The squire’s mood in the next few days was anything but genial, and his family, his servants, his farm-hands, his tenants, and in fact all whom he encountered, received a share of his spleen.

His ill-nature was not a little increased by hearing indirectly, through his overseer, that it was the elder Hennion who had planned the surprise party; and in revenge Mr. Meredith set about the scheme, already hinted at, of buying assignments of the mortgages on Boxley. For this purpose he announced his intention of journeying to New York, and ordered Philemon to be his travelling companion that he might have the advantage of his knowledge of the holders of the elder Hennion’s bonds. The would-be son-in-law at first objected to being made a cat’s-paw, but the squire was obstinate, and after a night upon it, Phil acceded. No other difficulty was found in the attainment of Mr. Meredith’s purpose, the money-lenders in New York being only too glad, in the growing insecurity and general suspension of law, to turn their investments into cash. It was a task of some weeks to gather them all in, but it was one of the keenest enjoyment to the squire, who each evening, over his mulled wine in the King’s Arms Tavern, pictured and repictured the moment of triumph, when, with the growing bundle of mortgages completed, he should ride to Boxley and inform its occupant that he wished them paid.

“We’ll show the old fox that he’s got a ferret, not a goose, to deal with,” he said a dozen times to Phil,—a speech which always made the latter look very uneasy, as if his conscience were pricking.

This absence of father and lover gave Janice a really restful breathing space, and it was the least eventful time the girl had known since the advent of the bondsman nearly a year before. Even he almost dropped out of the girl’s life, for the farm-work was now at its highest point of activity, and he was little about house or stable. Furthermore, though twenty thousand minutemen and volunteers were gathered before Boston, though the thirteen colonies were aflame with war preparations, and though the Continental Congress was voting a declaration on taking up arms and appointing a general, nothing but vague report of all this reached Greenwood.

In Brunswick, however, Dame Rumour was more precise, and one afternoon as the bondsman rode into the town, with some horses that needed shoeing, he was hailed by the tavern-keeper.

“Say! Folks tells that yer know how tew paint a bit?” And, when Charles nodded, he continued: “Waal, we’ve hearn word that the Congress has appinted a feller named George Washington fer ginral, who ’s goin’ tew come through here tew-morrer on his way tew Boston, an’ I want tew git that ere name painted out and his’n put in its place. Are yer up tew it, and what ’ud the job tax me?” As the publican spoke he pointed at the lettering below the weather-beaten portrait of George the Third, which served as the signboard of the tavern.

“Get me some colours, and bide till I leave these horses at the smith’s, and I’ll do it for nothing,” said Charles, smiling; and ten minutes later, sitting on a barrel set in a cart, he was doing his share toward the obliteration of kinghood and the substitution of a comparatively unknown hero.

“’T is good luck that they both is called George,” remarked the tavern-keeper; “fer yer’ve only got tew paint out the ‘King’ an’ put in a ‘Gen.’ in the first part, which saves trouble right tew begin on.”

Charles smilingly adopted the suggestion, and then measured off “the III.” “’T is a long name to get into such space,” he said.

“Scant it is,” assented the publican. “I’ll tell yer what. Jist leave the ‘the’ an’ paint in ‘good’ after it. That’ll make it read slick.” Pleased with this solution of the difficulty, the hotel-keeper retired to the “public,” with a parting invitation to the painter to drink something for his trouble.

While Charles was doing the additional work, he was interrupted by a roar of laughter, and, twisting about on his barrel, he found a group of horsemen, who had come across the green and drawn rein just behind him, looking at the newly lettered sign. From the one of the three who rode first came the burst of laughter—a man of medium size and thinly built, perhaps fifty years of age, with a nose so out of proportion to his face, in its size and heaviness, that it came near enough to caricature to practically submerge all his other features. The second man was evidently trying not to smile, and as Charles glanced at him, he found him looking at the third of the trio, as if to ascertain his mood. This last, a man of extreme tallness, and in appearance by far the youngest of the group—for he looked not over thirty at most—was scrutinising the signboard gravely, but his eyes had a gleam of merriment in them, which neutralised the set firmness of the mouth. All the party were in uniform, save for a couple of servants in livery, and all were well mounted.

“Haw, haw, haw!” laughed the noisy one. “Pray God mine host be not as chary with his spit as he is with his paint or ’t will be lean entertainment.”

“I said ’t was best to make a push for ’t to Amboy,” remarked the second.

“Nay, gentlemen,” responded the third, smiling pleasantly. “A man so prudent and economical must keep a good ordinary. Better bide here for dinner and kill a warm afternoon, and then push on to Amboy, in the cool of the evening, with rested cattle.”

“Within there!” shouted the noisy rider, “hast dinner and bait for a dozen travellers?”

The call brought the publican to the door, and at first he gasped a startled “By Jingo!” Then he jerked his cap off, and ducked very low, saying: “’T was said, yer—yer—Lordship, that yer ’d not come till the morrow. But if yer’ll honour my tavern, yer shall have the bestest in the house.” He kept bowing between every word to the man with the big nose.

“Then here we tarry for dinner,” said the young-looking man, gracefully swinging himself out of the saddle, a proceeding imitated by all the riders. “Take good heed of the horses, Bill,” he said, as a coloured servant came forward. “Wash Blueskin’s nose and let him cool somewhat before watering him.” He turned toward the door of the tavern, and this bringing Charles into vision again, he looked up at the painter to find himself being studied with so intent a gaze that he halted and returned the man’s stare.

“Art struck of a heap by the resemblance?” demanded the noisy officer.

“Go in, gentlemen,” replied the tall one. “Well, my man,” he continued to Charles, “ye change figureheads easily.”

“Ay, ’t is easier to get new figureheads than ’t is to be true to old ones.”

A grave, almost stern look came into the officer’s face, making it at once that of an older man. “Then ye think the old order best?” he asked, scanning the man with his steady blue eyes.

The bondsman put his hand on the signboard. “’T is safest to stick to an old figurehead until one can find a true leader,” he answered.

“And think you he is one?” demanded the officer, pointing at the signboard.

Charles laughed and laid a finger on the chin of royalty. “No man with so little of that was ever a leader,” he asserted. He reached down and picked up a different pot of paint from the one he had been using, dipped his brush in it, and with one sweep over the lower part of the face cleverly produced a chin of character. Then he took another colour and gave three or four deft touches to the lips, transforming the expressionless mouth into a larger one, but giving to it both strength and expression. “There is a beginning of a leader, I think,” he said.

“Thou art quick with thy brush and quick with thy eyes,” replied the man, smiling slightly and starting to go. In the doorway he turned and said with a sudden gravity, quite as much to himself as to the bondsman: “Please God that thou be as true in opinion.”

Left alone, the bondsman once more took his brush and broadened and strengthened the nose and forehead. Just as he had completed these, the tavern-keeper came bustling out of the door. “Wilt seek Joe Bagby an’ tell him tew git the Invincibles tewgether?” he cried. “He intended tew review ‘em tew-morrer fer the ginral, an’ their Lordships says they’ll see ’em go through—Why, strap me, man, what hast thou been at?”

“I’ve been making it a better portrait of the general than it ever was of the king.”

“But yer’ve drawn the wrong man!” exclaimed the publican. “That quiet young man is not him. ’T is the heavy-nosed man is his Excellency.”

“Nonsense!” retorted the bondsman. “That loud-voiced fellow is Leftenant-Colonel Lee, a half-pay officer. Many and many ’s the time I’ve seen him—and if I had n’t, I’d have known the other for the general in a hundred.”

“I tell yer yer’re wrong,” moaned the hotel-keeper. “Any one can see he’s a ginral, an’ ’t is he gives all the orders fer victuals an’ grog.”

Charles laughed as he descended from the barrel and the cart. “’T is ever the worst wheel in the cart which makes the most noise,” he said, and walked away.

Two hours later the Invincibles were bunched upon the green. As the diners issued from the inn, Bagby gave an order. With some slight confusion the company fell in, and two more orders brought their guns to “present arms.”

“Bravo!” exclaimed Lee. “Here are some yokels who for once don’t hold their guns as if they were hoes.”

Joe, fairly swelling with the pride of the moment, came strutting forward. When he was within ten feet of the officers he took off his hat and bowed very low. “The Invincibles is ready to be put through their paces, your honour,” he announced.

“Damme!” sneered Lee, below his breath. “Here ’s a mohair in command who does n’t so much as know the salute.”

The tall officer, despite his six feet and three inches of height, swung himself lightly into the saddle without using a stirrup, and rode forward.

“Proceed with the review, sir,” he said to Joe.

“Yes, sir—that is, I mean—your honour,” replied Joe; and, turning, he roared out, “Get ready to go on, fellows. Attention! Dress

Instant disorder was visible in the ranks, some doing one thing, and some another, while a man stepped forward three or four steps and shouted: “Yer fergot ter git the muskets back ter the first persition, Joe.”

“Get into line, durn you!” shouted Joe; “an’ I’ll have something to say to you later, Zerubbabel Buntling.”

“O Lord!” muttered Lee to the other officers, most of whom were laughing. “And they expect us to beat regulars with such!”

“Attention!” once more called Joe. “To the right face— no—I mean, shoulder firelocks first off. Now to the left face.” But by this time he was so confused that his voice sank as he spoke the last words, and so some faced right and some left; while altercations at once arose in the ranks that broke the alignment into a number of disputing groups and set the captain to swearing.

“Come,” shouted one soldier, “cut it, Joe, an’ let Charles take yer place. Yer only mixes us up.”

The suggestion was greeted by numerous, if various, assenting opinions from the ranks, and without so much as waiting to hear Bagby’s reply, Charles sprang forward. Giving the salute to the mounted officers, he wheeled about, and, with two orders, had the lines in formation, after which the manoeuvres were gone through quickly and comparatively smoothly.

The reviewing officer had not laughed during the confusion, watching it with a sternly anxious face, but as the drill proceeded this look changed, and when the parade was finished, he rode forward and saluted the Invincibles. “Gentlemen,” he said, “if you but conduct yourselves with the same steadiness in the face of the enemy as you have this afternoon, your country will have little to ask of you and much to owe.” He turned to Joe, standing shamefaced at one side, and continued: “You are to be complimented on your company, sir. ’T is far and away the best I have seen since I left Virginia.”

“And that is n’t all, your honour,” replied Joe, his face brightening and his self-importance evidently restored. “We are a forehanded lot, and we’ve got twenty half-barrels of powder laid in against trouble.”

After a few more words with Bagby, which put a pleased smile on his face, the officer wheeled his horse. “Well, gentlemen, we’ll proceed,” he called to the group; and, as they were mounting, he rode to where Charles stood. “You have served?” he said.

Charles, with the old sullen look upon his face, saluted, and replied bitterly: “Yes, general, and would give an eye to be in the ranks again.”

The general looked at him steadily. “If ye served in the ranks, how comes it that ye give the officer’s salute?” he asked.

Charles flushed, but met the scrutinising eye to eye, as he answered: “None know it here, but I held his Majesty’s commission for seven years.”

“You look o’er young to have done that,” said the general.

“I was made a cornet at twelve.”

“How comes it that you are here?”

“My own folly,” muttered the man.

“’T is a pity thou ’rt indentured, for we have crying need of trained men. But do what you can hereabouts, since you are not free to join us.”

“I will, general,” said Charles, eagerly, and, as the officer wheeled his horse, he once more saluted. Then as the travellers rode toward the bridge, the bondsman walked over and looked up at his crude likeness of the general.

“Yer wuz right,” remarked the innkeeper. “The young-lookin’ feller wuz Ginral Washington.”

“Ay,” exclaimed the man; “and, mark me, if a face goes for aught, he’s general enough to beat Gage—and that the man paused, and then added: “that sluggard Howe. And would to God I could help in it!”