The Young Continentals at Lexington

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.”

“For you!” said the astonished Nat.

“Of course, for me,” replied the dwarf, coolly. “You’re a stranger here. How’ll you find the lower ferry unless I show you?”

At this Nat burst into a laugh.

“Right!” said he, cheerily. “How would I, to be sure? So get down and hold the gray and I’ll saddle the chestnut for you in a moment.”

The Porcupine slid himself along the rafter dexterously until he reached the wall where there was a ladder leading to the loft. Down this he swung easily; and Nat watching him for the first time noted the great length of his arms and the size of his hands.

In a space the chestnut was beside the other horse, champing its bit in a dissatisfied sort of way. The dwarf, who scarcely came to the shoulder of the tall gray, held it by the rein and watched Nat’s accustomed fingers approvingly as they flew from buckle to buckle.

“So,” said the young mountaineer, as he worked, “you are for Congress and against the king, are you?”

“No,” replied the Porcupine, “I’m only against Neighbor Dimisdale.”

“And why against him?” asked Nat.

“Once there was a great robbing of hen-roosts; they could not find out who was doing it, so Master Dimisdale settled upon me and wanted me sent to the workhouse. He said I was a vagrant and a danger to the town.”

“You don’t look very dangerous,” spoke Nat.

The dwarf grinned impishly.

“You don’t know me yet,” he replied. “But,” returning to his grievance, “Master Dimisdale is a hard man. Even after I had caught the real thief, he did his best against me.”

“And who was the real thief?” asked Nat, surprisedly.

“A clever old mink,” grinned the Porcupine. “I told them so from the first—but no one would listen to me but Ben Collins. He loaned me a trap and gave me a chance to prove what I said.”

Nat put his hand upon the dwarf’s shoulder and looked thoughtfully down into his face.

“Do you understand the nature of the errand upon which those men rode away a while ago?” asked he.

The big head nodded; a shrewd look came into the small, round eyes.

“Yes,” said the Porcupine.

“And you will help me prevent their carrying it out?”

“I’m against anything that Neighbor Dimisdale is for,” answered the Porcupine promptly.

Without another word Nat led the two horses out of the barn.

“Quick, now!” he said, in a low voice.

With a single heave he tossed the small body lightly into the saddle.

The Porcupine clutched the chestnut with his short legs and grasped the reins with a practiced hand.

“Good,” said Nat, to himself. “He knows what he’s about at all events.”

His own foot was in the stirrup when a light suddenly flared in his face.

“Now then, my friend,” said a cold voice, “give an account of yourself.”

For a moment Nat’s eyes were dazzled; then he made out the countenance of the speaker and that of the person who had so suddenly unmasked the lantern. They were the two who had come to the door of Chew House but a short time before, attracted by the barking of the dog. There was a superior smile on the face of the master and a derisive grin upon that of the man, as they noted the boy’s astonishment.

“Your suspicions were correct, Henry,” said the former, and Nat saw that he held a large pistol ready in his hand. “And I thank you for insisting, so to speak, upon a search.”

Nat recalled the sound of the door opening and closing while he gazed through the window of the barn, and realized that it was then that they had emerged. Seeing that he was caught he resolved to put a bold face upon the matter and watch for any opportunity that might present itself.

“I’m sincerely sorry to have disturbed you, sir,” said he, politely.

“I can see that,” returned the other. “And you were so anxious not to do so that you were upon the point of borrowing my horses to carry you out of ear-shot.”

Nat smiled at the quiet mockery of this. He was about to speak, but the man servant was before him.

“The lower ferry would be well out of ear-shot,” remarked he with a laugh.

“Hold your lantern up, Henry,” commanded the master; the man complied and the rays fell upon Nat’s face once more. “You hold your countenance well, my lad,” continued the speaker, after a pause. “But it will not serve you. We overheard your conversation with this little villain,” nodding smilingly toward the Porcupine, who had during all this time remained silently perched upon his tall steed. “And I think I’m safe in saying that you’ll carry no warning to the rebels to-night.”

Nat made no reply. Through his mind ran thoughts of a dark, lonely road, of a quiet party riding forward toward the city, of a swift rush and capture, of a staggering blow dealt the cause of the protesting colonies.

For a moment the man with the pistol watched Nat’s face, then he turned with a careless laugh.

“Now the rope, Henry,” said he. “I’ll hold the light while you truss them up comfortably.”

But that moment of carelessness cost him the success of his plan. The instant he turned, Nat sprang upon him, wrested the pistol from his clutch and felled him with its heavy butt. With a squeal of excitement the Porcupine drove his heels into the chestnut and rode down the man servant, the lantern being extinguished in his fall. Like a flash Nat was upon the back of the gray, which was snorting with fright, then with the dwarf at his side he went leaping away into the darkness, the horses’ heads pointed toward the dim glow that overhung the city.