A BROAD-SHOULDERED YOUTH OF SEVENTEEN

The Young
Continentals
at Lexington

by
John T. M^c_. Intyre
Author of
“With John Paul Jones”
“The Boy Tars of 1812”

Illustrated by Ralph L. Boyer.

The Penn Publishing
Company Philadelphia
MCMIX

COPYRIGHT
1909 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Introduction

“The Young Continentals at Lexington” begins with that vital period of our country’s history when the great forces that made the Revolution were slowly coming together.

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

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

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

Contents

Illustrations

The Young Continentals
at Lexington

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Cooper shook his head.

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

Ben looked at his father in surprise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Again Nat Brewster laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

Ben nodded his head.

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

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

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

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

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

“What was it?” asked Nat, quickly.

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

CHAPTER II
TELLS WHY NAT BREWSTER WALKED TOWARD
CLIVEDEN IN THE DARK

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who-o-e-e!”

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

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

Ben arose and hurried to the fence.

“Something for us, Tom?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

“‘I do,’ says I.

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

“‘As well as I do my own,’ I says.

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

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

“I think not, Tom,” replied Ben.

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

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

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

“In Philadelphia?” echoed Nat.

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

“City Tavern, Aug. 23.

“My dear Ben:—

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

“Sincerely, your friend,
“Ezra Prentiss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nat shook his head.

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

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

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

Ben nodded.

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

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

Again Ben nodded.

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

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

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

“I think not,” replied the other.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pish!” answered the man, impatiently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?” asked her companion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“WHO ARE YOU?” HE DEMANDED

“And you are going——?”

“To Chew House,” with great frankness.

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

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

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

“I have,” replied the lad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” replied the youth, smiling.

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

Nat bowed silently, in the shadows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nat watched this twain expectantly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go on,” said Royce, sullenly.

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

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

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

“I know that,” said the big man.

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

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

“Young Prentiss at last!” cried Royce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER V
HOW NAT BREWSTER MET THE PORCUPINE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Quite,” replied the servant.

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

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

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

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

“Very well, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The dwarf grinned more widely than ever.

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

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

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

Nat regarded him closely.

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

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

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

“How?” asked Nat, in wonder.

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