The Musket Boys of Old Boston

ON DUTY

"Well!" ejaculated Andy Sabine, as soon as they were out of hearing of the queer old man who had returned to them their stolen hunting traps.

Both Andy and Phil were considerably stirred up by the happenings of the last few minutes. If old Berks had dealt in hints, they were certainly strong ones. His forcible remarks had increased their patriotic fervor, already at high heat with his young friends. Andy acted as excitedly as if the first gun had been fired and he was anxious to start right off to meet the enemy.

"Tell you what," say Phil thoughtfully, "that wise old veteran ought to know what he is talking about, and probably could tell a good deal more if he wanted to. Of course, everybody thinks as he does,—if there is going to be any trouble, it will begin at Boston. I want to be there when it comes, Andy, if it is only to be near the folks, and I believe I will start away from Concord sooner than I had planned."

"I wish I was going with you, Phil," said Andy in a longing tone. "Your Musket Boys will smell the first powder. My! it would be exciting to be right in the midst of so much bustle, not knowing how soon a company of militia might come dashing down the street sweeping everything before them. Hold on, what are you heading that way for? Aren't we going home?"

Phil had led the course across the hills in the direction of the road running by the farmhouse of Jasper Bram. This meant quite a wide detour from the direct route homeward. But Phil had a purpose in the digression.

"I was thinking of the mysterious boy," he explained to his comrade, "and I don't feel like leaving all of our guessing and running go for nothing. He may be going back to Boston some time. There he was a Tory. Why mayn't he be acting for them here in some secret way? I'd like to know. Mr. Berks said he saw him a prisoner of Jasper Bram."

"Don't that look queer? Both Tories? I should think they would be friends, he and old Bram, both being of the same stripe," observed Andy.

"Yes, it looks puzzling, so I am going to try and fathom the mystery," replied Phil seriously. "There's the Bram farmhouse. We'll skirt it as near as we dare and see what's going on."

"Something is going on right now!" declared Andy suddenly. "What's up I wonder?"

At a break in the hills they came within a few hundred yards of the house where Jasper Bram lived. In front of it was a horse, and into its saddle a boy had just climbed.

"That is Greg Bram," said Andy, peering attentively.

"And that's his father," added Phil.

The old man was gesticulating as if he were very much excited. He pointed to a stone shed back of the house and then in the direction of the town, and finally struck the horse that Greg rode a vigorous slap on the flank that sent the animal forward like an arrow.

All the time the boys had been approaching nearer to the house. Their glance was now transferred to the stone shed behind the house, and fixed there. It was a low, strong structure with a heavy wooden door, and had windows crossed with iron bars. At one of these could be seen the figure of some one within, beating at the bars with a thick club and then trying to pry them apart.

"That's our friend with the muskrat skin cap," said Andy. "He is a prisoner in there and is trying to break out. He can't make it. He has given it up."

"No, he hasn't," corrected Phil, a minute later, while they kept advancing closer and closer to the scene. "He is putting shavings, splinters and kindling wood in the embrasure."

"Aha!" cried Andy—"He has set the place on fire! See there, Phil, he is trying to make his way to liberty by burning out the wooden window sash."

Old Jasper Bram had gone into the house and Phil and Andy had ventured to cross his domain from the road. They were less than a hundred feet from the farmhouse when Bram came out of it. The old man was making for the stone shed and had quite reached it, when he started back with a wild yell of the most positive excitement and alarm.

Turning, he started a wild run—not into the house, nor near it, but squarely away from it—his face ashen and working with fear. His arms were thrown upwards in a sort of a desperate terror and his breath came in quick gasps. Thus, running, he nearly collided with Phil and Andy. He did not seem to recognize them, but shouted out.

"Run—run for your lives! It's doom, it's death—blown—to—a—thousand pieces!"

The boys just caught the echo of his disjointed sentences. Bram never halted nor looked to see if they were following him. He acted like a person bereft of his reason. Over a rise in the landscape he dashed and disappeared.

"Well, this is sensational enough," exclaimed Andy. "Now, what does it all mean?"

"It means one thing we must see to," declared Phil, hurrying towards the stone shed. "That boy in there has started quite a blaze. He must be about choked with the smoke. We must get him out of there."

"To bolt again—to leave us in a more puzzling fix than ever?" demanded Andy. "No sir-ree! Let him out if you like, but not until I am right behind you, ready to grab the slippery fellow before he plays us another jumping-jack trick."

"Hey!" shouted Phil, halting in front of the burning window frame.

A human face wavered for a moment in the wreaths of smoke clouding the aperture.

"Let me out!" shouted a voice in muffled tones. "Let me out, quick!"

Phil went around to the single door of the shed. It was stoutly secured by a hasp and padlock. Phil picked up a big stone and smashed the padlock. Then he pulled open the door.

"Come out, quick!" he cried.

Andy had placed his gun against an old box. With his arms outspread he posed to seize the refugee when he should appear. There was no necessity for haste or violence, however, for with the opening of the door a great cloud of smoke floated out, enveloping a form which struggled past it—the mysterious boy. He was staggering and gasping and rubbing his smoke-blinded eyes.

"Thanks," he said, rather faintly. "I'll never try that again—thanks."

The speaker tottered against the outside wall of the shed for support and leaned there weakly, getting back his breath and his wits. Then suddenly he straightened up and peered towards the house and all around it in a scared sort of way.

"I—I must get away from here, and—thanks," he spoke for the third time in a strained and embarrassed tone of voice.

"Hold on," ordered Andy, firmly planting himself in front the refugee and seizing his arm.

The lad shrank and turned a white pallor. Phil, studying him, saw the old hunted, desperate expression he had noted on two previous occasions come back into the wan, starved-looking face.

"What do you want of me?" the unknown lad asked of Andy.

"What do we want?" repeated Andy, purposely blustering. "That's a fine question to ask after all the bother and mystery you've made for us. We want to know a lot, and you've got to tell it."

"Easy, Andy, gently now," directed Phil. Then, turning kindly and courteously to the refugee, he said:

"We first want to give you a good meal—you look as if you needed it."

The boy's face, for a moment lightened by Phil's gracious words, grew sad again and he spoke with a dry, choking little laugh.

"I'm hungry enough," he said, but casting the old scared glance all about him added hastily: "I can't stay around here! Not a moment—not a single moment! Don't stop me."

"You can't go!" shouted Andy, catching and imprisoning both of the boy's arms from behind, and thus struggling with him. "You're up to something mysterious. These are times when every loyal Concord boy must watch out for fellows like you—a Tory."

At that the refugee ceased struggling. He allowed himself to remain limply in Andy's grasp, but he fixed an earnest, pleading look on Phil.

"Do you believe that?" he inquired. "But of course you do, for you called me a Tory yourself a little while ago."

"Don't I have reason to?" asked Phil bluntly. "I saw you in Boston working for the British soldiers."

"Yes, you did," admitted the captive.

"Then, how can you explain?"

The boy cast his eyes down, but it was quite apparent, not in shame. He seemed thinking. Then with an uneasy start he glanced all around the place and acted as if he would run for it on the slightest provocation.

Thinking better of it, he faced Phil in a frank, manly fashion.

"See here," he said, "you are doing wrong in keeping me here—more wrong than you dream of. You shouldn't make me tell you what you really have no business to know, but, if you are true blue, and I know you must be, I'll tell you something. Let go of my arms—I won't run. Now then, if I prove to you that I am not a Tory, do I go free?"

"Yes," said Andy promptly, and Phil gave a nod of assent.

"All right," said the refugee, as Andy freed his arms. He groped one hand inside of his jacket and beyond it. He drew out an oilskin package, opened it, and took from it a folded sheet of paper.

"Read it," he said, almost solemnly, "and when you have read—forget."

Andy stared eagerly at the open sheet of paper displayed. Phil, more puzzled and curious than ever, ran his eyes over the open page. It read:

"Great guns!" vociferated Andy, and Phil drew back, gazing at the refugee now with a look of admiration and respect.

For the passport,—or whatever it might be called, but at all events official and convincing,—bore a signature that was the watchword of obedience and fidelity for every member of the Musket Boys of Old Boston, wherever he might be.

The paper was signed: