The boys said good-night, and left the smithy. The air was colder now that darkness had settled on the lane, and they buttoned their coats tight and stuck their hands in their pockets. "He knows a good deal about them, doesn't he?" said Mat.

Joe nodded his head. "It does sound mighty strange," said he.

"I wonder what father would have said if he'd heard Mr. Leek," observed Mat. "He couldn't have called all that just old wives' tales."

At a corner the boys parted, and Mat trudged home alone. He glanced with new interest at the house where Mistress Swan and the schoolmaster lived. He would have liked to know what Mr. Appleton would say about this business of witches. Would he laugh and say, "What nonsense!" or would he look as much impressed as Jacob Titus had looked? Jacob was no fool, and it was very clear that this Mr. Jonathan Leek was an unusually wise man.

But when Mat came into his own warm house, and found the sitting-room brightly lighted and the family there, he couldn't help doubting whether all he had just heard was true. He didn't mention the matter at all at supper, or until he had finished his studying for the next day. When he was through, however, he pulled his stool up to his father's chair, and told him all that he and Joe had heard that afternoon. All, that is, except what Mr. Leek had said about the business dealings he had once had with Richard Swan.

"And did this make you believe in witches and the Evil Eye?" asked Mr. Hamlin.

"I don't know," answered Mat, doubtfully. "Joe and I didn't know what to think. The stories folks are telling about the witches and about what they do to children and to animals are so strange; and then so many grown-up people believe them. How's a boy to know whether they're true or not?"

"Only by using his seven wits, Mat," said Mr. Hamlin. "Before you believe any of these unnatural things, see them happen with your own eyes. And when a boy or girl cries out that a witch is sticking pins into them, make sure that they're not pretending; you know children love to pretend things, and they like it all the better if they can get grown people to believe what they pretend. I don't think any witch will try sticking pins or knives in you or Joe, or make you fly over the ground like geese. The witch won't, that is, unless you help her."

Mat chuckled. "Trust Joe and me for keeping away from creatures like that," he declared.

Mat started whittling a whistle from a willow stick, and Mr. Hamlin began adding a column of figures in a cash-book, but after a few minutes he looked up at his wife, who had come into the room and was knitting. "I can't blame the children for talking of witches and magic things," he said, "when all the province of Massachusetts Bay seems to be thinking about the same matters. Everybody's whispering about them, and every man, woman, and child seems suddenly to know exactly what witches do. Three men told me to-day about those poor women they've jailed over at Salem Village. And the men seemed almost to believe that the women really had dealt in witchcraft, although they were all three sober men, and one was a minister of the Gospel."

"And I've been hearing the same things," said his wife. "Men don't do all the gossiping, my dear."

Mr. Hamlin turned again to his cash-book, but his counting was interrupted in a few minutes by a loud rapping at the street-door. Mat opened the door, and Mr. Samuel Glover and his son Joe came hurrying in. "There's strange news afoot," said Mr. Glover, "and I thought it only neighborly to share it with you." He threw his hat and cloak on a chair. "Some one has charged Mistress Ann Swan with dealing in witchcraft, with being a familiar of the Evil One."

"Mistress Swan!" exclaimed husband and wife, while Mat stood listening with his mouth wide open.

"It's said she's bewitched the children, makes them act like cats and dogs, sends them into trances, and misuses them in many different ways."

"She's a most kind-hearted woman, and loves children dearly," said Mistress Hamlin. "She always gives them sweets when they come to see her."

"Aye," agreed Mr. Glover, "so the children say, but they add that she gives them the sweets so she may have a chance to work her evil on them."

"What children say this?" demanded Mr. Hamlin.

"Mercy Booth and Susan Parsons and John Rowley," answered Mr. Glover. "They're the main ones."

Mat looked at Joe. "Serves 'em right," said he. "They're mean enough to be bewitched!"

"They stone dogs and cats," put in Joe. "And the schoolmaster caught 'em at it, and gave 'em a good scolding."

"But who started the story?" asked Mr. Hamlin. "Did the children tell these things themselves?"

"A man who's lately come from Boston took the matter to the town clerk," answered Mr. Glover. "It seems the children had told their strange stories to him. His name is Jonathan Leek."

Mat gave a long whistle. "Jonathan Leek!" he echoed. "Why, he's the man Joe and I met at the smithy!"

"Yes," said Joe, nodding vigorously. "And he knows all about witchcraft."

"I should think he did," agreed Mat.

"Poor Ann Swan," said Mistress Hamlin. "As fine a woman as ever lived. And to be charged with being a witch!"

"That's what I say," assented Mr. Glover. "And I'm doubtful if the matter stops there. There's talk already that another had some part in mistreating the children."

"Who?" demanded Mr. Hamlin.

"Who but the man who lives in the house with her, Mr. Appleton the schoolmaster."

"And what can they say against him?" asked Mr. Hamlin. "He's as straightforward a man as ever I met."

"He has a little shed back of the house where he keeps some dogs," explained the other. "The children say that he cures these dogs of broken bones by magic. They say they've seen him do it; take a stray cur who limps and say a few words they can't understand, and soon the dog doesn't limp any more. And the three afflicted children say that he makes them suffer instead of his wounded pets."

"They've been put up to this!" exclaimed Mr. Hamlin. "They'd never have thought of all this for themselves."

"Maybe," agreed Mr. Glover. "But you know how such matters go. Speak a word or two against a man or woman, never mind how honest they may be, and folks seize on it, and before you know it they have a dozen ill stories to tell against them."

"The schoolmaster a witch! I'll not believe it!" declared Mat.

"Nor will I," said Joe.

Mr. Hamlin smiled. "That's right, boys. Stand to your guns. Mr. Appleton has some skill at setting broken bones, probably, and that's how he mends these wounded animals. It's those who believe these charges of witchcraft who are crazy, in my opinion; not the folks they charge with having dealings with the Evil One. As for calling Mistress Swan a witch because of what those children said, any woman might accuse a neighbor of being a witch because her milk wouldn't churn into butter while that neighbor happened to be chatting with her."

"That's about what they have said of some of their witches in Boston," put in Mr. Glover. "Yet, absurd as this may seem to us, it's likely to prove fairly serious to Mistress Swan and Mr. Appleton. People don't stop to use their wits in such affairs nowadays. Call man or woman a witch, and you're two-thirds of the way to proving him or her one."

"But the schoolmaster!" protested Mat. He looked at Joe. "In trouble because those three little rats don't like him! Well, you and I'll stand by him, won't we, Joe? We'll show people that he's no more a witch than the minister is, or than Jonathan Leek himself."

"We will," assented Joe. "I didn't like that Mr. Leek much anyway."

"And I'll help you," said Mr. Hamlin. Mr. Glover nodded his head. "Here's four of us at least who'll stand by the schoolmaster," said he, "and by Mistress Swan too," he added, "for she's likely to be as guiltless as Thomas Appleton."

II

There were a great number of people in Massachusetts in 1692 who believed in witches, and quite as many in Salem as in any other town. Usually there was some old enmity under each charge of witchcraft, though not always, for in some cases people made their charges recklessly, apparently enjoying the prominence it brought them, and thinking little of their victims. In those cases where there was some old score being paid off, however, the populace usually gave little attention to that side of it, but were only interested in the facts brought out to prove that the accused person was a dealer in the Evil Arts. As Mr. Glover said, "Call a person a witch, and you were two-thirds of the way to actually proving that he or she was a witch."

There was school next day, as usual, and Thomas Appleton tried to appear unconcerned about everything but his scholars' lessons. The three afflicted children, the two girls and the boy, were not there, having been kept at home by their parents; and the others, who had all heard the story about the schoolmaster by now, could see that he had something on his mind. When school was over Mat and Joe waited until Mr. Appleton was ready to go, and then joined him on his walk home. At first they talked about all sorts of things, but presently Mat said, "We wanted you to know that we're friends of yours, no matter what people may say about you."

The schoolmaster smiled, and put his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. "You've heard then that people are saying that Mistress Swan is a witch, and that I'm another?"

Both boys nodded.

"It's the most absurd story in the world," the man went on. "Mistress Swan is kindness itself to every one, and especially to children. When she hears of any boy or girl who's ill she takes them jellies and puddings. I know a thousand things she's done that shows how much she loves them."

"And we know how you care for dogs and cats and birds," put in Joe. "And every one in school, except those three, would follow you anywhere."

Just then two women, coming along the lane, saw the schoolmaster, and deliberately crossed to the other side so as to avoid meeting him. Thomas Appleton reddened, and looked hurt. Then he snapped his fingers, and muttered, "I'd like to play on my pipe, like that Pied Piper of Hamelin Town we hear of, and dance away, taking all the children and animals after me. It would serve you right, you evil-minded folk of Salem!"

Presently they came to Mistress Swan's door. "Might we see the shed where you keep your dogs?" asked Mat.

"Certainly," said the schoolmaster, and he led them to the little building back of the house. Inside were half-a-dozen dogs, and those who could leaped up about Appleton, licked his hands, and showed their devotion to him. "These two," said he, pointing to a couple of collies, "need exercise. Would you boys like to go for a walk with the three of us?"

The boys said they would, and soon they were out in the open country back of Salem, master and boys and dogs racing along in the nipping air. They passed some of their school-fellows playing in a field, and these joined them, so that presently there was quite a crowd tramping with the schoolmaster and his dogs, and all enjoying themselves.

The schoolmaster whistled and sang and laughed as if he had quite forgotten what people were saying about him in Salem; but when they were back at Mistress Swan's gate, and all but Joe and Mat had left, he frowned. "Poor Mistress Swan!" he said. "She can't throw off her troubles as easily as a man can. And I doubt if any of the neighbors have come in to see her."

"We'll come in," said Joe; and as soon as the dogs were housed again they went in with Mr. Appleton. They found Mistress Swan, a pink-cheeked woman with soft gray hair, working on a sampler at a window. "I'm right glad to see you, Mat, and you too, Joe," she said. "Thomas, will you fetch some apples from the pantry?"

The schoolmaster brought the apples, and the boys sat near the window, eating them, and told her of their tramp in the country. Neither Mat nor Joe could see anything that made them think of a witch in this sweet-faced woman.

While they were chatting a resounding thump came at the front door, and when Mr. Appleton opened it, three grim-faced men walked in. One was the town clerk, and the other two were constables of Salem. They marched into the room, with never a bow or "By your leave," or smile of greeting. Mistress Swan grew a trifle pale, and the boys stood up. "What do you want?" demanded the schoolmaster in a low voice.

"We want Mistress Swan," answered the town clerk, his eyes very stern and forbidding. "She stands accused of dealing in Black Arts and other evil business. She must go with us to the jail, there to await examination of the charges brought against her."

"It's an infamy," cried the schoolmaster, "and a lie! You've known Mistress Swan for years, and you know her to be as innocent as your own wives!"

The town clerk glowered at Thomas Appleton. "Have a care," said he, his voice like steel scraping on iron. "Have a care lest it be your turn next, Master Appleton."

"I care nothing for that," hotly retorted the master. "Gladly would I go with you in Mistress Swan's place. But to think that you charge her, the soul of gentleness and kindness to every one, with such an infamous thing! What can you be thinking of? How can any man or woman or child in Salem bring such charges against Mistress Swan?"

"They have been brought, nevertheless," responded the clerk. "There are three children claim to have been bewitched by her, and there is a man, Jonathan Leek, who tells of strange happenings."

"Jonathan Leek?" exclaimed Mistress Swan. "He? Why, 'tis he who claimed my husband owed him money, and has tried to get payment from me. But we owed him no money. He's an evil, tale-bearing man; but he knows I am not guilty of such wicked things as these."

"All that you can answer to the court," said the clerk. "My business is only to see you taken into custody."

"Is there no way by which she may stay here?" asked Appleton. "I will promise that she will be here when you want her. Or take me as hostage for her."

"She must come," said the clerk. "There's been enough talk, and to spare. Get your cloak and come."

Mistress Swan rose, folded the sampler and put it away in a closet, and got out her cloak and hood. She held out her hand to the schoolmaster. "You've stood by me like an honest man, Thomas. God grant they don't drag you into this!"

He took her offered hand and his eyes glowed as he looked into her face. "If they do you a wrong they shall suffer for it," said he. "There are honest men in Salem as well as knaves."

She smiled at the two boys, who were taking in every incident of the strange scene, and walked out through her doorway, followed by the three grim-looking men.

Mr. Appleton paced the floor. "Infamous!" he exclaimed. "The lies of three wicked children and a villain to stand against the spotless life of such a woman as she! What is Salem coming to? It should hide its head in the ocean for very shame of such a crime! Witchcraft! Yes, there must be witchcraft to make people believe such lies!" He stopped and looked at the boys. "What was the name of this man who brought the charges?"

"Jonathan Leek," answered Mat. "Joe and I heard him talking yesterday at the smithy. A tall black man from Boston, who seemed to know a great deal about witches."

"I will find him," said Appleton. "I will make him take back these words about Mistress Swan, or I will cram them down his throat!"

"But, Master Appleton," said Joe, "suppose he should make the same charges against you. He's a dangerous man. And then you would be arrested, and couldn't be of any help to Mistress Swan."

The schoolmaster stared at Joe. "That's true," he answered slowly. "I must keep my head, and tread right warily. Yes, I must not tell these rascals what I have in my mind about them. But Mistress Swan must be saved. And, to speak the truth, I don't know where I can go for help to save her."

"Joe's father and mine will help," said Mat eagerly. "They both know Mistress Swan. And the children at school will help, and perhaps their fathers too. We'll go home now, and tell what has happened." He picked up his hat, and ran out of the house, Joe at his heels.

They went straight to Mr. Hamlin's house, and, finding him and his wife at home, told them of the arrest of Mistress Swan. "I expected as much," said Mat's father. "All Salem is talking witchcraft to-day, and they tell the most outrageous stories of Mistress Swan, and worst of all, half the people seem to believe them."

"I heard a woman say to-day that Ann Swan gave her baby the croup last December," said Mistress Hamlin. "They're laying every ache and pain their children ever had at her door now. It's scarcely to be believed that people can be so wicked against a kind woman they've known all their lives."

"But what's to be done?" said Mr. Hamlin. "As matters stand the court may find Mistress Swan guilty of witchcraft without any to say a word on her behalf."

"Would they listen to me?" asked Mat. "I could tell them how mean and cruel and hateful John Rowley and Mercy Booth and Susan Parsons are, and what the rest of us at school think about them." He thought a minute. "And as to that man, Jonathan Leek, I'd say that both Joe and I thought him much like a snake."

"Jonathan Leek?" said Mr. Hamlin. "Tell me all you know about him, Mat."

Mat, aided by Joe, told what he had heard Mr. Leek say at the smithy, and also what he had heard Mistress Swan say about him that afternoon. Mr. Hamlin got paper and pen and made notes, and then they planned what might be said in answer to the charges against Mistress Swan. "You bring Master Appleton here after school to-morrow, Mat," said his father. "Then we'll see what can be done to clear Mistress Ann's good name."

School met next morning, but there was more excitement than on the day before, for all the boys and girls had heard how Susan Parsons and Mercy Booth and John Rowley were telling the most remarkable stories about being bewitched. The schoolmaster tried to teach the lessons, but it was plain that he was worried, and that his thoughts were not on the work. Just before the noon recess, Joe, who was reciting, saw Master Appleton look up and then stare at the door at the farther end of the room. Joe turned round to see what was the matter. In the doorway stood the town clerk, with the same two men who had been at Mistress Swan's.

The clerk walked down the passageway between the benches, while all the children stared. He went up to the master's desk, stepped up on the low platform, and laid his hand on Master Appleton's shoulder. He was smiling, as though he took a certain pleasure in the work on hand. "Thomas Appleton," he said, "I arrest you in the name of the court of Salem. You are charged with witchcraft."

The schoolmaster pulled his shoulder away from the clerk's hand. He looked very proud and unconcerned at the charge, as though he were defying all the officers of Salem. "Very good," said he. "You have arrested better people than me for such hocus-pocus. I should feel honored." He shut the school-book that lay open on his desk, and smiled at the children on the front row of benches. "I suppose, Master Clerk," he said, "that you chose this hour, when you knew I would be busy with my scholars, to come to arrest me, so that they might all see the entertainment, and thus make my arrest as public as possible."

"It is some of your own scholars who bring part of the charges against you," retorted the clerk.

"Aye, I know," said Master Appleton. "But they are not here now. Those who are here know me better." He looked at the boys and girls, who were watching intently. "I'm sorry to leave you," he said. "There will be no school for several days, not until they can find another master to take my place. They say I deal in witchcraft, that I take wounded animals and cure them by sending their aches into children, that I can bewitch you so that you do strange things you couldn't do otherwise. These are just fairy tales, nonsense, the most absurd of stories. I know no more of witches than any one of you. There are no such things as witches, there is no such thing as the Evil Eye. But people in Massachusetts are believing in them, men and women here in Salem are letting themselves believe such nonsense. None can say what they will do next. Yet you boys and girls know there are no such evil spirits; you must stand for the right and the truth, and deny such falsehoods. You will, I know. You must help to save Salem such disgrace."

The children were still for a moment, and then Mat spoke up. "Of course there are no witches," he said. "We're old enough to know that." He looked round the room. "All who think as the schoolmaster does, stand up," he commanded.

Every boy and girl stood up.

"I knew it," said the schoolmaster. He turned, smiling, to the clerk. "The children are wiser than their elders," he said. "There is some hope for Salem."

"A very pretty scene," answered the clerk, sarcastically. "But the court may take a different view of it; they might even think you had the children bewitched so's they'd do exactly what you tell 'em to."

"Yes, they might," agreed Master Appleton. "They might use anything against me. To some minds innocence is always the best proof of guilt. Yet I didn't bewitch the children; I have only taught them their lessons, as I was paid to do." He took his hat and cloak from the peg behind his desk. "I am at your service."

Smiling at his scholars, Master Appleton walked down the aisle to the door. As he passed Mat he said, "See to the dogs for me, will you? I shouldn't like them to go hungry."

Mat bobbed his head.

The schoolmaster went out into the lane, with his three guards, while the children crowded to the door and watched until he turned the corner.

III

The fear of witches, like the fear of the plague in the Middle Ages, spread over Massachusetts with amazing rapidity in that winter and spring of 1692, and found one of its chief centers at Salem. Men and women of standing and education were arrested, as well as those who had few friends and little learning, and the wildest and most improbable stories about their actions were told and were believed. As day followed day the three "afflicted children," John Rowley, Susan Parsons, and Mercy Booth, told more and more fantastic tales about Mistress Swan and Master Appleton, and Jonathan Leek spread these stories so thoroughly that soon there was not a man, woman, or child in Salem, or in the neighboring country, who had not heard how the accused schoolmaster and Ann Swan had bewitched the three. To hear a story about witchcraft at that time was usually to believe it, and many people had condemned the man and woman in their own minds long before the court took up the case against them.

Mat's family, and Joe's family, however, started out with the determination to save Mistress Swan and Thomas Appleton if it could be done. Then these two boys urged their schoolmates, none of whom could believe that the teacher they were so fond of was a witch, to ask their parents to speak kindly of the two accused persons, and so there was soon quite a little party in Salem who protested that the two were innocent. Of course there were many, largely of the more ignorant class, like Jacob Titus, the blacksmith, and people who had listened to Jonathan Leek and fallen under his influence, who felt certain that the schoolmaster and Ann Swan were able to ride about on broomsticks when they had a mind to. Strange to say, some of the ministers of Salem took this view too.

Mr. Hamlin went to the jail and talked with both the prisoners, he visited the houses of the three "afflicted children" and watched their strange performances, and he sought out Jonathan Leek, who had suddenly become a very prominent person, and listened to his oily and mysterious speeches. Then he wrote letters to friends in Boston, and after a while he began to find out facts that were scarcely creditable to Mr. Leek's reputation. He had been driven out of Boston because of the falsehoods he had uttered about people there; he was described as a cheat, a swindler, and a man who tried to get money from men and women by threatening to accuse them of various crimes. Mr. Glover helped in this work, and so did the two boys, and in addition the boys looked after the dogs in the schoolmaster's little hospital and reported to Master Appleton how his charges were getting on.

People were being condemned and hung as witches in Salem Village and other places, and things did not look too cheerful for Mat's two friends. Yet they were both full of patience and courage, and when people came to them and tempted them to admit that they had ill-treated the children, had used magic on them, or worked some spell over them, they always indignantly denied the charges and said such stories were utterly absurd. "I never raised a finger against a child in my life," said Mistress Swan at one such time, "and I never will, no matter what those three may say about me, or what you may do to me." And Master Appleton would say, "Yes, it is true I have cured a number of dogs, but not by sending their ills into these children. Surely you must know that I care as much for children as for animals! Otherwise you'd make me no better than an ogre."

"He is an ogre!" cried Jonathan Leek, when he heard what Master Appleton said. He pointed his lean hand at the crowd who had gathered around him. "Many a schoolmaster is an ogre in disguise, and chooses that work so that he may prey on children! I know; I have seen such men before." And his manner was so impressive as he said this that many people nodded their heads and murmured to each other that doubtless he was right.

So matters stood when the two prisoners, whose cases were so much alike that they were to be considered together, were put on trial in Salem. Mr. Hamlin and Mr. Glover were there, and their sons, and a lawyer they had engaged to represent them. The court room was full to overflowing, and very warm, for it was midsummer.

"How could any one believe those two guilty of such evil deeds?" said Mr. Hamlin to his friends, as he looked at the kind and gentle Mistress Swan and the frank-faced Thomas Appleton.

"People have believed such charges of men and women who look full as innocent," answered Mr. Glover.

Many there in the court room believed that these two were witches as they listened to the stories the three "afflicted children" told, and heard Jonathan Leek and other grown men and women testify as to strange doings they had witnessed. Through all this the two prisoners simply looked at their fellow-townsfolk, as if wondering that such stories could be told of them, and when they were asked by the judges if they had done any of these things, each simply denied all knowledge of such events.

Then Mr. Hamlin's lawyer rose, and he had neighbors of Mistress Swan tell how they had always respected her and how highly they thought of her, and how kind she had always been to their children. After that Mr. Hamlin told what he had discovered about the man Jonathan Leek, how Leek had demanded money from Mistress Swan, and how she had refused to give him any money, saying that her husband had never owed Leek anything as a result of their business dealings. Here the lawyer presented an account-book that showed that, as an actual fact, Jonathan Leek had owed Richard Swan money, instead of the account standing the other way about. Leek looked very angry and indignant as Mr. Hamlin and the lawyer related all these affairs to the court, and when the account-book was shown he jumped up, protesting loudly, saying, "Figures have nothing to do with the fact of this woman's being a witch!" But the lawyer retorted very quickly, "These figures have much to do with the reason why you charged this woman with witchcraft!"

When Mr. Hamlin told what he had learned of Jonathan Leek's leaving Boston the man in black squirmed in his seat, and grew so yellow of face that Mat whispered to Joe, "He looks like a witch himself now, doesn't he?" There wasn't much left of the stranger's character when Mr. Hamlin had finished with him, and even those people who had believed most implicitly in him began to murmur their doubts to each other.

Then came the chance for Mat to tell what he knew of Mistress Swan and Master Appleton. He told how the other children in school had never liked the three "afflicted children." "Those three liked to hurt animals," said he. "They stoned cats and dogs, they caught young birds, and hurt them, and when Master Appleton told them not to be so cruel they made faces at him and told false stories about him behind his back. Sometimes he would rescue birds and dogs from them, and try to mend their hurts, and he has a lot of dogs now in a shed back of Mistress Swan's house, poor dogs that nobody else would look after, and most of them he's cured of some hurt. None of us boys in school would believe a word those three others would say, least of all about Master Appleton, and we'd all expect them to say ill things about him whenever they got the chance." Mat said more about the schoolmaster, and Joe followed him, and then other children, and they were all so evidently sincere, and showed such affection for the teacher that people began to look more kindly at him, and to whisper that they'd always heard he was popular at school. "Against the word of one boy and two girls, who had their own reasons for disliking this master, we have the witness of these other children, who all respect and admire him," said the lawyer. "True it is that he has an almshouse for maimed and neglected animals in his yard, but should that not rather speak to his credit than against his honesty? He may know more than most of us about curing sores and broken bones; but would you accuse a physician of dealing in witchcraft or evil arts because he helped the suffering who came to him? If you would, then there must be evil in all men who help their neighbors!"

Here Jacob Titus, standing in the back of the court room, murmured behind his hand to the man next him, "I always had my doubts of those who deal in herbs and such like. There's something magical in the best of it. And when it's a matter of dogs, why——" he shrugged his shoulders, meaning clearly enough that that was carrying magic pretty far.

There were others who thought as the blacksmith did, for many, having once got the notion that Mistress Swan and Master Appleton were witches, couldn't find any way to get that idea out of their heads. Others were wavering in their opinions, however, and thinking that there might perhaps be as much truth in the words of this woman whom they had always known and this schoolmaster of such former good repute as in the words of three spoiled children and a man who had been driven out of Boston for misdeeds.

"There may be witches," the lawyer said, "though it happens that I've never met with any such myself. There are rumors of witchcraft all through this province of Massachusetts to-day, and many stories are told that could scarcely be understood as following the course of nature. But if we let ourselves suspect such evil things of our neighbors so readily, who knows when others may suspect such dealings of us as easily? You," he said, and by chance he was looking at a stout man in front of him, "may be accused to-morrow because your neighbor's cow sickened on the day you helped him harvest his crops. You," he looked at a forbidding-featured woman in a great gray bonnet, "may be called a witch next week because your suet puddings were too rich for the stomach of your maid. Or you," and his glance fell on a minister, who sat with a Bible clasped in his hand, "may be charged with dealings with the Evil One because your chimney smoked and the sparks frightened a horse upon the road so that he ran away. This is how such easy suspicions go. Within a month we may all be witches and warlocks, each man and woman accusing their nearest neighbors."

A murmur of protest rose; the idea was not to be put up with; and yet every one there knew that there was much truth in the speaker's words.

"It happens that three children and a man from Boston have hit upon these two prisoners as their victims," went on the speaker, now looking at the judges, "instead of aiming their shafts at you or me. Yet are you or I any more honest than this woman who has befriended others, or this man who teaches and cares for maimed dogs? Are we to be their judges? Then, as we consider the charges against them, let us remember that men might bring charges of evil against us also, and consider whether we know ourselves to be more innocent than they. Look at Mistress Swan! Look at Thomas Appleton! Are these two witches? Why, men of Salem, the very children laugh at such a charge!"

The speaker sat down amid a tense silence. The judges withdrew, considered the matter in private, and then, returning, announced that in their opinion the charges of witchcraft against Mistress Swan and Master Appleton had not been proved by the evidence, and that the two prisoners might return to their homes. There was a buzz of excited talk for a few minutes, then neighbors and friends crowded round Mistress Swan and the schoolmaster and said they had never really believed the evil reports of them.

So these two innocent people returned to their home, and men and women who had been in doubt before as to whether they should believe the tales of magic now said they had always considered the three "afflicted children" mischievous brats and wondered that their parents hadn't whipped them for telling such monstrous falsehoods. As for Jonathan Leek, when he found that he had no chance to injure Mistress Swan, and knew that people in Salem were beginning to hear the true story of his earlier career in Boston, he departed from Salem in haste, probably to carry his ready-made charges of witchcraft to other towns, where there might be people against whom he cherished grudges.

Thomas Appleton returned to his school, and the children liked him better than ever, and brought him so many lame and footsore dogs to care for that he said he should have to take the largest building in town to house them all. The three "afflicted children" didn't go back to school, though no one knew whether that was because their parents thought they wouldn't be popular there after what had happened, or because they still considered that the schoolmaster might bewitch them.

Naturally enough it took Mistress Swan and Master Appleton some time to forgive their townsfolk for treating them so badly. But the people did their best to show them how sorry they felt that they had ever suspected them of evil dealings, and in time the two returned to their old attitude of friendliness toward all their neighbors. Neither of them was the kind to cherish a grudge.

Other people in Massachusetts, however, who were charged with being witches were not so fortunate as Ann Swan and Thomas Appleton. Some were found guilty and were executed for witchcraft. Then, when this strange and inhuman superstition had run its course, popular feeling changed quickly. Men and women became ashamed of what they had said and done. The fear of witches passed into history and became only a strange delusion of the past. But it had been a very real fear in Massachusetts in 1692.

VII THE ATTACK ON THE DELAWARE

(Pennsylvania, 1706)

I

Jack Felton, coming back to his home from the woods that lay north of the town of Philadelphia, on a day in May, 1706, stopped at his friend's, Gregory Diggs, the shoemaker, to ask for a bit of leather for a sling he was making. There was an amusing stranger there, a round, red-faced man, lolling back in his chair, one knee crossed over the other. Small, sharp-featured Gregory was driving pegs into the sole of a boot while he listened to the other's talk. The stranger nodded to Jack. "Howdy-do, my fine young Quaker lad," said he. "Do your boots need mending?"

"I want a piece of leather for my sling," said Jack.

"Oho, so you're playing David, are you? Well, I tell you what, this settlement of Penn's is going to need all the Davids it can muster one of these fine days. And that day's not so far off, my friends."

"What do you mean?" asked Jack, sitting down in the doorway.

"I mean," said the stranger, "that you simple folk along the Delaware are like fat sheep that the wolves have sighted. Sea-wolves, they are." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his plump knees. "Have you ever heard of a Frenchman named De Castris?"

"I have," said Gregory.

"I haven't," said Jack.

"Well, the Frenchman has four fast frigates, and he's been cruising up and down the coast between Long Island and the Chesapeake capes, looking for English prey. He chased two small English corvettes up the Delaware almost to Newcastle. He's captured over a score of merchant ships, and a week ago he landed at Lewes for water and provisions, and carried off the pick of the live stock there."

"And what would you have us do, Mr. Hackett?" asked Gregory, picking up another boot. "Arm, and march up and down the river bank? We're peaceable people. We try not to make any enemies, and so we don't expect any enemies to come against us. See how friendly we've lived with the Indians, while the Virginians have been fighting them all the time."

The other man smiled, that superior, much-amused smile of the wise man arguing with the ignoramus. "And the sheep don't make enemies of the wolves either," said he. "The sheep are peaceable beasts, tending to their own concerns. But that doesn't keep the wolves from preying on them, does it? Not by a long chalk, my friend Diggs. As for the Indians, it's only your good fortune that you haven't stirred them up to attack you. You don't think they care any more for you because you make treaties with them, and give them beads and trinkets for their land, and smoke their pipe of peace?"

"We've been thinking that," answered Gregory. "We thought we'd been treating them as good Christians should."

"Oh, you foolish Quakers!" said Hackett. "You're worse than sheep; you're like the ostriches that stick their heads in the sand. Look here. Suppose the Indians should drink too much fire-water some day and make a raid on your farms; where would your treaties be then? Or suppose,—what's much more likely,—that this French privateer captain should take it into his head to sail up the Delaware and levy a ransom on your prosperous people, and maybe carry off some of your fine Quaker gentlemen as prisoners. What would you do then?"

Gregory scratched his head. "I suppose we'd try to fight them off," he concluded.

"But you wouldn't be ready. You wouldn't have enough guns, and powder and shot. And you wouldn't know what to do with the guns if you had them."

"Well," the shoemaker repeated patiently, "what would you have us do, Mr. Hackett?"

"I want you to prepare, Diggs, I want you to prepare. That's what His Majesty's other colonies have done. I want you to make sure you have enough guns and ammunition on hand, and know how to use the muskets. I want you to set sentries along the river and outposts through the country to give you warning of any possible attack. And above all I want you to get rid of this Quaker notion that you can go on getting rich and prosperous without rousing envy in your neighbors."

"You don't see much riches right here," said Gregory, glancing round at his simple, meagrely-furnished shop.

"No, not here, my honest old friend," agreed Hackett, and he got up and slapped the shoemaker on the shoulder in a friendly fashion. "But most of the Philadelphia people aren't like you. They're fat and easy-going, and they wear good clothes and live in fine houses. They like their comfort, these people of William Penn."

"They look more like you than like me," said Gregory, smiling.

The stout man laughed. "Why, so they do, so they do. But don't put me down for one of them! I'm no Quaker, Diggs. I'm a good Church of England man, and I believe in musket and powder-horn." He picked up his walking-stick, which leaned against his chair, and flourishing it round his head shot it forward toward Jack Felton as if it had been a dueling-sword. "There, my young friend," said he, "how would you parry that? But I forget, Quaker lads aren't taught how to fence."

Jack laughed at the attitude the stout man had struck. "I know how to shoot with a bow, even if I can't fence," he retorted.

"Shoot with a bow—faugh, that's Indian warfare. Sword and musket's what we want, Master—I don't know your name."

"Jack Felton," said Gregory. "And he's the son of one of those very prosperous Quakers you were speaking of, Mr. Hackett."

"So?" said Hackett. "Well, I trust, Master Felton, that you see the common sense of my argument, and will persuade your father that it's not unlikely this French buccaneer De Castris may take it into his head to visit Philadelphia some day." He put on his hat and picked up his cloak. "I'm on my way to visit my old friend Governor John Evans, and tell him of the reports I bring from Chesapeake Bay."

Jack stood up to let Mr. Hackett pass him, and then stepped into the shop. "Is what he says about Philadelphia and the Quakers true?" he asked the shoemaker.

"I hardly know, Jack. The Friends don't believe in fighting, and maybe we're not as well prepared for defense as most of our neighbors. We've kept peace with the Indians by treating them fairly. Charles Hackett comes from Maryland, where they've had lots of trouble with Indians and every man goes armed."

"Suppose that French captain came up the Delaware and did what Mr. Hackett thought he might?" suggested Jack.

Gregory shook his head. "I don't know what we'd do. I take it I'm like most of the others; I don't like to borrow trouble, Jack."

Jack got the leather for his sling and started home. The stranger's words stuck in his mind, however. He didn't like to think an enemy might come up the Delaware and do as he pleased with Philadelphia. It seemed to him that Mr. Hackett might be right, that the people ought to be prepared to defend themselves.

Mr. Felton lived in a big house at the corner of Second and Pine Streets. He was a well-to-do Quaker and a friend of John Evans, the Deputy Governor who represented William Penn in the province. After supper Jack told his father what he had heard at the shoemaker's. "That's idle talk," said his father. "The Frenchman wouldn't think of coming to Philadelphia, and if he did we've plenty of men here to protect the town."

"But how do you know they'd do it?" Jack asked. "Friends don't believe in fighting, the stranger said."

"We don't unless we have to," agreed Mr. Felton. "Don't you bother about such things, Jack. Leave it to Governor Evans."

Mr. Felton, however, thinking the matter over, decided that perhaps the governor ought to know that people were talking about a possible attack by the French privateers, and so he wrote a note and sent it over by Jack that evening to the governor's house.

Jack thought he would like to speak to the governor himself, so he gave the servant his name, but not his father's note. The servant reported that Governor Evans would be glad to see Master Felton in his private office.

In the office sat the governor and Mr. Charles Hackett. The governor read Mr. Felton's note. When he looked up he saw that Hackett was smiling at Jack. "So you've met before, have you?" he said. "It's odd that this note should be on the very matter we were discussing, Charles." He handed it to his guest, who read it rapidly.

"So you told your father of our little chat at the shoemaker's, did you?" said Hackett. "What did he say to it?"

"He didn't say very much," Jack answered. "He told me not to bother about it."

"You see," said Hackett, looking at the governor. "He said not to bother. That's what all your good Quaker folks will say, I dare venture."

Governor Evans looked very thoughtful. He stroked his smooth-shaven cheek with his hand. "You may be right," he said finally. "They are a hard people to rouse, beyond question. I think we'd better try the plan you and I were talking of, the messenger from New Castle arriving in the morning with news of what happened there."

"Make the message strong," advised Hackett. "Burning, plundering, and pillage."

Governor Evans nodded his head. "To-morrow will be weekly meeting-day," he said thoughtfully. "That'll be as good a time as any to try the plan." He turned to Jack. "Thank your father for his message, and tell him that I've already heard the news of the French frigates he speaks of. Good-night."

Jack bowed to the governor and to Mr. Hackett, who beamed at him and waved his hand in friendly salute.

Mystified at the governor's words about a messenger from New Castle and at Mr. Hackett's mention of burning, plundering, and pillage, Jack went home, and gave his father the governor's answer to his note. He went to bed, wondering if it was possible that this quiet little town of Philadelphia, so peaceably settled on the shore of the Delaware, could possibly be the object of an enemy's attack.

Next day was meeting-day, and as Jack, his father and mother, his younger brother and sister, went to the red brick meeting-house, Philadelphia was calmly basking in the sunshine of a bright May morning. As Mr. Hackett had said, most of the people looked prosperous. William Penn, the proprietor of the province of Pennsylvania, had been generous in his dealings with the settlers. Land was plentiful, and farms, with average care and cultivation, produced splendid crops. The houses in the section near the Delaware, which was the central part of town, stood in their own gardens, with carefully kept lawns and flower-beds. People gave each other friendly greetings in passing. It would have been hard to find a more peaceful-looking community.

Jack sat quietly through the meeting, and then hurried out of the meeting-house to join some other boys. A change had come over the street outside. People were hurrying along it; some were talking excitedly on the corners. Two stout men, who looked as if they rarely took any exercise, were going at a double-quick pace toward Chestnut Street.

"What are they hurrying for?" Jack asked the two other boys who had come from the meeting-house.

"I don't know," answered George Logan.

"Let's go see," said Peter Black.

The three started for Chestnut Street, a couple of squares away. As they ran along other boys and men joined them, people who were talking stopped and headed after the crowd, almost all those who had been to Meeting showed their curiosity by walking in the same direction. The quiet street was filled with bustle and noise.

There were many people at the crossing of Third and Chestnut Streets; indeed it looked as if most of Philadelphia was there. Jack caught snatches of sentences. "A messenger from down the river." ... "Word from New Castle." ... "Going to attack us." ... "The French ships":—such were some of the words.

The boys made their way through the crowd until they looked up Chestnut Street. People were flocking down there too. Jack didn't know there were so many people in the town as he saw in the streets. Then out from Fourth Street rode three men on horseback and came down Chestnut toward the thickest of the crowd. The riders were Governor Evans, his secretary, and Charles Hackett.

The governor reined up and held out his gloved hand to silence the babel of voices. "I have news for you!" he cried. The crowd quieted. "A messenger has come from New Castle with word that a French squadron is sailing up the Delaware! They have chased two English ships up the bay! Their crews landed at Lewes, burned the town, plundered and pillaged, and carried off prisoners and cattle! To arms, lest we share the same fate! To arms, to defend our homes and families! Get your arms and make ready to obey the orders I shall issue later!" He drew his sword and pointed it toward the Delaware. "Let us show the enemy we are ready for him!"

There was a moment's silence, then a few shouts, then the crowd began to make away by the side-streets, talking excitedly, gesticulating, very much startled at the governor's news. They knew that the English and Dutch settlements along the Atlantic Ocean had often had to defend themselves against enemies, both white and red, but here in Pennsylvania there had practically been no need of defense; they had always been on good terms with their Indian neighbors, and no other enemies had appeared. Now the French privateers meant to treat their town as they had already treated Lewes. Burn, plunder, and pillage! There was no good reason for such an attack. They had done nothing to harm the French. They couldn't understand why any one should wish to make war on them when they were such peaceable people, always strictly minding their own business. Yet there were the governor's words that the French frigates were sailing up the Delaware, and word had already reached the town through other channels telling of the attack on Lewes, though the other reports hadn't made the matter out as bad as had the governor's messenger. Well, it looked as though, Quakers or not, they would have to do as Governor Evans bade.

Jack ran all the way home. Everywhere people were telling each other the news. Even in front of the meeting-house there was an excited group. Philadelphia was no longer peaceful; there was an entirely new thrill in the air.

Jack's family had not yet returned. He hurried into the house, and up to the attic where his father's musket hung on the wall. He took it down, he found a powder-horn in a chest, he pulled out a sword from behind some boxes in a corner. With musket and sword and powder-horn in his arms he went down-stairs. The family were just coming in from the street. He held out sword and musket. "Here are our arms, father!" he exclaimed.

Mr. Felton could not help smiling at the excited face of his son. "You don't intend to be caught napping, do you, Jack?" said he. "Well, I don't think the French will attack us before dinner. You'd better put the weapons away for a while."

II

There were not many people in Philadelphia who took the governor's call to arms as lightly as did Mr. Felton. Most of them were scared half out of their wits, and pictured to themselves the French raiders marching into their houses and carrying off all their valuables, to say nothing of ill-treating themselves. They did not stop to consider that the men of Philadelphia must greatly outnumber the raiders, and that, properly armed, they ought to have little trouble in keeping the enemy at bay. All they appeared to think of was that the enemy were fierce, fighting men, and that they must hand over their precious household goods at the pirates' demand.

Many households had no firearms at all, for the province had had small need of them. But even where there were muskets the men seemed very little disposed to make them ready for use. The Quakers didn't want to fight, that was the long and short of it. Wherever men did get out their muskets and prepare to obey the governor's summons to defense they were in almost all cases men who were not Quakers. But the Quakers did not intend to hand over their valuables if they could possibly help it.

Some bundled their silver and other prized possessions into carriages and wagons and drove their families out into the country, far from the Delaware. They took shelter in farmhouses and even in barns, intending to stay there until the French frigates should have come and gone. Others simply took their possessions out of town and hid them in the woods, returning to their homes in town. Every one seemed to be busy hiding whatever they could; much more concerned about that than about preparing for defense, as Governor Evans wanted.

Though his father was inclined to go slowly both in arming and in hiding their valuables, Jack Felton was not. The boy who lived in the next house, Peter Black, had a talk with Jack right after dinner. Peter Black's mother was a widow, and Peter felt that it was his duty to save the family heirlooms, as he saw the neighbors planning to save theirs. So Peter and Jack hurried out into the country north of Philadelphia. Since the French ships would come from the south they thought the northern country would be the safer. Their road took them by Gregory Diggs' shop, on the outskirts of town, and they stopped there for a few minutes.

The little shoemaker had his gun lying on the table. "Well, Master Jack," he said, grinning, "I hear the governor's given the alarm. I got out my gun so as not to disappoint Mr. Hackett if he comes along."

"We're going to look for a good place to hide things," said Jack. "What are you going to do with the things in your house?"

Gregory looked round his shop, at the unplastered walls, the plain, home-made furniture, the few pots and pans that stood near his hearth. "I don't think there's much here for me to hide," said he. "The French can take all my goods if they want to. I could make boots out under a tree if they care to burn my house. You see that's one of the advantages of being poor, you don't lose any sleep thinking about robbers."

"Peter's mother has a lot of things the raiders might take," explained Jack. "Do you know a good hiding-place?"

"There's a place up in the woods, along a creek, that ought to be pretty safe," said Gregory. "I'll go along to show you."

Shouldering his musket, which seemed to be his one valuable possession, the shoemaker led the two boys along the road to the woods. There he took a path that presently brought them to a little stream. The banks were covered with violets right down to the water's edge. "There's a cave in the bank a little farther up-stream," he said. "I'll show you some stepping-stones."

They crossed by the stones and found the place where the bank revealed an opening. It was quite large enough to hold all that Peter wanted to stow away. "I'll make a door so no one will suspect it's there," said Gregory.

He took out his knife, and hunting among the trees found several where the bark was covered with gray-green lichens. Stripping off these pieces of bark he brought them back to the cave. Then he took some narrow strips of leather from his pocket, such strips as shoemakers use for lacing, and making eyelets near the edges of the bark, he fastened them together with the lacings. This made a bark cover more than big enough to close the opening in the bank. Gregory set it in place, then trimmed the edges so that it fitted neatly. He dug up some of the clumps of violets and replanted them at the base of the bark door. "Now I'll defy any one to find that cave," he said. "It's the safest hiding-place in the province of Pennsylvania."

"I'll mark a couple of trees so I can find it again," said Peter. With his knife he cut some notches in a couple of willows that bordered the stream. As they went back through the woods both boys noted the trail carefully, so that they might readily find it another time.

On the road wagons and carriages passed them, people flying out of town through fear of the enemy. The shoemaker, his musket perched on his shoulder, in spite of his small size was the most martial figure to be seen. "I'm afraid our good folk are more bent on hiding than on fighting," Gregory said with a chuckle. "Well, perhaps I'd be the same if I had something to hide."

"Do you think Mr. Hackett was right about our people not being ready to fight?" Jack asked.

"I think it looks very much that way," said Gregory. "I've seen a lot of people on this road to-day, but not one with a gun."

Leaving Gregory at his house, Jack and Peter walked east to the river and followed the foot-path along the Delaware. Skiffs, filled with household goods, were being rowed up-stream. Families were seeking refuge in the country north of town. Men and boys along the shore were calling words of advice or derision to the rivercraft. At one place a man was shouting, "There's the French frigates coming up on the Jersey side!" The rowers paddled faster, glancing back over their shoulders to see if the alarm was true. The man who had shouted and the others within hearing on the bank laughed at the rowers. The only boats on the Delaware appeared to be those manned by frightened householders.

"Nobody's doing anything to build defenses in case the French frigates do come," said Jack. And indeed there was not a sign of defense anywhere along the shore. If the frigates came they could fire at Philadelphia without an answering shot.

When they reached the center of the town the boys found the same confusion. People were talking on street-corners; some were reading the notices that Governor Evans had posted, calling on the men to meet him next day with arms and ammunition. He stated that he wanted to organize a well-equipped militia in case there should be any need of defense. But the boys heard none speak with enthusiasm of the governor's plan.

When he got home Jack told his father what he and Peter had done. "Would you like me to take some of our things there too?" he asked. "I'm sure no one could possibly find the place."

"No," said Mr. Felton, "I think we'll keep our things in our own house. I'm not going to be driven into hiding just because of a rumor." Even Mr. Felton, intelligent man though he was, did not seem inclined to look with favor on the notion of armed defense.

After supper Jack saw the man who lived across the street putting some boxes into a cart before his door. Jack watched him cord and strap the boxes in the cart. "I'm taking my wife and baby into the country for a few days," the neighbor explained.

"And you're coming back yourself?" Jack asked.

"I don't think so." The neighbor shook his head. "I'm not a fighting man; I don't believe in shedding blood. I'm sure no good Quaker could approve of warfare. I'll stay away till the town's quiet again."

"But suppose the French take the town and hold on to it," said Jack. "Perhaps you couldn't get your house again."

"Well, there's plenty of country for us all," answered the other.

"I suppose you're right," said Jack. "Most people seem to think as you do. But somehow I can't understand how so many people are willing to give in to so few. Aren't our men in Philadelphia as big and strong as the Frenchmen?"

"Why yes, of course they are, Jack. But the French come with firearms, and we don't approve of firearms. We'd be glad to reason with them, if they'd listen to us. But men with guns don't generally want to listen to reason."

"And because they won't listen we run away," said Jack. "I can't understand that."

"You will when you're older," said the man, and went indoors for another box.

Jack went to Peter Black's, and helped him put his mother's silverware and valuables, securely tied in a sack, into a small hand-cart. Together the boys pushed the cart through the town and in the direction of the hiding-place. They secreted the sack in the cave beside the brook, and trundled the cart back to Gregory's shop. The night was fair and warm, and the shoemaker was sitting outside his house. "The town must be pretty empty by now," he said. "I've seen so many people hurrying away. Soon there'll be nothing left there but the governor and some stray cats and dogs. All our good citizens seem to prefer to spend the spring in the country."

"Come down to the Delaware with us, Mr. Diggs," urged Jack. "We wanted to leave Peter's cart here and go back by the river. It's fine at night."

"I know what you want," said Gregory, nodding very wisely. "You want to catch the first sight of the French frigates. Very well, I'll go along with you. Only you must let me get my pistol. I'm not going to be caught unarmed by the enemy."

The shoemaker, his pistol stuck in his belt, and the two boys struck across for the river. The sky was full of stars, and when they reached the bank they could easily make out the low-lying Jersey shore across the Delaware. All shipping, except a few small skiffs, had disappeared. "The big boats have run before the storm," said Gregory, "and the little ones are ready to make for the creeks at the first alarm. The French won't find any shipping here at any rate."

They went along the shore until they came to the southern end of the town. Even on the wharves there were very few men. "I think we'll have to be the lookouts," said Gregory, with a chuckle. "Here's a pile of logs. Let's sit here and watch for the frigates."

Down the three sat, the little shoemaker in the middle. "I think," said Jack thoughtfully, "that you're the only person in town who'd want to fight the enemy, unless perhaps Governor Evans would. I think I'd hate to run away as soon as we saw his ships. Wouldn't you hate to, Peter?"

"Now we've hid those things," said Peter, "I'd like to stay and see the fun."

"Of course you would," agreed Gregory. "I'll tell you how it is, my lads. There aren't many adventurers in this sober town of ours, only a few boys and an old shoemaker."

Jack glanced at the little man, and caught the glint of starlight on the barrel of his pistol. "I shouldn't think you'd care for adventures as much as some other people would,—well, as my father would or the man who lives across the street from us."

Gregory clapped his hand on Jack's knee. "That's just the puzzle of it," he said. "You never can tell who are the real adventurers. Most boys are; but when they grow up they forget the taste and smell of adventure. They don't want to think of any pirates stealing up the Delaware. They don't want to have any pirates anywhere."

"I like pirates," announced Peter.

"Of course you do," said Gregory, clapping his free hand on Peter's knee. "So do I. I like to think there's a chance of those frigates pointing up the river any minute. But most of the people in town would say I was mad if I told them that. They'd say it was because I hadn't anything to lose. It's riches that make folks cautious."

"I see a light down there!" exclaimed Peter, pointing down the shore.

All three jumped up and peered through the darkness. The light proved to be a lantern in the bow of a small skiff skirting the bank. "That's not the frigates," said Gregory. "I almost hoped it was. Well, I don't suppose the safety of Philadelphia depends on our keeping watch any longer to-night. It's getting late. Come on, my brave adventurers."

Back to town they went, and said good-night to Gregory. As Jack passed the governor's house he saw a familiar figure standing at the front gate. The stout Mr. Hackett likewise recognized Jack. "So you've not fled from town like the rest?" said the man from Maryland. "The governor's called the men to meet him to-morrow in the field on Locust Street; but I misdoubt if there'll be many left to join him."

"There's one who will be there," answered Jack, pointing down the street after Gregory.

"Who's that?" inquired Mr. Hackett.

"Gregory Diggs, the shoemaker. He's got a gun and a pistol, and he won't run away."

"The little shoemaker?" said Mr. Hackett. "So he's a fighting man, is he? I've always liked him, but I didn't know he had so much spirit."

"He's a real adventurer," declared Jack. "He thinks it may be because he's poor and hasn't any family; but I don't think that's it. I think he couldn't help being that way anyhow. I want to be like him when I grow up."

"Good for you!" exclaimed Mr. Hackett. "Then I suppose we may count on having you at the governor's muster to-morrow."

"I'll be there," said Jack. "I'm big enough to handle a gun."

"I'll be there too," put in Peter, who had been listening to the talk with the greatest interest.

"Good enough," said Mr. Hackett. "Gregory and you boys ought to put some of these smug people to shame. I'll look for you at the meeting in the morning."

III

Jack and Peter were at the meeting-place on Locust Street next morning, although each only brought a heavy stick as his weapon of defense. Jack's father had refused to let his son have the musket, saying that he would be much more apt to harm himself with it than to injure an enemy. Mrs. Black had not only forbidden Peter to handle anything that would shoot, but had intimated that she thought Governor Evans and all the people who went to his militia meeting were behaving much more like savages than like good Christians. So the boys had to put up with the hickory sticks for weapons, though each carried a sling and a pocketful of pebbles, which might be useful for long-distance fighting.

Gregory was there with his gun, and the three friends stood under the shade of a maple and waited for the rest of the volunteer army to appear. A few men and boys were lounging out in the road, apparently more interested in watching what was going to happen than in taking part in it. "Where are our gallant soldiers?" said Gregory, with a grin.

Jack counted the men who had come, with their muskets, into the field. "Six besides us," he announced.

"That'll make a good-sized army," said Gregory, a twinkle in his eye.

There were only the six others at the meeting-place when Governor Evans, his secretary, and Mr. Hackett arrived. The governor looked disgusted. He muttered to his two companions. Then he beckoned the seven men and the two boys toward him. "So this is Philadelphia's volunteer militia, is it?" he said. "These are the troops I could count on to defend our homes from an enemy?" Then his angry brow softened. "I don't blame you, my good friends. You are doing your best. But I shouldn't like to express my opinion of your fellow-townsfolk."