, and with a sharp gasp, George recognized Peggy Camp!

CHAPTER XIII
IN WHICH PEGGY CAMP SHOWS HER COURAGE

For a moment, George Prentiss was so startled that he almost slipped his hold on the vine. But apparently Peggy took no notice, her interest in the two in the room below was so great; the dim rays of the candle were reflected in her eager eyes.

Though George, owing to his position, could not see the deserter and his companion, their voices were so pitched that he had no difficulty in hearing their conversation.

“The cause of the colonies attracted me,” he caught from young Camp. “It was the romance of it, no doubt; and partly it was the spirit of rebellion that every young man feels against the powers that be. But when my uncle made it so plain to me that it was against my interest to continue as a colonial officer, why, I did not hesitate an instant.”

A fist struck the cask head and the flickering candle leaped and almost went out.

“Now that is what I call reason, well spoken,” declared Hickey.

“Mr. Dana must have told you my opinions of these things,” said young Camp, “so there is no need of my repeating them. My object in coming here to-night was to offer my services in any way that you might be able to use me.”

“As to that,” replied the other, “I don’t know. There are others to be considered beside myself, you see. But,” here his voice fell into a much lower key and finally trailed off into a soft whispering which continued for some time. Then Herbert Camp was heard to say, emphatically:

“If you will do that it is all that I can ask in reason. Come,” and the pushing back of stools told that the two had risen, “let us go at once. I believe in making haste in things of this sort, for the opportunity does not always last.”

There was a low-voiced reply from the deserter; then the light went out and the dimly illumined square of the window vanished. Once more the neglected hinges creaked, then the door closed, and footsteps went stumbling away toward the tavern.

And now Peggy Camp began to descend the vine; in reaching out to take a fresh hold, she slipped and would probably have fallen had not a firm hand caught and held her. A frightened little cry came to her lips; but a voice, almost in her ear, said:

“Don’t be alarmed; I am a friend.”

But the words were unheeded; the terror of a presence so near to her and so unsuspected overcame all else; she swung herself down to the ground with the celerity of fear, and George, when he had also descended, found her gone. For a moment he stood trying to pierce the gloom in all directions; then a now familiar sound came to him—the rasping, complaining squeak of neglected hinges. A few steps brought him to the door through which he had first seen the candle-light; slipping within, he closed it behind him.

“Once more,” said he, calmly, “I ask you not to be alarmed. You have no occasion for it.” With the deftness that comes of experience he kindled a blaze; the candle end was still in its place upon the upturned cask, and lighting this, he looked about him.

Peggy stood a dozen feet away, her eyes fixed steadily upon him; the tilt of her chin and the proud pose of her young body told as plainly as words could have done that though she might be well-nigh sick with terror, still she would not show it. George regarded her for a moment or two in silence; then he said:

“I fancied that I would find you here.”

“And I,” flashed she, “was sure that you would be at no great distance.”

There was something in her manner and voice that affected him unpleasantly; he felt his face flush hotly.

“Oh, indeed!” was all that he could find to say in return. “And may I ask why?”

“Because,” said Peggy, coldly, “there are underhand things being planned.”

“It so happens, now and then,” said he at last, and rather lamely, “that one is forced to contend with such conditions.”

“Forced!” Her eyes flashed scornfully as she caught the word up. “It seems, sir, that you are a trifle disingenuous. Your choice is free in the matter, I should think.”

He snuffed the long wick of the candle with his fingers; in the heightened light he looked at her with attention. And as he looked, his wits slowly returned. He resented the scorn so plain in her dark eyes; his anger grew at the contempt written so straightforwardly in her face.

“Here I am,” was his thought, “and for no other purpose in the world but that she may be kept from danger; and she goes out of her way to treat me as though I were some scurvy rascal.”

Then, aloud, he said:

“That I chose to be abroad upon another night, as you will perhaps recall, served certain people well. Who knows but that another such occasion might now arise; for, unless I am mistaken, the conditions are much alike.”

He heard her breath intaken sharply at this; and when she answered, her voice shook a little.

“I don’t think I quite understand,” she said.

“Do you mean that you don’t understand what happened at that other time, or what may happen to-night?”

“As to that other night,” she said, “I was puzzled at first. But later, I came to understand. I saw that the matter had not gone far enough to serve your purpose, and you desired to learn more than you knew. Then,” and she flashed him a look of contempt, “they might seize upon my brother and welcome.”

He made no reply, though she paused for one. After a moment she proceeded, but in an altered tone.

“But you spoke of to-night. What did you mean?”

“I said that the conditions are not unlike. Your brother is here, in secret; and you have followed him—also in secret.”

“And the rest——?” eagerly.

He shrugged his shoulders, and his gigantic shadow mimicked him much as Hickey’s had done a little while before.

“As to that,” said he, “I would not venture to prophesy.”

“I do not require you to do that,” she said. “I merely ask you to tell what you know.” She came a step nearer to him and her head bent forward, as she continued: “That night at the ‘Wheat Sheaf’ a party of colonial soldiers showed themselves. Will it be the same to-night?”

He hesitated; like lightning she seized upon this as an answer.

“It will,” she cried. “You have seen to that. Such as you are always to be depended upon to arrange their traps cleverly.”

Her eyes now fairly burned with scorn; her gesture, as she shrank back from him, was one of repulsion. And it was this gesture that goaded him beyond endurance.

“I have laid no trap!” he answered; “and I have not been a party to the laying of one. I do not expect you to believe me, for I see that you have made up your mind to think the worst of me. But even if I were seeking to snare your brother, would I be anything like as false as he?” She seemed about to make answer, but he waved it back. “I, at least, would be working for truth and the cause I’d sworn to uphold, while he——”

Her laughter interrupted him. “You!” she cried. “You working for truth! You upholding a cause because you had sworn to do so!”

It was with great difficulty that he kept back the bitter words that came to his lips; but he felt that his resentment had already caused him to go too far. So he remained silent.

She stood looking at him as though expecting him to reply; but as he did not do so, she went on:

“Because you have overheard my brother just now, you think there is nothing to be said in his defense. But you are wrong. There is this. No matter what his words may have been,” and again she bent toward him, “he is as free of wrong as you are.”

George was about to make a reply, when suddenly there came a smothered crash of shots from some little distance away, mingled with excited shouts and cries of pain. Instantly he threw the door open, and as he ran out he was aware that Peggy had extinguished the candle. The tavern was a bedlam of sound; rapid shots were being exchanged within.

Through the open windows and doors of the building men were springing, followed by others who were grappling with them and bearing them to the ground. But one, an active and speedy runner, gained the outside without mishap and raced away from the inn, a half dozen pursuers at his heels. With a leap of the heart George knew him as Herbert Camp, and though he wanted to have nothing to do with his taking, duty was plain before him.

“He’s a self-confessed traitor,” muttered the youth, “and I am bound to bring him down if I can.”

With the tavern lights behind him, young Camp could be made out with more or less plainness; and he was headed directly toward the abandoned mill. As he drew near, George Prentiss gathered himself for an effort; the scattering slugs from the heavy pistols of those in pursuit sputtered and hummed about him, but he did not flinch. The fugitive had reached a point a dozen yards away when the young New Englander made his contemplated rush. However, he had not gone more than a few steps when he felt his foot grasped strongly; and down he went at full length upon the ground.

What followed was rather confused; a half dozen or more colonials ran by and over him. A few paused to drag him to his feet and disarm him. Then he heard Nat Brewster’s voice call out:

“He’s gone inside here; the door’s barred. Get something to force it.”

Lights sprang up and danced upon the stone walls of the mill; a heavy log thundered upon the door.

“It was she that tripped me,” thought George. “And she’s hurried her brother inside, thinking to escape notice. But they are trapped.”

The door fell in with a crash, and Nat leaped over the threshold.

“Empty!” he cried. “See, there is another door!”

Sure enough, there was—one that had escaped George’s notice, but which Peggy had evidently observed. And while they stood staring at it, the sudden rattle of hoofs told the patriots that their man had made good his escape.

CHAPTER XIV
SHOWS HOW THE BRITISH SHIPS CAME INTO THE BAY

At a few words from his friends, George Prentiss was released; but Hickey and some others who had been taken were marched to a place of security and put under guard.

Next day all was in a turmoil; the Tories in and about the city feared for their lives. As Nat Brewster had predicted, Matthews, the mayor of New York, was arrested by a detachment of Greene’s brigade; his house and person were searched, but no incriminating papers were found. Those of the Tories who had prepared for an outbreak fled, upon learning that their leaders had been taken.

Washington struck swiftly and strongly; those of the plotters who belonged to the army were at once brought before a courtmartial; the others were handed over to the civic power. Of the members of the general’s guard taken, only Hickey was convicted; he was promptly hanged on June 28th.

On the day following this execution, a lookout on Staten Island reported a fleet of forty sail in sight. The news quickly spread and the city, not yet recovered from the shock of the Tory conspiracy, was wild with excitement once more.

The fleet proved to be from Halifax, and carried some ten thousand of the troops which Washington had only recently driven out of Boston; also there were six transports, having on board some regiments of Highlanders which had joined the fleet at sea.

At sight of this formidable armament heading up the bay, Washington’s couriers were sent dashing here and there with the news, warning all the commanders along the Hudson to hold themselves in readiness in case the British should attempt to push their war-ships up the river. But there was no such attempt. Day after day, however, the fleet was increased; not long afterward there were one hundred and thirty men-of-war and transports in the bay; the troops were disembarked and the hillsides of Staten Island were whitened with their tents.

This force was under the command of Howe, and Washington watched it anxiously, knowing that the British general awaited only the coming of the admiral, his brother, to begin operations. Young Cooper carried a message to the President of Congress, urging the Massachusetts authorities to send its quota of continental troops to New York; the formation of a flying camp of ten thousand men in the Jerseys, to be used wherever required, was also advised. Recruits began to pour into the city; upon every open space they could be seen going through the manual of arms.

One afternoon, George, who had carried a dispatch summoning General Greene to headquarters, was riding with that officer across a stretch of fields beyond Broadway. A company of provincial artillery were drilling; and the deftness of their work, the smooth, capable manners of their commander, a small-sized youth of about twenty, attracted the general’s attention. Quick to recognize ability, the general pulled up and sat his horse, watching the proceedings, and during a pause he inquired the officer’s name.

The youth saluted.

“Alexander Hamilton,” he replied. “A student at King’s College.”

And it was that same evening, just at twilight, that George was pacing along Maiden Lane near to William Street, his hands behind him and his head bent. He still frequently rode and walked in that neighborhood; always did he grow thoughtful when there, and always upon the same subject. That Herbert Camp had been recognized by no one but himself that night at Corbie’s tavern was evident, as no search had been made for him; but George was puzzled to know if he and his sister had come off unhurt in the rain of pistol shots that followed the dash from the tavern.

“Neither of them could have been grievously injured,” he mused. “If they had been, they would have more than likely not have made off so quickly.”

But it was Peggy’s attitude that occupied him more than anything else.

“ALEXANDER HAMILTON,”
HE REPLIED

“Now, why,” the young man mutely demanded, “should she so set herself to insult me? How have I deserved it? Is there one thing which I have done since I came to New York and which touched her in any way, that has not been in the nature of a service? On the wharf where the ‘Nancy Breen’ tied up, I lent a helping hand to her uncle. And she recognized it as such, for a few hours later when those popinjays on the Parade sought to make me a butt for their wit, she was kind. I helped her brother out of a tight place at the ‘Wheat Sheaf’; and even then she seemed to show appreciation, for she warned me against a mysterious danger. Once more at Corbie’s I try to serve her; and she turns upon me like a fury.”

He was still fuming along with bent head when he felt a hand laid upon his shoulder.

“Your pardon, young sir, if I am mistaken,” spoke a voice; “but it seems to me that I should know you.”

It was Merchant Camp, and the young New Englander, freeing himself from his exasperating thoughts, smiled as he answered:

“I had the pleasure of meeting you one morning, sir, on the river front, when a certain sailorman differed with your political beliefs.”

The stout old Tory burst into a laugh; red-faced and gasping a little, he patted George on the shoulder.

“Right!” cried he. “Right, lad! So it was. I knew, the moment I put eyes on you, that you were one that I should not pass as a stranger. I suppose,” inquiringly, “that I thanked you at the time? Yes? Well and good. But I will also thank you now.” He shook George warmly by the hand. “It was no light thing to do, sir, to lend a hand to a king’s man in New York at this time. It was indeed a matter of some risk. And the deeper the chance you ran, the greater is my obligation.”

“The political side of the incident did not occur to me, Mr. Camp,” said the youth. “I only saw that you’d be outmatched in a game of buffets, that was all.”

“He was a sturdy rascal, to be sure,” replied the old merchant. “But take ten years off my age and I’d ask no odds of him.” He looked at George for a moment, and his big red face wrinkled with smiles. “That was a rare drubbing you gave him,” chuckled he. “But come,” after a moment. “I have yet to hear your name.”

“George Prentiss,” replied the young man. “I am from Boston.”

“Prentiss—Boston!” The merchant looked at him with fresh interest. “Can it be possible that you are kin to Seth Prentiss of that city?”

“I am his grandson,” answered George.

“Grandson!” The old man grasped his hand firmly and his broad face beamed with good will. “His grandson, do you say! Well, well, here’s a circumstance, indeed! Why, then, you are own cousin to my niece Peggy and my nephew Herbert. Their mother was your mother’s younger sister. Surely you’ve heard her mention us.”

“Frequently, sir.”

“And still you never made yourself known,” inquiringly.

“There were reasons, sir. You see, in times like these——”

The old gentleman did not allow him to proceed further.

“I understand,” said he. “Nothing can be done straightforwardly these days, with safety. Perhaps, when all is said, you have acted well. But,” in another tone, “how is your grandfather?”

“Very well, sir.”

“There is no one in all the colonies for whom I have a greater regard than I have for your grandfather,” spoke Merchant Camp, heartily. “There is no more successful merchant than he, no more honest man and no one more devoted to the cause of the king.”

It was upon the tip of George’s tongue to correct this last, but he restrained himself. There had been no more ardent king’s man in all Boston town than old Seth Prentiss, that was true. But he had experienced a change of heart, and now stood as stoutly for the colonies as he had heretofore stood for their foes.

“I cannot tell you,” went on Merchant Camp, “how pleased I am to meet with you, and all the more so, the conditions being what they are. I trust,” eagerly, “that you are in no way engaged for the evening, lad.”

“No, sir,” replied George.

“Excellent! I am on my way home just now; I live but a step from here, and I want——” Here he paused as though something had occurred to him; he looked searchingly at the young man for a moment, then went on with less enthusiasm: “If you have nothing better to do with your time, I should like to have you dine with me.” George bowed his willingness. “My nephew dines with me to-night, and he will be pleased,” said Mr. Camp. “And Peggy will no doubt be delighted to greet her cousin.”

Then something in the lad’s expression seemed to strike him; and after a moment he added:

“But, perhaps, on the whole, I had better not mention your relationship just yet.”

“Perhaps,” answered George, “it would be as well if you did not.”

CHAPTER XV
TELLS HOW GEORGE VISITED THE HOUSE IN
CROWN STREET

The broad-fronted brick mansion in Crown Street was much like its master. It spoke eloquently of the days gone by; its furnishing and appointments clung as tenaciously to things past as did the political beliefs of their owner.

A serving man in livery of blue and white admitted them; and the merchant at once led George into a room where they found Major Hyde and the dragoon, Henderson, lounging.

“Gentlemen,” said the old Tory, most ceremoniously, “I desire to present you to a young gentleman who did me a service some time since. Mr. Prentiss—Major Hyde—Captain Henderson.”

Both officers greeted the young man cordially.

“We had the good luck to meet with him when he first came to New York,” said Hyde. Then with a laugh, he added: “Though we did not consider it good luck at the time, judging by our greetings.”

“’Pon my word,” said the dragoon, earnestly, “I was never so completely pinked over anything in my life. Would you believe it,” to the merchant, “I selected him as one to try my wit upon. And he flayed me, sir. He flayed me.”

The old Tory laughed.

“I can well believe it. He’s a good up-standing lad in more ways than one, I promise you.” Then after some further conversation, he said: “But I’ll leave him here with you for a few moments. I have some small matters to see to.”

When George met the merchant in the street, the sky was rapidly becoming overcast, and the wind raising eddies of dust; and as they entered the house, large scattering drops began to fall. Now, as the old gentleman left the room, the storm broke, and torrents of driving rain dashed against the windows.

“Hello, hello!” cried Henderson, “here’s a state of things, ’pon my soul! There’s rain enough for you, major, in all conscience.”

“Ring for lights, there’s a good fellow,” said Major Hyde.

Languidly the fop arose and did as requested; in a few moments the fine old apartment was yellowed with candle-light. Major Hyde sat back in the corner of a sofa and studied young Prentiss with speculative eyes. Noting this, Henderson turned to the young New Englander and said:

“These days keep some of you fellows on the jump, eh?”

“I’ve used up three horses in the last fortnight,” said George, “and I did what I could to save them, too. And others have been kept moving more briskly than I, by all accounts.”

“It seems the very deuce to get things settled for a fight,” complained the fop. “I always fancied it was a very simple arrangement—one side here and the other side there, and then go at it like all possessed. But it’s really like the plot of a play; everything must be settled and accounted for before a blow is struck.”

A rattling volley of thunder rolled along the sky; then a dash of lightning lit up all outdoors and showed them Crown Street running torrents of water.

“Of late,” said young Prentiss, “I have seen but little of either of you.”

“We’ve been with Greene,” answered Major Hyde. “Indeed, within the week that we invited you to share our quarters in Wall Street, we were forced to give it up and transfer to a barn of a place beyond Brooklyn.”

“Not fit for beasts to live in, let alone gentlemen,” said the dragoon officer. “I assure you,” earnestly, “I’ve never been asked to put up with such accommodations before.”

George Prentiss had no great tolerance for complaints of this character; popinjay soldiers who required to lie soft and live at their ease were scarcely the sort to win battles. But he answered smilingly:

“We had rough quarters enough before Boston. Sod huts and ramshackle affairs built of planks were considered luxurious; and many a winter night some of us slept on the ground beside a camp-fire.”

“At Boston, Mr. Prentiss, you were employed in a variety of ways, were you not?”

“Like many others,” replied the young New Englander, “I was willing to give what service I could.”

“Ah, yes, to be sure. But I have heard it hinted that your service took many uncommon forms. Your specialty was, in the main, the flanking of the enemy, not the facing of him.”

“I have done my share of the secret work that our necessities required,” said George, “though I never had any partiality or even liking for that form of the service. But some one had to do it, and why not I as well as another?”

“True enough.” Major Hyde settled himself farther back in the corner of the sofa; his hands were clasped about one knee; his eyes were peering and slit-like. “Of course,” he resumed, easily, “when a person acquires a reputation for a certain thing—especially when he has proven very satisfactory in it, indeed—he naturally is given the preference when work of that sort is needed.”

George nodded.

“Yes,” said he, quietly, “I suppose that is so.”

“General Putnam,” and Major Hyde laughed, “is a direct and rather simple-minded man. He was aware of the quality of your service, I know; and I suppose he did not hesitate to use you when occasion demanded.”

“I have undertaken some small enterprises for General Putnam,” answered George.

“Since you came to New York?”

“Yes; and before.”

There was a moment’s silence. The foppish dragoon had sat twiddling his thumbs; apparently he now fancied that the time had arrived for him to venture into the conversation once more; so he leaned toward George.

“Perhaps,” said he, “you’d not mind——” but here a sharp gesture from his friend cut him short. George sat facing a window; and, engaged in watching the play of the lightning and the dash of the rain upon the glass, he gave no sign of having noted the interruption.

“When a man of parts is employed in special service,” said Major Hyde, “it is naturally expected that he use his own discretion in many ways.”

Again George nodded. But this time he said nothing.

“But,” proceeded the other, and the slits between his eyes grew narrower and narrower, “there is, I think, a point at which a line should be drawn. He should not be privileged to exercise his discretion in all things. Limitations should be set.”

“I agree with you,” said the youth.

“In the securing of information,” said the major, “he must, of course, be at liberty to do as he sees fit. But after it is secured—it is there that the line should be drawn.”

“I don’t think I quite follow your meaning,” said George, vaguely.

At another time his naturally keen perception would have given him some indication as to the officer’s direction; but truth to tell, George had, for the last few moments, ceased following the speaker very closely.

The window through which he was gazing out upon the storm was bowed, and very large. It was hung with heavy curtains that were only partly drawn; and during the latter portion of Major Hyde’s remarks, George detected something like a movement behind these which had taken his attention.

“There is some one there,” flashed through the young man’s mind. “Some one who is listening.” However, now that he was sure of the state of affairs, his self-possession returned; he gave his attention to the speaker, all the time watching the curtain with the tail of his eye.

Major Hyde was frowning a little, but at the same time he kept a smile playing about his lips.

“I will make my meaning clear,” said he. “Some time ago I had a man servant who pleased me very much. He had a rare judgment in the matters that came within his province, and a close tongue. But—now, mark this—I found after some time that the close tongue did not always operate in my favor. He had a habit of receiving messages and then retailing to me those parts of them that he considered I should hear.”

“He was not lacking in presumption, along with his other qualities,” said George.

“I am inclined to agree with you,” remarked Major Hyde, drily. “He should have given me a choice at least, as to what parts I considered of no consequence.”

“Very impudent, ’pon my word,” observed Henderson.

“I am of the same opinion,” spoke George Prentiss. “But,” and he looked at Major Hyde composedly, “I am still rather at loss. Just what is your meaning? Somehow all this seems to apply to me. If I am wrong in this I beg of you to say so.”

“You are not wrong,” said Major Hyde.

“No,” put in the dragoon, “you are right.”

“General Putnam,” said Major Hyde, “employed you upon a certain occasion. I suppose you recall this, and also the nature of the employment. Being very intimate with headquarters affairs at the time, I was well informed in the matter. But I know that it resulted in nothing.”

“Go on,” said George.

“I mean that through motives of your own, you withheld certain information. You knew that a certain person—who for the moment shall be nameless—was concerned in machinations against the new government, and yet you did not denounce him.”

Footsteps could be heard coming along the corridor. George regarded the speaker fixedly.

“How do you know that I did not?” he asked.

“By the barrenness of the result; if you had done your duty, arrests would have been made.”

Here Mr. Camp reëntered the room; he carried a paper, apparently a letter, in his hand; and his face was beaming.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “will you do me the pleasure of walking this way?”

Major Hyde and Henderson at once arose and George did likewise. They passed into a room where a table was laid with much silver and delicate ware.

“Being short-handed,” apologized the old merchant, “I must do duty myself.” Then to George: “I sent most of my servants away yesterday.”

When he had again left them, George turned upon the officers.

“What other reason did you have?”

“What other was needed? Could anything have spoken more eloquently?” demanded Major Hyde.

“Oh, yes. General Putnam might have done so.”

At this the young New Englander saw the two men dart looks of covert meaning at each other. But he did not wait for either of them to reply.

“Another question,” said he, evenly. “May I ask how you came to be so familiar with what we might call the real results of my work?”

There was scarcely perceptible hesitation, then Major Hyde answered:

“Is it not possible that there are others beside yourself who have means of gaining secret information?”

“Let us grant that.” George spoke very coolly. “And then let us come to a more important thing. If you know of this person whom I have, as you say, failed to report, why have you waited for me? Why have you not reported him yourself?”

At this, to the astonishment of George, Major Hyde burst into a laugh; and his friend joined him heartily.

“Very shrewdly spoken,” said the major. “Eh, Henderson?”

“’Pon my soul,” said the dragoon, “I’ve never listened to a neater stroke of the tongue.”

“A little wager with Henderson, that is all,” explained Hyde, putting his hands upon George’s shoulders and swaying him backward and forward. “I ventured a good dinner that upon the very next time we met, I could worm something out of you regarding your private transactions for the various commanders. Henderson had a better notion of your shrewdness than I, so it seems, and——”

“And I expect the dinner to be paid with the utmost promptness,” declared the foppish dragoon, delightedly. “But, ’pon my soul, Hyde,” with a shout of laughter, “what a farrago of nonsense you used to gain your point! And how you scowled and shook your head! You should have turned your mind to play-acting instead of soldiering.”

“How am I to know, though,” and Major Hyde joined in the laugh, “that I did not come somewhere near the real facts as they stand? Come now, was there such a person as I imagined?”

“I can only say,” returned George, good-humoredly, “that I have done my plain duty upon all occasions. If I say more I may lose Captain Henderson his dinner.”

The dragoon slapped his thigh at this, and vowed that as a witticism he had never heard its equal.

“He’s a rare fellow, this lad from Boston,” declared he.

“He’s gotten the better of me this time, at any rate,” answered the major, good-naturedly enough.

The two were still laughing and discussing the matter when the old merchant reëntered. Then Major Hyde begged leave to retire for a moment.

“I have this matter noted down in a little book which I usually carry,” said he to George. “But it is in the pocket of another coat which I sent on here with some other traps a week ago. I’ll hunt it up and get all straight.”

“Not a moment do you get out of my sight,” declared the dragoon. “If you go, I’ll go with you.”

“Come along then,” laughed the other. “I’ll play fair. You shall have a peep with me.”

And so out they went; and George heard them go stamping up the stairs, wrangling and protesting and laughing; and as he listened, the young man somehow felt a doubt creep into his mind.

CHAPTER XVI
PEGGY SPEAKS HER MIND

“Was it really as they said?” George Prentiss asked himself. “Was the thing a jest, after all? Or was it——”

Here his thoughts were interrupted by the old Tory.

“Huh!” grunted that worthy gentleman. “It would seem that my nephew, the major, is in wonderful spirits to-night. Something must have pleased him vastly, for I never saw him so before, that I can recall.”

There was a swish of silken skirts as a door opened.

“My niece, Peggy,” added the merchant. “My dear, this is young Mr. Prentiss, who was of such use to me some few weeks ago when my villainous temper got me into trouble.”

Peggy swept the young New Englander so elaborate a courtsey that it hinted of mockery. The smile that wreathed her lips was honeyed, but the old look of scorn was deep in her eyes.

“I remember Mr. Prentiss perfectly,” she said, and there was an undercurrent of meaning in her tones.

“You shall sit opposite him at supper,” promised the stout old fellow. “And mind you entertain him well. We owe him something.”

“Mr. Prentiss,” said Peggy, “should not be difficult to amuse. He is so interesting himself. I feel sure that wherever he is, something will happen; one is not likely to be dull.”

“Ha, ha! do you hear that, lad?” Merchant Camp chuckled delightedly. “That’s saying something of you, surely.”

“I don’t deserve it, though,” answered George, and his eyes met the girl’s straightforward look unsmilingly.

“Never say that,” cried the honest old uncle. “Leave others to speak ill of you, my boy.”

“Apparently,” said George, his eyes still meeting those of Peggy, “they are only too ready to do that.”

“Why,” said the old gentleman, “you are over young to have observed such things.”

“Sometimes it is made so plain,” replied George, “that it requires no great experience to know it.”

The merchant laughed good-humoredly.

“We have a philosopher of gloom in you, I see.” Then turning to his niece: “What do you say to this, my dear?”

“If you please, sir—nothing,” said she.

She walked to one of the windows, her silken skirts swishing; and the old merchant, puzzled, turned to George and shook his head.

“She’s an odd one at times,” he said, lowly. “Very much like her mother was—and there was no keeping the run of her for five minutes together.”

George made no reply to this; he stood with his back to the fireless hearth and watched the tall young figure at the window with its proudly-posed head. After a moment, the merchant, as though something had just occurred to him, took a letter from his pocket.

“I meant to speak of this when I first came down,” said he. “But those gentlemen of Mr. Washington’s were in ear-shot.”

He unfolded the sheet while George looked at him surprisedly. The expression “gentlemen of Mr. Washington’s” seemed odd.

“It will amuse you,” continued the stout old Tory in a low tone, “but when I was about to ask you here to-night a thought struck me, and I hesitated. Not that the outcome would have made any real difference, you see, for I should have asked you anyhow. But I hastened to refer to this,” holding out the letter, “as soon as I got here. And the result has pleased me. I am delighted that you are one of us.”

“It looks like my grandfather’s writing,” George said, lowly.

“It is,” replied Merchant Camp. “It is a letter of his written me when Warren and Hancock and the Adamses first began to take such a high hand in Boston. In it he speaks of how families were divided upon the question before the public eye. His own, like mine, was in this deplorable condition.” Here he held the letter to the light so that he could read it. “Listen to this: ‘One of my grandsons, Ezra, is in favor of the Whiggish demands; the other, George, is a king’s man through and through.’” Merchant Camp looked up from the screen and smiled at the young man. “That is what I wanted to make sure of. I knew that one or the other of you was on the right side; and I am delighted that it’s you.”

Here he grasped the hand of George with great warmth. The youth, disliking that any one should have a false impression of him, was about to put the matter before the merchant in its proper light, but at that moment Major Hyde and his friend, Henderson, reëntered the room.

“I find that the terms of the wager were——” Here Hyde observed Peggy and paused. Holding a small note-book toward George, its pages open that he might read, he continued in a lower voice, “The terms, as you see, are merely that I manage to get you talking on the subject mentioned.”

The young man noted that this was so; but there was something in the proceeding and in the eager intentness of the two men that caught his attention.

“But,” continued Hyde, “Henderson interprets it that I extract information from you.”

“Oh, well,” said the dragoon, and in the same low tone as his friend, “I dare say we can arrange the matter. We must not delay the supper,” in a louder voice.

“A good, sensible saying,” spoke the host. “And as sense is not to be expected of scatterbrains who take sword against rightful authority, all the more credit is due you, Master Henderson.”

The dragoon laughed, as did Hyde.

“Do you hear that, Prentiss?” cried he, as they all seated themselves at the table. “Do you notice how you are referred to? A ‘scatterbrain,’ says he.”

The old Tory favored George with an elaborate wink, which not only expressed delight, but spoke of what he considered the secret understanding between them.

“I dare say,” remarked he, “that we of the king’s side have as bad said of us—or worse.”

As the meal progressed, the wind and rain did not abate; the thunder rattled and rolled; the lightning glared against the sky. The merchant had placed Peggy just opposite George, and the lad made the best of the opportunity. But the girl was silent. The best he could draw from her was a “Yes” or a “No”; and all the time her face was cold; her eyes, when he caught them, were judging him cruelly.

“What has become of Herbert?” asked Captain Henderson, after a time. “I haven’t seen him for weeks.”

The old merchant scowled down at his plate.

“It is difficult to keep track of that young man,” said he.

“A great pity that he left the army,” observed the dragoon. “Especially at this time.”

“It altogether depends upon the point of view,” replied the Tory host. “But, that aside, hide nor hair of him I have not seen for some time. I don’t,” with displeasure, “even attempt to understand him.”

“To understand people is one of the most difficult tasks a person can set himself,” said George. As he spoke, his eyes met those of Peggy. “But for all that,” he went on, “there are those whose judgments of others are made offhand.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” answered Mr. Camp.

But it was not until after supper that George had his first opportunity to speak to her alone. The old merchant had mentioned an ingenious method that he had hit upon for packing breakable articles, and had carried the two officers into another room to demonstrate it to them. The spring storm was still raging; the flare of the lightning every now and then dimmed the drawing-room candles; the wind continued to beat up from the bay with fury.

The girl was in a deep window-seat, looking out upon the storm; the night was inky, but the flare of the lightning was so incessant as to afford an almost continuous view. George leaned back against a carved table, and as he trifled with the stems of some roses which he had found thereon, he watched her reflectively.

“I’ve been thinking,” said he, at last, “that perhaps I may have been wrong.”

She did not even turn her head, but went on gazing steadily into the rain-drenched Crown Street.

“Perhaps,” proceeded George, “the judgments which one is led to believe are quickly made are really arrived at after some thought. It is even possible that your estimate of me came after due deliberation.”

At this she turned, as he felt sure she would. The lightning glared in at the window behind her; but the flash of her eyes was the quickest to reach him.

“It is strange,” she said, “that you go on holding this attitude when you must know that I am not to be deceived. I did not require to deliberate; your acts were all that were necessary to make up my mind concerning you.”

A gleam of satisfaction came into his eyes.

“Ah!” He threw the roses back upon the table and studied her closely. “That is it, then?—my acts? Thank you. At last we have come to something specific.

“If you will point out anything that I have done since I came to New York, which I cannot successfully defend,” continued he, “I shall be willing to have you think what you choose of me.”

But she gave a gesture of utter disbelief.

“I am not interested,” she said. “It does not matter to me.”

“But it does to me. You seem to forget that.” His voice was hot with anger. “Do you expect me to hold my tongue, accused as I am of some rascally act! Not once, not twice, but a half dozen times you have hinted at something discreditable that I have done. Speak plainly. Give it a name, so that I may meet it squarely!”

His resentment was low-voiced and sharp; his face was flushed and determined; his hands were clinched until the knuckles seemed ready to split the skin that covered them. As she looked at him a hesitancy seemed to temper her scornful attitude; for the first time since she had assumed it, a doubt crept in and mingled with her disdain. But for all that she retained her former tone.

“Of what use would it be to give it a name?” she said. “You know it already.”

“You will pardon me if I insist,” he answered. “I differ with you in opinion—I oppose the faction that you hold to, and upon this you have reared a fanciful structure of evil. I demand that you be plain.”

“You demand!” Her voice rang as she said this and her eyes flashed her defiance. But almost instantly her manner changed. “A fanciful structure, indeed! Do I not know—haven’t I seen? Haven’t I heard? And my treatment of you is not because you oppose the faction that I hold to. There are others in this house,” bitterly, “who do the like, yet I believe them honest men. It is,” and her voice fell a trifle, but lost none of its directness, “because you hold faith with no faction—because you are a traitor to all.”

The flush died out of his face; he took a step toward her, astonishment replacing the rage of a moment before. But before he could speak another word, the two officers and the host reëntered.

“I defy any one,” declared the old gentleman, “to destroy valuables so arranged. They’ll go safely enough, though the roads across Jersey are somewhat rough,” with a laugh. “Indeed, I wish we were assured of as comfortable a journey.”

“When do you start?” asked Major Hyde.

“At high noon to-morrow. We have a coach with good springs and can secure relays of horses. Two days should see us at home, if nothing unforeseen turns up.”

“I think,” spoke the dragoon, “that you do well to leave New York so soon. There is no telling, now, when all the roads will be closed and Lord Howe’s guns roaring havoc across the city.”

“That would not drive me out,” stated the Tory merchant, “if it were not for Peggy. Indeed, gentlemen, it would please me greatly to stay and see the end of this uprising.”

“You think, then, that it will end here?”

“I never was more convinced of anything in my life. The governmental officers are determined to efface the stain put upon them at Boston, and that they will do it is a certainty.”

Here the talk drifted away into the field of politics; the merchant did most of it, and he did it heatedly and most eloquently. The time went by and the storm seemed to increase. By ten o’clock Peggy begged leave to retire, as she had some tasks to perform against the journey on the morrow. George lingered on and on in the hope that she would return to the drawing-room; but she did not.

It was close to midnight when he at last arose to take his leave.

“What!” cried Mr. Camp. “In such a drenching downfall as this? Never, sir. You’ll be wet through. I have a room for each of you, and you shall all three remain and take breakfast with me—my last in New York under rebel rule, at least.”

George Prentiss did not protest against this with any great vehemence; the wind and rain, and the thunder and lightning, though, had little to do with his agreeing to remain the merchant’s guest. It was very late when he, at the heels of Hyde and Henderson, and each bearing a lighted candle, mounted the wide staircase to their chambers. The flickering yellow light fell before and about them, but there were dark corners which remained heavy with shadow; and from one of these a pair of terror-filled eyes followed them; two trembling hands were upraised to hide a frightened girlish face.

CHAPTER XVII
SHOWS WHAT HAPPENED IN THE TAPESTRIED CHAMBER

The room that fell to the lot of George Prentiss was a huge one, square, high ceilinged and hung with rich but faded tapestries. The furniture was dark and massive; a great four poster bed of mahogany, with a spreading canopy over it, stood near the door.

There was a wide fireplace, the clean-swept hearth of which showed no indication of a fire having been lighted in it for some time.

When George had bidden the others good-night he closed the door and placed his candle upon the table. The light danced grotesquely upon the walls, dimly illuminating the quaint figures upon the tapestry and the old paintings that hung here and there. The young man drew the curtains at the windows so that the flare of the lightning would not disturb him; there were other candles upon the mantel and having a curiosity to better view his apartment, he kindled a pair of these and placed them where they would do the most good.

The tapestry proved to be an ancient French one, and depicted the deeds of Charles Martel; the portraits were partly of New Amsterdam Dutchmen and with a good sprinkling of English.

“Ancestors,” mused George as he gazed at these. “I can see the features of my host in most of them.” His eyes paused upon a large painting at the far end of the apartment; it was so somber, the shadows played so upon it, that he took up a candle and went nearer. Holding the light so that he could view the picture to better advantage, he saw the name “Dirk Van Camp” upon the heavy frame.

“A burgomaster of the old Dutch days,” said George to himself. “And a stern, dogged sort of a fellow he must have been, judging by his face.”

The furnishings of the tapestried room were mostly of European make; Dutch tables and chairs; English sofas and stands; and near to the fireplace stood a tall French mirror that swung in its frame. George sat down in a heavy chair before this and began removing his cravat; his back was turned to that end of the apartment where hung the portrait of Burgomaster Van Camp, and the light of the candle which George had left upon a stand near the picture threw the determined, joyless face into good relief.

“Good shelter and a four poster bed are not to be treated lightly on a night like this,” the young New Englander told himself, as he threw the cravat upon a table. Then he removed his short sword and the pistol which he had kept buttoned under his coat while in the drawing-room; after this he began tugging at one of his riding boots.

It was while he was so engaged, for the boot was stubborn, that he caught the reflection of the burgomaster’s portrait in the mirror. The chair in which George sat hid the greater part of the picture; but the face was plain, and it was as though it was peering over his shoulder.

“Now, there is a grim old curmudgeon for you,” smiled the youth. “I’ll venture to say he never laughed in his life save when he had driven a hard bargain, or gotten the better of some one in another fashion.”

He threw the boot down on the hearth and before he drew off the other, sat gazing into the mirror at the portrait. Suddenly the smile left his face and he started a little. The eyes of old Dirk Van Camp were small and black and deeply-set under heavy brows; George had noticed them especially a few minutes before, while examining the picture; and now as he looked into the glass, he saw them glint in a marvelously lifelike manner.

For an instant it was in his mind to turn and stare at the portrait; but like a flash he regained control of himself, and sat motionless, gazing into the mirror. Some few minutes passed in this way; but he could now detect nothing out of the ordinary. True, the eyes had an unusually lifelike appearance; but that may have been due to the skill of the artist, or, perhaps, it was the unsteady light of the candles. He lay back in the chair in the lounging posture of one entirely at ease; but never for an instant did his apparently careless glance leave the pictured eyes. At length he muttered:

“It’s the lights; their flickering gave the appearance of movement; and the varnish upon the canvas is the cause of the really lifelike sparkle.”

THE HAND PAUSED

He was about to give the matter up and proceed with his preparations for retiring when a thought struck him. With the utmost naturalness he stretched out his hand toward the table, and while so doing, his eyes remained fixed upon the pictured ones in the mirror. With a thrill he saw these latter follow the hand; beyond the shadow of a doubt they turned slowly and keenly; and when the hand paused and clutched the pistol butt, there was a change in their expression—and their steadiness wavered.

Calmly George drew the pistol toward him and made a pretense of examining the lock; all the time his heart was bumping in a tumult; strange thoughts filled his brain.

“The eyes of the portrait are removable,” he told himself. “There is a door or a panel behind it, and some one is stationed there watching me.”

He sat for a short space nonplussed; and all the time he saw the eyes fixed upon him. The situation was an odd one; he did not know how to meet it.

“It’s a Tory house,” were George’s thoughts, “and there may be those hidden within its walls of whom I know nothing.” An idea flashed upon him that made him start. “And yet I might know considerable of them,” he added; “and I might be suspected of knowing even more than I do.”

This latter idea rapidly took definite form in his mind. As likely as not Herbert Camp was hidden in the house—perhaps without his uncle’s knowledge.

“But his sister is aware of it,” was the young man’s further thought, “and who knows,” bitterly, “but that she still fancies me in pursuit of him.”

With this his mind was made up; he put the pistol down upon the table, and then pulled off the other boot. After this he stood up, and divested himself of coat and waistcoat; he put out two of the candles, permitting that near the picture of the burgomaster to remain burning. Drawing a tall leather screen up to the four poster he spread it out and then with a wide yawn went behind it as though to complete his disrobing.

Now, as before said, the bed stood near the door, and when George spread the screen, he hid the door from the view of the peering eyes behind the portrait. So instead of going on with his preparations for bed, the young man softly opened the door, and all unarmed as he was, stepped out into the hall.

This latter was dark and still, and step by step he made his way along, being careful not to knock against anything that might be in his way. He had not gone many feet when he saw that the door of the apartment next his own stood partly open; it was only a trifle and but a trickle of light showed itself. He approached the door softly. It was in this apartment that the spy would be hidden, for the portrait was backed against the wall that divided it from his own. He had all but gained the door when there came a sharp exclamation and the stir of feet upon the other side of it; for a moment he feared that he had been discovered and halting, braced himself for whatever was to come. But there was nothing save a continued and low-pitched sound of voices.

“There’s more than one,” he murmured softly. This knowledge, however, did not stay him; once more he made for the door along the edges of which the light was seeping. The opening was too small to admit of his gaining a view of even a part of the room; but he could hear the almost whispered words distinctly.

“It is very annoying to be spied upon,” said a voice which George at once knew as Major Hyde’s. “And I am surprised that you should stoop to it. Or, perhaps,” and there was something like a sneer in the tone, “you will deny that you were spying.”

“No,” came the voice of Peggy Camp, “I do not deny it. I saw you steal along the hall and followed you.”

“You are quite sure,” and there was a keen note of inquiry in the man’s voice, “that you were not already in the room when I entered?”

“I am not in the habit of misrepresenting my actions,” returned Peggy, and the listener fancied her head rearing proudly as she said it.

“Of course not. But at a moment like this! Who knows?”

“I think you do,” returned the girl.

There was a moment’s silence; then Major Hyde spoke.

“What made you think that my actions had anything to do with him?” he asked.

“I knew from the first that you were laying a trap for him.”

“Ah!” There was a note of surprise in his voice. “You are even keener than I thought you.”

“You knew that he would be here,” she said. “And you proposed carrying it through here, of all places.”

“It is not given to us to choose our opportunities,” said the major. “So I’ll strike when I can.”

“You will not.”

“Of course your feelings in the matter are perfectly natural,” spoke the man coolly. “I understand them very well. They are to be expected of you. But is he worthy of all you’d do for him?”

There was no answer.

“He is not. He is a worming, designing villain; there is no truth nor honor in him. To serve his own ends, he’d sell his friends to their enemies—he’d sell his cause to——”

“Oh, I know, I know,” cried Peggy, and there was pain in her voice. “I know it all better than you can tell it. I know it and hate him for it; and yet I cannot see him harmed.”

“Herbert is concealed in the house, as I suspected,” thought the young man at the door. “Major Hyde has in some way learned of it, and being aware of his treachery, is trying to locate his hiding-place.”

The voices within the room now sank even lower than before; George listened intently, but could not make out what was being said. Some minutes passed in this way and the voice of Peggy was raised in gladness.

“You promise me that?”

“I do.”

“Then Herbert is safe,” she whispered thankfully. “I know, I know,” as though preventing his interrupting her; “he does not deserve it, but I am happier than I can tell.”

“He is safe from me,” spoke Major Hyde, slowly, “but I am not the only one. Don’t forget that——”

He said no more, but George Prentiss was as sure that his hand lifted and his finger pointed to the tapestried chamber as he would have been had he seen him do it.

There was a gasping cry, smothered and full of fear. Then the girl replied:

“I know that, too. It is horrible. But,” and her voice suddenly became clear and sure, “he shall not harm my brother. That he is here seeking information, I know. But he shall learn nothing—he shall do nothing.”

“Who will prevent him?”

“I will!” she answered and her voice was filled with resolve.

Again their voices sank; then George heard footsteps advancing toward the door. A tall Dutch clock stood near by, as the inquiring hands of the young New Englander had learned, and quickly he shrank close to its side as the room door swung open.

“I’ll bid you good-night, cousin,” said the voice of Major Hyde, “and advise you to go to your chamber.”

What Peggy’s answer was George did not hear. Then the major shut the door and passed down the corridor; the soft closing of another door told the watcher that he entered his own room at the far end.

George waited for some little time, fearing that Peggy would emerge and discover him. But as she did not do so, he quietly tiptoed to his own room. Drawing aside the screen he stepped out into the center of the apartment, yawning and putting back the hair from his eyes, as though he’d been asleep.

At once his gaze went with studied carelessness to the portrait; there were the eyes, eager, alert, inquiring, fixed upon him.

“Hello,” said he, with ready art, as he yawned again. “I must have fallen into a doze.”

Negligently he threw himself once more into the chair before the mirror and sat looking at the reflected eyes.

“It is she,” he told himself. “There is no one else there. And it’s been she all along. Hyde was right. She was already in the room when he entered, as he suspected.”

Then suddenly he became aware that the eye sockets of Burgomaster Van Camp were empty. Vacantly the portrait stared down from the wall. But only for a moment. Suddenly a long, black cylinder was thrust through one of the apertures—there was a puff of smoke, a loud report, and a pistol bullet whizzed past his head.

CHAPTER XVIII
IN WHICH IS FOUGHT THE BATTLE OF LONG ISLAND

The smoke of the pistol was drifting toward the ceiling as George wheeled toward the portrait. But the blank spaces were now filled by the painted eyes; there was no trace of anything being amiss. For a space after the crash of the shot died away there was complete silence. Then a hum grew through the mansion; doors began to open and shut, voices were lifted in anxious and frightened inquiry.

But George Prentiss paid little heed. He stood in the center of the room gazing into the heavy face of the old burgomaster, incredulity, fear, astonishment mingled into one expression. Peggy had tried to take his life, was the horrid thought that filled his mind; to save her brother she had attempted to shoot his fancied pursuer in the back.

Up and down outside his door hurried unshod feet; the voice of the stout old merchant could be heard demanding, threatening, raging. But what his words were, George did not gather; indeed, his brain seemed numbed by what had happened; he felt as though it were moving in a sort of haze and could grasp no fact save the one.

Then a knock sounded upon his door; dully he turned and opened it; Mr. Camp stood there, and at his back were a couple of frightened servants bearing lighted candles.

“Master Prentiss,” said the merchant, “we were startled a few moments ago by what sounded much like a musket or pistol shot, in or near this room.”

“Indeed, sir.”

“You will pardon me, but I am going over the house to make sure that all is well.”

George smiled faintly.

“There has been no harm done me, as you can see.”

“I am delighted to hear it. But it’s most strange. It sounded much as though it were within the house, and yet it scarcely could be. Pardon me again for disturbing you.”

All night long George sat in the empty chair by the hearth; the rain ceased, the clouds drifted away and both moon and stars looked serenely down upon the drenched earth. And when morning came he descended to find the servants already loading the household valuables into covered wagons. He ate breakfast with his host.

“I’ve always kept this place intact against my infrequent visits,” said he to George. “But nothing will be safe, now that a war is upon us, and I’m taking away all I may.”

“Have Major Hyde and Captain Henderson not yet arisen?” asked the young man.

“An hour ago,” was the answer. “They could not await you, and begged me to mention their regrets. And my niece is discommoded with a headache, a thing uncommon with her. So I will be forced to say good-bye for her,” added the honest old gentleman a few moments later when George arose to take his leave. “But believe me, we were all pleased to see you and will be again when it is possible. Should you ever cross the Jerseys, lad, don’t fail to hunt us out. The Elms, we call the place, and it’s less than a dozen miles out of the town of Trenton.”

“I shall be glad to do so, sir,” said the youth.

The old gentleman lowered his voice so that none of the bustling servants might hear.

“I understand that you are now engaged with the undertakings of this man Washington. And to one of your opinions this can only mean one thing. You are spying on them.” The distaste in the merchant’s voice was plain, and he added: “If you will be advised by me, you will give it up. It is not to my liking, and should not be to yours. Take service with Lord Howe. Fight the rebels for all that’s in you—but fight them fairly.”

And so George left the mansion in Crown Street to take up his duties; and the next time he rode that way the place was closed and deserted. What his thoughts were, he kept to himself; but that they were unpleasant was clearly evident. But it was no time for wandering thoughts. There was scarcely a day that history of a more or less important degree was not in the making.

While New York was slowly being encompassed by foes, great things were being done some little distance south. At Philadelphia, Congress was discussing a question which John Adams referred to as “great as ever was or will be debated among men.” On the second of July a resolution passed the body declaring the colonies free and independent; on the fourth, the Declaration of Independence, as drafted by Mr. Jefferson, was adopted.

Riders were sent scurrying in all directions with fair copies of this; and on the evening of July 9th, Washington caused it to be read at the head of each brigade of the army.

“I hope,” he said in his orders, “that this important event will serve as a fresh incentive to every officer and soldier to act with fidelity and courage, as knowing that now the peace and safety of his country depend, under God, solely on the success of our arms; and that he is now in the service of a state, possessed of sufficient power to reward his merit and advance him to the highest honors of a free country.”

Bells were rung, guns sounded, bonfires gleamed at every street corner. An excited throng gathered in the yard of the “King’s Arms” and planned an escapade which they felt would fittingly crown the moment.

A man well known as an enthusiastic member of the Sons of Liberty sprang up and addressed those present.

“Friends,” he cried, “a word with you.” By the expression of his face they knew he had something of interest to propose; and so all conversation was hushed. “We are done with kingly government and with kings,” proceeded the speaker. “And this being the case, we have left something undone. On Bowling Green, near the fort, is a statue of King George——”

An instant roar went up.

“Shall it remain longer than it takes us to make our way there?” demanded the man.

“No,” answered the throng, as one man.

“Then let us start at once. But remember one thing. This statue is made of lead. And lead is the metal that bullets are made of. What more fitting than that the presentiment of a king be run into bullets to be used against his hirelings!”

Delighted with this, they streamed into Broadway and toward the fort; amid the shouts of hundreds who gathered to see the sport, the statue was pulled down and broken up. And legend has it that it was indeed run into bullets for use against Lord Howe and his army.

A few days after this the city was struck with panic. Two ships of war got under way and headed up toward the battery. One was found to be the “Phœnix,” forty guns; the other was the “Rose,” a vessel of twenty, and commanded by Captain Wallace. Alarms were sounded; the Americans flocked to their posts. With wind and tide behind them the British ships swept up the bay with three tenders following, all shaping their course for the Hudson. The batteries from both the city and Paulus Hook opened upon them. The war-ships answered with broadsides, but kept on their way. The fleet made no attempt to ascend, holding to their anchors; and seeing this and drawing from it that there were no prospects of an immediate general attack, the townspeople breathed freely.

The troops at the Highlands were made ready; river sloops and all boats of any size for miles along the Hudson were requisitioned; the forts and batteries were manned; as far as might be, all was prepared for anything that might come.

On the evening of the day that the “Rose” and the “Phœnix” made their dash there was a great booming of cannon from the enemy’s shipping off Staten Island. A ship of the line had just come in from sea; at her foretop streamed the British ensign, and her sister ships thundered a smoking welcome. And an increased feeling of dread ran through the city when it was learned that Admiral Lord Howe had arrived.

The crisis was now at hand, and all disaffected persons were removed from the city. General Lord Howe immediately opened negotiations. While military diplomats wrangled over forms, the militia along the Hudson kept up a constant bickering with the two ships that had forced their way up the river and were now within six miles of Fort Montgomery. Brushwood was piled at intervals, so that beacons could be lighted to give warning in time of danger; fire ships were made ready to float down against the war vessels, and General Putnam was proceeding with a plan for the obstruction of the channel, his notion being to prevent the passage of hostile vessels up or down the river.

Watchful eyes then made out another incoming fleet. It was of a hundred sail, and carried huge reinforcements to the British land force; one thousand of the already detested Hessians were among them. These disembarked on Staten Island and threw up earthworks. Scotch, English and German mercenary troops continued to arrive; then came the army under Sir Henry Clinton, which had only lately been rather soundly beaten at Charleston.

The British land force now numbered some thirty thousand experienced men; that under Washington was less than twenty thousand. And these latter were raw, undisciplined troops for the most part; they were badly armed, and most of all they were torn with sectional animosities. Bilious and other fevers were rampant among them; one-quarter of their number were on the hospital list; and the remainder were compelled to cover a defense fifteen miles in length.

The watchful Washington missed few of his opponent’s movements. Through spies and deserters he learned that many of the British regiments had reëmbarked, three days’ provisions had been cooked, and every indication pointed to some large movement being at hand. Then General Putnam brought word that one-quarter of the ships had sailed, probably around Long Island.

The American general stood ready with his force to meet the movement of Howe as soon as it should develop sufficiently to be intelligible. The movement, so he reasoned, would be to land a force to attempt Brooklyn Heights, which commanded the city of New York.

General Greene and his army held Brooklyn, a strong line of works stretched across the peninsula, upon which the town stood, running from Wallabout Bay on the north to Gowanus Cove on the south. A battery was mounted on Red Hook to protect the rear from the shipping of the British; a fort occupied the lower point of Governor’s Island.

A range of hills stretched away before Greene’s intrenchments; it was densely wooded and cut by three passes. One of these led to Bedford in the east, the second opened to the southeast toward Flatbush, while a road ran through the third that led directly south by Gowanus Cove and Gravesend Bay. It was undoubtedly General Greene’s purpose to man the hills and defend these passes; but as fate would have it, he was taken down with a violent fever, and General Sullivan was placed in temporary command.

From the American camp of Livingston on the Jersey side, much British preparation was discerned. Word was sent to New York that thirty thousand troops had been crowded into the transports riding at anchor off Staten Island; these were to attack Long Island, and the remaining regiments were to be launched against other points at the same time.

The day after this news was received, the dull roar of cannon was heard from the south of Brooklyn; Washington instantly sent a reinforcement of six battalions across the river; more would have gone, but it was not yet known where the attack would really center.

With these battalions went George Prentiss, his friends Brewster and Cooper and his brother Ezra. Next day the latter, who had been riding for Sullivan to the south of the town, made known to his friends what had occurred.

“Colonel Hand was stationed with his Pennsylvania riflemen to guard the landing-places; a force of artillery and light horse crossed and drove him back. Sir Henry Clinton commanded this landing in person; but under cover of a smart rifle fire, Hand took possession of the hills commanding the Flatbush pass. Some light infantry, and Donop’s Hessians, came on to seize this; but seeing that the riflemen were capable of making a stubborn and bloody resistance, they halted and rested for the night at Flatbush.

“The remainder of Clinton’s force is laid out from the Narrows, where they landed, to Flatbush, which is almost a straight line to the east.”

On August 24th, Washington crossed the river and carefully inspected the scene of the coming struggle; Greene’s plans were at hand, but the gallant Rhode Islander was too desperately ill to explain them. As yet, nothing but skirmishing was indulged in, and it was fortunate for the Americans that this was so. If the British had plunged forward, the rout of the patriot army would have been complete; for, because of the absence of Greene from the lines, things were in a bad way.

“The conditions are even worse here than they were before Boston at the beginning of the siege,” Ezra Prentiss said to his friends, as they stood awaiting orders in front of Sullivan’s headquarters. “Confusion and disorder are everywhere.”

“Each man is his own law,” agreed young Cooper. “They don’t wait for instructions if they feel inclined to take action against the enemy; and if they are not so inclined, they refuse to move, no matter what the orders are.”

But when Putnam took command, this condition was to a large extent altered, for that doughty warrior called the officers together and in plain terms told them what was expected of them; stern measures after this effected something of a change.

British preparations continued. At length, two more brigades of Hessians under De Heister crossed the Narrows; and when Washington noted this he was convinced that now indeed the blow was to be struck; accordingly what troops he could spare were sent to join Putnam’s force on the east side of the river.

On the evening of August 26th, Clinton began a movement with a body of picked troops toward Flatbush Flatlands; after him, trailing through the darkness, came Percy with the artillery, grenadiers and dragoons; and close to Percy’s heels marched Cornwallis with the heavy ordnance. Like ghosts the silent columns changed their course at Flatlands and flitted across the New Lots. A Tory who knew every inch of the ground was at their head, and he brought them safely through the marsh to the Jamaica Road. To Clinton’s astonishment, the Bedford pass was undefended, and through it he went, followed by Percy and Cornwallis; at daylight they breakfasted within three miles of Bedford; and the Americans never dreamed of their being anywhere at hand.

Three hours after Clinton began his movement, the British general, Grant, according to plan, started with the left wing of the enemy’s force from Gravesend Bay. Some New York and Pennsylvania militia retired before him, keeping up a brisk rifle fire. A party of scouts brought the news of this advance to Putnam; and at once General Sterling was rushed forward to hold Grant in check.

The scouts rode ahead, testing every doubtful point.

“Daylight will soon be upon us,” said George Prentiss, “and that will give us some idea of what force we will have to contend with.”

“These fellows behind us are the pick of Putnam’s force,” said Ezra. “Indeed, they are the only well-trained regiments I’ve seen here, and should be able to give a good account of themselves.”

When Sterling reached the Gowanus pass he found his scouts mingling with the militia in the graying dawn.

“The report is, sir,” said George, saluting the general, “that the enemy is close at hand.”

Through the indifferent light, Lord Sterling selected the points of vantage. To the commander of the militia he said:

“Draw your men up in that orchard on the left of the road; we may manage to have them walk into an ambush.”

While this was being done, Sterling formed his own men along a ridge that ran from the road to a hilltop. Under a steady fire the British came along; but they avoided the ambush by throwing forward some light troops; and at broad day these, from behind hedges and trees, were facing the Americans at a distance of some hundred and fifty yards.

But the blow was to be dealt on the Flatbush Road. While darkness hung over all, the Hessian, De Heister, opened with his guns on Hand’s riflemen, who defended the pass under the direction of General Sullivan. Some ships of the line attempted to get into action; but heavy head winds drove them back. The “Roebuck,” a rather small vessel, managed to beat up against the wind, however, and she opened upon the fort at Red Hook.

During all this, Washington was in Manhattan; the people of the city were wild with terror, for it was still believed that the real attack would be leveled at them. But in a little time the commander-in-chief saw that this was not to be the case, so he had his barge manned and crossed to Brooklyn. And he arrived in time to see the first blows struck.

Clinton, having comfortably breakfasted, now brought forward his artillery; the guns thundered the awaited signal. At once De Heister knew that the American left had been turned; and he hurled his Hessians under Count Donop upon the Flatbush pass. Sullivan also caught the sound of Clinton’s guns; they were in his rear, and the truth struck home instantly.

“Fall back!” he cried.

As the German troops pressed forward, no one remained to resist them; down the opposite side of the hill rushed the Americans, hoping to escape being surrounded. But when they reached the plain, Sullivan saw that he was too late. Clinton’s light infantry and dragoons were upon them like cats. Back the patriots rushed into the pass, only to be greeted with a stream of lead from the mercenaries’ muskets.

“We have them!” shouted Count Donop in his hoarse German. “At them, my children!”

The Americans recoiled from the sleet of bullets, but only to fall upon the sabers of the British dragoons. Backward and forward like shuttlecocks they were driven; first the British would send them reeling toward the Hessians, then the latter would, in turn, hurl them back upon the British. But not for a moment did the patriots cease fighting; their rifles belched in the faces of the foe, their bayonets ran red with blood. The pass roared with conflict; mercy was not asked nor given; above the barking of muskets, horses neighed and trumpets shrilled their high-voiced commands.

At length Sullivan was taken prisoner, and with him a large body of his men; another section of the command broke through the mass of the British and gained their own lines, but by far the greater number of the brave fellows lay dead among the stones of the pass.

Before this dreadful blow was dealt the colonial hopes, Lord Sterling was exchanging shots with the British under Grant at the Gowanus pass. When the heavy guns of Clinton announced his presence at Bedford, Grant began a determined advance; with one rush he crushed and took the raw militia.

It was here that George Prentiss’ knowledge of the country, gained in his long rides and his sketching, was brought into play. Sterling, with his officers grouped about him, was endeavoring to hit upon a way out of a desperate situation. For desperate it was. Cornwallis, while Sterling was facing Grant, had rapidly brought the British reserve from Bedford by a narrow road; and he was now directly in Sterling’s rear. As Sullivan had been between the fires of Clinton and De Heister, so Sterling was between those of Cornwallis and Grant.

As George pressed toward the group about Sterling, an officer whispered something in the general’s ear. Instantly the latter’s glance went to the young New Englander.

“Prentiss,” said he, “I’m told that you’re familiar with this section.”

George lifted his hand in a salute.

“Yes, general.”

“Our only hope seems to be to the west and north of us. What is the ground like in that direction?”

“There is a creek, sir, which flows into Gowanus Cove; it is fordable at low water.”

“Do you know the state of the tide now?”

“It happens that I do. It’s coming in at this hour, but should still be low enough to pass.”

At once Sterling’s orders were given; part of his force was left to face Grant; the remainder marched at a double quick for the creek. They had sighted it when a cry from Ezra drew the attention of his superiors. His finger was pointing to a growth of bush between them and the coveted stream. Above this could be seen the head-pieces of the British grenadiers and the cold gleam of their bayonets.

Only one commander in a thousand would have thought of resistance now. But Sterling was that one man. Calmly he gave his orders. With a part of one battalion of Maryland men, he boldly threw himself upon the grenadiers; and while he so engaged them the rest of the command crossed the creek.

With these latter were George Prentiss and the party of scouts; it would have pleased them more to have stayed; but their orders were imperative; a swamp stretched from the creek almost to the American lines, and some one must guide the Delaware men, or they would be caught like rats.

No more desperate fighters than the five companies which Sterling retained were in the American army; they flew at the stalwart grenadiers like game-cocks; repeatedly they were broken, but each time they rallied and renewed the fight. Once, indeed, they crushed the solid formation of Cornwallis, and started the grenadiers on the run; but as fate would have it, bodies of British reinforcements came up, and the brave fellows were forced to retreat. Even then, Sterling, with a part of what was left, held his ground long enough to permit another detachment of his force to cross the creek to safety.

Broken and desperate, they made their last stand in a clump of trees. Washington, who was watching the fight through his glass from a high hill within the American lines, grew sick at heart as he witnessed the gallantry of this little band and saw the fate that must overtake them.

“Alas!” he exclaimed to some of his staff who stood near. “What brave fellows I must lose this day.”

And lose them he did. They were borne down and bayoneted in a corn-field, or shot as they endeavored to escape across a marsh. To the very last, Lord Sterling encouraged them by presence and word and deed; and when all was lost he gave up his sword to the Hessian general De Heister.

Then came the moments that meant much to the colonies; mad with victory, the British massed before the American redoubts; within musket shot they poised for the charge that would end the fight. Washington prepared for a desperate defense of Brooklyn; his cannon played upon the massed columns fiercely, and seeing that he was resolved to hold his position at all hazards, Clinton gave orders that his eager troops be held in check. To storm the American works would have been the quicker and more spectacular way; but hundreds, perhaps thousands of lives must pay for it; and this crafty tactician was not given to wasting his force. So he drew off his men and they encamped out of musket shot for the night.

But it was no night of rest for George Prentiss and his fellow riders. Through the darkness they tore, never heeding life nor limb; the length and breadth of Manhattan was crossed, and the dispatches they bore set troops in motion all over the island.

Day broke dismal and lowering after a fearful night behind the colonial works. Twenty thousand of the enemy were encamped in plain sight. Then through a drenching rain, the American reinforcements arrived. Among these were Glover’s hardy New England seamen, Shee’s crack Philadelphia regiment, and Magan’s Pennsylvanians; also Mifflin’s troops from Kingsbridge and Fort Washington.

The downpour seemed to dampen the spirits of the British; they ceased their artillery fire and took to their tents; only some desultory rifle shooting between the advanced posts was indulged in. Late in the afternoon, when the rain slackened, they began to intrench, their idea being to advance by regular approaches, each protected by an earthwork.

Next day there was a heavy fog. George Prentiss, scouting in the neighborhood of Red Hook, saw an unusual activity among the British shipping off Staten Island, during a moment when a trifling breeze had lifted the mist from the waters.

“Look there!” he cried to his friends. They had but a glimpse of the war-ships before the fog settled once more.

“There seems to be something going on,” said Ezra.

“I think I caught a glimpse of small boats plying between the ships and this side,” added Brewster.

“No doubt you did,” said George. “Twice the other day the British caught us between two fires. And not satisfied with that,” confidentially, “they are going to try again.”

“What! Do you mean that——”

“That they are coming up with the next wind and tide. This battery,” pointing to the Red Hook defense, “can’t hope to keep them back, and the Governor’s Island and city batteries are not much better. Let them once anchor in the East River and Washington’s army is lost. His retreat will be cut off.”

They put their tired horses at a gallop back to the lines. To some staff officers they imparted their news, and the commander-in-chief at once called a council of war. Other hostile craft were known to have rounded Long Island and gained Flushing Bay; should these land troops east of the Harlem they might take Kingsbridge, which all knew to be the key to Manhattan.

A retreat was decided upon that very night!

Again the fleet horsemen were in the saddle. This time they bore orders for the requisition of all craft between Spuyten Duyvil on the Hudson and Hell Gate on the Sound; and by evening a huge fleet of all sizes and trims were gathered at the Brooklyn side of the river.

The enemy was so close that the sound of their sentries’ voices could be heard, and to move an army of nine thousand men from under their very noses was an appalling military task. And yet it was done. Company by company, regiment by regiment they embarked and under cover of the fog which still prevailed, they slipped across to New York. Horses, wagons, ammunition, provisions and artillery were also transported. By daybreak General Mifflin’s covering party also entered the boats; and in the last of these could be seen the tall figure of Washington, gazing back through the gray light of the morning toward the heights.

“It is what he feared from the first,” whispered George Prentiss to his brother. “They will mount the guns there that will drive him from Manhattan.”

CHAPTER XIX
DESCRIBES HOW GEORGE AND HIS FRIEND START
UPON A DANGEROUS MISSION

The next two weeks were filled with memorable events; they saw the execution of the daring young schoolmaster, Nathan Hale; they witnessed the thronging of the British war-ships into the Hudson, and the landing of Clinton’s heavy force on Manhattan Island at Kip’s Bay; and, also, they saw the massing of Washington’s battered army upon Harlem Heights.

Then began a series of desperate ventures with fire ships, sallying parties and raids in which the brutal Hessians had a chance to show their quality; Fort Washington was taken by Howe; and then began the terrible retreat across the Jerseys. Cornwallis, relentless as a bloodhound, hung upon the trail of the American army. At Newark, his advance guard entered the town as the American rear was leaving it; at Trenton the British reached the banks of the Delaware only to see the camp-fires of the patriots burning on the opposite side.

New Jersey now fell into a state of terror; the Hessians overran everything. Following the example of their leaders, they plundered left and right. None escaped them; Tories suffered as well as patriots; houses “protected” by the sign manual of Cornwallis himself were sacked; women and children were turned out into the winter cold with scarce enough to cover them. In a spirit of retaliation, the American troops on the west of the Delaware also entered into the game of pillage; for miles and miles they looted the homes of all suspected of being in sympathy with the British. This grew in extent until Washington posted most severe penalties for all engaged in plunder.

The knowledge of what was going on in New Jersey excited the most bitter hatred against the Hessians. But through it all, Washington, and those nearest him, remained calm; they watched and waited, and all the time they strove to get their forces into shape to strike a blow that would be at once quick and deadly.

The deeds of the Hessians brought horror to all who heard of them, but to none did the measure seem so full as to George Prentiss. When some fresh enormity reached his ears, there always flashed upon him a picture of a stately manor house in the possession of these lawless ruffians; he saw, also, a white-faced girl and a helpless old man, and none to lift a hand in their defense.

“Should you ever cross the Jerseys, lad,” old Camp had said, “don’t fail to hunt us out. The Elms, we call the place, and it’s less than a dozen miles out of the town of Trenton.”

A dozen miles! It must, then, be in the very heart of the section where all was pillaging and burning and hanging.

George had kept his brother Ezra acquainted with all the happenings that bore upon the Camps; and in many things Ezra had advised wisely. But just now he was detailed upon service at Philadelphia under Putnam, and his absence was badly felt.

Nat Brewster and Ben Cooper began to notice the eagerness with which George sought news from across the river.

“It is something more than common,” said young Cooper. “Every chance he gets, he’s riding along the shore; at night nothing seems so attractive to him as the firelights on the Jersey side. He watches them by the hour.”

“He says nothing, though,” replied Nat Brewster, “and I have the impression that whatever it is that’s on his mind it’s something he wants to keep to himself. So I’ve never asked him any questions.”

One afternoon, only a few days after the above words were spoken, Brewster, grave-faced and quiet, opened the door of the hut which the three had erected for shelter.

“There’s work to do,” he stated, as he sat down before the fire.

George, watching his friend’s face closely, saw that something important was under way.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Volunteers are demanded to cross the river and learn the enemy’s strength.”

“You are one,” and George sprang up, knocking over the stool upon which he had been sitting and causing the crazy little hut to vibrate with his eagerness.

Nat nodded. George dashed open the door and was away. The winter blast swept in and the blaze roared up the rude chimney. Ben closed the door, his lips puckered in a whistle.

“There, now,” said he. “What did I tell you? Something’s over there,” and he jerked his head in the direction of the river, “that’s on his mind. The only wonder to me is that he hasn’t crossed before now, orders or no orders.”

In about half an hour George reappeared.

“I go with you,” he said, his eyes alight and with more spring in his step than they had seen for some time. Their arms hung upon the wall, and instantly he took down his pistol and began putting it in order.

“There is no need to hurry matters,” answered Nat, quietly. “Great speed at a time like this is as like to bring disaster as anything else. Take time; more than bustle will be required to land us within the British lines—in safety.”

George had great respect for Brewster’s shrewdness and resourcefulness; so holding his eagerness in check, he sat down and began recharging the pistol.

“You’ve been thinking the matter over,” said he to Nat.

The latter nodded.

“We have no password,” said he slowly; “and even if we had I doubt if it would be of much service with the Hessians. They seen to disregard everything but their own desires. Like as not we’d each have a musket ball or bayonet planted in our bodies if we encountered them in any other way than one which pleased them.”

George looked up from the pistol.

“Do you know of anything that would be pleasant to them?”

“I think so,” said Nat. “You see, the countryside all about Trenton is being drawn upon for provisions for the troops.”

A set look came into young Prentiss’ mouth; his eyes grew hard in the firelight.

“Go on,” he said.

“If we can cross the river to-night and make our way some distance into the interior, perhaps we can meet with the teams that bring in the forage. Every American to be found is impressed to help in this work. All we need do is to show ourselves; and as the bringers of food, we’ll pass muster.”

“That is a good plan enough,” said George. “I accept it as it stands.”

“You would accept any plan that promised to land you across the Delaware,” was Ben Cooper’s thought as he listened and watched. “And you’d not question any of them.”

And so it happened that as the early December evening fell, two loutish looking fellows made their way toward the Delaware at a point some distance beyond the American lines. The wind that swept up from the deep dark river was icy and damp; for all their greatcoats and muffling neckerchiefs they shivered and swung their arms for warmth.

Once upon the bank they paused. Frozen fast in a little runlet they found an old ferry-boat that George had noticed before.

It required more than an hour’s hard work to free it from the ice; then with the heavy sweep they smashed the formation that extended out from the bank, and were afloat. The point was some miles above Trenton, and the ice-floes were thick and running freely with the tide. For over an hour they strained and tugged, and at length the heavy bow of the ferry crushed through the thin ice on the Jersey side, and they scrambled ashore.

The tide had carried them well down toward the Hessian outposts; and turning their backs upon these they trudged their way along a snowy road that ran northeast. As the night went on it grew colder and colder; more snow began to fall; they could feel its wet softness upon their faces.

Far off in the distance, a bell struck the hour mournfully.

“Midnight,” said Nat.

“And getting colder every moment,” answered George.

The white of the snow pressed in upon them from the further darkness, and the way grew more and more difficult. Suddenly Brewster felt his friend clutch his arm.

“Nat,” said George. “Look there.”

A faint point of light appeared off to the right.

“It’s moving,” spoke Nat.

“More than likely a lanthorn,” said young Prentiss.

They paused and watched the glimmer of light; little by little it drew nearer. The bearer of the lanthorn apparently had great trouble in making his way along, for his pace was very slow.

“He’s plowing through the drifts,” said George. “There must be open fields in the direction from which he’s coming.”

But at last the stranger struck the road, and his pace increased; in a very little time they could hear his feet crunching the snow, then they caught the growling undertone of angry words.

“So there are two of them,” whispered Nat.

“No; he’s talking to himself.”

Nearer came the light bearer; and they could now distinguish what he said.

“That I should live to see the day,” he mumbled. “That I should live to see an English king send such a horde of rascally dogs down upon his people. Dogs, did I say? They’d shame the name of dogs; a decent cur would not own them.”

Grumbling and stamping in the snow he passed them unnoticed, a stout figure in a heavy cloak and with a broad woolen scarf bound over his hat, adown his ears and knotted under his chin. A little distance away they saw the light halt, then came the rattling of a lock and chain and the door of a low barn-like structure creaked open. The man set his lamp down within, stamped the snow from his feet and then closed the door. At once George began making his way toward the building; but Nat took him by the arm.

“What are you going to do?”

“I want to make sure of something.”

Carefully they crept toward the building; but before they reached it there came a low knocking.

“Who’s there?” came the voice of the man who had borne the lanthorn. “Who comes knocking at this hour?”

“Open the door. It is I!”

At once the door reopened; a second and slighter form flitted in, and again it closed.

“Stay here,” whispered George to his friend. “I shall be gone only a short time. Keep a lookout.”

“Very well,” replied Brewster.

George stole away toward the building; it proved to be a log structure, chinked with clay; its one window had been broken, apparently, for some boards were roughly nailed across the opening, and the seams between stuffed with rags. It required but a moment for him to work an opening in one of the seams large enough to enable him to obtain a view of the interior.

There was a low, rudely raftered ceiling through which protruded wisps of rye straw; the room was filled with smoke; there was no chimney to carry it off. The first thing that George heard was a prolonged fit of coughing; he could dimly make out two forms through the blue haze, but not enough to be sure. However, in a manner, his suspicions proved to be correct.

“To think,” said the voice of the man with the lanthorn, “that I should ever be brought to this. Strangled in a hovel not fit for beasts. But I’ll be even with them, or my name is not Camp.”

“It was he, then,” breathed the watcher softly.

There came the flapping of a broad hat within and the smoke began to thin.

“Is this the only building left on the place?” asked a second voice.

“The only one. Every other is burned to the ground.”

“The rascals!” said the second voice.

“Rascals! They are the most murderous villains unhanged! They stop at nothing. I held the ‘protection’ of Lord Cornwallis before their eyes—there was his signature and seal as plain as day—but I might as well have shown it to a drove of mad bulls.”

“Is there no way of punishing them?”

“None. Their own commanders alone have authority over them; and they are as bad as the rank and file.”

“It’s fortunate,” exclaimed Merchant Camp, amidst another fit of coughing, “that you got your sister Peggy away, at least.”

“Herbert again!” breathed the one outside, for the first time realizing to whom the second voice belonged.

“It wouldn’t have done to have left her hereabouts.”

“You placed her with the Hawksworths?”

“Yes. And she is perfectly safe there, for Hawksworth has some British army friends quartered with them—a colonel and a lieutenant-general.”

“Good,” said Mr. Camp, as though greatly relieved. “She’s safe enough, then.”

“It would have been best if you both had remained in New York.”

“I fancied that I left there to escape persecution,” said the old Tory, bitterly. “But I must say that the rebels were as mild as children when compared with these who should be my friends.”

“They tried to be just, at all events,” said Herbert Camp.

“Yes, yes, I see that now, though I didn’t then. But I see many things now, as a matter of fact, that I didn’t see then. I once thought Mr. Washington a great villain; but now I consider him a brave and honest and able gentleman—one who has clung to his beliefs in the face of defeat; and one who will continue to so cling until the last.”

“I have often heard you express admiration for tenacity of purpose and for the man who had the courage of his convictions,” said Herbert. “And yet you were willing enough to have me change my coat.”

“My boy,” and there was a curious little break in the old man’s voice, “the day that you threw down the sword you had taken up for the colonies was one of the bitterest in my life.”

There came an exclamation from Herbert; but he spoke no words.

“When I threatened to strike you from my will,” continued the old Tory, “I did it through motives of pride. I wanted to show my friends how strong the family character was; I desired to convince them as to its ruggedness and firmness and truth. I said to you in the presence of all: ‘Give up your principles or give up my money.’ I expected to see you throw the insult back into my teeth—uncle and all as I was. But you shamed me, you caused my pride to fall in ruins about me. You took me at my word. You traded your honor for money.”

“Uncle!” George heard a scraping of feet which told him that Herbert Camp had sprung up; and there was a ring in his voice that thrilled. “Do you mean to say that you’d have been better pleased had I held to the American cause?”

“I do. Strange as it may seem, I do say it. You would have shown that you were honest and steadfast, even though I thought you wrong. As it is——”

He did not complete the sentence and for a space nothing more was said. Then Herbert spoke once more.

“Suppose,” said he, “suppose that I should tell you that I had not been false to my principles?”

“Do you mean this?” And the old man’s voice rang sharply.

“I do.”

“So then,” and there was bitter anger in the tones, “you pretended. You tried to humbug me. You were willing to stoop to a mean deception in order that you might retain my good will?”

“Uncle!”

“That,” sternly, “is perhaps worse than the other thing of which I thought you guilty. Out of your own mouth you have proved yourself a designing——”

But here the young man stopped him.

“Wait,” said he; “uncle, wait! Before you say anything more, listen to me for a moment. It is true that I have deceived you.”

“Hah!”

“But not for the mean reason that you suspect.”

“What other reason could you have?”

“Give me a moment and I will try to make all plain to you. It had come to my ears that a plot was on foot—the same that eventually resulted in the hanging of Hickey, one of General Washington’s guard. When you made your proposal it instantly occurred to me that if I seemed to fall in with your views, I might be able to learn what was going forward.”

“Ah!”

“A renegade, you know, is always the most eager to proceed against his former friends; and I hoped that this fact would gain me credit among my country’s foes. Believe me, uncle, it hurt me to deceive you. I longed to tell you plainly that I was only acting a part. But I dared not.

“And then, there was Peggy!” There was a moan in the young man’s voice; and George Prentiss recalling his sullen face and heavy, brooding brows, was surprised. “You know, uncle, what we always thought of each other. You know that we were inseparable from childhood. And you also know what an ardent friend to colonial liberty she is.”

Here George just smothered an astonished outcry. Peggy Camp a patriot! A patriot! And he had thought her a Tory! Why, if that were the case——!

But he had no time for thought. Herbert was still speaking, and he could not lose a word.

“And when she heard of my supposed change of front, she did not say a word, but the way she looked at me, I shall never forget. Contempt was the weakest thing in it—scorn was there, and pity also. For a moment I felt that I could not stand it. I felt that I must tell her the truth. But I did not. An unguarded word from her to my enemies, a look, even, might ruin my chances for success.”

“Success?” There was a note of interrogation in Merchant Camp’s voice. “And were you successful?”

“No.” The regret in the young man’s voice was undoubted. “Misfortune dogged me constantly. At first I was reported as a traitor to General Putnam and was quietly arrested. But I convinced him of my innocence, explained to him my plan and was liberated that I might carry it out.”

“And what was this plan?”

“It was to gain the good will of Governor Tryon in the first place; but this I could never do—the way to him was blocked by the very persons whom I suspected.”

“And who were they?”

At this moment George felt a hand laid upon his arm; he turned, the heavy pistol leaping from his belt; but Nat Brewster’s voice whispered in his ear:

“Some one’s coming this way.”

Cautiously they drew back from the hut; and when they had reached a safe distance, they paused, knee-deep in the snow, and listened.

Whips were snapping, horses were floundering through the drifts, men’s voices were crying out sharply.

“A provision train,” said Nat. “A provision train, bound for Trenton, as sure as you live!”

CHAPTER XX
TELLS OF TWO PATRIOTS IN TRENTON

Nat was right. A half dozen clumsy-looking sleighs, drawn by farm horses, came lumbering slowly along the road; in the light of the lanthorns that swung upon the side of each, the two young men saw that the vehicles were piled high with sacks of flour, barrels of salted meat, bacon, hams, and slaughtered hogs and sheep.

The drivers clump-clumped along doggedly by the side of their horses; at the front and rear of the train rode a party of horsemen.

“There is the opportunity you spoke of, just as though it had been made to your order,” whispered George. “But how are we going to take advantage of it?”

“Let us follow on behind. They may stop somewhere, and we can happen along—two honest and rather thick-witted fellows that we are—and who knows but that something might turn up.”

Allowing the sleighs and the horsemen to proceed a certain distance, they fell in behind and trudged in their tracks. George’s mind was full of what he had just heard; but try as he might, he could not reconcile them with the facts as he knew them.

“One thing alone convicts him and shows me conclusively that his tale was merely an invention,” reasoned the young New Englander. “And that is the letter of the British governor Tryon to the Tory mayor of New York. In that, Tryon recommended this very young man to the mayor as one to be trusted—one who had served him before and would again. And yet he has just told his uncle that he attributes the non-success of his ‘plan’ to the fact that he could never gain Tryon’s confidence.”

Here he was aware that Nat had halted, and so drew up beside him.

“They have stopped,” said Brewster. “Now is our chance. Remember, now, you are a thick-headed lout, willing to work and willing to take kicks and cuffs for your pay.”

Adopting a gait in character, they shambled on and into the light of the sleigh lanterns. The train had arrived before a roadside inn of a low type. The drivers were struggling to draw their sleighs up to the side of this, but the drifts were deep and the horses sullenly refused to exert themselves.

The officer in command of the guard flew into a rage and brandishing his riding whip, shouted:

“Pigs! Have you no brains! You must first a way make. Come, now! Shall I stand for you here in the cold!”

The drivers, who were apparently farmers of consequence, impressed by the Hessians, muttered among themselves rebelliously. And it was here that the two rough figures came up from the rear, seized shovels from the sleighs and fell to on the drifts.

“Ach! das is gut!” approved the German officer. “Here men are who can work.”

In a very short time the sleighs were through the drifts, and the soldiers were thronging the inn. In about an hour they were ready to start once more upon the cold road to Trenton. But as they filed out and mounted, the two supposed country bumpkins bent low over the blaze upon the hearth and seemed content to remain where they were. The leader of the Hessians espied them, however, and his heavy lash snapped about their ears.

“Out with you,” he cried. “Shall we Hesse men into the cold go, and you two pigs stay by the fire!”

“But,” protested Nat, in a dull sort of way, “we are going to stop here for the night.”

“Donner und blitz!” exclaimed the officer, “shall I tell you again! Out with you! And be quick! Such as you may needed be before we are far gone on our journey.”

So out the two darted, dodging the lash, and took up places beside the sleighs, still making a pretense of protesting; and then away they went toward Trenton. The snow fell thickly and steadily; the road grew more and more difficult; at length, at daybreak, they sighted the town; and an hour later they were unloading the stores.

This once finished, the two young men had little difficulty in slipping away; and then began their work of observing the enemy’s position, numbers and general frame of mind. Some days passed—days of hardship and hard usage. With their rough dress, their unkempt heads of hair and grimy faces and hands, they were the butts of the brutal mercenaries that filled the town. They were forced to do all sorts of menial and laborious work; but as this permitted them to gain entrance at points where information was to be had, they fell in with the demands of the Hessians readily enough.

To the British and the Hessians, the American army was a dispirited and broken crew of ragamuffins. They knew how to run and dodge, that was all. At Trenton, all across the Jerseys and at New York, careless confidence was supreme. Howe was quartered at Manhattan for the winter; his troops were negligently stretched from Brunswick to the Delaware. Three regiments of Hessians under Colonel Rahl occupied Trenton and the towns near by; and the general conduct of these filled the two spies with satisfaction.

That iron discipline that has ever marked the German army, and which had been the particular characteristic of the Hessians since landing in America, had now relaxed. They held Washington in contempt. When one of the veteran officers suggested the erection of earthworks, Colonel Rahl laughed uproariously.

“Earthworks for those rats across the river! Ach! you are joking!” was what he said. “In a little time there will be ice where there now is water; then we will cross over and at them with the bayonet.”

This attitude of their commander had been taken up by the men; they gave little thought to the enemy; being comfortable and having more than enough food was of vastly greater interest.

Cornwallis had secured leave and was at New York about to take ship for England; Grant, who was in charge of the noble earl’s division, thought almost as meanly of the colonists as did Rahl.

All these things became known to the two eager-eyed young men, and more. They had been in the town perhaps a week, when one afternoon Brewster said:

“There is nothing more of value to be learned. Suppose we try to get across the river to-night.”

They stood at a point just above Trenton where they had the stream in view, but were well out of sight of the guards.

“There are no boats to be had,” said young Prentiss.

“I tested the ice last night, almost opposite this point,” said Nat. “It was strong enough to bear a man’s weight then; and it’s been freezing hard ever since.”

“Perhaps it would not bear two even now,” suggested George.

“I had thought of that. We had better go one at a time. Then should an accident happen to one, the other would still have a chance to get the information to camp in safety.”

For a moment George was silent; then with a hand upon his friend’s shoulder, he said:

“Do you mind venturing first? I have excellent reasons for asking this of you.”

“As well first as last.”

“If you get across without harm, as I hope you will, I mean to remain here for a little longer,” spoke George.

“Remain!” there was astonishment in the other’s voice. “But why? We have learned all we can hope to learn.”

“The matter is a private one,” returned George. “Some time I will explain all, but not now.”

Nat said no more. That night they again sought the same spot; the sky was high and starry, but there was no moon; the river looked like a great snow covered field of ice.

“Just light enough for me to see and not enough for them to see me,” said Nat.

“I don’t think you are going to have much trouble in making the passage,” said his friend. “The ice looks firm enough to support a troop of dragoons.”

“Well, here’s for it; and I trust that you are right.” They clasped hands tightly.

“Don’t forget the signal that’s to tell me that you are safely across—a fire upon the hilltop just above there.”

“I’ll light it as soon as I arrive.”

“And I’ll watch here for it until midnight. If I don’t see it by that time, I’ll be sure that something has happened to you and will make the attempt myself.”

“Good-bye,” said Nat.

“Good-bye.”

A dark form flitted down to the river’s edge and stepped fearlessly upon the ice; then it headed for the Pennsylvania shore and was soon lost to view. The night was cold and still; George could hear the crunching of his friend’s shoes in the frozen snow for some time after he had lost sight of him. But after a little, even that ceased; he heard a clock strike nine and then ten from a tower in the town; then followed what seemed ages of waiting. The watcher trembled with the cold; his feet were numbed; his hands were useless. Just as eleven boomed out, mournfully and far off, there was a faint flare from a knoll across the river; then it mounted to a ruddy blaze and George gave a sigh of relief.

“He’s safe,” said he. “Safe! And now I can turn my hand to my own work.”

CHAPTER XXI
HOW COLONEL RAHL PROPOSED GIVING A
CHRISTMAS CONCERT

George learned that the Hawksworths, with whom Peggy was staying, were an English family who owned vast acreages in the Jerseys; the head of the house was the younger son of a duke, his wife the daughter of a viscount; and their connections were extremely fashionable. They resided in a fine brick mansion in the best section; and because of their high estate and the fact that they quartered a lieutenant-general, they had a brace of pigtailed Hessians constantly on guard at their front door.

Once or twice, George’s affairs had taken him by the house, and he found it quite as compelling as the one in Crown Street, New York. But he never saw Peggy. As a matter of fact, he made no especial effort to see her; he felt that he was upon urgent business for headquarters, and that it was his place not to attract any more attention than was necessary.

But now that Nat had safely carried their harvest of news across the river, the boy considered himself more of a free agent than before; and his own affairs came uppermost in his mind.

“Peggy Camp has held me up to contempt, insulted me to my face and even tried to take my life,” he told himself. “And yet I want to see her. I want to see her just once. I want to tell her how I regard her, and then I want to see no more of her.”

But for a person dressed as he was to gain admittance to one under the care of the aristocratic Hawksworths was clearly impossible; and so he sought a tailor, a hair-dresser and a haberdasher; emerging from their hands, he was spick and span and eligible for any company. And, also, which came as an afterthought, he was open to detection. No doubt there were numerous New York king’s men in Trenton upon various errands connected with the service; and some of these who had seen him there would know him for what he was.

“But I’ll take the chance,” he muttered; “nothing is gained except by venturing. A bold manner will win me a way, perhaps, even if any one should recall me.”

So he sought out an inn which was patronized by persons of quality, and calmly installed himself therein; there were many officers of Rahl’s brigade quartered there, but that made little difference; the nearer to the danger mark at times, the safer one may feel.

The inn was directly across the way from Rahl’s headquarters; from his windows the young New Englander could see the sentries pacing up and down; the half circle of cannon grinned grimly down each street that led thereto.

George had not been a guest at the inn more than a day or two when he noticed that the sound of music was almost constant at headquarters. The landlord, a Tory, made a wry face when George mentioned the matter.

“Rahl is a madman for melody,” said he. “No matter what else is toward, his concerts must not be interfered with; he’ll sit for hours before the fire, beating time with his fingers. The best fed men in his army are the musicians. As for me, I wish they’d choke themselves with their own bugles and fifes; one can’t get a wink of sleep at times for their blowing and braying.”

It wanted only a little time now until Christmas. This has always been a festival greatly in favor with the Germans. The plundered countryside suffered more than ever; the mercenaries made a clean sweep of what was left; nothing escaped them; sleigh train after sleigh train entered Trenton from all directions; herd after herd of sheep, swine and beef were driven over the snowy roads.

And the more deeply engaged the Hessians became in these preparations for the festival, the less attention they gave to duty. Neglect of even the simplest military precautions became common; one unacquainted with the real conditions would have said, upon observing their indifference, that there was not an enemy within five hundred miles.

“If it were not for the river,” said George to himself time and again, “Washington would need only make a swift dash and the town would be his.”

But that even the ice-choked river had no terrors for the American commander was soon made plain to the boy. He had just finished his noonday meal and arisen to his feet when he heard a guarded voice say in his ear:

“Guess you ain’t no friend to Mistah Brewstah?”

It was a black boy, woolly-headed and with solemn eyes.

“I am,” replied George, in the same low tone.

“Would you ’blige me wif you name, suh?” The black boy was caution itself. George told him his name, and the solemn eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

“Das it, sho’ ’nuff,” he said. Then lower still, “I got a lil’ bit o’ writin’ fo’ yo’, suh.”

A strip of paper was slipped into the young man’s hand. It read:

“Crossing Christmas night. Fire on hill back of where I left. Put out at once—don’t cross. Allow to burn—all is well.”

A thrill ran through George’s body. At a glance its meaning was plain to him.

“The army crosses the river on Christmas night,” he thought. “I am to light a signal fire on the hill back of the spot where Nat left me last. If I put the blaze out at once it will mean that I find it dangerous for them to make the attempt. If I keep it burning, it will mean that the time is ripe for the blow to be struck—that the Hessians suspect nothing.”

For a moment he continued gazing at the paper, fascinated; then he turned to the messenger.

“Who gave you this?”

“Mistah Brewstah, suh.”

“Where is he?”

“Was jes below de town, suh, a few hours ago. Reckon he’s gone now, ’cross de river.”

“Do you know what’s written on this paper?” keenly.

“’Deed no, suh. I can’t read writin’ no-how. It’s sumfin ’bout Gen’ul Washington, though. Mistah Brewstah done told me that when he said I was to be ca’ful and not let the British see it.”

“How did he come to give it to you?”

“I wu’ks for Mistah Spen’sah, outside town; Mistah Spen’sah is a friend to Gen’ul Washington’s gen’l’men, an’ he done tol’ Mistah Brewstah that he could done trust me. I’se pow’ful sot ’gainst dese heah Hushians, I is.”

For some time after the lad had gone George stood immovable reading the paper so that there could be no mistake as to its meaning. Then he touched one end of it to the flames upon the broad hearth and watched it blacken and curl. A door opened and the draught carried the charred fragments up the wide chimney; George was still bending toward the fire meditatively, when a harsh, high-pitched voice demanded:

“Where are my friends, sir? Come now, don’t keep me kicking my heels and waiting.”

There was something familiar in the tones, and George lifted his head and gazed at the speaker. The man was burly, red-faced and had small, deeply-set eyes; and his manner, as he stood waiting for the landlord to reply, was oddly like that of an ill-trained mastiff. It flashed into the youth’s mind that he had seen this man somewhere before and under conditions which had possessed interest. As George was measuring him closely, the glance of the newcomer happened to rest upon him; and into the small, deeply-set eyes there came a look as puzzled as his own. For a moment they stood thus, gazing at each other; then the landlord spoke:

“Your friends, sir,” he said, “are in the back parlor. They required that you be shown in when you arrived.”

Several times after this George encountered the same person and each time he fell to wondering who he was; and always did he see speculation in the glances which the big man leveled at him.

On Christmas day the inn was all a-bustle with preparation. Colonel Rahl had suddenly announced that he would hold a concert and entertainment there; his own quarters were not large enough to house the throng expected; and as the inn parlors were big and comfortable, the landlord had been given notice to decorate them with greens and candle-lights against the coming of the commander’s guests. The regular lodgers at the tavern were greatly inconvenienced by the affair. The kitchens were mainly given up to the cooking of Rahl’s dinner; and when the patrons of the place did succeed in having a meal prepared, they were forced to eat it in all sorts of out-of-the-way places in order not to be in the way of those hanging the decorations.

So George found himself dining alone in a screened corner near to the fire early that evening. A small dining party was placed, after a little, upon the opposite side of the screen; George paid no attention to them, being busy with his own thoughts.

In a little time the waiters had finished their hammering and hanging; and the first voice that George caught from the party beyond the screen was that of the burly man whom he thought he knew.

“And so,” this person was saying, with a great laugh, “she is coming here to-night, is she?”

A smoother voice replied:

“Yes; she’s stopping with the Hawksworths, I understand. And they’ll be sure to be here. They are great friends of Rahl’s, you see.”

When this last person began to speak, George started in astonishment. It could not be! But as it went on he was convinced and dumbfounded. The voice was that of Major Hyde. And, as though to assure the young New Englander that he was not mistaken, Henderson, the dragoon officer, now spoke.

“’Pon my word,” he laughed. “Rahl is a great fellow. He pulls the string and they all dance like puppets.”

“Your uncle, Mr. Camp, will also be present, I suppose,” said the burly man, apparently to Hyde.

“I think not,” answered the major. “He’s still brooding over the ashes of his manor house, I believe; they can’t induce him to leave.”

“He would be a trifle astonished to see us here,” said the dragoon with another laugh, in which the big man joined.

“And scarcely pleased, I fancy,” said Hyde.

“Not pleased!” There was incredulity in the other’s voice. “Not pleased to know that you’ve really been a king’s man all along, and not a rebel. Oh, come now.”

Hyde a king’s man! George’s knife fell with a clatter to the floor, so great was his amazement.

“What I say is more likely than not to be a fact,” answered Hyde. “Herbert, it seems, made no real interest with the old gentleman in shifting his colors. I saw that long since. You see,” with a sneer in his voice, “my worthy uncle is one of those who prefer what they call principle to the gaining of victory.”

“Absurd!” growled the burly man. There was a pause, then he continued in another tone: “But it seems to me that you have made your real sympathies known too soon. The rebellion is not yet put down. If you had remained with Washington’s army, you would have——”

“He would have graced the end of a rope,” said Henderson. “And I should have borne him company.”

“Ah! They suspected you, then?”

“They were only waiting to make sure,” said Hyde. “I got wind of a letter written by Tryon to Matthews in which I was referred to—not by name, to be sure, but near enough to be dangerous. That told me that my stay in the American lines was limited.”

“Tryon is an idiot,” commented the dragoon. “How a man can so trust intimate matters to pen and ink is more than I can understand.”

“So!” was the thought of the listener. “Herbert Camp spoke the truth then. Hyde was the nephew of whom Tryon wrote.”

“It was high time for us to go,” said Henderson. “I felt it in my bones, days before the Long Island fight. That fellow Prentiss seemed growing too keen to be comfortable.”

“Prentiss?” the big man repeated the name inquiringly.

“Yes; the messenger sent us from Boston.”

“Ah! that was his name, was it? Now, there was a confounded knave for you. He was willing to sell us all out to Putnam, I’m told.”

“Yes. And he’d just as willingly sold out Putnam to us. It made little difference to him.”

“It’s fortunate that we received word as to his true character when we did,” said Henderson. “Otherwise he would have come to know every man of us for what we really were.”

“You should have got rid of the scoundrel,” growled the burly man. “There are more ways than one.”

“We tried several,” said Hyde. “Once we invited him to dinner to our place in Wall Street. But he refused.”

A shudder ran through the listener. He had indeed been near to death on that spring evening.

“Then Henderson had a shot at him later—in my uncle’s house on Crown Street.”

“Henderson!” George almost cried this aloud, so great was his astonishment.

“But I missed,” complained the dragoon. “You see, I couldn’t get a proper bead on him. I was in a sort of closet behind one of Hyde’s ancestor’s portraits, and was forced to shoot through a hole in one of the eyes. And even though I missed, I almost lost my life for the shot.”

“How was that?”

“Who stood in the middle of the room when I tore out of the closet, but Mistress Peggy Camp. Poof! What a tiger cat!” The burly man exclaimed wonderingly.

“Peggy,” said Hyde, “has always been an eager little rebel. And because I was such an ardent patriot,” laughingly, “I’ve always had her respect.”

“You once counted upon having more than that, if I remember aright. You wanted her as your wife when you thought she’d be made heiress to the old man—vice Herbert, dismissed.”

“Well, Herbert’s sudden shift to the British side of the house spoiled all that. So we’ll not discuss it.” Hyde’s voice was cold.

“And so Peggy flew at you for taking a shot at Prentiss, did she?” said the burly man. “He’d fooled her into thinking him a staunch Whig, I suppose.”

“On the contrary,” answered Henderson, “she was convinced that he was a traitor to the American cause.”

“She fancied that I, the patriot officer, sought his life for that very reason,” said Major Hyde. “That night in Crown Street, she saw me enter the room where Henderson was already concealed behind the picture. At first I thought she had been in the room when I entered, and was afraid she knew Henderson’s purpose. But later, I was convinced that this was not so.

“The rascal in the next room had been of service to her in some way. She said she knew he was a traitor to her countrymen—she realized that he was all that was bad. But, for all that, I must not harm him.”

“It was I, and not Herbert, for whom she pleaded,” was the listener’s thought. “But, then, I heard Herbert’s name mentioned; I heard——”

“All the time,” laughed Hyde, “I knew that her brother was hiding in the house. There were many arrests just then, and I suppose he feared being taken. I promised Peggy that I’d say nothing of his presence; but I warned her to beware of Prentiss.”

For the first time, George understood the conversation which had taken place in the room next the tapestried chamber. They had spoken of him at first; but later the talk had shifted to Herbert.

“Prentiss,” went on Major Hyde, “had filled her with fear, for all her determination to save him. I told her that he was in the house for no other purpose than the tracking of her brother. This I thought might induce her to leave the fellow in our hands to do with as we pleased.”

“But she didn’t?”

“No; she was frightened, but apparently had full faith in herself to deal with the situation. I went away, thinking she too would go to her room. But she must have suspected something, and was still where I left her when the shot was fired.”

“What have you succeeded in fastening upon Prentiss beside the charge from Boston that he was carrying water upon both shoulders?” inquired the big man.

“Nothing.”

“We made a try, that same night in Crown Street,” said the dragoon. “But he’s such a sharp villain that we were hard put to it to avoid suspicion.”

“I tried to make him admit that he’d betrayed Dana or young Camp to Putnam,” said Hyde. “But he avoided us; and we were forced to pass the thing off as a sort of wager.”

But at length there was a pushing back of chairs upon the other side of the screen; the score was settled, after some argument with the waiter; George heard the sound of feet crossing the floor, mingled voices in talk that was both loud and light; then a door closed upon them.

The youth looked at his watch. It was after eight o’clock. Hastily he settled for his dinner, and rising, was helped on with his greatcoat. Feeling in his pocket to make sure that he had his tinder box, he came from behind the screen and made for the street door with quick steps.

Not once did he glance about him. If he had done so he would have noted that all of the Major Hyde party had not gone. The burly man still remained, and as George hurried by him, he glanced up. The same speculation filled his eyes that always entered them at the sight of George; but this time recognition quickly followed. His heavy jaws snapped together, mastiff-like, and as the door closed behind the lad, he arose to his feet and called for his hat and coat. And as George had felt carefully for his tinder box, so did this man feel for his pistol; and being satisfied that it was in its place he opened the door and set doggedly after the other through the Christmas lighted streets of Trenton.

CHAPTER XXII
TELLS HOW A FIRE WAS KINDLED ON A HILLSIDE

Upon all sides were lighted windows; and through each of them could be seen groups of Hessians feasting or dancing; the sounds of singing and laughter came from every quarter. Through the day, George Prentiss’ quick eye had noted the increasing lack of military deportment among the mercenaries; and now that night had come, things had grown worse.

“The fire, when I light it, will be allowed to burn,” thought the young fellow, grimly, as he pushed his way through the snow. “And when Washington’s rifles are banging about their ears, perhaps they’ll regret their feastings and frolickings.”

In a little while he was in the select quarter of the town. Here the festival was being observed with less grotesquery; and every now and then a sleigh flitted by, crowded with merrymakers on their way to Colonel Rahl’s concert. At the door of the Hawksworth mansion stood a number of gracefully modeled cutters, each with a spirited team and a great number of jingling bells. Apparently quite a party were going from here to the concert; they were trooping down the steps laughing and chattering; several footmen held lanthorns aloft; the ice upon the stone steps and pavement glittered like glass.

Suddenly there was an exclamation; a girl slipped and would have fallen had not young Prentiss deftly caught her. She murmured a “Thank you,” and looked into his face.

But, so filled was he with the importance of his errand, that he had not even noted that the house was Hawksworth’s; so he failed to recognize the face behind the heavy veil. All unknowing, he touched his hat and hurried on. She recognized him, however, for the light from a lanthorn had fallen directly upon his face; and she gasped to see him here, of all places in the world. Her friends were laughing and chattering still, and calling to each other from the different sleighs; but she never heeded them. Standing at one side she gazed after the dimming figure pushing its way so doggedly through the snow.

And as she stood there, she became aware of something else. There was another figure—a burly, towering figure that possessed an atmosphere at once cautious and threatening. The huge shoulders were bent, the head was drawn down, the step was careful, the whole manner one of secrecy and observation. That this person was following the boy seemed beyond doubt; and the girl choked back a little cry as she realized it.

Apparently under the impression that the entire party was wrapped in the robes and tucked away in the sleighs, the horses were given rein and started away amid a great jingling of bells. But still Peggy Camp paid no heed. For a moment she stood, her eyes following the burly, secretive pursuer; then with sudden resolution she gathered her cloak about her and stole away in the broad track which he left in the snow.

When George reached the point above the town where his friend had crossed, he stopped for a moment and gazed out over the river. Not even a twinkle of light could be seen from the Pennsylvania shore; the snow was falling thickly; the bitter wind had broken the ice into huge cakes, and these were grinding together ominously.

But his pause was only of a moment’s duration. Upon the hillock of which Nat had spoken, a heap of brush, carefully covered from the snow, was collected. George had taken this precaution the day before. Shielding his operations with his hat, he struck a spark and fired the brush; the flame began to lick at the dry twigs hungrily; the dark red tongues leaped from point to point at the bottom of the heap. As the wind struck it, the mounting fire bur-r-r-red complainingly; and satisfied that it had safely caught, George stepped back. As he did so he heard a step at his side; upon the point of whirling about he heard a low voice say:

“Hah! You would, would you!”

Then came a tremendous blow upon the side of his head and he fell stunned upon the hillside. The cold touch of the snow, however, instantly revived him; with his muscles lax and powerless he lay there, his eyes rolling about until they became fixed upon a form at the fire.

“A signal, eh?” The big man laughed, and the leaping flame lighted up his face. And, as it did so, George, strangely enough, knew him. It was the bully, Slade, whom he had seen at the “King’s Arms” on his first day in New York. “A signal, was it, my hearty? Well, we’ll soon put an end to that.”

With a massive walking stick, apparently the weapon with which he had felled young Prentiss, he began scattering the brush.

Unsteadily, George got upon his feet; waveringly he advanced. For the fire to be instantly quenched meant that the American army must not venture across the river.

“How do I know but what this would bring the entire swarm of rebels down upon us?” growled Slade. He lifted his cudgel for another blow at the burning brush, when he felt himself shouldered aside; and when he turned he found himself staring into a wide mouthed pistol.

“You will kindly not disturb this fire,” said the young New Englander. “It cost me some little effort to build it, and I’d prefer having it burn.”

Bristling and snarling more like a bad mannered mastiff than ever, Slade regarded the young man.

“All such things as fire are forbidden on the river bank,” said he, rather lamely.

George laughed. “They will have to do something more than forbid, to make me put this one out,” he said.

“I was right, then,” said Slade. “It’s a signal!”

“It is your privilege to guess. And it is also mine to refuse an answer,” smiled the young man.

Though he kept the pistol upon Slade, George noticed that the fire was waning. He began kicking the brush together that it might burn better; particles of snow flew among the light flames and hissed and sputtered.

“How much of the conversation did you overhear at the inn about an hour ago?” asked Slade.

“All of it.”

“That’s what I thought.” The small eyes snapped viciously beneath the heavy brows. “Then you know that you’ve never deceived us. We knew that you were playing fast and loose from the first.”

“Your messenger from Boston was suspected of being a traitor, was he?”

“Suspected?” Slade laughed at this.

“What was his name?” asked George, quietly.

Slade hesitated; then a curious look came into his face.

“We never heard,” said he finally.

It was George who laughed this time.

“Mr. Dana is a curious old fellow,” said he. “I wonder if he always jumps so at conclusions.”

“Do you mean to say——” Slade stopped.

“That I am not the messenger? Exactly. Your man must have missed the ‘Nancy Breen.’ I bore dispatches, but they were to General Putnam.”

Slade eyed him narrowly.

“That,” said he, “will astonish Major Hyde.”

“No more than my learning that that same gentleman is a British spy astonished me,” replied George.

The fire was not burning as he desired it. Smiling quietly at the amazed look of Slade, George incautiously lowered the pistol and proceeded to arrange the dryest of the brush. This lapse was like to have been his last act on earth, for Slade bounded upon him like a wild beast. The pistol was knocked from his grasp, and he was crushed to the ground under the man’s bulk. But the few minutes that had passed since the first blow had seen the youth’s strength come back in a great degree. He twisted about, grappled with Slade, and they went writhing and rolling about in the snow.

The Tory had little idea of the work in which he was now engaged; with his tremendous power he should have beaten his lighter opponent into submission in short order. But, save in clumsy wrestling, he did not know how to use his strength. George, on the other hand, never missed a point; he clutched the other by the neck-cloth and twisted it until he had him gasping; and now and then, when he had a chance, he let go with one hand and dashed it into the contorted face.

With the blood streaming from mouth and nose, Slade continued the struggle; slowly the boy was strangling him; the breath labored in his huge chest; in the mounting firelight his small eyes seemed ready to start from his head.

During the entire fight, George’s great dread was that the fire might die out through want of attention. He did not fear Slade, or the outcome of the struggle; but that the waiting Americans upon the west bank might misread his signal gave him much anxiety. Even in the midst of the battling, he managed to keep his attention on the fire. Instead of dying out it grew stronger and stronger; indeed, it roared and sparkled bravely in the wind; its light made the hillside as plain as day. Amazed at this, George finally managed to twist about so in Slade’s clutch that he got a good view of the fire. Still more amazed was he to see a slight form hovering beside it and heaping brush upon it with a generous hand. And as he looked, a clear voice said:

“Never mind this; it is my work. Take care of that man, and leave the fire to me.”

With a sort of fierce joy in his heart, George proceeded to do as he was bidden. But Slade had heard the voice and now saw what was going forward. The fear of what might be the outcome of the beacon light caused him to lose his head. With a wild jerk he freed himself from the young man and leaped to his feet. As he rushed toward the blaze, George was after him like a cat, snatching his heavy pistol from the snow as he went. Slade’s arms were outstretched to seize the girl when the steel barrel fell upon his head; and like an ox he went down in his tracks.

“Now,” spoke the young man quietly, as he looked at Peggy Camp, “if you’ll be so good as to go on as you were, I’ll see to trussing this fellow up.”

Without a word the girl fed the brush to the hungry flames; with the man’s own belt and his woolen neckerchief, George pinioned his arms and legs.

“He’s very awkward to handle,” said the youth when this was accomplished, “and it’s just as well to have him safe.” Then he turned and helped her with a tangled mass of brush which she found it difficult to move. “How did you happen here?” he asked.

“I saw you coming this way,” she answered simply. “And I saw him,” with a nod toward Slade, “following you. He looked as if he meant harm, so I followed him.”

“You did!” He gazed at her steadily.

“You have served me more than once,” she said. “And then, you are my cousin.”

George started with surprise.

“You know that!”

“I have known it all along—from the first, almost. And that is why I have been so—so——”

She hesitated, and he added a word.

“Contemptuous,” he said.

“I felt sure that you knew who Herbert was,” she said, very low, “and that you should be the one to hunt him down seemed unnatural.”

He did not reply; and side by side they stood by the fire watching it curl and roar in the wind. Then she said: “A few moments ago I heard you say that Major Hyde was a British spy. Was that true?”

“It was. I had it from his own lips this very night.” Again he looked at her in the same steady way; then he added: “Some curious things have happened and some equally curious misunderstandings have sprung up since that morning on the wharf near the ‘Brigantine.’”

“I have begun to fear so,” she said.

“Even at the first,” he said, “I could have explained some of them. But you would not allow me. Now, however, I can explain all.”

“I ask your pardon for anything which I have done or said amiss.” She spoke gently. “If you are ready to tell me these things, I am more than ready to listen.”

And so there, on the bleak hillside, with the snow falling and the bitter wind shrieking about them, he began his tale. Dana’s mistake; his own selection by Putnam to trace out the conspirators; Hyde’s plot to have his life because he thought him a false agent to the Tory cause. And here the girl interrupted him for the first time.

“That, then, is what Major Hyde meant when he spoke one night with Captain Henderson at my uncle’s house in Crown Street. He was plotting your destruction. He said you were as false to them. I thought he spoke as an American officer. That is why I warned you against coming into the city upon the night that you rescued my brother and myself at the ‘Wheat Sheaf.’ I felt sure that you had betrayed the American cause.”

Then George proceeded with his narrative. He told how he had given up the mission because of his relationship to them, and how he had plainly told General Putnam why. Then he watched the joy in her face as he related what he had heard Herbert tell his uncle.

“Then my brother is not a renegade!” she cried, with shining eyes.

“It would seem not,” replied George. “And it would seem that General Putnam was in touch with all the facts and all his movements.”

After this they spoke of the eventful night at Corbie’s tavern. The girl listened, and when he had finished, he saw doubt once more in her eyes.

“As you suspect,” she said, “I knew my brother intended going there that night, as I did on the night at the ‘Wheat Sheaf.’ And I followed to do what I could to save him from danger. But if he was innocent,” and her eyes fixed themselves gravely upon George, “why did he see fit to hide afterward?”

“In the light of what I now know,” answered George, “it is clear enough. He feared that he had been recognized and would be arrested. In that event it would be necessary to call upon General Putnam; of course, he would then be released; but at the same time, this release might cause a suspicion of the real state of affairs to get abroad, and so ruin his chances to eventually worm himself into the secrets of the enemy.”

He then recounted how he had been met and been invited by her uncle to their New York home; he was about to tell his conversation with Major Hyde and the dragoon when she interrupted him.

“I heard it all,” she said. “By accident I was seated at the window behind the curtain; and that conversation convinced me more and more that you were what I had come to think you—a person in the pay of both sides—one willing to betray either, according to which way your interest pointed.” Her hand touched his arm lightly, imploringly. “Forgive me,” she said.

After this came the story of the tapestried chamber from his point of view; then he told what Hyde had said about it. She hung her head.

“IT’S THE ARMY OF WASHINGTON”

“I could not see you harmed, no matter what you had done,” she said, simply. “In spite of all that I then believed against you, I could not forget who you were and that you had behaved bravely more than once in my behalf.”

And so they talked and talked and the time sped by. For more than an hour the brush fire crackled on the hillside; and then, when no more fuel was to be had, it was permitted to die away. But still the youth and the girl waited, their garments wrapped about them snugly, for the wind grew more bitter with each passing moment. Then from across the ice-choked river long lines of light began to dimly flicker.

“It’s the army of Washington,” said George, and there was exultation in his voice. “They are about to embark.”

“Then that,” said Peggy Camp, awed, “is really the answer to the signal.”

“It is,” answered he. “And in a few hours, there will, perhaps, be a new master in the town of Trenton.”

And so they stole away through the darkness and snow toward the town.

And when they had disappeared, the burly figure on the ground began to writhe and tug at the bonds that held him. After a long struggle, the neck-cloth began to stretch and slip; a half minute later it had fallen from his arms. Then the belt was off and Slade got painfully upon his feet.

“So we are to have a crossing of the river and a surprise, are we?” said he, as he hobbled toward the town. “Well, we shall see about that, my lad.”

CHAPTER XXIII
SHOWS HOW THE CONCERT WAS INTERRUPTED

When George Prentiss and Peggy Camp reached the inn, they found it brilliant with lights, festoons of green branches and laurels hung all about; holly berries gleamed redly against their backgrounds of somber leaves. The public rooms were alive with merrymakers; the gleaming costumes of the ladies mingled with the rich European uniforms of the German and English officers. Bright looks and happy laughter were everywhere; the beloved band of Colonel Rahl throbbed through a German waltz.

Peggy instantly sought out Mrs. Hawksworth; what explanation she made of her absence, George did not know; but he noted that both Mrs. Hawksworth and her cold-faced husband looked at him searchingly.

It was then past midnight; George was on fire to be off that he might watch for Washington’s coming; but he knew that this would be both dangerous and useless, and so he remained where he was.

The clock struck two, and then pointed to the half hour before Peggy came to him again.

“They forbade me speaking to you until they had heard and understood everything concerning my escapade, as they call it,” she laughed. “And so I had to steal away.” Then, eagerly: “What have you heard? Are they really coming?”

“I have heard nothing,” said George. “We can’t hope to get news before the last moment. The rifles will then tell us what we are to expect.”

“I can’t get the picture of those great blocks of ice out of my mind,” she said, with a shudder. “And then the river looked so dark and so deep. And it was so cold and pitiless.”

They stood by one of the windows at the front of the inn; the room, save for a few other couples, was deserted. Through an open doorway at one side they could see the dancers whirl by; also there came the gleam of the brass instruments and the high-colored uniforms of the bandsmen. Another open door showed the numerous parties grouped about the tables engrossed in their game. Colonel Rahl was among those nearest the door; opposite him sat Mr. Hawksworth, and grouped about the table were numerous officers and Tory residents of quality.

“The colonel is ill prepared, should things go as we wish,” whispered George.

“The worse prepared, the better for our friends,” said Peggy, sagely.

The snow all about the inn was packed hard by the steady tramping of the Hessian guard. Under a beefy sergeant they kept all intruders at a distance; the squeaking of their boots and the clanking of their equipment were constant.

Three o’clock struck, and it was some time afterward that George became aware of an altercation going on outside the window where they sat. Since seeing Hyde and Henderson he had kept himself much in the background, but all matters in any way unusual were quick to draw his attention. So he turned at once to see what was going forward.

The beefy sergeant and a number of his men were grouped outside; in their midst was a burly figure with a face blood-clotted, a shirt-frill crimson and with the bearing of one about to sink down from exhaustion. His legs seemed to sag beneath him; his big head weakly swayed from side to side; his hands pawed at the Hessians in an effort to hold himself erect.

“Slade!” exclaimed George, under his breath. And as he said it, he stepped back from the window, drawing Peggy away also. “He’s slipped out of the things I tied him up with.”

“Does he suspect anything, do you think?” whispered the girl. “Did he hear what we said as we talked by the fire?”

“Perhaps.”

“And he’s here to give warning.” She drew in her breath in a great frightened gasp, and her eyes were fixed upon the blood-smeared man swaying so weakly in the snow.

“Colonel Rahl!” they heard him say. “Colonel Rahl!”

“Well, what about him?” demanded the fat sergeant, waving away the pawing hands.

“I must see him—at once.”

The sergeant laughed. His men, who understood almost no English, looked at Slade with stolid indifference.

“You must see him,” said the sergeant “Plenty peoples think the same as yourself to-night.” He waved a hand. “Poof! Get away!”

“I tell you I must see him,” said Slade.

“Make me no troubles,” advised the Hessian sergeant. “Get away, or you’ll feel der ramroad your back across.”

“I have business with him—important business.”

“Der colonel no business listens to, to-night yet,” stated the beefy sergeant.

“He’ll listen to this,” cried Slade, desperately, almost sinking down in the snow from very weakness. “Ask him to give me a moment.”

But the sergeant, bored, gestured him away. Two of the men seized him by the shoulder.

“Wait!” cried Slade. “Just a moment.”

From his pockets he took a number of broad gold pieces; and at sight of them the sergeant’s eyes shone.

“These are yours,” said Slade, “if you carry a note to your colonel.”

The sergeant nodded.

“Business so important as dot,” grinned he, “must be attended to, a little.”

At a command of the sergeant, one of the soldiers brought an ink pot and a quill from the headquarters across the way; with weak, numbed fingers, Slade scrawled a few lines upon a sheet of paper.

“Take that to him,” he said. “That will answer, I think.”

The sergeant accepted the note and the gold pieces.

“Inside,” said he, pointing to headquarters, “a fire is by der hall. Go there and wait. When I der time get, I’ll give this to der colonel.”

“You will be sure?”

“You will wait der fire beside,” stated the fat sergeant. “To my own affairs I will attend myself.”

As there was nothing to be gained by insistence, Slade turned and limped slowly across the street; then the door opened and closed behind him.

“If he gives that note to Colonel Rahl,” breathed Peggy, “it may destroy everything.”

“It’s half-past three,” replied George, quietly, looking at his watch. “The army has more than likely now reached this side of the river.”

“Oh, do you think so!”

“I do. But,” and there was an anxious note in his voice, “for all that, if the message did not come under the eyes of Rahl, it would be much better.”

Here came a loud shout of laughter from Rahl. He had won. His face was flushed and exultant.

“Ach!” he shouted. “I have not yet forgotten the game.” Then noting that his band had ceased playing he added, with a frown: “What is the matter with the music? Eh? Tell them to play. What do I pay the swine for?” Then to his companions, “Come, deal, deal——”

Muddled, excited, engrossed in his game, the leader of the Hessians had no thought of his trust; had any one spoken of an American attack at that moment, he would have been treated as one beneath contempt. On and on went the game, the dance and the throbbing of the band; the minutes passed and grew in number; the long hand of young Prentiss’ watch climbed slowly upward.

“Four o’clock,” he said at last to Peggy, who sat huddled in her cloak in the outer room. “It would seem that the sergeant has forgotten Slade’s note entirely.”

That Slade had arrived at this conclusion also was at that moment made evident; he came out of the headquarters across the way, his face cleansed of the blood stains and seeming much stronger. At once he accosted the fat sergeant. That worthy gazed at him stupidly for a moment; his naturally sluggish brain had been rendered more so than ever by the cold of the early morning; then he remembered.

“Ach! Donner und blitz!” he cried. “I have not der colonel spoken to yet. But I will. Stand here der door by.”

So saying, he entered the outer room where George and Peggy stood alone by the fire. The sergeant saluted awkwardly; he was a plain man, and the lights and beautiful women in the rooms beyond rather bewildered him.

Instantly Peggy was at his side, smiling and bewitching.

“Did you want anything, sergeant?”

Again the fat man’s hand went to his hat.

“A message for der colonel, Fräulein,” he said. “But,” with a glance toward the card room, “he don’t like to be disturbed when he blays. So I will wait.”

He had turned to go when Peggy stopped him.

“A message,” she said, insinuatingly. “It might be important. Give it to me.”

“You will hand it to him, Fräulein?” eagerly.

“To be sure—and before very long.”

“Danke schön.” The man went out, leaving Slade’s note in her hand.

George looked at her; there was admiration in his face.

“That was very clever,” he said.

“It was necessary,” answered Peggy, and she laughed.

“But you promised to give it to Rahl,” said George, his eyes now on the message.

“I know. And I will—but not until it is too late to do harm.”

Again they stood together before the hearth, watching the curling flames and the darting sparks. Then suddenly he reared his head, as he became aware of a jarring, far-off sound. His eyes went to the window; a Hessian guard had paused in his monotonous tramping and stood as though listening. Again it came, a sullen jarring, far off, yet somehow plain.

“What was that?” Peggy’s hand was on his arm.

“I don’t know. And yet it sounds like——” he paused as the sound came again. “Yes, it is! It is volley firing!”

“They are here!” She bent her head to catch the sound. “But it seems so far off.”

“That is because of the snow. They are firing on the outposts, and none of these are stationed more than a half mile outside the town.”

At once she left his side and started toward the room where Rahl sat. And as she did so, the tired musicians began to play once more.

“Where are you going?” George was at her side.

But she did not answer in words; between her fingers he saw the crumpled scrawl of the Tory, Slade; and as she held it up, it replied eloquently.

He followed her. The men and women about the table were eagerly absorbed in the game; the room was hot, and crowded with onlookers. As the girl paused beside Colonel Rahl, several players lifted their heads surprisedly; the idlers as though they felt that something was about to occur came a step nearer to the Hessian leader’s table.

“Colonel Rahl,” said the girl.

The man turned his flushed face toward her. She held out the paper.

“A message,” she said. “Your sergeant brought it.”

“Ah, yes; I will see to it.”

He took the note and stuffed it feverishly into his breast pocket, never once looking at it; then he gave his attention once more to the game.

George noted that the candles were beginning to grow dim; and this told him that dawn was at hand. Above the blare of the brass throated instruments he fancied more than once that he caught the scattering discharge of small arms. At length, unable to stand the suspense, he turned to leave the room; and as he did so, came face to face with Major Hyde. A sarcastic smile lit the man’s cold eyes.

“It is something of a surprise,” said he. “But, nevertheless, I am very glad to see you.” Then in a loud tone he added: “Colonel Rahl, if you will summon the guard, I’ll give this spy in charge.”

“Spy!” Men and women sprang to their feet; swords were drawn, chairs were overturned. With a swift look over his shoulder George saw Peggy’s face whiten; then like a panther he sprang upon Hyde. Down went the man as though stricken by a thunderbolt; over his body leaped the young New Englander. As he did so the outer door was flung open and the fat sergeant bounced into the inn.

“Der feind!” he roared. A volley of musketry rolled through the streets. “Der feind!”

George flashed by him and gained the street; out of the inn poured Rahl and his officers, excited, confused, buttoning up their greatcoats and feeling for their swords.

“Heraus!” shouted Rahl, flashing his blade from its sheath. “Heraus!”

The cry was taken up by the officers; the Hessians, heavy eyed, gorged with feasting and totally unfit for battle, thronged out of the warm houses into the bitter night. Drums were beating; the town was roaring with fright.

A group of artillerymen formed behind the half circle of guns before Rahl’s headquarters; their matches were lighted and they waited for the word that would scatter death into the onrushing Americans. But there was no officer collected enough to give it; and in another instant the gunners were bayoneted at their posts.

George Prentiss saw two forces of Americans, coming from different directions, form a junction; at their heads he recognized Sullivan and the commander-in-chief himself. Seizing the musket of a fallen Hessian, he joined the massed column. A battery of six guns under Forest was drawn up and opened upon Rahl and his frantic brigade at a few hundred paces.

“Hot work,” said a voice at George’s side. And turning he saw the forms of Ezra and Nat Brewster. Ben Cooper, his chubby cheek pressed against a rifle-barrel, was drawing a bead upon an enemy.

“Glad to see you’re all right,” he nodded to George. “But I’ll tell you more about it later on.”

Under the galling fire of Forest’s artillery, Rahl drew his men off to the east side of the town. Hand’s riflemen took up a place in his rear while he was forming his command. Desperate fighters that they were, the mercenaries still had a chance to escape. But they so despised the Americans, and their quarters in the town were so stowed with plunder, that they determined to stand their ground. Rahl gave the word to charge. The Americans braced to meet them, their rifles held ready.

“Steady! Steady!” ran through the columns. “Hold your fire.”

In spite of this a scattering of bullets met the Hessians as they began their charge. Even in the dawn, the face of Washington shone with exultation. Ezra, who stood near him, heard him say to one of his officers:

“They are gorged like animals and cannot fight long. After the first volley, we’ll give them the bayonet.”

A moment later he lifted his hand; the order to fire was given, and the onrushing Hessians began to fall. Through the dimness and smoke George saw Rahl press a hand to his side and sway in his saddle.

“He’s hit!” cried the lad.

And no sooner had the words left his mouth than the Hessian leader pitched forward under his horse’s feet. Dismayed at his fall, the mercenaries faltered; then the hardy colonials broke upon them with sword, bayonet and pistol; but the sluggish, overfed foreigners had no stomach for hard fighting and in a few moments the cry went up for quarter; and then to a man they threw down their arms.

It was high noon before the last batch of prisoners had been banded together to be sent across the river; and half the American force was busy in making ready the Hessian stores and plunder for transportation. Now and then a shot rang out which told of a detected looter, or an unearthed enemy; but for the most part the streets were quiet.

Private property, by Washington’s strict order, was in every way protected. Before the Hawksworth mansion paced a guard of stalwart continentals; within was gathered a party which laughed and talked joyously. Stout old Merchant Camp shook Ezra Prentiss by the hand for perhaps the tenth time.

“And so you are Seth’s other grandson, eh? Well, well! And both of you hold to Washington and the Congress, you say! Were there ever such times in the world before!”

“And grandfather, too, don’t forget that,” laughed Ezra.

But the staunch old Tory did not laugh.

“So Seth has gone over, too! Well, every man to his own beliefs. I am alone among you, but,” and his stubborn old head lifted high, “I’m a king’s man still, and will be to the end.”

Peggy and her brother, Herbert, together with young Brewster, Ben Cooper and George, were grouped at the fireside. First Peggy would look at George and then at Ezra.

“I am almost frightened, Cousin George,” she said in an awed sort of way, “when I look at you both. You look so much alike that it’s really uncanny.”

The heavy-browed Herbert, who proved a most companionable fellow, said to Ben, aside:

“They look alike, but it is not possible that Ezra is as great a fellow as George. It would be expecting too much.”

But Ben waved the notion aside at once.

“There is no greater chap than Ezra Prentiss in the army,” said he. “And after you’ve come to know him, you’ll say so yourself.”

“No, no,” said old Mr. Camp to something which Ezra had just remarked. “Howe is at New York; I’ll go back there; that is the place for me.”

“You’ll probably meet with Cousin Hyde and his friend Henderson there,” said Peggy. “Mr. Brewster has just been telling me that they escaped.”

“A pair of rascals, my dear,” said the old gentleman. “I want nothing to do with them.”

“You will go back to New York also, I suppose,” said George to Peggy.

“No,” she said, proudly. “I have lived my last under British rule. Herbert will take me to Philadelphia.”

“Then,” spoke Ezra, “we’ll see you often, more than likely, for, if the indications are to be trusted, the army will be thereabouts for some time to come.”

Other Stories in this Series are:

THE YOUNG CONTINENTALS AT LEXINGTON

THE YOUNG CONTINENTALS AT BUNKER HILL

THE YOUNG CONTINENTALS AT MONMOUTH

(In Press)

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or alternate spelling has been retained from the original.