Chapter IV (1)

The days went by, and on the afternoon of December thirtieth the boys rode out of camp, the twins well wrapped up in front of troopers and Tom mounted on a troop-horse. The day was pleasant and warm for the season, and McLane pushed on at speed down the west side of the river.

It was a long and hard ride and the twins were tired when, nine miles from the city, at a friendly farmer’s, pickets were put out and they spent the night and were well fed.

They stayed all of that day at the farm, and at seven on New Year’s Eve the Sergeant went back to camp, leaving but six men. Presently, to Tom’s amazement, McLane came out of the barn with his Lieutenant, both dressed as British officers and the men as King’s soldiers. Then they mounted as before and rode slowly toward town. Tom, very curious, asked questions. McLane laughed: “Only a little fancy ball, Tom, and don’t talk. I want to think. Later I hope to send you a dispatch.” Tom was puzzled, but rode on in silence.

About nine at night they were just outside of the English pickets, not far from the Schuylkill. Here they rode into a wood and dismounted. Then McLane on foot led the boys down the Lancaster Road.

“Yonder,” he said, “is a guard. As it is very dark you may get by unseen. If not, you must say you are boys from town and have lost your way. Not a word of me. Be careful. At the middle ferry bridge you will find a chaise and your man-servant. Now be silent and careful and good-bye, Colonel Markham.”

Full of the boy delight in an adventure so real, Tom went on in the darkness with the twins. He saw against the sky a guard on a little hillock above the road. A thicket of briers lined the wayside.

Tom halted and whispered: “We have got to creep, Gemini, and play bears. No noise, and go slow.”

With this the three went down on their hands and knees in the snow, and, Tom leading, crept by the sentry on the bank, who was stamping and beating his breast to keep warm.

“Now,” said Tom, “for a run to get warmed up”; and, unseen, they ran through the darkness on the well-trodden snow of the mid-pike.

They soon found the chaise and their servant. He had a pass so that they easily went by the guard and after a short drive were at home and in their mother’s arms.

When the boys left him, McLane, a little anxious, looked after them for a time and returned to his men. They tied their horses in the wood and, leaving a man to care for them, one by one crawled through the thin line of pickets, who were much occupied in keeping themselves warm.

It was very dark, and again the snow was falling and a fierce wind blowing. At last the men came together at a low whistle from McLane.

They were now close to the house where, in the wood above the Schuylkill, Mr. Penn was pleased to entertain his friends. It was a quaint little house and still stands to-day in the Zoological Gardens. There is a small entrance hall, a winding stair, and on the left a descent to a long underground passage ending in two large, cool-storage rooms. One large chamber on the first floor looks eastward over the river.

McLane knew it all well. It was now long after nine and very dark. The partisan officer was safe between the pickets he had passed and those along the west shore far below the house.

Leaving his men near the door he went around the house. Then, approaching a window, he cautiously looked into the room. A dozen candles were on the table, and many more in sconces on the wall.

At the table sat Mr. Galloway, the British superintendent of police, a staunch Tory, Mr. Penn, Colonel Grimstone, and Captain Verney. There were several empty chairs. Supper was over. There were empty bottles on the table and a big bowl of punch.

The Colonel had removed his stiff regulation stock. Galloway had unbuttoned his embroidered waistcoat. Verney was looking at his watch.

“A nice party,” said McLane. “Will it incline to be hospitable?”

Then he returned to the front.

The Lieutenant said: “Their horses are in the stable, the grooms asleep beside a fireplace.”

A man was put at each window, two left at the door, and, it being now near to ten, McLane quietly entered the hall, and then, with his Lieutenant, appeared in the supper-room. Mr. Penn arose.

“Good-evening, sir,” said McLane. “Lieutenant Hand and I have had a long ride, and seeing your lights took the liberty----”

“Oh, most welcome--as are all gentleman of His Majesty’s service. Sit down, sir. Colonel Grimstone, you may know these officers.”

“Never saw them in all my life,” said the Colonel gruffly.

Captain Verney rose and bowed.

“I beg pardon,” he said, “I did not catch your name.”

“Captain Head, at your service.”

“That’s queer,” said Grimstone; “Head and Hand.”

“Sit down,” said the host. “Oh, by George, the servants have gone and--Verney, you are the youngest and you know the way, would you fetch some wine for us from the cellar?”

McLane said a word to his Lieutenant, who rose, apologizing. “I want to see to the horses. Be back in a moment.”

In the hall he saw Verney take a lantern and go down to the cellar. The Lieutenant waited a moment, shot bolt and lock behind the Captain, and, returning, sat down by Galloway.

“Pray throw off your cloaks, gentlemen,” said Penn. “Will you drink, Captain Head?”

McLane cast his cloak back from his left shoulder and set a hand on his pistols.

“I never drink while on duty, Mr. Penn. You must hold me excused.”

“As you please, sir,” answered Penn.

“What’s your regiment?” inquired Grimstone in a thick voice.

“McLane’s Horse! And if a man moves there will be two dead.” For a pistol was at the forehead of both the Colonel and Galloway.

They were startled, but had wit enough to understand a very unpleasant situation.

“Don’t do that!” cried Grimstone. Galloway sat as still and as pale as a statue.

“I am sorry, Mr. Penn, to disturb you,” said McLane; “but as I have neither eaten of your salt nor drunk at your board, you will pardon me. Neither do I want you or Mr. Galloway,” he continued, “if you will say, on your honor, that you will not leave this room nor give the alarm for half an hour.”

Penn said: “Needs must. You know the proverb, Captain McLane.”

Galloway said: “Oh, I swear.”

“Kindly put your watch on the table, Mr. Penn. Ten, I see. Captain Verney is locked in the cellar. My regards to him. Come, Colonel, and on the honor of a gentleman if you speak or resist I shall kill you. Good-night, Mr. Penn.”

The Colonel rose with his captor and went out.

“Sergeant, put this gentleman between two men and call in the rest. If he ventures to give the alarm shoot him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good Heavens!” said Penn to Galloway. “A nice ending for a supper. That fellow missed Sir William Howe by only ten minutes.”

“Hark! What was that?” said Galloway. Distant shots rang sharp through the cold night air.

“They have had trouble with the pickets.”

“Hope they caught them,” said Galloway.

Penn returned: “He is one of the kind that catches and is never caught.” Then, as the noise of a great thumping and pounding fell on his ears, he added: “Just listen to Verney!” And he fell back in his chair, convulsed with laughter. “No, don’t move, Galloway. It wants fourteen minutes of the half-hour. Sir William was in luck.”

A little later the amazed and disgusted Verney heard the story. “He did not want me, I suppose.” He knew later that, because of being a gentleman and courteously kind to Tom’s mother, McLane was pleased to forget him.

The Colonel failed to appear at home that night. Verney was late in returning, and only at breakfast did Mrs. Markham and the boys, to their relief, and greatly to Tom’s delight, learn of the capture of their unmannerly guest.

Then the Captain, still a little cross, turned on Tom.

“Now, sir,” he asked, “did you run away with the sleigh or the sleigh with you?”

The Count, much amused, listened.

Tom was cornered. Very red in the face, he replied: “The horses ran away with both, sir.”

“I may assure Sir William that the horses ran away?”

Tom felt that he was well within the boundary of truth as he said, “Yes. They ran like everything. We upset, and Captain McLane found us and took us to Valley Forge.”

“And what, sir, became of the map we left in the sleigh?”

Tom wriggled.

“I want an answer.”

“General Washington has it.”

“Did you give it to him?”

“No, sir. Captain McLane gave it to him.”

“I think,” remarked the Count, “that you had better stop here.”

That was also Tom’s opinion.

“The map was in the coat-pocket, I remember.”

“Yes, sir. I was to tell Count Einstein, with Captain McLane’s compliments, that his coat is at Farmer Nixon’s, near the Cross Keys Tavern. He said you could easily get it.”

The Count expressed his pleasure, and Verney asked no further questions.

A few days later, just before supper, Tom burst into the room with the twins after him.

“He’s got a letter!” cried Bill.

“He won’t let us see it!” cried Harry.

They fell on Tom and rolled in wild laughter on the floor.

“This is too much,” said Mrs. Markham.

Verney rose, and with two or three mild kicks separated the fighting, laughing tangle of legs and arms.

Then he caught the elder boy by the collar and said: “Stand up on your hind legs, Tom, and tell me what this row is about.”

“He’s got a letter,” said Bill, “a Quaker man, a farmer, left it; and he won’t let us see it till mother reads it.”

“Where is it?” said Verney.

“Here, sir. You’re choking me. You may read it. There’s a message for you.”

Captain Verney looked at the address and read, laughing, “This with haste.”

“With your permission, madam,” he said; then he read aloud:

“Valley Forge, January 7, 1778.

“To Colonel Thomas Markham, Jr., late of Captain Allan McLane’s Company, Continental Line----”

“That’s me!” said Tom.

“Indeed!” He turned to the contents.

DEAR COLONEL: I beg to report that after leaving you on the road with
Gemini I had the pleasure of Capturing Colonel Gravestone, now here
on parole and a low diet. He says his name is Grimstone, but what can
be grimmer than Gravestone, and grim he is and grave. We shall swap
him off for Colonel Markham.

My compliments to Captain the Honorable John Verney. Having been a
kind and courteous guest I forgot him. It was against the rules of
the service, but I trust, sir, you will not have me court-martialed.
The map found in the coat proves useful. My thanks to Major Montresor.

Remember me to your mother.

I have the honor to be your very obedient humble servant and
brother-officer.

ALLAN McLANE.

Postscript--I promised you an ending to my story, and here it is.

“Well, of all the impertinent things!” cried Verney; “but, my dear Count, I should like to see ‘Gravestone’ among these gentlemen, and, on my word, I should like to meet this brave and merry officer.”

The Colonel spent two months and more on parole at Valley Forge. He lost four stone and became meek.

In the spring he was exchanged for a better man, Colonel Markham, but no amount of food, as he swore, ever enabled him to make up for the scant fare he had had in the camp of the Continentals.

The twins and Tom lived to enjoy many Christmas Days, but none like that they spent with the army at Valley Forge in the hard winter of 1777-8.

A TEMPEST IN A BIG TEA-POT[N]

By SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE

About the Boston Tea-party and the Indians who brewed the tea.

Chance has led us to the spot on which the house of Governor Winthrop stands. But by the side of it, in a crowded neighborhood, is a brick church with a fine and lofty steeple pricking the frosty air of a December afternoon. There is a dense crowd of men, with a sprinkling of women, arguing and gesticulating about the door, but the interior is so choked up with people that we can scarcely elbow our way in. The men’s faces, we notice, are flushed and excited, and here is an angry buzz of half-suppressed voices. Evidently something out of the common has brought these people here. What can it be?

Ah! they are all talking about tea.

“You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink,” one says, very significantly, to his neighbor.

“Aye, and they can send us tea but can’t make us drink,” responds his neighbor.

“Let them take it back to England, then, and peddle it out there,” ejaculates a third. “We will not have it forced down our throats,” he adds.

“What sort of a drink would tea and salt water make?” suggests a man who is evidently losing patience; for it has grown dark, and the lamps shed a dim light throughout the unquiet crowd.

“Good for John Rowe!” shout the bystanders approvingly, and as his words pass from mouth to mouth, the people laugh and clap.

Presently a man of middle age speaks. At his first words every voice is hushed. Every eye is turned upon him. In a grave and steady voice he tells the people that their purpose to send the tea-ships home to England, with their cargoes untouched, has been thwarted by Governor Hutchinson, who refuses to give the vessels the pass, without which they cannot sail. “And now,” concludes this same grave and earnest voice, to which all eagerly listen, “_this meeting_ can do nothing more to save the country.”

There is a moment’s silence--a moment of keen disappointment, an ominous silence.

Then some one in the gallery cries out, in a ringing voice, “Boston Harbor a tea-pot to-night! Hurrah for Griffin’s Wharf!”

Instantly, before the people are aware what is intended, an Indian war-whoop pierces the air; and, starting at the signal, no one seems to know whence or how, half a hundred men, having their faces smeared with soot, and disguised as Indian warriors, brandishing hatchets and shouting as they run, pour through Milk Street, followed by the crowd, turn down to Griffin’s Wharf, where the tea-ships lie, clamber on board, take off the hatches in a hurry, and while some pass up the chests from the hold others smash and pitch them overboard. Crash go the hatchets, splash goes the tea. Splash! splash! Every one works for dear life, earnest and determined.

Never were ships more quickly unloaded. The frightened captains and crews were told to go below and stay there if they would not be harmed. They obeyed. No one but the fishes drank that tea.

After finishing their work the lads who had been making a tea-pot of Boston Harbor marched gaily back to town to the music of a fife. While on their way they passed by the residence of Mad Montagu, the British admiral who commanded all the fleet of war-ships then lying at anchor within gunshot of the town. The admiral threw up his window, thrust out his head, and halloed:

“Well, boys, you have had a fine, pleasant evening for your Indian caper, haven’t you? But mind, you’ve got to pay the fiddler yet!”

“Oh, never mind, Squire!” shouted Pitts, the leader. “Just come out here, if you please, and we’ll settle the bill in two minutes.”

The admiral shut his window in a hurry, and the tea-party, with a laugh for the admiral, marched on. He was fond of a fight, but thought it best to decline this invitation.

HOW THE WARNING WAS GIVEN[O]

By MABEL NELSON THURSTON

In this story an old-fashioned “courting-stick” in the hands of a
quick-witted girl is the means of saving patriot lives and ammunition.

The time was the year of Lexington and Concord, and the place, a little village not many miles away. Already men’s faces were stern and women’s eyes dim with sorrow; only the little children played on and knew no difference.

Dolly Pearson scorned the name of child, yet the thought of war brought to her only a sense of exhilaration. She had no father or brother to lose; but neither had Elizabeth who had not smiled these three months. Why? John Thurlow had said no word of enlisting. A shame it was, too--thought Dolly--and he a strong man with naught to bind him!

“Betty,” said Dolly, who was helping her sister to tidy the best room, “why does not John enlist? There, ’tis said now--I just had to! I’ve been waiting and waiting because I feared to hurt you by the question!”

Elizabeth turned her quiet face to the saucy one, and smiled a little sadly down at the girl. “John will go soon,” she said. “He is but tarrying till the time be ripe.”

“Well, right glad am I to know it!” cried Dolly. “I always liked John Thurlow, but had he been a coward----” She stopped, amazed at Elizabeth’s look.

“Never name coward and John Thurlow in the same breath again!” she said, vehemently, with wrathful face.

Dolly ran over to her sister repentantly. “Betty, I meant nothing. I could not understand his tarrying, that was all. It is because he is going that you have looked so sober lately.”

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, burying her face in her blue apron. Dolly stared. She never cried herself, and never had she seen her sister cry, save when their father died. Something of the solemn feeling she had then had now silenced her, and she stood smoothing Elizabeth’s hand until the girl looked up.

“There, Dolly, get to work,” she said, “and be glad you are not old enough to understand.”

Dolly went pouting to her work--at fourteen she didn’t like being thought young! Presently something diverted her thoughts. It was a hollow rod, eight feet long and an inch in diameter, with a queer mouth and ear-piece at each end--an old-time courting-stick that had belonged to her grandmother. Dolly held it across to Elizabeth, her face dimpling with mischief.

“Try it, Betty!” she pleaded. “I want to see if it sounds as well as ever.”

Elizabeth held it to her ear, while Dolly’s saucy lips touched the other end. “Betty,” she whispered, “are you not glad that you and John don’t have to use this stick?” Elizabeth dropped it impatiently.

“You heard,” Dolly said innocently. “That was what I desired to know. But you might have said something to me!”

When Elizabeth’s color came and went, as now, there was no girl like her in the village. Indeed, at all times she was prettiest, thought loyal Dolly, studying her next day, as they all walked to meeting--Elizabeth in a sprigged muslin and a bonnet with rose-colored ribbons. How beautiful she looked as she went to the singers’ seats! John Thurlow sat there, too.

By turning a little in the pew, Dolly could see the singers’ seats, and half the congregation as well. So of course she saw Eunice Winter come in, and with her a strange young man, who soon perceived the pretty face under the rose-colored ribbons, and glanced at it frequently.

Sometimes Dolly changed her position and studied the queer old pulpit, with its winding stairs and the roofing overhead. There was a loft in the roof, and squirrels and birds came in there. Suddenly Dolly gave a start, and a look of delight shone in her eyes. After that she heard not even the Parson’s “Finally,” and only came to herself when the people rose to depart. Then she pulled her sister’s dress.

“Betty, do hasten!” she pleaded. “I have something to tell you.”

Elizabeth glanced down at the excited face.

“What is it, Dolly?” she asked, anxiety sharpening her quiet voice.

“Come,” urged Dolly, “away from the others! I _must_ tell you!”

Elizabeth followed her sister to a corner of the meeting-house yard, where they were alone.

“What is it, Dolly?” Betty asked again, shaken out of her usual calm.

Dolly leaned forward. “Tell John Thurlow I know where his muskets are,” she said, “and if they be not careful, others will know it, too!”

Elizabeth caught the girl’s hand tightly.

“How knew you that, Dolly?” she asked, a great fear choking her. Dolly could be trusted, but many Royalists in the neighborhood were seeking just this knowledge!

“Oh,” said Dolly, delighted at the importance of her discovery, “I saw something gleaming through a crack in the roofing. I thought at first ’twas the sunlight, but presently I noted some dust in the pew. I put my hand down and picked some up and tasted it, and although I be ‘so young,’ I know powder. Why didn’t you tell me? I’d have died sooner than betray it!” Her eyes were flashing through tears.

“I know it, little sister,” said Elizabeth. “I would trust you as soon as myself. But do you not see it would be foolish to take more than were necessary into the secret?”

“Ye-es,” admitted Dolly reluctantly, and then with the old mischievous smile, she added: “Betty, was it necessary for you to know it?”

“You have a sadly undisciplined tongue, Dolly,” said Betty, coloring.

“But you do not fear to trust me,” said Dolly as they walked slowly back across the yard. Then the undisciplined tongue reasserted itself.

“Did you note the fine gallant Eunice Winter had to-day?” she asked.

“I saw there was a stranger.”

“He scarce took his eyes from a bonnet with rose-colored ribbons. And he is much finer-seeming than John Thurlow, Betty!”

“Now, Dolly, you’re going too far,” said Elizabeth sternly. “What would mother say? It is downright wicked to have such thoughts in the house of God.”

“Don’t get cross,” pleaded Dolly coaxingly. “I paid heed to the parson, and I can tell you the text. And for the other matter, time will show if I be wrong,” and with a saucy nod she broke away and joined her mother.

Time did show. Whatever might be the fault of Mistress Dolly’s tongue, her eyes were seldom mistaken. Before a week was over the strange gentleman had met Elizabeth and he soon fell into the habit of calling almost daily. His name was Henry Robbins, and he was Eunice Winter’s cousin, visiting there for a month, he said.

All Dolly’s admiration for him vanished on the day she suspected he was a Royalist. He had never avowed it, but the girl detected a look in his eyes when she spoke of Lexington that brought her to her feet in great excitement.

“I believe you’re a Royalist!” she exclaimed, with flashing eyes. “If not, why are you tarrying here when the need is so sore? I think a man who tarries unconcerned is a coward!”

“Dolly!” remonstrated Elizabeth.

“I do,” answered Dolly angrily. “And I hate cowards! You can excuse me if you will, Betty, but I would say it all over again to the king’s face!” and she ran out of the room.

The young man looked a little disturbed.

“I pray you overlook the child’s quick tongue,” Elizabeth said. “She is an eager little rebel, and loses control of herself.”

“Oh, I am not troubled by a child’s idle talk,” he said. “I admire her spirit. Yet I feel I scarce deserve the lash of her words.”

“I judge no man who follows his conscience. God will direct the right,” said Elizabeth gently.

With that he had to be content. Yet as he walked down the road he switched impatiently at the daisies beside it, and felt ill-satisfied with the part he was playing. To live among these people solely to discover their preparations for war revolted him, and he did so only at the positive order of his general.

But as days went on, he began to despair. No slightest clue could he get of the whereabouts of the stores he knew were being collected. Then one day, as he was about to return to Boston, a scrap of paper was slipped into his hand by a boy, who immediately scampered away. Captain Robbins was standing with a group of men at the tavern waiting for the mail-coach, and he carelessly untwisted and read the note:

Search the loft of the meeting-house. A servant of his majesty.

A quick glow came into the young man’s face. John Thurlow was standing near and looked at him a little curiously. “Good news, judging from your face,” said John.

“Aye, the best,” the Royalist said slowly. And never did John Thurlow forget the curious tone and look of the Tory.

It was no difficult matter to examine the loft, which was found nearly full of arms and powder. But Robbins did not choose to seize the munitions; he hoped to convict Thurlow, at least, if none of the others. He set spies on the church, meaning to capture any of the king’s enemies who might attempt to take away arms.

Then another note came to him:

On Monday next there will be a midnight meeting in the loft. It might
interest the captain to attend.

It was Saturday afternoon then. One of the Royalists happened to be passing the house; the captain called him, and the two young men swung into step down the road to the meeting-house. Dolly Pearson stood watching the two as they walked quickly away; then some suspicion came to her from their gestures. She tried to dismiss it as foolish, but tried in vain.

Suddenly she started off on a run across the fields. When she reached the meeting-house her breath was coming in heavy gasps. The building was open for one of its rare sweepings, but no one was in sight just then. The girl ran in and up the winding stairs and crouched down behind the pulpit, and lay there listening and trying to still the noisy beating of her heart.

It seemed ages that she crouched there; perhaps she had been mistaken--they might not have been coming here--then she started at the sound of voices. She dared not peer out. She held herself rigid and listened--listened for the life of John Thurlow whom Elizabeth loved.

“Forty muskets and seven kegs of powder,” said one voice.

“Aye, and Thurlow and his recruits to take all on Monday night?”

“Hist!” said the captain, looking round uneasily. “Walls have ears. Monday at midnight you will have a strong band ready. We will surround the meeting-house, and then----”

“Down with the rebels! And the pay, captain?”

“Trust His Majesty for that. You can have my own share, too. Success is enough for me.”

“That and a fair field to Betty Pearson’s favor,” laughed the other. “You are not the only one that would like to see John Thurlow out of the way!”

“Then shall I earn their gratitude,” answered Robbins.

Dolly was trembling, and it did not seem as if she could control herself much longer; but soon they went away. Then she had to rest long in one of the pews to quiet her nerves.

“What ails you, Dolly?” her mother exclaimed, when she saw her. “You look too ill to stand! You ought to go straight to bed while I brew some herbs for you.”

“Oh, mother, I can’t go to bed,” said Dolly. “I must see John!”

“Would I were John!” said a mocking voice.

Dolly’s heart sank within her. She had not noticed the captain as she entered. With an effort she summoned one of her saucy smiles.

“Good-even, Mr. Robbins--this is an unexpected pleasure! You have not been here for so long--why, not since yesterday!”

“Come and entertain me, since I please you so much,” laughed the captain.

“No,” said Dolly, “it would not be proper to show it. I prefer to talk to Betty.”

“And I prefer you should talk to me,” said the captain, and there was a note in his voice that startled Dolly. She imagined that she was suspected. The color had come back to her face now, and her eyes were blazing. Somehow--how, she had not the least idea--she must warn John to-night. To-morrow would be too late, for the captain was on his guard.

She leaned back in a corner of the big settle, with a saucy laugh answered his teasing, and gradually regained control of herself. Yet all her will could not keep the color from flying to her face when she heard John’s step. She bent down and played with the kitten at her feet.

“Miss Dolly was desiring your presence, Mr. Thurlow,” said the captain.

“Oh,” said Dolly carelessly, “never mind, John. That was an hour ago.”

Thurlow smiled good-humoredly at her, knowing her to be whimsical. She sat wondering how she could get the message to him. Write it? Even could she do so unobserved she would have no opportunity to give it to him; of that she was certain. Equally sure was she that she would not be allowed to leave the room alone.

Suddenly a thought came to her and filled her with glee. “Oh, Mr. Robbins!” she cried. “Have you ever seen our courting-stick?”

“Courting-stick? What might that be?”

“I’ll show you,” she answered, starting up. “’Tis in the best room.”

“Nay, let me get it for you,” he said, rising.

“How can you, if you know it not when you see it?” she retorted. “But you may come, too.” She felt a wicked delight in hearing the captain’s muttered exclamations as he followed her into the dim best room, stumbling over table and chairs on the way.

“Did you hurt yourself, Mr. Robbins?” she exclaimed, in a tone of commiseration. “Trouble yourself no more; I have the rod. Here, John,” she added, when they had returned, “take the other end while I show Mr. Robbins how our grandfathers courted.”

John took the rod and Dolly put her lips to her own end. “John,” she whispered, “betray no surprise for your life! Mr. Robbins knows about the meeting-house loft, and is to lead a band of men to take you Monday night. Pretend you cannot hear this well.”

John looked up in apparent perplexity. “The old rod is out of use,” he said. “Speak louder, Dolly.”

The captain, with a suspicious look, pressed nearer.

“John,” she called, “are you sorry courting-sticks are out of fashion?”

“A chilly custom, truly,” said the captain. “Don’t you think, Miss Dolly, it was rather hard on the happy pair?”

“Why, no,” said Dolly. “Take the other end, Mr. Robbins, and see the convenience of it.”

The captain took John’s place, but he could not catch the faint whisper.

“I could not hear the words,” he said.

“Oh, I’ll try again,” said Dolly obligingly.

This time the captain turned away with an amused laugh. “Cool heart that could carry on love-making at such a length,” he said. “It is a rare curiosity, though. Shall I carry it back, Miss Dolly?”

“It needs not to be put away now,” Elizabeth said, and Dolly had to give up the pleasure of making the captain stumble again in the dark.

As the clock struck nine John rose, and the captain with him. Dolly laughed as away through the darkness strode the two men whose fortunes had changed strangely since they trod the same road a couple of hours before.

Three hours later a strange party in the meeting-house silently lowered the powder casks and muskets and carried them to carts outside. When morning broke the munitions were stored again five miles away. The men were in their usual places when the Sabbath service began.

John gave one quick look at Dolly, and she was satisfied. He did not go near her after the service, but one and another of the men came and spoke to her. They said no word of why they spoke, but she knew, and her heart swelled with pride as she counted the bravest of the place among the number. They were true patriots, then! She never would doubt them again, never!

The next night Captain Robbins met his men near the church. Nothing was stirring. The captain began to look black.

One of the men entered through a window and flung the door open. They strode into the empty room. The noise of their footsteps seemed to echo and re-echo. All was solemnity of silence. In spite of themselves, they were awed by the time and the place.

“At least,” said Captain Robbins hoarsely, “we will take the stores.” He climbed eagerly to the loft ahead of the others. “Your light, Wilson,” he called.

The man handed it up and Robbins held it high above his head. A few startled swallows whirred around him and a mouse ran out of some straw on the floor. But that was all.

There were two visitors at the Pearsons’ the next day. One was the captain who called to say farewell. His holiday was up, he said, and he must go back to Boston. Dolly watched him as he rode away. Once he turned and waved to her. “Good-bye, my little enemy,” he called.

The next one was John Thurlow. He caught Dolly’s hands in his strong grip and looked down at her so that she colored and tried to get away.

“Why, Dolly!” said Elizabeth, in surprise.

“Has she not told you?” asked John. “She is the bravest little maid I ever saw. I know not, even now, how much her quick wit has saved.”

“No,” said Dolly, looking up, her mischief as usual conquering her confusion. “I am naught but a little rebel firebrand--Mr. Robbins said so. And Mr. Robbins knows everything except the use of courting-sticks!”

She broke away and ran quickly down the lane. The air was full of soft summer noises, and the leaves and blossoms were stirring and flashing and playing in the sunlight, and the day was golden--golden! She drew a long breath of content. She was so happy to be alive and to have helped a little.

“For I always shall be a rebel as long as I live,” she declared.

SUSAN TONGS[P]

By ETHEL PARTON

The author says of Susan that she “was a sociable soul, if
occasionally a bit difficult”--and we welcome her to our gathering of
patriotic heroes and heroines.

The lower half-door of the Thurrell house side porch was closed because Susan Tong’s ball of yarn, which was always slipping from her vast and rotund knees, had a way of hopping down the steps if the door were left open. Because the garden-path sloped, the ball, if once started, would roll far beyond even the longest reach of the odd implement with twin handles at one end, flat nippers at the other, and a middle length of extensible iron latticework, which had earned Susan, properly the Widow Thurrell, the name by which she was commonly known. But the upper half of the broad, green-painted door was set wide to the streaming sunshine of a mild October afternoon of 1776.

Just within the door showed the chintz back, gay with red-patterned palm-leaves, of the huge armchair in which sat Susan Tongs herself, her smooth bands of red hair just showing beneath her cap, her small, light eyes lifted from her work to the golden autumnal landscape, her triple chin descending upon a snowy amplitude of kerchief, and a pair of long steel needles clicking in her two fat hands.

Susan possessed two distinctions: she was the fattest person in the village, and she was the only fat person in it who had not an easy-going disposition. Too unwieldy for many years past to move about upon her little feet and weak ankles without the assistance of her crutch-handled staff, her utmost exertion was to cross the road to the meeting-house on Sundays; week-days she spent in her chair, directing the household tasks of her pretty niece, Tamsine, who did not have a very easy life of it.

Susan Thurrell, everybody said, had been notably brisk and light of foot in her youth, and the burden of flesh which had come upon her in later life was particularly unwelcome, and far from being accompanied by a corresponding increase in mental grace. She was certainly very exacting.

Just what her weight was no one knew; her own guess was “nigh about two hundred and fifty,” but there were many who vowed it was three hundred if it was a pound.

A mottled hen which had somehow got into the garden patch caught Susan’s eye, and a shadow of anger overcast her wide face. The creature was clucking its way, followed by a lone chicken, directly toward her favorite bed of sweet herbs. She shouted a husky “Shoo,” but without effect; then she caught up her “lazy man’s tongs,” which lay near.

Quickly compressing the handles, she shot the tip out to its farthest extent and picked up with it a crust of bread fallen from the dinner-table and overlooked, for Tamsey, the orderly caretaker, had been called away in haste that day to a sick neighbor. This crust she flung at the invader. The hen squawked and ran, but presently returned to peck cheerfully at the missile.

Still wheezing from the exertion of a rapid movement, Susan uttered a grunt of disgust, and with lazy-tongs still in hand glanced about for something else to throw. As she turned to look behind her chair she saw, at the far end of the room, leaning against the mantelpiece to which he seemed to cling for support, a young man, scarcely more than a boy, very pale and breathing heavily, and with a queerly mingled look of courage and terror in his eyes.

“Othniel Purdie!” she cried. “What are you doing in my kitchen?”

He only panted, and she stared at him in amazement fast deepening to suspicion.

“Why ain’t you with General Washington?” she demanded. “What are you back here in Norley for? Folks said you’d run away to join the army. Don’t you know there’s a British camp at the other end of the town, and British officers quartered at Parson Hackett’s and Marchant Cole’s? What are you here for?--and looking scared as a hunted rabbit! I never liked you, and I won’t have you hanging around my niece, Tamsey; but I do hope to Providence you’ve not deserted. I couldn’t bear to think any Norley boy would do that. Speak up, can’t you? What are you here for?”

“I haven’t deserted,” the young fellow managed to say, “and I know well enough the place is full of redcoats. They want me, and I’m afraid they’ll get me, and it’s all up if they do.”

“Want you? What for?” She looked at him again, and between her heavy cheeks and the overhanging roll of her eyebrows a gleam of fiery intelligence came into her two little gray-blue eyes, small and hard and wise, like an elephant’s.

“Where’s your uniform? What are you holding to the front of your shirt for? Have you papers there? Despatches? Are you trying to steal through the lines? That’s the same as spying, isn’t it? Good mercy, you’ll be hanged; of course you will!”

He had not needed to answer any of her quick questions in words; she took the answer from his eyes without waiting, and scolded on: “And I suppose you stopped here for a sight of Tamsey, but she’s away and you won’t see her, and glad I am of that. The zanies boys are! You’d better slip away quick and hide till dark; there’s a place in the shed loft where nobody----”

He interrupted her. “I can’t get there. I can’t go any farther. I’ve sprained my ankle and I fainted twice getting here the back way from Royd’s wood-lot, where I dodged them and they lost me. But they haven’t given it up, and I heard them say they’d search every house in the village. But this was the only place I could get away to, and so I came. I can’t go any farther; I’ll faint again if I try. I thought maybe Tamsey’d hide me. I know you don’t like me, Mrs. Thurrell, but I thought you’d let her, when it was life and death--and there are the papers----”

“Give them to me,” said Susan.

“Here--I know you’ll take good care of them, at any rate, and you’ll send them on by a safe hand if I’m taken, won’t you, Mrs. Thurrell?”

“Mmm!” grunted Susan. “Twist them up and toss them in the woodbox there with the kindlings--it’s in plain sight and won’t be thought of. Now we’ve got to hurry--hurry--hurry, if we’re going to save that neck of yours; and, land, what a poor pair we are for hurrying!”

Laughing fiercely, and gripping the arms of her seat, Susan had risen painfully as she talked, and now, supporting herself on her staff, stood up and shoved the great chair a little to one side. A trap-door showed in the floor where it had stood, and she explained quickly that the kitchen had been a later addition to the house; that the main cellar did not extend beneath it, but that there was below a small, square pit for storage, large enough to conceal a man at need.

Then, crying to Othniel to catch, she tossed him her crutch-stick, and leaning heavily upon it, he crossed the room to her side. Directing him to lean on the chair, she resumed her staff, and, reversing it, hooked open the trap-door with the crutch end, and signed to him to descend.

He hesitated. “They’ll find it,” he said; “it’s in plain sight as soon as your chair is moved. If I must be caught, I’d rather be caught above ground than hauled out of a hole, like a woodchuck.”

“You go down,” said Susan grimly, “I’m going to put that chair back and sit in it; and move it they don’t neither, not if they’re the whole British army!”

He lowered himself to the edge and slipped down, wincing and biting his lips as he curled up in the little square space, adjusting his injured ankle in his hand. For a moment his clear eyes looked up to Susan’s with gratitude and appeal; then the lid closed. He heard shoving and shuffling and the settling of a heavy weight in place overhead, and after that the swift and steady click of knitting-needles.

A young English officer, accompanied by a sergeant and four soldiers, coming briskly up the garden-path not ten minutes later, found Susan Tongs knitting as usual, just within her doorway. She scarcely glanced up while the officer, a youngster hardly older than Othniel, briefly stated his errand and demanded admittance; but when he had concluded, she shot him an indignant look.

“Search my house!” she cried. “Do you suppose I want your soldiers’ dirty fingers poking in my linen-chest and overhauling my gowns and petticoats, all to find a good-for-nothing lad that’s been forbid the place this two years? Ask any of the neighbors what were the last words I had with Othniel Purdie, and whether he’s likely to be hiding here or not--ask ’em! I don’t believe you even think he’s here. I believe it’s an excuse to steal my property and drink my cider. How should he be here? Last folks heard, he was off to General Washington--God bless him----”

“What! What!” cried the young officer, lifting his eyebrows and laughing. Susan set her teeth and clicked her needles hard. “We hear there’s a pretty niece of yours, who’s not so hard on the young man,” he went on; “and since you’re so frankly a rebel yourself, Mrs. Tongs, you’ll admit it’s not a bad guess that she may have coaxed you into protecting even a lover you don’t like, when he’s doing spy’s work for your admired General Washington. I shall certainly search the house.”

“My name is Mrs. Thurrell, young man; it’s only old friends and neighbors who may call me ‘Susan Tongs,’” answered Susan dryly. “And no coaxing of my silly niece, Tamsey--not if she coaxed from now till judgment--should drive me to harboring any lad against my will. I do as I please in my own house. But she’s a soft thing, and young, and it’s possible she might have slyed him in by the back way, if he’s really in town and hiding; you see I sit here all day, and could little tell what went on in the rest of the house.

“The notion of Othniel Purdie stowed away in secret in cupboard or closet of mine pleases me no more than it does you,” she scolded on; “so on second thoughts you may search and welcome, provided only you look well after your men and see there’s no mauling of my quilts and calicoes--manners, sir, manners! Would you shove by a woman, hat cocked, on her own threshold, when she has bidden you to come in? Keep back, or come properly!” for the young lieutenant, impatient of further talk, had started to push past Susan, whose great chair and person almost blocked the way, and had made a sign to a soldier as if commanding him to assist in removing the obstacle.

But before the soldier could mount the steps, and quick as the officer’s hand touched her chair, Susan had snatched up her lazy-tongs--there was a snap, a glint of shining dark metal, and the nippers clicked together within an inch of his ear. He uttered a dismayed oath and leaped backward down the low steps, where he would have fallen had not the grinning soldier caught him in his arms.

Recovering himself, he cried, furiously, “Put down that pistol!”

Susan smiled a grandmotherly smile and gently shook her head.

The soldier’s grin broadened. “’Twa’n’t a pistol, sir,” he explained respectfully. “I don’t know what it was; but ’twa’n’t a pistol.”

“Let me pass!” said the officer, reassured but mortified, and springing again up the steps. “Move aside and let me pass, woman!”

“Woman, and an old woman,” answered Susan serenely, “and surely you may pass, for I told you so. But a woman of my weight moves slowly, and it behooves a young gentleman to show patience. I will be treated civilly under my own roof; and I won’t budge an inch for a swaggering boy with his hat on--there!” she continued, as he thrust roughly by, squeezed nearly flat between the armchair and the door-jamb, “there’s for your impudence!”

This time her aim was better, and the tongs snicked sharply together with the tip of his queue between them, with the result that, as he pushed on and Susan held fast, his head was sharply jerked, and his gilt-laced hat fell off at her feet. With a leisurely closing of the nippers, Susan picked it up and put it on the table.

“You can have it again when you go,” she said soothingly, as if speaking to a fretful child. “And will you ask your man there to go round to the other door? As you have just found, young sir, this door’s scarcely wide enough for two, when I am one of them, and he is stouter than you.”

For a moment, red and angry, the young fellow glared upon her fiercely; but she met his look with one so steady, placid, and grandmotherly, yet with a glimmer of humor in it, too, that his wrath suddenly vanished in a burst of boyish laughter. He signed to the soldier to go round to the back door, as the others had already done, and held out his hand for Susan’s lazy-tongs, which he played with curiously, snapping and nipping with them at the air, while he directed the elaborate search of the lower rooms. Then they all went upstairs together, and heavy feet were heard clumping through the bedrooms for a long time. At last the stairs creaked, and they descended.

“Did your soldiers handle my linen?” asked Susan eagerly, with a face of deep, housewifely anxiety. “I suppose they have tumbled the whole chestful out in a heap.”

“No, indeed--we’ve scarcely shaken out the lavender,” the lieutenant answered, smiling pleasantly; adding, with a glance of mock terror at the tongs, “May I have my hat?”

“Let your sergeant go to the pantry first, if you please. I can’t wait on you myself, but there are doughnuts and a jug of sweet cider on the shelf, at your service,” she replied hospitably, and as it was the last house of the village, and they had no further searching to do, they accepted the modest treat gratefully, and the four soldiers gathered, munching and sipping, around the kitchen fire in most friendly fashion.

No shadow of suspicion remained, but the mischievous young commander lifted his mug, and saying, “This is for the pull you gave my hair, Mrs. Thurrell, and no punishment at that if you were a properly loyal subject,” he drank to the king’s health.

“Pour out a mug for me, too, sergeant,” demanded Susan, with sparkling eyes; but as the man tipped the pitcher to obey, his officer stopped him.

“No, no!” he cried, laughing and waving it aside. “She will drink to General Washington!”

“Yes, that she would, young sir!” said Susan Tongs.

* * * * *

Next day, with his precious despatches rescued from the woodbox and his ankle much better, Othniel escaped in a patriotic neighbor’s load of hay. After the war ended he married Tamsey, with no opposition from Susan, whose temper softened with time, and who, ever after having saved him, lavished upon him an affection as great as her former dislike.

Indeed, it was a joke in the household--for they shared one home--that Aunt Susan was never cross now unless Tamsey forgot to give her husband his favorite kind of cake for supper, or left a rent in his coat unmended longer then five minutes after he took it off! Then there was a tempest. But Tamsey was so fond both of Othniel and Susan Tongs that she could let it rage about her quite untroubled, duteously veiling her amusement, and listening with an air of meek respect until it spent itself, and peace returned.

THE LITTLE MINUTE-MAN[Q]

By H. G. PAINE

We have all heard of the “minute-men,” but do you know about the
little boy who played minute-man inside of a big grandfather’s clock,
while the redcoats were waiting to capture his father?

All during the winter Brinton had been saying what he would do if the redcoats came, and grieving because his age, which was eight, prevented him from going with his father to fight under General Washington.

Every night, when his mother tucked him in his bed and kissed him good-night, he told her not to be afraid, that he had promised his father to protect her, and he proposed to do it.

His plan of action, in event of the sudden appearance of the enemy, varied somewhat from day to day, but in general outline it consisted of a bold show of force at the front gate and a flank attack by Towser, the dog. Should these tactics fail to discourage the British, he intended to retire behind a stone fort he had built on the lawn, between the two tall elms, and to fire stones at the invaders until they fell back in confusion, while his mother would look on and encourage him from the front porch.

When the redcoats unexpectedly appeared in the distance, one afternoon in May, what Brinton really did was to run helter-skelter down the road, up the broad path to the house, through the front hall into the library, close the door, and then peep out of the window to watch them go by.

When he first caught sight of the soldiers Brinton was sure that there was at least a regiment of them, but when they were opposite the front gate all that he could see were a corporal and three privates. Instead of keeping on their way, however, they turned up the path toward the house, and then it seemed to Brinton that they were the most gigantic human beings that he had ever seen.

His mother was away for the day, and had taken Towser with her. This, together with the fact that the enemy were now between him and his fort, entirely spoiled Brinton’s plan of campaign, and he decided to seek at once some more secluded spot, and there to devise something to meet the changed conditions. But when he started to run out of the room, he found that in his hurry he had left the front door open, so that any one in the hall would be in plain sight of the soldiers, who were now very near.