“WILL YOU HAVE SUPPER?”

The Young
Continentals
at Monmouth

by
John T. M^c_. Intyre
Author of
“The Young Continentals at Lexington”
“The Young Continentals at Bunker Hill”
“The Young Continentals at Trenton”

Illustrated by Ralph L. Boyer.

The Penn Publishing
Company Philadelphia
MCMXII

COPYRIGHT
1912 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY

Introduction

Four sturdy young members of the Continental Army are the chief characters in this story. Ben Cooper and Nat Brewster were from Pennsylvania. Ezra Prentiss and his twin brother George were from Massachusetts. “The Young Continentals at Lexington,” the first book of the series, was chiefly concerned with the adventures of Nat Brewster, although all of the four had a part in the stirring events in and around Boston at the beginning of the struggle for the independence of the American Colonies. They were all employed as couriers attached to headquarters, and carried messages for Warren and Putnam, and later for the great general-in-chief, Washington. The second story, “The Young Continentals at Bunker Hill,” told of the part played by Ezra Prentiss, assisted by his friends, and the third story, “The Young Continentals at Trenton,” described some of the good services rendered by George Prentiss. This book tells the story of Ben Cooper at Princeton and in the dark period of Brandywine and Valley Forge, and ends with the victory at Monmouth, when Washington overcame not only his open enemies, but “they of his own household.”

All four books are true pictures of the days when even boys showed that they could be good patriots, and set an example of loyal, modest, faithful service that thousands of American boys are still glad to follow.

Contents

Illustrations

The Young Continentals
at Monmouth

CHAPTER I
TELLS HOW MR. TOBIAS HAWKINS MADE THE
ACQUAINTANCE OF MR. SAMUEL LIVINGSTONE

“Do you know what to-morrow will be, Ben Cooper?”

The speaker was a dwarfish looking lad whose big head and upstanding crest of hair gave him a most curious appearance.

“To-morrow,” replied the second boy, promptly, “will be New Year’s day.”

The dwarf shifted his leather belt so that his huge service pistol might hang more comfortably; and his voice, when he spoke again, contained a note of complaint.

“It will be that, to be sure; but it will also be just one week since Washington crossed the Delaware and beat the Hessians.”

The eyes of the other boy sparkled.

“Ah, that was the night,” he cried. “There, indeed, was sport, excitement and glory.”

The dwarf shook his large head.

“For you and for Nat and the others,” protested he. “But not for me. While you were all having your fill of fighting, I was away in Philadelphia, riding here and there, at the beck and call of a parcel of excited committeemen.”

Ben Cooper’s good-natured face was all a-wrinkle with smiles.

“Don’t worry, Porcupine,” he said. “The war is not over as yet, by a good deal. They say Cornwallis is on his way across the Jerseys, and as he’s the best fighter the British have, we may expect plenty of warm work still.”

It was late in the afternoon; the pale wintry sun was dipping slowly toward the cluster of peaked roofs which marked the location of Philadelphia; the snow-packed road with its topping of ice went stretching ahead like a gleaming serpent.

“We will reach there before sundown,” said Ben, his eye upon the housetops as though marking the sun’s position. “And I trust that we find Mr. Morris at home, for I fancy that the general’s dispatches are somewhat urgent.”

“The general’s dispatches to Mr. Robert Morris are always urgent,” said the Porcupine. “I have carried more than one of them, and I know. And I have carried them for other officers and gentlemen in and out of the army.”

“Merchant Morris seems a most important person,” smiled Ben.

The Porcupine brushed his crest of hair more stiffly erect than ever.

“Is it any wonder that he is?” said he. “I don’t know much about the ways of people of quality, but I do know that without Master Morris there would be little money with which to feed and pay the troops.”

“He is very rich, I hear.”

“I have heard so too. And then, again, I have heard that he has not much more than enough.”

Ben nodded.

“But,” said he, “he has the power to raise funds. He seems to know by instinct the way to hidden hordes. And somehow, he knows the magic word which causes the hoarders to unlock the treasure chests. Congress, I think, has much to thank Merchant Morris for.”

Ben touched his horse with the spur, and it responded instantly. It was a clean built animal whose small head and slim, powerful legs indicated Arab blood. The Porcupine’s mount was a tall, raw-boned beast, sway-backed and with a wicked eye; but it evidently had bottom, for with a long, awkward stride it easily kept him at the side of his friend.

As they entered the suburbs, the drifted road gave way to the clearer streets; and when they entered the city proper, they found Second Street bare of snow, but with stones ice-coated and glistening.

“Front Street will not be so bad,” spoke Ben; “there is never so much traffic there, and the snow will still be untrodden.”

They turned Sassafras Street and into Front; and when nearing Arch they caught the gleam of arms and uniforms, and saw the townspeople scurrying along as though attracted by something unusual. When they reached the market-place at the foot of High Street, the two boys saw the reason for this. Along Front Street was drawn a force of Continental troops, and under their watchful eyes was a rabble of unshaven, tattered, dispirited looking men to the number of several thousands.

“Hello,” spoke the Porcupine, surprisedly, as he looked over the heads of the crowd from the back of his tall steed; “and who are these?”

“Our friends, the Hessians, captured at Trenton,” replied Ben Cooper. “I heard that the greater part of them were being sent westward to Lancaster or York for safe keeping. And they seem to have just reached Philadelphia.”

The ragged wretches stood in long lines, gazing stupidly at their captors and at the curious throngs. And that these could be the mercenaries who had spread terror through the Jerseys seemed impossible.

A perky looking little man, standing upon tiptoe to get a glimpse of the captives, exclaimed in a high-pitched, astonished voice:

“And are these really the hirelings of whom we have heard so much! Why, they look like common vagabonds.”

A plethoric gentleman in a huge waistcoat and steel buckles seemed to grow even more expansive with indignation.

“The idea,” he panted. “The bare idea of such vermin spreading fear through an entire state. And the idea of our statesmen and our generals and our soldiers permitting it.”

The perky man nodded and settled back upon his heels.

“What you say, sir, is proper and correct,” agreed he. “I am quite amazed that such a condition of affairs has been permitted to continue for so long.”

“A lot of scurvy ruffians,” stated the plethoric gentleman, wrathfully. “A gathering of mean, low fellows without a shred of ambition, or the slightest appearance of manly bearing. You do well, sir,” to the perky gentleman, “to be amazed. No such thing would have been permitted in any other nation under the sun.”

Ben glanced at the Porcupine, and his good-humoured eyes were filled with laughter.

“It is easy to see,” said he, “that neither of our friends here has been where the Hessians ranged with their muskets in their hands. These,” and he nodded toward the wretched array of foreigners, “do present an uncommonly ill-favored appearance; but properly uniformed, officered and armed, they were as formidable troops as were in all of Howe’s army.”

Close at the elbow of the plethoric gentleman stood a tall man with prominent features and great square shoulders. He was richly dressed and carried himself with the air of a person of consequence.

“Sir,” said he to the stout man, “what you have just said I agree with as heartily as our friend here,” bowing to the perky man. “It is a shame and a scandal that our army should have allowed these wretched Dutchmen to hold them so long in check. To be sure,” and he gestured with one hand in a scornful fashion, “they have been beaten and taken. But it should have happened long ago. It should have been done promptly and out of hand. It would seem to me,” confidentially, “that our military leaders are not all that they should be.”

“Sir,” said the other, “you have expressed my sentiments precisely. I could not have spoken them in more fitting terms. Our officers are not what they should be. They are far from it, as they have proven a dozen times, since the fighting began at New York.”

“Congress is at fault,” spoke the perky man. “They should see to it that we are provided with competent gentlemen to conduct our military enterprises.”

The plethoric gentleman seemed to agree with this statement unqualifiedly. But the tall man shook his head.

“Congress,” said he, “is a much harassed body. It has a great deal to do, and no great amount of experience to guide it. But for the greater part it does very well indeed. There are gentlemen belonging to it,” with a lowered tone, and a series of knowing nods, “who would readily replace a certain person if they could.”

The plethoric one contented himself with puffing his cheeks and assuming a look of much sagacity. It was the perky man who spoke.

“I have heard,” said he, his head at one side, like that of an inquisitive bird, “that Washington is not greatly in favor with some of the members of Congress. Of course,” and the inquisitive cock of the head grew more pronounced, “it is he you mean.”

But the tall man closed his lips tightly, and shook his head after the manner of one who disliked committing himself. It was the stout man who spoke.

“The naming of names,” said he, with heavy wisdom, “is sometimes to be avoided; and this is one of the times. Gentlemen can carry on an intelligent conversation without placing themselves on record in matters of delicacy; and in this way important matters can be kept from becoming things of common gossip.”

Properly rebuked, the perky man gave his attention once more to the captive mercenaries, while the speaker continued, addressing the tall man, in a guarded tone:

“It is a matter of wonderment with me how people can have so little consideration as to discuss private matters of state in the hearing of every Tom, Dick and Harry. It is an almost criminal propensity, believe me, sir; and I always discountenance it when I have the opportunity.”

The other nodded, with gravity.

“It is a common failing,” said he, “and I have little doubt but what it has occasioned more trouble in the public’s affairs than any of us have any knowledge of. And I am glad indeed to meet with a gentleman who is so careful of the general weal; it is a rare occasion, sir; more’s the pity.”

The large man took out a silver snuff-box, his great face growing more mottled than originally; offering the box to the other, he said in a tone of much gratification:

“Sir, I should be exceedingly pleased with your acquaintance.”

The tall man took a pinch of the proffered snuff; and as he dusted the remaining grains from his finger-tips, he made reply:

“Sir, you are very good. My name is Hawkins—Tobias Hawkins—and I am lately arrived from Savannah, in Georgia, where I have some shipping enterprises.”

“I thank you,” said the plethoric man, with ponderous politeness. He took a companionable pinch, restored the box to one of the huge pockets of his waistcoat, and went on: “I am Samuel Livingstone, merchant and trader in West India goods. And it gives me much pleasure, Master Hawkins, to know you.”

The two had fallen into a most earnest conversation upon the condition of trade and public affairs when a drum began to tap, and the long lines of American troops and bedraggled Germans fell into column; then at the word of command they went marching away southward.

As the crowd dispersed, Ben Cooper did not immediately turn his horse’s head up High Street, as the Porcupine evidently expected him to do; instead, he sat motionless in his saddle watching the retreating forms of Messrs. Samuel Livingstone and Tobias Hawkins. When he did finally give his rein a shake as a signal to his mount, the curious, speculative expression upon his face did not lessen. And as he turned into Second Street once more, he said:

“Do you know, that was a rather queer thing.”

The Porcupine had noticed his manner, but had made no comment; now, however, he asked:

“What do you mean?”

“Why, the conduct of Mr. Tobias Hawkins, as he called himself. Did you notice him?”

The dwarf nodded.

“And rather a wide-awake sort, I thought him,” said he. “But I did not see anything queer in him. Very even, and much like a gentleman.”

But Ben shook his head.

“I don’t mean in that respect. He appeared to be all you say, but at the same time there was a something——” he paused as though uncertain for a moment, then went on with thoughtful face. “To all appearance his meeting with Merchant Livingstone was pure accident.”

The Porcupine opened his eyes wide.

“What?” demanded he. “And was it not so?”

“I think not,” replied Ben. “Rather, I am inclined to believe that it was a cunningly devised plan. I scarcely know what makes me think so, but Hawkins purposed making acquaintance of Mr. Livingstone before he spoke to him; and so expertly did he contrive matters that he’s made it appear that it was Mr. Livingstone who sought him.”

“Why, it may be so,” said the dwarf. “These traders have very curious ways, I’ve heard. But, in any event, it makes no difference. We are not at all interested in their doings.”

“I don’t know,” said young Cooper, gravely. “If the matter which Mr. Hawkins has in mind is commercial, of course we are not; but,” and he turned his head as though to get a fresh sight of the gentlemen in question, “if it is something else, perhaps it may turn out that we are.”

CHAPTER II
IN WHICH MR. HAWKINS UTTERS A THREAT

The Porcupine was still turning over the odd remarks of his companion, when they pulled up at that famous hostelry of Revolutionary days, “The City Tavern.” In the inn yard, Ben, looking down from his saddle, inquired of a hostler who had come to take their mounts:

“Can you tell me where Mr. Robert Morris lives?”

“Do you mean the merchant, Morris?” asked the man.

“Yes.”

“You will find his house on Chestnut Street, near to Seventh,” directed the man.

They dismounted, and saw to it that their horses would be cleaned, fed and bedded; after this they went into the tavern and bespoke lodgings for themselves.

“And will you have supper also, gentlemen?” smiled the landlord. “Piping hot it will be, the very sort for a damp, chilly evening like this. Taken in a snug, warm room, I can conceive of nothing more inviting.”

Ben laughed. He and the landlord were old acquaintances, and the lad knew his ways.

“Why,” spoke Ben, “if your supper and your rooms were only half as enticing as your manner of speaking of them, they would be the most desired things in all Philadelphia. However, we will put both of them to the test in a very little while. I have a message to deliver, and then we shall try whether or no you can prove what you say.”

In a very short time Ben, having left the Porcupine behind, arrived at the house of Robert Morris and sounded the heavy brass knocker. A thin-shouldered woman in a white cap came to the door and replied to his questions.

“No,” she said, “Mr. Morris is not at home. Indeed, he will not be home until late, by all accounts, for I’ve heard it said that he’ll sup to-night at one of the taverns with some friends.”

“My business is important,” said Ben. “Can you tell me at which of the taverns he will be?”

But the woman shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I am sorry, young gentleman, but I cannot.”

Ben considered for a moment.

“Will you oblige me with a pen full of ink and a slip of paper?” he asked.

Thereupon the woman invited him to walk in; in the wide hall he was provided with the desired articles, and so wrote a few lines explaining who he was and the nature of his errand. The note he gave to the woman.

“I shall return between this and midnight,” he said. “Mr. Morris will, no doubt, have returned by then.”

“Oh, yes, sir,” replied the woman, earnestly. “He will be sure to be home by then. And I will give him your message as soon as he comes.”

The evening was a brisk one; the moon was coming up clearly, the air was tingling with cold, and the lad’s spurs jangled upon the flags as he stepped buoyantly along.

“This is the sort of weather that makes one feel like undertaking some enterprise,” he told himself, his spirits rising with every step he took. “If it is the same in the neighborhood of Trenton, I should not be surprised to shortly hear that the general has set out again upon another venture against the British.”

He stepped jauntily into the coffee room of the tavern; the candles were lighted, the curtains were drawn at the small paned windows and a heap of logs crackled in a huge fireplace. Before this sat the Porcupine upon a stool, his short legs crossed one upon another and deeply engaged in a conversation with—of all persons in the world—Mr. Tobias Hawkins.

Mr. Hawkins stood with one foot upon the fender, and one elbow upon the mantel; he looked very stalwart and very handsome as he gazed laughingly down at the dwarf, and seemed very much amused at something which the latter had said.

“And so,” remarked he, to the high admiration of some serving maids, and other attachés of the inn, “you are a patriot, are you?”

“I am,” replied the Porcupine, as cool as you please, “and I try to act up to the way I think.”

“Excellent!” cried Mr. Hawkins. “Excellent, indeed! A patriot who tries to put his opinions into acts! Why, this is a prodigy! If all patriots were of your kidney, my fine fellow, belike we’d have more deeds than words.” He ran his fingers through his coarse, luxuriant hair, and his eye challenged the mirth of a few guests supping at the round tables. “But come,” he added, “let us hear what form your actions took.”

“What other form could they take but good blows?” quoth the Porcupine, sagely. “What other form would be understood in these times but hard knocks?”

The mirth of Hawkins filled the room; the titters of the servant maids and the grins of the waiters showed their entertainment; broad smiles were on the faces of the guests who had heard the dwarf’s words.

“And do you mean to tell me that you delivered the good blows you speak of?” demanded Hawkins. “And the hard knocks? Surely, the foe must have trembled when he saw you preparing for the fight.”

“If inches won battles, then the British would never lose one,” stated the Porcupine, calmly. “Their beef-eaters are each as big as two men.” With a comical gesture he hitched his belt about and brought the huge pistol which he still carried into plain view. “The little fellow can shoot as straight as the big one,” he added; “and, sometimes, better.”

“Ah,” said Tobias Hawkins, and he stared with interest at the weapon, which he now apparently noted for the first time. “I see.” There was a pause during which he examined the dwarf with amused unbelief; then he inquired: “And where, may I be permitted to ask, has the excellence of your aim been called into play?”

“At Lexington,” replied the Porcupine, with never a wrinkle of his countenance; “also at Bunker Hill; and again in some less important affairs about the town of Boston.”

There was something about the simplicity of this answer that drove the smiles from the faces turned toward the speaker. The unbelieving amusement in the face of Hawkins, however, remained.

“I see,” said he, “that you are a person who has seen service. Mayhap, you were also a partaker in the matter at Trenton, a few weeks ago.”

“I had no such good luck,” replied the Porcupine, moodily. “By all right I should have been there; but some folks need a great deal of scurrying to keep them at rest, and so I must be riding here and there for them, delivering letters filled with nothing when I might have been of some real service beyond the river.”

There was no laughter or grinning at this; even Hawkins seemed to have concluded that he had exhausted the dwarf’s humorous possibilities, for he yawned and said:

“Ah, well, you take yourself seriously enough, I’ll say that for you, my lad. But, then, it is as well that you do so, for you’ll find as you progress through life that others will not go far out of their way to do the like.” And with this the man turned away, calling to the host: “Landlord, have not my friends arrived?”

“No, Mr. Hawkins, not yet, sir. It is a trifle early, I think. You said eight o’clock, and it is not much after seven.”

Hawkins looked at a huge silver watch and replaced it in his pocket with a frown. Ben noticed this with a smile.

“Some,” thought the lad, “to have noted him a few moments ago, would have fancied him a chap of rare wit and good nature. But it was only while trying to hold up another to ridicule. Now that the point of his wit has been turned, he is ill-tempered enough.”

Hawkins paced the floor of the coffee room impatiently. Ben and the Porcupine ordered and ate their supper at a table near the fire.

“A beefsteak pie,” remarked the dwarf, “is a dish not to be ill considered. I know of nothing that affords a hungry stomach more satisfaction.”

Ben watched the blaze dart up the huge throat of the chimney; the logs crackled and the fire roared; the boy stretched his booted legs out toward it with a sigh.

“After a long day on the road,” said he, “the fire is as good as the food. And,” with a glance around, “the room is as satisfying as either.”

It was some little time since they had sat down to their meal, and quite a number of persons had come and gone. So when Ben cast his eyes about it is not at all surprising that he should notice some of the newcomers. Suddenly he sat erect.

“Hello!” said he.

“What now?” asked the Porcupine.

“I see that one of Mr. Hawkins’ friends has arrived.”

The dwarf screwed his head around so that he might see; and when he had done so he whistled lowly.

“Merchant Livingstone!” said he. “So they are to sup together.”

“Friend Hawkins does not lag in the matter of clinching his friendships,” smiled Ben. “Look at him. One would fancy that he’d been in touch with the other all his life.”

The two mentioned were seated at a table no great distance away; their heads were bent close together, and Hawkins was speaking earnestly and in a rather lowered voice.

“Of course,” he said, “it would not do, as I already remarked to-day, to speak too openly upon certain subjects. But they can be discussed guardedly and with circumspection, and so do no general harm.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr. Livingstone, eagerly. “I understand and thoroughly appreciate your standpoint. But,” and his head went nearer to that of his new friend, “are there actually steps being taken to—to oust, so to speak—a certain person?”

Hawkins waved one large, well-kept hand.

“My dear sir,” said he, “it is entirely too early to expect such definite things as ‘steps’ in the matter. At most, it is but under consideration.”

“Ah, I see.” Mr. Livingstone nodded his head wisely. “No steps have been taken, but the matter is being considered.” There was a pause of a few moments, then he added with a resumption of his former eagerness: “Can you tell me, is the thing being well considered?”

Hawkins shook his head gravely.

“That is all I can say at this time. The matter came to me quite in the way of an accident, and I passed my word as a gentleman to keep silent regarding it.”

“To be sure, to be sure,” said Merchant Livingstone, hastily. “And quite right, too, sir. It were best that the utmost privacy be exercised in such things.”

The speaker sat staring ponderously, straight before him, his great face solemn and approving. There was a silence between them and it was Hawkins who finally broke it.

“You were to have a friend to sup with you, were you not?”

“Two of them,” answered Livingstone. “That is why I so strongly urged you to come. I desired you to meet them, for they are persons of consequence in Philadelphia—yes, and in the nation, too, for the matter of that.”

Hawkins nodded, but said nothing. Ben watching him, curiously, saw an expectant look in his eyes.

“However,” continued Merchant Livingstone, “only one of them will attend. But he is a fine fellow, and I’m sure you will be delighted with him.”

“Who is it?” asked Hawkins.

At this moment there was a clatter of crockery at the far side of the coffee room, one of the waiters having met with a mishap. Ben could not catch the name spoken by the fat merchant, but Hawkins apparently heard it, for his face lit up suddenly; and for an instant the boy felt sure there was exultation in his eyes.

“Why,” said the man, and his tones showed only mild interest, “I am quite charmed. I did not expect to meet so famous a personage during my stay in your city.”

“I have many friends, both in commercial and public life,” said the fat merchant, complacently. “And before you leave for the South I shall take much pleasure in presenting you to them.”

Here followed a great deal of talk regarding Mr. Livingstone’s friends; Ben, as he idly listened, noted that now and then the interest of Hawkins was aroused at the mention of certain names; but for the most part the man made no sign.

All this time the Porcupine, who sat with his back to the two men, had been studying Ben. And when he noted a flagging of the latter’s interest, he spoke.

“It seems to me,” said he, “that you have been mightily taken by those two.”

Ben smiled good-humoredly; and yet there was a grave expression in his eyes.

“By one of them only,” he corrected.

“And that is Master Hawkins,” said the dwarf.

Ben nodded.

“But why?” asked the other, curiously. “Have you ever seen him before to-day? What has he done that you should be so interested in him?”

Ben made no reply for a few moments; and when he did speak his voice was low and troubled.

“I don’t know just why I am so interested in him,” he replied. “I have never seen him before to-day; and it is not anything which he has done which attracts me; it is,” vaguely, “what he may be about to do.”

The Porcupine looked astonished.

“What he may be about to do,” repeated he. “Well, now we have a dealing in mysteries, indeed! And what do you think he may be about to do?”

But Ben Cooper shook his head.

“I don’t know. It is not definite enough for me to give it a name. I have a sort of presentiment that harm is to come through him; that is all I can make out of it.”

The dwarf sat in silence, trying to understand this. He brushed his stiff crest of hair more erect, wrinkled his brows and stared at his friend; but, apparently, he could make nothing of it all. And while he was so engaged a somewhat stout man, with a round face and shrewd eyes, came into the coffee room. It was the landlord who hastened forward to relieve him of his cloak and three-cornered hat.

“Hah!” said the round-faced man as he stamped upon the hearth to warm his feet, “it keeps cold, landlord.” He unwound a great length of woolen comforter from about his neck and then rubbed his hands briskly together before the blaze. “But then, what else would we have for a New Year’s Eve?”

Seemingly the gentleman was the one whom Merchant Livingstone expected, for that honest man greeted him warmly and presented Hawkins. Again in the whirl of words did Ben lose the name.

“I am right glad to meet Master Hawkins,” said the newcomer. “I do not recollect any one in Savannah of the name with whom my firm has had dealings; but then,” with a laugh, “I do not profess to recall them all.”

“We have never had the pleasure of any transactions with your house, sir,” said Tobias Hawkins, smoothly. “Our trade is mostly importations from the islands, and gulf points. Spanish goods, and Portuguese, too, we import in foreign bottoms, for such are largely demanded by the ports along the gulf and south coast.”

Their supper was served to them, and the three fell to with hearty appetites; but the meal had not progressed far when Master Livingstone again fell to talking politics.

“I cannot express my gratification,” he said, “at seeing so excellent a patriot as our friend Hawkins coming from so youthful a province as Georgia. It shows, it seems to me, that the spark of patriotism is wide-spread; and this being the case, it cannot but help gaining headway as time goes on.”

The round-faced gentleman nodded.

“That,” said he, “is my own way of looking at it. And patriotism alone is what will keep the war against tyranny moving. It will fill the ranks of the army, it will provide money to pay the troops, it will keep competent commanders in the field.”

Master Livingstone glanced at Tobias Hawkins, and that gentleman nodded his head and pursed up his lips. What he meant by this was an enigma, but to the mind of the fat merchant, it was simple enough.

“Ah,” said that worthy, “in that last remark you put your finger upon the vital point of this struggle, sir. Pure patriotism alone will supply competent commanders to lead our troops. But the patriots should be careful. They should make sure that the commanders fixed upon are competent.”

For a moment there was a silence; then the round-faced man said:

“There is a tang to your voice, Neighbor Livingstone, that would lead one to suppose that you doubt the ability of the army’s leaders.”

For a moment the other merchant stammered; his great face became mottled with agitation; and when he finally found his tongue, he said:

“Of course, I have no military skill, and do not profess to be a judge of these matters. But there are many who are complaining; and there are not a few who openly say that we should have a change.”

The other nodded, and settled his napkin more comfortably under his chin.

“A change?” said he. “Oh, yes, there are a great many who are crying for that. But who are they, sir? Answer me.” He glanced at the other two as though challenging them to reply. Livingstone in turn glanced at Hawkins, and as that gentleman gave no sign, he, also, remained mute. The speaker tasted delicately of the dish before him, then pointing his fork at the silent twain, proceeded:

“Since you don’t seem able to answer, I will do so for you. The thing had its beginning with a parcel of knaves who thought to line their pockets out of the public funds; and later they were joined by disappointed officers whose preferment had been discountenanced by General Washington because he knew them for what they were.”

Master Livingstone coughed apologetically; it were as though he disliked controverting his guest, but felt compelled by facts to do so.

“There is, perhaps, some truth in what you say,” said he. “But then, there are many persons who belong to neither of the classes you mention, who believe the present commander-in-chief to be unfit.”

The other made no reply to this, merely gesturing his impatience with such people. His silence seemed to encourage Merchant Livingstone, who went on:

“Now, look the thing candidly in the face, my dear sir, and tell me if you don’t think these good folk have some cause for believing as they do. There is the campaign about New York. It is notorious that it was sadly bungled. Long Island would have been won by any far-seeing officer; the affairs on the river and above New York would have proven matters of little effort to many a man who is held idle here in the city. The flight across the Jerseys——”

But at this the round-faced man lost all patience. He tore his napkin from about his neck and dashed it down upon the table.

“The flight across the Jerseys is precisely on a footing with all the other things you have mentioned or can mention. With a handful of badly armed men, Washington fell back before a disciplined army; at every halting place he sent appeals for help, and though he was in the most desperate danger, no aid was given him; though he crossed the entire state, not a hundred militia answered his call.” Here the angry gentleman got upon his feet and glared at his adversary. “Did they expect him to give battle with his bare hands? A commission is not all that an officer requires, sir. He cannot wave it in the face of the enemy and expect them to be seized with fright. He must be given men, sir—men and money; and unless he is given them, what rational person can expect anything but defeat and retreat?”

That Mr. Samuel Livingstone was astounded at this outburst was evident. He lifted one fat hand in protest, and said with much emotion:

“My good friend, don’t be violent, I beg! I did not think to offend you, but to merely repeat some things which could not help but reach my ear.”

“It does not set well upon a man of your years and station, Livingstone, to repeat common gossip. What has been said to the discredit of General Washington has been said behind his back. Not one of his detractors has had the courage to speak openly and specifically—that is, not one whom he would think it worth while to controvert. The whole matter is a rascally one, sir, and every worthy person should frown upon it.”

“I meant to give you no offense,” said Master Livingstone.

“And you have not. What I say is said as a citizen, my friend; and I have no personal feeling in the matter whatever.”

However, when the speaker sat down once more, Ben Cooper noted that his manner was not at all as even as it had been formerly. Apparently he was no lukewarm friend of the commander-in-chief of the American forces, and felt the insinuations leveled against that gentleman much more keenly than he cared to admit.

Livingstone spoke but little after this; his friend’s reception of his views had so abashed him that he seemed to prefer to keep silent. But with Hawkins it was different. With smooth insinuation he entered into the matter under discussion; he stated no views, but seemed somewhat eager as to the views of others. Ben listened with attention; now and then he noted the man’s eye lift in his direction, but as the glances seemed merely passing ones he gave them no heed. After a time the Porcupine spoke.

“Master Hawkins seems very inquisitive,” remarked he, shrewdly. “Mark you, how he asks questions.”

“And, also, mark you, whom the questions hinge upon,” said Ben, with meaning.

Intently the dwarf listened, all the time seeming much interested in the remnants of the beefsteak pie. At last he looked up at Ben, his brows lifted and his mouth drawn to one side, knowingly.

“He wants to know about the people who are speaking ill of General Washington—especially about those officers who think themselves ill-treated.” There was a silence, and as Ben said nothing, the dwarf asked: “I wonder why?”

“I, too, wonder why,” said Ben, and there was that same speculative look in his face which the Porcupine had noted more than once since their first sight of Tobias Hawkins on the outskirts of the throng which had watched the captive Hessians.

After Mr. Livingstone and his guests had done with their supper, they sat for some time and talked. Hawkins’ part in this was still questioning; and always, as the Porcupine had shrewdly noted, questions concerning those who bore General Washington ill will. The clock struck ten as the round-faced man arose.

“I had not thought it so late. You will excuse me, Livingstone, and you, Mr. Hawkins, for leaving you so abruptly. But my time is much taken up these nights; I have much correspondence thrust upon me, and many books to put in order before I sleep.”

So saying he called for his cloak, his comforter and three-cornered hat; and shaking hands with his companions he hurried out into the cold streets. It was no great while after this before Hawkins and Livingstone also made up their minds to go; the former stood before the cheerfully blazing fire as he drew on his greatcoat and adjusted his hat; then with his hands upon his hips he turned and stared Ben straight in the eye.

“I trust, young sir, that you will have no difficulty in recognizing me when next we chance to meet.”

Ben was taken by surprise; but he contrived to present a cool front and make reply:

“I have a habit of remembering faces, sir. And yours,” inspecting the man with much calmness, “is one not readily forgotten.”

The man favored him with a smile which was not altogether pleasant to see. The good humor of the early evening was now completely gone; his strong features were harsh and hawk-like.

“Perhaps,” sneered he, “you, like our young friend here, have been to the wars.” As the boy made no reply, he went on: “Perhaps a person with good sight might have seen you also at Bunker Hill.”

“It is possible,” smiled Ben. “There were a great many there.” He looked steadfastly into the man’s face and continued, intending the saying merely as a jest and that he should not be thought backward with an answer: “And who knows, sir, but that one with even less excellent vision might have noted you there?”

The effect of this upon the man was startling. For an instant he glared like a tiger and his powerful hands clinched.

“Master Hawkins!” cried Samuel Livingstone, alarmed.

The man’s countenance cleared like magic; with a wide gesture he burst into a great laugh.

“Don’t mind me, sir,” cautioned he. “I will have my jest at even the most unseemly of times. But come, I’ll not detain you with my clowning.” And with that he took the merchant by the arm and started jovially for the door. But upon reaching it he turned and addressed himself to Ben once more.

“I ask your pardon, my lad, for the liberty taken in presuming to have a laugh at your expense. Perhaps,” and there was a covert meaning in both his voice and eyes, “we shall meet at some other time. And, if it should so chance, trust me to remember you, even if you should, after all, forget me.”

And with that the door closed upon both him and the merchant, and Ben and the Porcupine sat looking into each other’s faces.

CHAPTER III
SHOWS HOW BEN COOPER STARTED UPON
A MISSION IN THE EARLY DAWN

For a brief space after the departure of Tobias Hawkins and Merchant Livingstone, Ben Cooper and the Porcupine continued to look inquiringly at each other.

“Well?” said the dwarf, at last.

“Well?” returned Ben, in the same tone, and with that they burst into a laugh.

“An odd fish,” commented the Porcupine, crossing one short leg over the other and nodding his head. “An odd fish, indeed. And he seemed to have some sort of a hidden meaning behind his words as he went out.”

“A threat,” said Ben, thoughtfully; “undoubtedly a threat. He seemed to object to my watching him as I did.”

“And the way he started, and the rage he flew into when you joked him about also being at Bunker Hill. It was peculiar.”

“And if he was there—and I am, somehow, now inclined so think he was—why does he desire to keep it hidden? All whom I have met who took part in that fight have been proud of it. Indeed, most have made it a boast.” Ben paused for a moment, deep in thought; then he suddenly leaped up.

“What is it?” cried the Porcupine, all alert, and also rising.

But seeing that he was attracting attention, Ben resumed his seat.

“Sit down,” said he, calmly enough. And when the dwarf had done so, he leaned across the table and continued in a low-pitched voice: “Master Hawkins was present at the Bunker Hill fight. My watching him so intently, and my later jest have convinced him that I saw him there.”

“But,” said the Porcupine, not understanding, “he seemed afraid. Why should he fear you seeing him there?”

“There is only one reason in the world,” replied Ben Cooper, and his voice sank lower than ever, “and that is that he was upon the side of the enemy.”

The Porcupine sank back into his chair; his lips formed a circle, and he blew out his breath hissingly. Then with one finger he pointed at Ben and said:

“You’re right. You’re exactly right. It couldn’t be anything else. He belongs to Howe’s army, and he’s here for no good.”

But Ben was silent; he too, so it appeared, was convinced that the man’s presence in the city had an evil meaning. And the Porcupine, as he watched his comrade, felt sure that its possible intent suggested itself to him. Ben stared into the fire, his chin in his hands, and the dwarf heard him mutter:

“No, no! Such a thing is almost impossible. It might enter the minds of the enemy to attempt it; but it could not be carried out, for no American would lend himself to it.”

It was some little time before Ben aroused himself.

“I had almost forgotten Master Morris and the dispatch,” said he as he looked at the coffee room clock. “You get to bed, Porcupine, for there’s no knowing how long I shall be gone.”

He pulled on his heavy coat, and felt of his inner pockets to be sure that his message was safe; then with a parting word to the dwarf, he left the inn. The streets were very quiet at that hour; the stars looked cold and far away; the stones rang under his spurred heel.

There was a light burning behind a curtain in the Morris house.

“He’s home, I think,” said the lad, “and perhaps sitting up, awaiting my return.”

Ben ascended the high stone steps and sounded the knocker gently. There was a pause, then a step was heard in the hall, a bar fell, a chain rattled and the door swung open. To his great astonishment, Ben saw standing before him, a lighted candle above his head, the gentleman who had supped with Livingstone and Hawkins at the inn.

“I desire to see Master Robert Morris,” said the lad.

The other inspected him closely.

“Did you, by any chance, call here earlier in the evening?” he asked.

“I did, and left a note saying that I would return.”

The door was held open to its fullest extent.

“Come in.”

Ben Cooper entered the hall; the other then closed the door and led the way to an apartment where several candles burned in long silver candlesticks upon a writing table.

“I reached home only a short time ago,” said the gentleman, after they had become seated, “and was startled to find myself the cause of delay. The general’s dispatches are usually urgent.”

Ben took out a folded paper sealed in several places.

“You are Mr. Robert Morris?” he asked.

“I am,” replied the gentleman.

Upon receiving the paper he at once broke the seal, and drawing one of the candles nearer, proceeded to read. When he reached the end of the message, his lips were compressed and a troubled expression appeared in his eyes.

“I was afraid it was something like this,” he said, shaking his head. “The wants of the army are urgent, I know, but money is very difficult to get just now.” He looked at Ben and tapped the edge of the refolded paper upon the writing table. “It is a matter of wonderment what becomes of the hard money at times,” he went on. “When it is the most urgently needed, it is the scarcest.”

“That,” said Ben, “I think may be said about most things.”

The financier of the Revolution smiled.

“Why,” said he, “that’s true enough. But money is the worst of all. Let me see.” The speaker pulled open a drawer and took out a book. “What were the last moneys I sent to the general?” He turned page after page, running his finger down each.

“Here it is,” pausing at an entry. “There were four hundred and ten Spanish dollars, two crowns, ten shillings and sixpence English, and one French half-crown.” He closed the ledger and sat regarding it with nodding head. “A small sum, indeed, to supply a general in the field; it could not go far.” He was silent for a space; then he opened the message once more, and reread what Washington had written. “This time such a pittance will not answer. The call is more urgent; a large sum must be had. But,” and his chin sank upon his breast, “where shall I ask for it? Where has my credit not been tried?”

For a long time he sat buried in thought, apparently oblivious of the boy’s presence. Finally he arose and began pacing up and down the apartment, his hands behind him and his brows puckered thoughtfully. One, two, three hours were struck upon the great bell in the State House tower; Ben was nodding in the comfortable chair which had been given him; the financier, with muttering lips and mind concentrated upon the problem before him, continued his pacing. At three o’clock he sat down and began to go through documents, books and files; with a blunt quill he scratched notes upon a slip of paper. It was past four o’clock when he pushed the mass from him and arose; twice had he replaced the candles, and the last were now guttering and flickering in the sockets of their supports. Mr. Morris was putting on his cloak when his eyes fell upon the relaxed form of the drowsy youth.

“My poor lad,” he said, astonishment and then amusement showing in his face, “I had really forgotten all about you. It is too bad of me, but I was so taken up by these affairs of mine that everything else was completely shut out.”

Ben rubbed his eyes.

“I was told to await an answer,” he said; “and believe me, sir, I have passed a much longer and less comfortable time often enough and upon less important business.”

“You are very good to say so,” replied the merchant. He took up his hat, and in the act of placing it upon his head, a thought seemed to occur to him. “Perhaps,” he added, “you are not even yet too fatigued to prolong your share in this matter.”

“Sir,” replied Ben Cooper, arising and lifting a hand, military fashion, “I am ready and willing to give what time you require to it.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Morris, nodding his head in a satisfied way. “You have the making of an excellent soldier in you, sir.”

After settling the long comforter about his neck, the merchant went to a low chest of drawers and took from it a pistol.

“I trust you are armed,” said he, as he examined this. Without a word Ben showed the pistol and short hanger which he wore buttoned under his greatcoat. “Good,” said Mr. Morris. “If I have fortune attending me, I shall have a large sum in hard money before very long; and it will be as well to be prepared to defend it against highwaymen, if any be abroad.”

Without any clear understanding of the nature of this errand, Ben Cooper followed the comfortable looking Mr. Morris into the street; the dawn was paling the sky in the direction of the Delaware, and the air had a penetrating chill which made him shiver. Not very far did they go before Mr. Morris ascended a pair of steps and beat a tattoo upon the knocker.

“You will be a much astonished man, Jethro Sharpless,” chuckled the merchant, “and there will be many like you before the dawn comes up on the New Year.”

In reply to the vigorous rapping upon the door, a window went up, a head popped out and a complaining voice demanded:

“Who is it that comes at such an hour as this? Be off with thee or I will summon the watch and have thee taken to the lock-up.”

“Is that you, Jethro Sharpless?” asked Merchant Morris. “This is your friend Robert Morris, who bids you come down as soon as you may and hear what news is come from the Jerseys.”

“THIS IS YOUR FRIEND ROBERT MORRIS”

There was an exclamation above, and the window closed hastily. The announcement by Mr. Morris was in a clear, round voice and in the quiet of the early morning it carried surprisingly. From across the way an anxious voice called:

“What news is it that you bring, Neighbor Morris? Good or bad?”

“Ah, did my knocking awaken you, Robert Chaney? Arouse you, then!” Mr. Morris had his face toward the place where the voice had sounded.

Apparently the rat-tat-tat upon the door of Friend Sharpless had brought others out of their warm beds to learn what was going forward. At any rate there came a full half dozen voices from as many different points, all charged with suspense:

“What say you, Morris? What is it?”

“Has a battle been fought?”

“Has Cornwallis crossed a state so soon?”

“How went the fight?”

“Did our troops give a good account of themselves?”

But Robert Morris offered them scant satisfaction.

“You will have to gather round about, my good friends, before I relieve myself of my budget. I have news of the first importance—news that must come home to every real friend of the cause.” Here the door of the Sharpless house opened, and the nightcapped householder showed himself, candle in hand. “You will find me in the parlor of Jethro Sharpless; and any of you, who care to hear what General Washington himself says, will gather there at once.”

In the parlor, Mr. Sharpless, who was a tall, bony man, with scraggy, gray brows, placed his brass candlestick upon the table and looked at the two who had so disturbed his sleep.

“News from the Jerseys,” said he, his scraggy brows drawn together with anxiety. “And what has been toward, Friend Morris? Has there been a swording and a bickering with the guns? Or has the army retreated once more?”

Mr. Morris took a seat at one corner of a settle, crossed his legs and balanced his three-cornered hat in his hands.

“I fancy,” said he, quietly, “there will be a number of your neighbors here in a few moments, Friend Sharpless; so, perhaps, we had better save the news until they arrive.”

With as good a grace as may be, the householder set about waiting; and in no great while Mr. Morris was surrounded by a ring of eager faces.

“Come now, the news,” was demanded of him.

“Never say it was anything but a victory,” said a second.

“Trenton has but whetted our appetite,” declared another. “Americans can beat the British as readily as they can the Hessians, so let’s to the news of how they did it.”