"'Oh, that men should put into their mouths an enemy to steal away their brains!'" misquoted Tom, who thought it proper that he should speak piously in the presence of the minister.

"It is fortunate for us if they have done so, in this case," said the clergyman, with a smile. A moment later he sighed pensively. "My congregation will be disappointed this morning. I was expected to arrive home last night and to preach to-day. I have my sermon in my pocket."

"What is the text, sir, if I may be so bold?" asked Tom.

"Leviticus, sixth chapter, fourth verse: 'Then it shall be, because he hath sinned, and is guilty, that he shall restore that which he took violently away.'"

"By the powers," cried Tom, forgetting himself, "ye're like to get more results putting that text into action the morning than by holding forth on it frae your ain pulpit!"

Under the pastor's guidance, the party turned presently from the road into the pine forest, through which their horses passed freely by reason of the complete absence of undergrowth. MacAlister and Dick had left their baggage at Freehold, and Mr. McKnight's was so light as to encumber him little. Dick and Tom had their rifles, while the minister carried Tom's pistol. They proceeded in silence some miles, now and then emerging on clear places, skirting swamps, and advancing over ground that became more and more sandy. At last, in the midst of woods, the minister held his finger to his lips, and all three stopped. From a distance came the sound of a coarse voice singing in maudlin tones a tuneless song. The three dismounted, tied their horses to trees, and walked cautiously forward in single file, Mr. McKnight leading. A low, one-story log building came into view among the trees. At one end of it, under a shed roof, stood four horses and a wagon. The bawling of the song came through a small, unglazed window, of which the oiled paper was torn.

"They take their pleasure in security now," whispered the minister, halting a moment, "because the officers of justice will not break the Sabbath to attack them. On other days they would not be so unguarded. I will look through the window, and see how the land lies; then we shall decide what to do."

He led the way to the groggery and applied his eye to a slit in the oiled paper, while Dick and Tom stood on either side. In a moment, the preacher crouched down beneath the window, and, motioning Tom and Dick to do likewise, whispered:

"There has evidently been a fight. Fagan and another are lying on the floor with their heads bound in bloody rags. Another is lying near them, dead drunk, as his position shows. Jonathan West is sitting on the floor, also drunk; it is he who is singing. Fenton and Burke are playing cards, Fenton's back towards the door, Burke facing it. The keeper of the place is lying asleep on the bar, and his wife is behind it paring potatoes. If we are speedy, two of us shall have only Fenton and Burke and the woman to deal with, while one goes through West's clothes in search of the miniature."

"Then let us go in at once," said Dick.

"Softly," quoth the minister; "let us all understand what each is to do. You, lad, perhaps should search West—"

"Nay," put in Tom; "trust me for that. I've plied my fingers on the battle-field, and can do the thing so quick I can tak' my ain fu' share of the fighting, too."

"You are right," said the pastor. "The door is unbarred. Let us all three burst in at once. You, lad, who look the strongest, deal with Fenton, the man sitting with his back to the door. Strike him down with the butt of your rifle, and be ready to shoot if he attempts to rise. I shall take care of the other card-player. You, Captain MacAlister, search Jonathan West for the portrait, and keep your eye on the woman behind the bar. If I am not mistaken, she will prove the worst foe of all."

At MacAlister's suggestion, he and Dick each looked through the slit to get a view of the chosen field of battle. Then the three stepped softly around to the door. Each grasped his weapon tightly, and the minister pushed the door open. All made a move to rush in,—but started back on being confronted by Fenton and Burke, who stood, each with pistol raised, doubtless put suddenly on their guard by the sound of footsteps.

Old Tom was the first to recover from surprise. He made a swift lunge at Burke, which caught that person in the neck, almost breaking it, and sent him flying back into the room. Tom leaped after him, and was followed by the minister. Fenton turned to shoot the latter with his pistol, and Dick availed himself of this movement to bring down his rifle-butt heavily on the rascal's unkempt head. Fenton did not fall, but, after staggering a moment, during which Dick reversed his weapon, turned to shoot the latter, uttering a savage curse the while; he thus opened his mouth wide, and Dick thrust the muzzle of the rifle therein, and forced Fenton rapidly backward into the groggery, to the very farthest corner thereof, pinning him therein with the rifle-muzzle in his mouth. "Drop the pistol, or I'll fire," cried Dick; and Fenton, perceiving his disadvantage, did so. Dick kicked the pistol towards the minister, who picked it up. The gentle McKnight had been raining blows on the head of Burke, who now succumbed and lay without protest, leaving the minister free to draw the woman's attention from Tom. She had run around the bar and threatened with her knife the deft-fingered MacAlister while the latter was going through West's clothes, an operation preceded by a quieting blow on the robber's skull from Tom's rifle-butt. Of the four prostrate men, the drunkest one slept on through the fray, the two gory-headed rascals opened their eyes and looked on with apathy, while the proprietor got down off the bar and looked around for some weapon with which to take a hand. At this moment Dick, who continued to hold the ferocious but speechless Fenton against the wall, felt something smooth slipped into his left hand, heard from Tom the words, "'Tis yours to guard, lad," saw at an instant's glance that it was the miniature portrait of a woman, and thrust it into his waistcoat pocket. The proprietor of the place had now picked up a fowling-piece from a corner and was aiming it at Dick. It was knocked up by MacAlister, who then fell on its holder and was in a fair way to beat out his brains, when the woman, having seen her spouse in danger, abandoned her contest with the minister, and bounded panther-like at Tom. She lodged the point of her knife in his cheek, and drew it out for a second blow, whereupon the minister, putting a pistol in each of his coat-pockets, ran up behind her, caught her by the long hair, and dragged her out of the house. He did not stop until she was on her back on the ground. Before she could rise, Tom had sent her husband reeling with a final blow, and had come to aid the minister, knowing that the latter had more than a match in the woman. Tom placed his feet on her hair, which was lying about her head, and, digging his heels into the sandy earth, put the muzzle of his rifle against her forehead, and told her it was his custom, as a soldier, to make short work of cutthroat she-devils of camp-following buzzards. So she lay still, glaring and panting. Mr. McKnight reëntered the groggery, aimed both his pistols at Fenton, and told Dick to release that worthy and back out of the place with rifle kept ready to shoot. Dick obeyed, and backed out side by side with the minister. A minute later, the three thief-hunters were running for their horses. They mounted, and made their way back to the place where they had turned into the pines from the road.

"And won't ye stand in danger of retaliation from the devils?" queried MacAlister, as Mr. McKnight turned to take leave.

"I think they were so drunk, and the thing was so quickly done, they did not know me from a stranger like yourselves. They would not suspect a minister of such work on a Sabbath day."

"Begorra, if more such work was done by ministers on Sabbath days, more of the wicked would get punishment in this world! By the Lord, 'twas a fine illustration ye gave of the penalties that follow wrong-doing, and none the waur for that ye thumped a rascal's head instead of the pulpit, and made the way of the transgressor hard instead of merely saying it was."

"That's the grandest minister I ever saw, and the only sermon I never went to sleep at," said MacAlister to Dick, as the two rode back towards Freehold, Mr. McKnight having taken his way towards Shrewsbury after a friendly farewell and a tender of his compliments to the young lady to whom Dick was to restore the miniature.

That night they slept at the village where they had hired their horses. They had to lose another day in waiting till the stage-coach came along, and so it was Tuesday morning when they found themselves again on a "Flying Machine" bound for New York. This time MacAlister's face was tied up in cloths, the wound in his cheek being not serious, but vastly inconvenient for the time being. "Another war-scar, bedad!" quoth he. "A mark of the battle of Shrewsbury Pines."

The greater part of the journey was dampened by a series of April showers, but when they arrived at Paulus Hook and descended from the coach, the sun reappeared for a brief display before setting. As they crossed in the ferry to New York, that English-Dutch-Huguenot seaport town, in the midst of its hills and trees, seemed to smile upon them. Looking out towards the bay, with its backing of green heights, Dick got his first hint of the ocean beyond, and was deeply stirred thereat. In those days a beach ran at the foot of bluffs that were crowned by gardens and other grounds behind the spacious residences on the west side of Broadway. There was no commerce along the North River, all the Dutch Hudson sloops and the New Jersey boats rounding the point to make landing in the East River. Dick's gaze, coming in from the bay, past the green islands, close at hand, rested successively on the fort whose walls rose from sloping green banks, the governor's garden, the water ends of crooked streets, the little forest of masts in the East River, the tiny village of Brooklyn nestling at the foot of the heights on Long Island, and finally on the ferry landing-place, on which he and Tom presently set foot. On the recommendation of a fellow passenger on the ferry, they took lodgings in a small tavern near the Whitehall slip. During supper Dick was absent-minded and perturbed. He was all afire to return the miniature to Miss de St. Valier. Tom advised him to wait till the next day, as it was now quite late. But Dick was fearful the Canadian party might depart before he could see them. Moreover, the prospect of again beholding the entrancing Catherine and receiving thanks from her own lips, although a delicious one, was also disquieting, and Dick was anxious to face the interview at the earliest possible moment. He therefore put himself and his clothes into the best possible appearance, and, while Tom sought the Coffee House, found the way to the boarding-house in Queen Street at which Gerard de St. Valier had told him the party would stay. At the door, where he inquired with much concealed trepidation, a black servant told him the Canadians had left. His heart sank, but rose again a moment later, when the mistress of the house, Mrs. Carroll, having overheard, told him the St. Valiers and Lieutenant Blagdon had gone to the King's Arms Tavern for their last night in New York, intending to take sloop the next morning for Albany. It was now dark, the street lamps having been lighted for some time, and Dick decided that, after all, the morning would be the more suitable time for approaching the Canadians. Being very tired and desiring to rise early, he went to bed, and dreamt of the eyes of Miss de St. Valier.

The next morning he made a hasty breakfast, and was already on the way to the King's Arms when it occurred to him that he might make himself ridiculous by intruding on the peerless Catherine too early. He therefore walked about the town awhile, viewing the markets near the East River; then going up Broad Street from the Exchange to the City Hall of that day; then admiring the marble image of William Pitt in a Roman toga, at Wall and William Streets; the great dry goods shops in William Street, up to Maiden Lane; the fine broad red and yellow brick residences, some with many windows, double-pitched and tile-covered roofs, balustrades and gardens, in William Street, Queen Street, Hanover Square, and elsewhere: finally crossing to the Broadway, and beholding the leaden statue of King George, in the Bowling Green or parade-ground before the fort. At last he entered the King's Arms, which was next but one to the fine Kennedy house at the foot of the west side of Broadway, both facing the Bowling Green and fort. In the public room he saw Tom, who sat reading the New York Gazette, and who now merely winked at him, being of no mind to figure with him in the restoration of the portrait. Dick put on a bold face and asked the man in charge to announce him to Mr. and Miss de St. Valier.

"And, pray, what do you desire of them?" queried an insolent voice at Dick's elbow. He looked around and encountered Lieutenant Blagdon, who stood eyeing him with a manifest resentment that betrayed an uneasy divination of Dick's purpose.

Dick was on the point of answering hotly, but contented himself with a defiant look and the quiet reply:

"I wish to restore the portrait of which Miss de St. Valier was robbed while in your company last Saturday."

Blagdon's wrath was now mingled with chagrin, at the confirmation of his fear that another had accomplished for the lady the task he had not offered to undertake. After a moment's pause, controlling his expression, he said:

"Miss de St. Valier and her brother left New York yesterday. As I sail after them on the next Albany sloop, you can give me the portrait. I'll carry it to them."

Dick looked the other in the face for a moment in surprise, then said, with a contempt as genuine as the lieutenant's was affected:

"You lie, you know they are still here."

"What!" gasped Blagdon, and turned to an Irish officer in whose company he was,—for there were still a few British troops in New York, the last of them not leaving the barracks in Chambers Street for Boston until June 6th. "By God, did you hear that?" And with great fury, Blagdon, who was himself unarmed, grasped the other officer's sword, drew it from the sheath, and would have thrust it into Dick's breast, had not the Pennsylvanian quickly leaped aside. Furious in turn, at so sudden and violent an onslaught, Dick caught the sword with both hands near the guard, wrenched it from Blagdon, and struck the latter heavily on the head with the hilt. The lieutenant fell, leaving a curse unfinished, and lay quite motionless on the floor.

After a moment, during which every one in the room stood startled, the Irish officer stooped over Blagdon, felt his head and chest, and said, looking up:

"He's done for! The blow has killed him!"

Dick heard a whisper in his ear, "Run for your life, lad!" and felt himself pushed aside by old Tom, who gave no sign of knowing him, and the seeming purpose of whose violent movement was to get a look at the prostrate man.

Mechanically, as in a dream, Dick took the hint and sped out of the tavern. As he issued forth, a picture of the Bowling Green with its statue and locust-trees, the green and gray fort and the one linden and two apple-trees that stood on the city side thereof, was imprinted lastingly on his memory, heedless as he was of it at the time. Still holding the officer's sword, and with no course determined on, he ran up the Broadway. He had not gone far, when he heard a shout behind him, doubtless from some witness of the blow, "Murder! Murder! Stop that man!" On he went, while the hue and cry gathered behind him. Up the roughly paved Broadway, steering wide alike of the house-stoops at the side and the gutter in the middle, he ran. Once, as he neared Trinity Church, he glanced back. The pursuing crowd behind him now looked a multitude, and at its head, crying "Stop that man!" louder than any other, but giving him a quick gesture to hasten on, was Tom MacAlister.

CHAPTER V.

FROM BROADWAY TO BUNKER HILL.

Despite the circumstances, Dick had a brief feeling of mirth at the ludicrous appearance of his comrade, who led the chase with such well-simulated zeal and a face still circumscribed by the white cloth used to keep in place the bandage on his cheek. Determined to resist capture to the last, now that he had adopted the course of flight, Dick plunged forward and on past Trinity Church. Broadway was not then a business street, and the few people whom Dick passed or who emerged from the residences or cross streets did not know what was the matter until it was too late to head him off, so great a start he had of his pursuers. Before he had reached St. Paul's Church, he looked back again, whereupon Tom, with his hand before his body so that the pursuers behind him could not see it, motioned to turn off into the next cross street. Dick obeyed, and was thus for a time lost to the sight of the party in chase. Presently the loud voice of Tom showed that he, too, had deviated into the cross street. Dick turned his head and saw that Tom was the only one who had yet done so. MacAlister now violently gesticulated to the effect that Dick should turn into some yard or other hiding-place. Dick immediately ran through the open gateway of what proved to be a yard used as a repository for tan. He took refuge behind a high pile of this article, and sank to the ground, breathless and half-exhausted. There was no one else in the tan-yard. As he lay panting, he heard Tom stride by, still hoarsely bawling, "Stop that man!" The direction taken by the voice indicated that its owner had turned from this street into another, and soon the sound of the crowd running by was evidence that they had seen Tom make this last turn and had supposed he was still on the trail of the hunted man. Their voices and footsteps died out presently, and Dick was left to ponder on the situation.

He dared not venture out of the yard, lest he be seen by one of those who had engaged in the chase. He knew that Tom, having led the hue and cry on a false track, would at the proper time come back for him. Therefore he could only wait. Meanwhile, as he was led to consider by the approaching voices of some boys at play, what if he should be discovered in the tan-yard? Swiftly choosing the remotest and highest pile of tan, he crouched behind it, hastily scooped out a hole with both hands, backed into this extemporized burrow, laid Blagdon's sword beside him, and then, with his hollowed palms, drew in after him sufficient of the previously removed tan to conceal himself from any but the most minute observer. Thus buried in the tan, with barely enough space open about his head to admit a little dim light and a small quantity of dusty air, he made himself as comfortable as might be. By and by his ears told him that the small boys had entered the tan-yard; then that they were having a sham battle, playing that the tan-pile next his own was Ticonderoga. History was soon reversed, and the English drove the French from Ticonderoga, whereupon the French properly fell back to Quebec, which was no other place than the tan-pile in which Dick lay entombed. He felt the tan shift above him, and saw it slide down before him and cut off more of his meagre supply of light and air, while the shouts of Quebec's defenders came to him from overhead. Finally the English charged Quebec and tumbled the French back from the heights, an operation that resulted in Dick's having a series of heavy weights alight on his head, a foot thrust into his eye, his opening entirely closed up, and himself almost choked. Regardless of consequences, he thrust his head out through the tan, and saw, to his unexpected joy, that the last small warrior was scurrying away from behind Quebec. After awhile the boys left the tan-yard, and Dick found some relief in a change of position, though he did not emerge from his cave. Now and then, as the day advanced, he could hear steps and voices of people passing the tan-yard, and would lie close in fear that some of them would turn in. He amused himself by imagining what would follow should the tan in which he lay be loaded on some cart or wagon. So passed an interminable day, beautiful outside with New York's incomparable sunshine, but to Dick an age of numbness and pain, due to his long retention of each cramped position he assumed; of hunger and thirst, of alarms and conjectures, and of frequent thoughts of the man he had felled, thoughts which he invariably put from him in his horror of regarding himself as a slayer. At nightfall he came out of his hole, but remained behind the tan-pile, listening for a familiar step. At last it came, cautious but unmistakable. Dick rose, saw a gaunt form in the gateway, and bounded towards him.

"Whist, lad!" said Tom, grasping Dick's offered hand. "Sure ye sprung up like a ghaist. The coast is clear now, though eyes will be kept open for ye in the city and about, for mony a day to come. Let us sit down and wait a minute or two, till it do be just a wee bit darker. 'Twas a grand chase I led them, mon, was it not, now?"

"'Twas the best trick I ever saw played. But where did you pass the day?"

"Why," said Tom, as he sat on a tan-pile, "that's just it. If ony of them had caught up wi' me, 'twould have come out sure what joke I'd played them, for, ye see, they'd 'a' found out I was crying 'Stop' at naething at all. So, for your ain skin's sake, I had to keep well ahead until I had got out of the town, and then lose myself frae the ither shouting devils, which I did by turning into the woods at a bend of the road."

"You had the devil's own endurance to outrun them all," put in Dick.

"Why, ye see, when I got near blowed, I found ither legs than my ain to help me out. In front of a tavern, ayont yonder, a horse was whinneying as I came up. All I had to do was to jerk the knot of his halter and jump on, and who could say me nay when it was chasing a law-breaker I was, in the interests of justice? And that's how I got away frae the chasing mob. What was there to do but spend the day in the woods, safe out of sight and ken of man? For, d'ye mind, if I had come back into the town, and gone to the tavern for my clothes, why, seeing that news and descriptions must have been all about by then, as word of mouth goes nowadays, I'd have been held for complicity in your escape, and then who'd have come to let you out of your ain hole,—for I ken you maun hae lodged in one of them tan-piles the day. Nay, nay, lad, never thrust yourself in the way of forcible detention; that's a rule of mine! We'll let our shirts and blankets and guns rot in the tavern, and gang on our way rejoicing."

"But Blagdon,—do you think he is dead?"

"Devil a bit! He'll have come to before they were done chasing his murderer, and the time he'll spend nursing a bloody head will enable him to reflect on his sins. But, for a' that, we'll be ganging our way, for murderous assault is nane sic a pleasant charge to face, however innocent ye be, when the other side has money and great friends and ye're a penniless stranger. Besides that, this Blagdon will have the backing of the soldiery and the lieutenant-governor, and the tavern people will naturally swear to onything on his side, even to attempted robbery or the like. Come, Dickie boy, that sword ye retain, as your proper spoils of war, is worth in money all we leave behind at the tavern."

The two friends went from the tan-yard and by obscure streets to the Bowery lane, and followed that till it became the Boston highroad, along which they then proceeded northward through the country. When they had passed a few suburban mansions, some fields and swamps and wooded hills, Tom said, "Whist a bit!" and turned aside into a little copse. In a moment he emerged, leading a large horse.

"This will save expense of transportation, lad," said he, as he came into the road; "and moreover 'twill further compensate us for the loss of our guns and baggage. Bedad, 'twas a lucky blow ye struck that there lieutenant, to make me lead a chase in front of the tavern where the good horse here called my attention by a loving whinney."

"What?" cried Dick. "You don't mean to say you are going to keep the horse you found at the tavern!"

"And wha better should keep him? Do ye see what horse it is? Lad, there's the hand of Providence in all this! Sure, your eyes ain't used to starlight if ye couldn't make out auld Robin at the first glance."

Dick stood in joyful amazement. The horse was indeed the one that had disappeared beneath the self-styled merchants with whom Dick and Tom had agreed to ride and tie, on the road to Lancaster. The comrades now went on in the darkness, taking turns at riding, but keeping together and holding the horse to a slow pace. Dick felt in his pocket the miniature whose restoration he had failed to effect. When, now, might he hope to place it in the hands of the charming Canadian girl? He put the question, but in other words, to his companion, as they rode by the dark Murray mansion and began to descend towards Turtle Creek.

"If there is war," he added, "there's little chance of my getting to Quebec for many a day to come."

"Don't presume to read the future, lad!" said MacAlister. "Wha kens what turn of the wind of circumstance may blaw ye to Quebec? The older ye grow in the ways of this precarious world, the less ye'll pretend to say what to-morrow will bring forth. 'He started east and he landed west,' as the auld song says."

It was near dawn when they passed the Blue Bell Tavern, but, hungry and tired as both were, Tom advised that there be no stopping till they should have left the island of Manhattan behind. "When ye're an auld hand at the business of this warld," said he, "ye'll no tak' ae chance in a hundred, of trusting yersel', e'en for the time being, in the arms of justice. Law and justice, my son, are fearfu' things for an honest man to have aught to do wi'. I'd rather trust my case to the decision of auld Nick himsel', putting it to him in my ain way, man to man, and perhaps over a good glass of spirits or two, than to ae judge or jury in Christendom."

Giving Hyatt's Tavern also the go-by, they crossed the Harlem by the Farmers' Bridge and continued on the Boston post-road; presently took the left, where the road forked, and so arrived betimes at East Chester, which stood invitingly in its pleasant valley, its church tower and belfry rising among the locust-trees. At the tavern there Tom casually threw off a brief story to account for having ridden all night, and the two speedily possessed themselves of a stiff drink, a hot breakfast, and a clean bed. In the afternoon, being anxious to get out of the province of New York, lest some extraordinary effort might be made to detain them, they again took horse, passed through the Huguenot village of New Rochelle, stopped later at Mamaroneck to rest the horse, crossed the Byram River to Connecticut at evening, and put up, before night was well advanced, at Stamford, which wound irregularly along an undulating and stony road. When they took the road for Norwalk the next morning, they were thoroughly refreshed, and Dick, having got all the tan-dust out of his ears, nostrils, and pores, was able to enjoy fully the beauty of Long Island Sound where it was visible beyond the coves that here and there indented to the road. That day and the next two days were uneventful. Between Norwalk and Fairfield they met a courier from the Massachusetts Committee of Safety to the Continental Congress. He tarried no longer than to tell them the New England army was increasing daily and holding the King's troops tight in Boston. At Stratford and Milford the tavern talk was all of the war; of how the Connecticut troops already started would acquit themselves, and how many more would be needed; how this village farmer or that would behave when faced by a British grenadier; of what steps the Continental Congress would take, what dark plots the Tories might be weaving in New York, and what might occur should the British war-vessels bombard the coast towns.

In New Haven, which they entered on a bright, sunny forenoon, a newly formed company was awkwardly drilling on the green, in sight of the churches and the college building. While the horse rested, Dick got into conversation with a young gentleman who stood watching the crude man[oe]uvres. Learning that he was Mr. Timothy Dwight, a tutor at the college, Dick obtained the favor of a view of the college library, and had the delightful sensation of handling copies of Newton's works and Sir Richard Steele's, presented by those authors themselves. The scenes of military preparation witnessed here and at Brentford increased Dick's eagerness to be at the scene of action. Riding on Sunday through Seabrooke and to New London, he and Tom had difficulty, by reason of the strict observance of the day, in obtaining tavern accommodations. But, as Tom remarked, the rule of not letting the left hand know what the right one does may work both ways and concern the receiving as well as the giving of money, and their coin at last found takers. At New London, where the New York and Boston stage-coach was resting over Sunday, they learned from its passengers that both the British and the provincials had barriers on Boston Neck, that the provincials barred Charlestown Neck as well, and that no one could come out of Boston without a pass from General Gage, while the American army allowed no one to enter Boston without a permit. The Connecticut Gazette was full of war tidings. All these signs of the times made Dick glow with delightful anticipation. The two comrades crossed the Thames, by ferry, to Groton, the next morning, and in the forenoon they passed by fair green slopes and blossoming orchards to the village of Stonington, which lay drowsily on a point of land that jutted out into a beautifully surrounded bay.

While they drank a pot of ale together at the tavern, they left the horse Robin tied by the trough in the roadway, where he was viewed with some admiration by two or three villagers and a well-dressed gentleman who appeared to be a stranger in the place. Drinking rum and water, near MacAlister and Dick, sat a sea-captain, who, after overhearing a part of their talk, asked them why, inasmuch as they were in haste to reach Cambridge, they did not take passage on his schooner, which was about to sail that afternoon and would land at some port near Boston within the territory under the provincials' control. Not waiting for their answer, he asked them to drink with him, toasted the Continental Congress so heartily, damned the King and Parliament so valiantly, and proved so stout a patriot and jolly companion, that Dick, allured also by the prospect of a sea-voyage, soon declared that for his part he would prefer going by the schooner, and Tom offered no objection. When the bargain had been made, a mild, pale-eyed old farmer came in, called Tom and Dick aside, and asked if they would sell him their horse, or trade it for another, as he was in need of just such an animal for his farm work. He made so good an offer that Tom, foreseeing little use for the horse on his joining the army, consented after very little haggling; whereupon the farmer went home to get the coin from his strong-box.

"Whist!" said Tom to Dick, with sparkling eyes and a grim smile. "'Tis the intervention of Providence again. No sooner do we plan to go by sea than this honest farmer offers to take our horse off our hands, and names a price I'd nae be sic a fool to ask, mysel'. 'Tis a sin and shame to profit by sic innocence!"

They rejoined the sea-captain, whose convivial society made time so rapid that the farmer was soon back with the money, which he emptied from a stocking to the table. Tom rattled each piece and found it good, then went out and untied the horse and placed the halter in the farmer's hands,—saddle and bridle having gone into the bargain. Tom then returned to the tavern, where he and Dick had dinner with the sea-captain. When, after dinner, all three set forth to go aboard the schooner, they saw the horse Robin being ridden up and down the road by the well-dressed strange gentleman, who was apparently trying the animal. The sea-captain saluted the rider as an acquaintance and asked him when he was going back to Providence. In the short conversation that ensued, it came out that the gentleman had just bought the horse from the farmer who had owned him. "When I came here this morning, I had no intention of buying a horse, though I really needed one," the gentleman added. "I saw this beast in front of the tavern yonder, and said to the farmer, who I didn't then know was the owner, that I would give so much for it. I went about my business then, and when I got back, there was the owner, offering me the horse at the price I had named."

"Begging your pardon," queried Tom MacAlister, with a queer look, "might I inquire without offence what that price was?"

"Certainly," replied the Providence gentleman, and he mentioned an amount once and a half as large as that for which the innocent farmer had bought the horse from Tom.

Dick looked up at the sky, while MacAlister heaved a deep sigh, shook his head dismally, and walked towards the schooner.

It was already laden, and the crew were busy with ropes and sails, under the direction of the mate. The gentle lap of the waves, the creak of the timbers, the straining of the ropes, and the flapping of canvas, had their due effect on Dick in the lazy, sunny afternoon. When they had cast off, and the little wharf and still town and green slopes swiftly receded, while the creaking schooner sped under a light wind towards the open ocean, Dick felt as in a kind of joyous dream. When that green cape, the "Watch Hill" of the Indians, in fact and name, had been some time passed, the wind changed both in quarter and force, and the mate opined possible sudden bad weather from the east. Dick felt inward threats of seasickness, but repressed them. Tom, the piper's son, showed no sign of the slightest qualm. At nightfall, having feasted his stomach with fresh-caught codfish, for he had promptly taken on a sea appetite, and his eyes on the far-reaching billows, Dick retired with Tom to a bunk beneath the hatches, and soon slept. When he awoke, he was in pitchy darkness.

"Whist!" said a voice in his ear. "What do ye think, lad? For why did I pinch ye then? Because, sticking my head out the hatchway for a taste of air, I heard the rascal captain prattling with the scoundrel mate. This vessel's bound straight for Boston, lad, and their cursed intention is to hand us ower to General Gage for a pair of treasonable rebels! How d'ye like that, now?"

"Let's scuttle his damned vessel first!" quoth Dick.

"Softly, Dickie boy! Aiblins it 'ull come to that, and aiblins we'll find ither means. Devil a bit let him know we've spied their dirty trick, mind! Providence is mostly our friend,—saving in the matter of horses."

So the two kept their own counsel. Going on deck at dawn, they found the captain so sharing the mate's fears of a bad blow,—that he had decided to put back to Block Island. MacAlister sent Dick the faintest hint of a wink. When the old harbor in the east side of that green rolling island whose Indian name was Manisses was made, MacAlister said he and his friend would like to go ashore to stretch their legs a bit. The captain, doubtless deeming it not yet wise to arouse their suspicions, called a fisherman's boat, which landed them from the schooner's place of anchorage. They walked up from the landing to some fishermen's shingle houses, well back from the beach, and speedily closed a bargain with a sea-browned islander to take them to the mainland in his smack.

The fisherman, allured by the large price offered, and having less to risk than the captain of the laden schooner, promptly embarked, under the astonished eyes of the anchored captain, whom Tom gravely saluted by placing thumb to nose and wiggling his fingers. The captain replied by vociferously hoping to God the gale would blow the two travellers to hell. The gale, however, continued to remain in abeyance, though the sky was filled with clouds and the sea had an unaccountable choppy look and feel. Tom, having questioned the fisherman regarding localities, now proposed that the latter should take them to Newport, and doubled his offer of pay. Induced by greed and by the confidence born of previous good luck in all weathers at sea, the islander consented, regardless of the capricious behavior of his sail and the sudden ominous quiverings of his boat. Yet the storm held off.

Making clever use of the wind when it was brisk, the skipper had his boat at evening off the precipitous southern coast of the island on which Newport lies. As he was about to tack, in order to round the point and so reach the town, which then occupied only a spot on the island's western side, the storm came, almost without a moment's warning, and bringing with it a pelting deluge of rain. Before the mariner could regain any kind of mastery of his little craft, it had been dashed close to the corrugated land. Dick and Tom escaped being thrown out of the boat only by grasping its timbers and holding on with all strength. The vessel was tossed about, for a time, like a cork. Once it seemed in the act of hurling itself into a gaping chasm which rent the rough sea-wall from the height of forty feet to unknown depths,—a cleft as wide as a man is tall, and cut back into the land a hundred and fifty feet. But the boat fell short of these grinning jaws and in another minute was far away from them.

From the time when the storm first broke upon them to the time when, by some strange freak of wind and sea, the smack was riding in a broad bay east of the threatening sea-wall,—a direction therefrom exactly opposite to that which the elements seemingly ought to have borne it,—no one aboard spoke a word. But now the skipper, whose nasal voice and distinct New England enunciation easily cut through the tumult of wind and water, briefly expressed his intention of letting the sea carry the boat straight towards the smooth beach ahead, there being one chance of safety therein. Tom and Dick awaited the issue with more of curiosity than of aught else, MacAlister looking exceedingly grim, as always in times of peril, and Dick, as always in similar times, wearing a kind of droll smile, as if the joke were on his courage for having got into such a plight. Before either's senses had caught up to the passing occurrence, there was a sudden tremendous shock underneath them, a grinding through some gritty yielding substance, a rolling away of the sea from the nearly overturned boat; and they found themselves high on the beach, out of reach of the next wave, that rushed angrily in as if to clutch them back again.

"'Twas the big brother did it," shouted the skipper, starting to draw his craft farther up on the beach, and motioning for the aid of the others.

"What's the big brother?" shouted Dick.

"The third wave. It be always the highest. We'll make the rest of the voyage to Newport in these here craft," and he pointed down to his boots.

They moved off through the rain accordingly, and, after a walk of a mile and a half, arrived at the town, then a busy seaport with a goodly commerce and a lively trade to the African coast. "For a cold wetting outside, a hot wetting inside," said Tom, heading for the first tavern sign; and the three rain-soaked voyagers promptly put his prescription to the test, taking it in the shape of a steaming punch of kill-devil, and looking the while through the tavern windows at the rain pouring down upon the wharves and the vessels safe in harbor.

Next day's weather deterred the two travellers from taking the sloop through Narragansett Bay for Providence, but they arrived at that town on the 18th, and lodged in a tavern in the street that ran at the hill's foot on the eastern side of the Cove, occupying a room that looked up towards the street crossing the hillside and towards the college on the summit beyond. Leaving Providence the next day, and going afoot with a newly recruited body of troops bound for the provincial camp outside Boston, they passed through Attleboro and other places where the signs of war's proximity were increasingly plentiful, lodged for the night at Walpole, and on the evening of May 20th reached the outskirts of the camp of Rhode Island troops at Jamaica Plain.

Dick thrilled as his eyes ranged over the field dotted with tents, and as they rested on the muskets and cannon,—for the Rhode Island men had a train of artillery, and were well equipped, though as yet an insubordinate lot. Wishing to be nearer the heart of affairs, Dick hastened on to Roxbury, followed by the unobjecting MacAlister, and there found several Massachusetts and Connecticut regiments quartered in tents, log and earth huts, barns, taverns, and private houses. So well did MacAlister know what steps to take, that on the following Monday the two were accepted as volunteers, and quartered with Maxwell's company in Prescott's regiment; were comfortably lodged in a dispossessed horse's stall, and had traded off Dick's Irish officer's sword for a fiddle, with two fowling-pieces thrown into the bargain.

On the previous day, Sunday, which was the day after that of the arrival of Dick and Tom, a vessel had taken some British troops to Grape Island, in Boston Harbor, to get the hay there stored. An alarm of bells and guns had brought out the people of Weymouth, Hingham, and other towns, and they had landed on the island with three companies sent by General Thomas from Roxbury, driven the British away, burnt the hay, and taken off a number of cattle. This un-Sabbath-like exploit was the talk of the camp on Monday, and Dick deplored his not having heard of it in time to have sought a part in it.

Captain Maxwell's men proved excellent hosts, and, though not on its rolls, Dick and Tom shared the company's service and experiences in every way. Colonel Prescott's regiment was soon ordered to Cambridge, where was stationed the centre of the New England army, consisting of fifteen Massachusetts and several Connecticut regiments, one of the latter being General Putnam's. Here were the headquarters of General Ward, the commander-in-chief, in a fine wooden residence near Harvard College, and here was Colonel Gridley, the chief engineer, with most of the artillery. Here were also most of the Yankees' fortifications, these being yet in process of construction, and consisting mainly of breastworks in Cambridge and on the road near the base of Prospect Hill. Further north and northeast was the army's left wing, consisting mainly of Colonels Stark's and Reed's New Hampshire regiments, and stationed at Medford, Chelsea, and near Charlestown Neck.

It was the lot of Dick and MacAlister, as participants in the fortunes of Maxwell's company, to occupy part of a log hut near Cambridge Common and in sight of the college, and to have no share in the enterprises of May 27th and 30th, in which American detachments went to Noddle's Island, near Chelsea, and drove off sheep, cattle, and horses, on the first occasion killing and wounding several British marines and capturing twelve swivels and four four-pounders from a British schooner. There was a skilful removal of sheep and cattle from Pettick's Island also, on May 31st; and on the night of June 2d Major Greaton took from Deer Island eight hundred sheep and a lot of cattle, and captured a man-of-war's barge and four or five prisoners. Dick pined and chafed that circumstance kept him out of all these interesting proceedings, but Tom the Fiddler (a name promptly bestowed on him by Prescott's men) consoled him with many a "Whist, man, bide a wee; there'll be bigger business a-brewing!"

So Dick bided, with eager anticipations, although, in his inexperience, heeding the grumbling of others, he thought the conviviality between certain American and British officers on the man-of-war Lively, on the occasion of an exchange of prisoners, June 6th, did not look much like war. He was better pleased at the derision with which the raw troops received General Gage's proclamation of June 12th, which somehow promptly found its way into camp. In that document the British commander pronounced those in arms and their abettors to be rebels and traitors, and offered pardon to such as should lay down their arms, excepting Samuel Adams and John Hancock. Continually there came exciting rumors that the British intended to sally out of Boston to attack their besiegers. But Dick did not know what the American commanders knew, on June 13th,—that General Gage intended to take possession of Dorchester Heights on the 18th; hence it was with surprise and a keen thrill that, on Friday evening, the 16th, he obeyed the order to fall in, and marched beside MacAlister with the company to Cambridge Common.

There he found that Maxwell's men were part of a detachment which included other companies of Prescott's regiment, a part of Bridge's, a part of Frye's, and a number of Connecticut troops under Captain Knowlton, of Putnam's regiment. There was also some artillery, with Colonel Gridley himself. And there stood the tall, powerful figure of Colonel Prescott, wearing a long blue coat, his strong, stern face shaded by the slightly turned up brim of a great round hat. The air was charged with expectation, with a sense of great events at hand. The force paraded on the Common, and then stood with heads bared and hands resting on the guns, while a venerable-looking gentleman, whom a whispering comrade named to Dick as President Langdon of Harvard College, raised his hand heavenward and uttered a tremulous prayer for the aid of the Lord of Hosts. There was a period of waiting, during which the colonel consulted quietly with Gridley and the other officers, while the suppressed excitement of the men made some appear moody and abstracted, some nervous and sharp in their whispered speeches, others extraordinarily calm in tone, others oddly jocular. Dick was one of the last, in mood and countenance, but was so filled with emotion that he dared not trust himself to speak. Tom was placidly grim and patient, keeping his wits about him and exhibiting no change in tone or manner. The fallen darkness gave the human figures, the distant trees and scattered houses, the rolling landscape, a mysterious look. At last, at nine o'clock, in low, quick tone, the order was given to march.

First went two sergeants, carrying dark lanterns; then strode Colonel Prescott, at the head of the detachment. Behind the infantry and the cannon, the shovels and other tools were borne, with which to make entrenchments. Keeping strict silence, as they had been ordered, the men trailed past Inman's Woods, Prospect Hill, and Cobble Hill, crossed a level space (another common), and halted at Charlestown Neck. Here, in the darkness, General Putnam rode up, and they were joined by other officers also.

Presently Captain Nutting's company and a few Connecticut men separated from the detachment and marched to the lower part of Charlestown, to act there as a guard. The main force was soon on the march again, and followed the road over a smooth round hill (the real Bunker's Hill), at the base of which it halted again. Prescott gathered the officers around him, and quietly made known the orders he had come to carry out. Watching the group alertly, Dick saw the officers look or point, now at the hill just crossed, now at the hill ahead, as if discussing which to use for the purpose in hand. Finally the men were marched to the hill ahead, from which Boston on its hills and hillsides could be seen sleeping, across the wide mouth of the Charles River.

As soon as the men halted, Colonel Gridley began to move rapidly about the summit of the hill, marking out lines and angles in the earth as he did so. Guns were stacked by all but certain designated men, of whom Dick and Tom were two, who remained under arms. Spades were distributed to the others, who were soon turning up the earth along the lines traced by Colonel Gridley. As General Putnam started to ride back over the road they had followed, Captain Maxwell received an order from Colonel Prescott, and in turn gave the word of march to a party of his men, in which were numbered Dick and Tom.

This little force followed the captain down into Charlestown, whose commodious houses among the trees were now deserted. When the party neared the Old Ferry, which led to Boston, the men were assigned to different posts along the shore, to watch the motions of the enemy, on their men-of-war in the river and in Boston opposite, during the night. With what delicious feelings did Dick pace the shore, to the sound of the lapping water, in sight of the dark looming vessels of the foe, in hearing of the British sentinel's voice who passed the "All's well" on to his comrade! Twice during the night Colonel Prescott came down with another officer to see what might be seen from the shore. It was almost dawn when Tom and Dick were marched back to the hill, where the men had been doing beaver work in the night.

A great change had been made in the appearance of the hill. Mounds of earth six feet high now enclosed the crest on three sides and most of the fourth. A rough breastwork had been thrown up as if in continuation of one of the sides of this redoubt. On the inner side of these works rough platforms of wood and earth were being made, and Dick and Tom were now assigned to aid in this duty, the rule of the night having been that men should dig and mount guard alternately. Dawn came, calm and clear, while the men were working at the spades. As both mounted a pile of earth, to level it, Dick took the opportunity to look down over the parapet, towards Boston. At that instant there came a flash of fire and a belch of smoke from the port-hole of a vessel in the river, a sullen boom, and a spattering of earth and dust in the near hillside.

"Bedad," said old Tom, looking down towards the man-of-war, "that vessel's called the Lively; and frae the way she says good morning I'm thinking we're like to have a lively day of it!"

CHAPTER VI.

THE WIND OF CIRCUMSTANCE.

There came a slight shock and a general sensation when the word went around that one of the British cannon balls had struck and killed Asa Pollard, of Stickney's company in Bridge's regiment; and there followed some ado over the matter of his burial, Colonel Prescott commanding that he be buried immediately, a chaplain insisting on performing a service over the body, and Prescott thereupon ordering dispersed the crowd of men that gathered to hear the service. At this a number of men rebelliously left the hill. To shame the timid and encourage the brave, Prescott stepped to the top of the parapet and walked calmly around thereupon, coolly giving orders, in perfect heedlessness of the balls that plowed the hillside near at hand. A captain did likewise, and thereupon the men took to cheering defiantly at each notable specimen of British marksmanship.

Keyed up to the pitch of recklessness, the men could laugh at the British fire, but the intense heat of the sun, the fatigue of their labors, and the hunger and thirst due to the neglect of many to bring provisions, were foes not as easily disdained. Thanks to Dick's respect for orders, and to Tom's wisdom of experience, these two had enough to eat and drink; but many, as they perspired or lay exhausted, growled or cursed, and thought war a useless, uncomfortable business.

During the morning, while the men worked with the spades, or waited idly and wondered when, if ever, their first shot would be fired, there were frequent consultations of the officers, frequent despatchings of messengers from the hill, or from one part of the hill to another, frequent signs that seemed to promise action but brought none. There was a moment of interest for Dick when he became aware, first by sound, and then by sight, that the cannon in a corner of the redoubt had begun to reply to the British fire, which had gained in severity and in the number of its sources.

At about eleven o'clock the men were ordered to cease work on the entrenchments, and their tools were piled in the rear. General Putnam now rode up, evidently from Cambridge, and had some discussion with Prescott, and, apparently as a result thereof, a large party took up the tools and started off towards Charlestown Neck. Some of this party stopped at the next hill, to which Putnam rode, and there they began to throw up breastworks under his orders. Thus the morning passed, in tedious expectancy.

The burning noon found Dick and Tom again at the parapet, which was now manned with waiting musket-men. Dick's wandering gaze rested on two war-ships that were moving up the river towards those already firing. "Begorra, there's a thing or two doing, yonder in the town," said MacAlister, with a slight revival from a tone of languor. Dick looked across to Boston. Through some streets and towards the wharves, trailed a long, wide line of scarlet, flashing at countless points where the sunlight fell on polished metal. The line was of British regiments, doubtless coming to attack the Yankee redoubt.

An oppressive silence fell for a moment on Dick and all his comrades, while their eyes glistened; then, simultaneously, they raised a wild, half hysterical cheer, and many a man grasped his weapon tighter, and sent towards the scarlet line afar an unconscious smile of defiant welcome.

The thunder of the British batteries and ships all at once swelled to tremendous volume. The fields by the river, below the redoubt, were deluged with cannon-shot. "To hinder us frae ganging doon to stop their landing," explained MacAlister to Dick. Scarlet troops could be seen moving in Boston towards different wharves, from which at last they crowded into barges, a few of them hauling field-pieces along with them.

Dick thrilled at the fine sight when the barges were rowed out into the river and towards a point of land eastward from the hill on which the Yankee army waited. Passing between the belching vessels and the river's mouth, and as the wind drove the cannon smoke westward, the barges with their loads of scarlet and steel stood out clear in the sunlight.

It was one o'clock when the barges huddled together at the point, and the red-coated troops filed ashore, and began to form in lines, now on the same side of the river with the colonials who had defied them. Dick admired the precision of the three lines in which they formed, the patience with which they waited while their officers consulted and while the barges went back apparently for more troops, the matter-of-fact manner in which many of them ate their dinners while they stood.

He was drawn from this sight presently by a cheer from his own comrades, which heralded the arrival of some teams with provisions and barrels of beer. While he was partaking of the consequent good cheer, there was another outburst of enthusiasm, this time over the arrival of Doctor Warren, recently made a general, and General Pomeroy, who both came to serve for the day in the ranks, as volunteers. Soon General Putnam rode back again to the redoubt.

Now the British were seen beginning a movement from the point, and along the Mystic River, which ran by the hill's northern base as the Charles ran by its southern one. Some artillery and some Connecticut troops, detached to oppose this movement, went down the hill and began to construct a kind of breastwork of a pair of stone and rail fences and some fresh-cut hay that lay in the fields. But Dick had no attention for this business, or for the reinforcements that began to arrive over Charlestown Neck in the fire of the British ships and batteries. All his powers of sight were for the well-drilled enemy, who had ceased to move along the Mystic, and now stood near the point.

At about three o'clock the British barges came back from Boston on their second trip, and, landing short of the point, disembarked their troops at a place much nearer the redoubt than the first force was. "It's them we'll be having dealings wi'," said MacAlister, nodding towards the new arrivals. "There's a regiment that we'll ken the name of later, and a battalion of marines, not to speak of them companies of light infantry and grenadiers. Whist, lad, it's like we'll hae the worth of our labors."

While Dick waited, with his eyes on the force at the foot of the hill, in front of him, he was vaguely conscious that things were doing elsewhere; that the field-pieces of the British right wing—the force first landed—were conversing with the Yankees' cannon; that parties were being sent out from the redoubt to flank the enemy and were doing a little futile skirmishing; and that the roars of cannon were more deafening, the balls raining more thickly and incessantly on the hillside from the ships and the Boston batteries. At last the British left wing—the newly landed force, of which Tom had spoken—began to march towards the redoubt. This left wing had meanwhile been augmented by some of the regiments that had crossed the river on the first trip of the barges.

"They're coming, boy," said old Tom. "It's a general movement of both divisions. They are the best troops in the world, son, dour devils every ane of them, and they mane to tak' this hill as sure as we mane to hould it. It's a grand disputation ye're like to see this day, lad!"

Colonel Prescott strode around the platform, instructing the men upon it how to fire, the men behind it how to hand loaded guns to the first, how to reload, how to take the places of the disabled. "Remember," said he, "wait for the word before you fire. Mind you put every grain of powder to good use; there's none for wasting. Aim at their waist-bands, and bring down their officers. That musket must be lower, man, when you come to fire. You, there, with your finger ready to pull, wait for the word, I tell you!"

Warfare and orders were different with the Yankee army on the hill, from what they were with the disciplined soldiers marching up to the attack.

Dick was dimly aware of flashes from British artillery posted near some brick-kilns near the hill's foot, but all his thoughts were on the infantry, as yet distant but steadily approaching, with a precision that was proof against marshy ground, tall grass, stone or rail fences, and other impediments. On they came, at a steady walk, to the beating of their own drums, marching in silence, looking neither to right nor to left, outwardly as calm as if on parade, showing in their faces no complaint against the heat nor any fear of the fate that might await them, men patient, machine-like in response to orders, their scarlet coats blazing in the sun, their steel bayonets flashing, men perfectly groomed, lifted to disdain of death by the sense of comradeship and of the occasion's bigness and by devotion to the sun-lit flag that fluttered slightly in the faint breeze,—so they came, their faces fixed with a mild curiosity on the redoubt, and it seemed to Dick that, coming in fashion so orderly and businesslike, they could not in possibility be turned back or stayed. Thrilled with admiration, "By the Lord," he said to MacAlister, "that's the way to march to one's death! Who could be afraid to face all hell, either marching with them, or waiting here to fight against them?"

"Bedad, ye've got the feeling, lad!" Tom answered. "When great matters do be brewing, a man's ain life is sic a wee sma' thing, he'll no haggle over it!"

The British left wing approached in long files, its right composed of tall-capped grenadiers, who came towards the breastwork north of the redoubt, its centre consisting of several regiments of ordinary foot, its extreme left being made up of marines, whose commander's figure was recognized by one of Dick's comrades as that of Major Pitcairn, who had called on the rebels on Lexington Common to disperse. When the redcoats were still at a considerable distance, they deployed into line and fired at the Yankees' works, all in unison, as if each was part of a great machine. In his admiration of their movement, and of the quiet and easy manner in which the marching officers had ordered it, Dick heeded not the whizz of bullets overhead. On some of his comrades the strain was too great to resist, and they impulsively fired their pieces at the approaching scarlet lines. Prescott's voice rose in loud reproof of these, and some of the officers ran along the top of the parapet, kicking up the guns of men who were taking aim.

On came the enemy, firing at regular intervals in obedience to slight gestures of their officers. And now they were so near that man might be distinguished from man, each by his face, though all the countenances had in common the impassive, obedient, patient, unquestioning look of British veterans. With the Yankees the tension of inward excitement was such that Dick and most of his comrades would not trust their voices to speak; but some grumbled nervously, or even growled as in ordinary moods. "Bean't we ever going to give it to them?" demanded one, and "Air we going to let them walk right into the fort, 'thout our moving a finger?" queried another. It began to look to Dick as if the enemy were indeed dangerously near, and he glanced at Tom MacAlister, who was motionlessly breasting the parapet, gun-butt against shoulder, eye following out the barrel, finger bent to pull at the word. Presently all growlings ceased, and nothing was heard but the roar of the cannon, the throbbing beat of the enemy's drums, and the singing of the bullets in the air. Then the powerful voice of Prescott rang out in the single word, "Fire!"

There was flash, a crack, a belch of smoke, along the whole redoubt; and, when the smoke rose, Dick got an indistinct impression of great gaps in the scarlet lines, of red-coated soldiers lying on the ground in various positions, some writhing and grimacing, some perfectly still, some pierced and bleeding, some without visible wound. Those still afoot were looking astonished and were trying to retain or recover the regular formation of their lines. Some of them fired back at the redoubt. Dick mechanically grasped the loaded gun handed to him by a man behind the platform, and as mechanically relinquished his own emptied weapon to the same man; in another moment he was blazing away again at a scarlet coat. Then he himself reloaded, and fired a third time; and after that he saw the broken scarlet lines in front of him roll back down the hill, in a kind of disorderly order, many of the redcoats falling behind and plunging presently to the earth.

"We have actually driven them back!" was his thought, and he bounded to the top of the parapet, thrown forward by an irresistible impulse to give chase; but he was stayed by the hindering grasp of Tom MacAlister upon the seat of his breeches. He looked around in surprise, for several men had leaped over the parapet, with a cheer, to follow the fleeing foe. But officers leaped after these men and vehemently ordered them back into the redoubt. "They're beaten!" cried Dick, ecstatically.

"Maybe," quoth old Tom; "but it'll no be them, I'm a-thinkin', if they stay so!"

All the world knows they did not stay so; that the rest of that hot, eventful afternoon, until the termination of the fight, had nothing in it to give Dick an impression different from those he had already received; that the British re-formed by the shore, charged up the hill a second time, and were a second time driven back by the deadly American marksmanship; that to aid their second attempt they set fire to Charlestown, but, the smoke being driven westward, failed to accomplish their purpose thereby; that the British cannon did a little more work this second time; that the British soldiers were somewhat impeded in their charge by the bodies of dead and wounded comrades they had to step over; that their officers had to do some threatening and sword-pricking and striking to persuade them forward; that their second retreat was in greater disorder than their first, and left the ground covered more thickly with dead and wounded; that they waited a long time before they began their third attack; that on the American side there was much bungling in attempts to bring on reinforcements that arrived over Charlestown Neck; that many of the cowardly and the disgruntled slunk away; that in each charge the occurrences at the redoubt were similar to those at the breastwork and at the stone and rail fence; that the second attack left the Americans with very little ammunition. The few artillery cartridges that contained all the powder at hand were opened, and the powder was given out to the men with instructions to make every kernel of it tell.

"If they're driven back once more, they can't be rallied again," said Colonel Prescott; and his men cheered and replied, "We're ready for them!" The few men with bayonets were placed at points the enemy would probably attempt to scale. It was seen that the British boats had been sent back to Boston,—so that the British troops would not have them to flee to, as old Tom divined,—also that the British had received reinforcements from the vessels.

When they advanced in column to the third attack, they came without knapsacks, and their whole movement was concentrated upon the redoubt and breastwork, while their artillery was sent ahead and so placed as to enfilade the Americans in flank. The red lines were but twenty yards away when Prescott gave the order to fire. The columns wavered at the volley, but recovered form in a moment, and sprang forward with fixed bayonets, without firing in return. Dick, knowing he had fired his last round, and following Tom's example, turned his weapon around to use it as a club. He was now at the southeastern corner of the redoubt.

The British surged up to the southern side, like a tidal wave, their front line being lifted by the men behind. A red-coated officer set foot on the parapet, cried out "The day is ours!" and fell, pierced by the last bullet of some Yankee inside the redoubt. The whole first rank that mounted the parapet was shot down, but there was no powder left for the ranks that followed. Dick brought down his rifle-butt with all his strength on the head of the nearest redcoat. Before he could raise his weapon, he felt in his leg the violent thrust of a British bayonet. He made a wild movement to clutch it, but it was drawn out of him by its owner's hand. Dick fell forward on one knee, and a moment later toppled over the parapet and fell outside the redoubt, upon the quivering body of a dying redcoat, by whose advancing comrades he was soon trodden into insensibility.

When he opened his eyes again it was late in the evening. The mêlée was over. He lay on some hay on the hillside, with a number of other men, some wounded, some apparently whole, all under guard of sentries who paced on every side. He soon perceived that the men under guard were of the Yankee army, while those who guarded them were British, and, as he presently recognized the redoubt not far away, he knew that the British had won the day and that he was a prisoner. Before night a surgeon came and examined his wound, had it washed and tied up by an assistant, and pronounced it of no consequence. Dick passed the night in exhaustion, pain, and thirst, on his bed of hay on the hillside.

The next day, while the British were fitting the redoubt for their own service, and also beginning new works, Dick and his fellow prisoners were marched down to the river, conveyed by boat to Boston, and led through certain streets of that town, some of which were curved, some crooked, some steeply ascending, some flanked by closely built rough-cast houses with projecting upper stories, some by commodious brick or wooden residences in the midst of fine gardens; and so into a stone jail that stood with its walled yard on the south side of the way. At one side of the entrance, within this prison, was a guard-room, into which each prisoner was taken for his name to be entered in the records. Dick was the last to be directed thither. When he had been duly registered by the proper officer, he turned to follow the guard to the cell assigned him.

"So we've got you at last," came, in a slightly Irish accent, from a British officer, who appeared to be in some authority at the prison, but whom Dick had not before observed closely. "Faith, we'll take care you shall stay with us awhile, and we'll not give you a chance to murder English officers, either, as you tried to murder Lieutenant Blagdon in New York. What have you done with my sword, you spalpeen?"

Dick recognized the officer in whose company Blagdon had been at the time of the occurrence in the King's Arms Tavern. He would have made an answer, although the other's question did not in its tone imply expectation of one; but the guard hurried him away, in obedience to a sudden gesture of the Irishman.

"At least," thought Dick, "though that man, as Blagdon's friend, counts himself my enemy, he has done me the service of informing me that Blagdon is not dead. 'Tried to murder Blagdon,' he said. Tom the piper's son was right. And, thinking of Tom, I wonder where he is now. Evidently not a prisoner, for our lot seems to comprise all that were taken. Killed? I can't think that! Does he know what has become of me, I wonder? Shall I ever see him again?"