True to his word, General Putnam sent George Prentiss a handful of gold coins next morning and George, toward noon, engaged a horse of the landlord which he promised to send back by a wagoner on the day following. Mounting, he set out up Broadway, turned into the Bloomingdale Road, and then along the Hudson until he came to the sharp turn to the right which brought him into the Kingsbridge Road not far from Burdett’s Ferry. Directly ahead, Harlem Heights bulked densely; to the east could be seen the wooded sides of Mt. Morris, while from the high shoulder of the road, an occasional glint was to be had of the Harlem River as it slipped along toward the Sound.

The young man drew up his horse at this point and looked about him.

“The reports placed the ‘Wheat Sheaf’ at no great distance from here,” said he to himself. “And as it’s wearing toward evening I may as well take my dinner there.”

As he sat his horse he heard the ring of a hammer striking hearty blows upon an anvil; then a sledge joined in and a clangor of sound swept upward. George shook the rein, and about fifty yards further on, in a sheltered spot a little back from the road, he came upon a small smithy.

George dismounted and stood watching the smith and his assistant for a space; then the iron was apparently beaten into its true shape, for it was laid aside and the two stood mopping their faces with damp towels.

“Good-day,” greeted George.

“The top of it to yourself, sure,” returned the smith, who was a freckled Irishman with fiery red hair and a droll look.

“That seemed like a hard task,” commented the young man, coming nearer.

“Why, then,” returned the smith, “it’s little else we’re getting nowadays. Since they’ve took to fighting all about the place, sorra the bit of work do we get but bayonets, swords as long as your arm and bits like this,” with a jerk of his thumb toward the still glowing forging, “for the big guns.”

The apprentice, a huge limbed youth with a small, sloping head, was observing young Prentiss’s shoulder belt with its heavy hanger, and the pistol butt that protruded from a holster.

“Are you in General Putnam’s army?” asked he, all agape.

“No,” replied George, truthfully. “I am not.”

“Small blame to him for asking you that,” said the Irish smith, “for it’s few that go by now but Putnam’s sogers—or the other sort.”

“The other sort!” echoed George, catching at this instantly. “What do you mean?”

“Are you for the king or for Congress?” asked the smith.

“For Congress,” returned George, promptly.

The other came forward and extended a brawny fist.

“Good luck to you, for you’re the right stripe,” said he smiling broadly. “It’s meself that knows but little about the Congress beyant there and what they do be about; but I’m hand and foot with them against the Sassenach, no matter what it is.”

George laughed at this frank declaration of purpose; but instantly came back to the matter of interest.

“The ‘other sort’ I suppose are Tories?” said he.

The smith nodded. “Faith,” spoke he, “they’re fair pisonous with the venom that’s in them; and hereabouts they do be as thick as the gnats in the swamps.”

“But the army being in possession prevents them being at all dangerous,” said George.

The other shook his head. “The army can do nothing against such as these,” said he. “You might as well put that horse of yours, there, to catching a mole. Sorra the sound do they make, and never a sight of themselves do they give any one.”

“But,” and George smiled a little, “it would seem that you have both heard and seen them at some time or other.”

The Irishman laughed loudly at this remark. “Why, then,” said he, “you’re the shrewd felly entirely. But you’re right,” and here he lowered his voice. “You’re right. I see more than some; and be the same token, I hear more than most.”

He nodded mysteriously. As there appeared to be something gained by it, George slipped from his mount, tied it by the door and entered the smithy. Leaning against a broken gun carriage, he began slowly drawing off his gauntlets.

“I have heard a great deal, in one way and another, of the plots of the Loyalists,” said he with an air of doubt, “but to be entirely candid, I have seen scarcely anything in the way of proof.”

“Proof!” said the smith, with energy; “it’s proof ye want, is it, me lad? Oh, well! them that have it could supply plenty of it.”

“Why don’t they come forward with it, then?” demanded young Prentiss, bluntly. “Why hide it?”

“Perhaps,” said the other, “they have small bits of childer and are not wantin’ the houses burnt over their heads.”

“It’s fear, then, that stops their mouths,” stated George. “They are afraid of the king’s men!”

He had calculated well; the Celtic ire of the smith began to rise; his big fists doubled up; his freckled face began to flame.

“Afraid, is it!” cried he. “Afraid! If you knew them you wouldn’t say that. When you live in a lonely place, my lad, and have desperate enemies with revenge in their hearts again’ you, you must take care. And when wife and childer are depending upon the man for the bite and the sup, he thinks twice before he puts himself in danger.”

“But how is one to know that there is real danger?” said George. “It may be that it has no existence save in the mind of the person who dreads it.”

This exasperated the blacksmith. He had been holding himself in check with great effort, but now he burst out:

“Bad luck to ye, is it imagining it all that you think I’ve been doing? Is it imagination, me son, when a man sees them with his two eyes——” Here he caught sight of the apprentice, standing with his head thrust forward and his mouth agape. “And have you nothing at all to do, Peter?” he demanded, sharply. “Away with you to Van Tile’s and fetch the horse that he wants shod. Stir yourself, now, or it’ll be dark again’ you get back.”

Vastly disappointed, the apprentice took off his leather apron and departed on his errand. Then the smith gave his attention to George once more.

“He’s a good, hard-working lad,” said he, “but he’s not over bright in some things, and lets his tongue run too free when he shouldn’t.”

He poked his fire and threw on more fuel; then seating himself upon the anvil, he went on:

“People do imagine a good many things,” nodding wisely. “I’ve listened to them myself many a time. But is it imagination when a man comes in the night, calls you to the door, and you wide awake, pokes a lantern in your face with one hand and a pistol with the other and bids you hold your peace?”

“Did that happen to you?”

“To no one else. And why? Because I knew more than it was thought fitting I should know. Because I had seen things. Because I had heard things. Because if I told the half of it, I’d be putting ropes about the necks of a dozen or more.”

“I WALKED INTO A NEST
OF KING’S MEN”

George laughed. “More than likely it was some sort of a rough joke that your visitor was enjoying at your expense,” said he.

Again the ire of the smith began to mount.

“Joke?” cried he. “Joke, is it? You know nothing of me, me lad, or you’d be sure no man would play the merry Andrew in that style with me. And maybe you think,” here he pointed one challenging finger at George, “that it was a joke that I see carried on that same night, only a bit earlier, at the ‘Wheat Sheaf’?”

“What was that?” asked George, allowing quite a tone of scepticism to creep into his voice.

The Celt recognized the doubtful tone, and the warmth of his manner increased.

“I made a bit of a mistake that night,” spoke he, trying to keep from flying into a rage. “I opened the door to one of the private rooms and walked into a nest of king’s men, up to their eyes in plotting. And that was not all—in the midst of them was some one that’s supposed to wear an entirely different kind of a coat.”

“You mean,” said George, eagerly, “that you saw engaged with the Tories one who is known as a patriot?”

The interest in his voice was too plain to escape the smith; instantly the man’s heat vanished; all his excited desire to show that he had real cause to fear the anger of the conspirators disappeared.

“What I mean,” said he, in a greatly altered voice, and as he spoke his eyes were full of suspicion, “is no matter. I saw what I saw; and if anybody wants to know the meaning of it or the particulars of it, let him search them out for himself.”

“But,” demanded young Prentiss, “do you really mean to keep important facts from the authorities?”

“I mean to try and keep a roof over my head, and life in my body,” said the smith, thrusting a bar of iron into the fire and beginning to blow the coals into a higher red. “It’s all very well for those in the town to speak out boldly; but this is a lonely place; and as I said before, a man with a wife and childer can’t run himself into danger.”

The return of the apprentice, leading a plow horse by the bridle, put an end to the talk. So George mounted and, gathering up his reins, said:

“The ‘Wheat Sheaf’ is not very far away, I believe?”

“A matter of a half mile,” answered the mechanic.

“I’ll dine there, like as not,” said George. And then he added, with a laugh: “Perhaps it will be as well for me to keep my eyes open also; I may see something upon my own account.”

Then he waved his hand in a good-bye and set off along the road once more. The patriot batteries mounted upon the Heights were in view through the dusk when he sighted the “Wheat Sheaf,” which was a large rambling structure with a veranda upon two sides of it and a great number of small-paned windows through which the lights were already beginning to glint.

No one was visible, and George called loudly as he pulled up at the door:

“Ho, the house! Landlord!”

From somewhere in the rear, a sharp-faced woman made her appearance. She was very tall and angular, her movements were awkward, and when she spoke her voice was high.

“Hoighty toity!” she cried, “and must we make all this noise at a decent inn? What is your wish, young man?”

“I’ll have some one take my horse, mistress,” replied George, “and I desire him rubbed and given a good feed of clean grain.”

The woman turned toward the barn and called shrilly:

“Job!”

She had repeated the cry several times before there was any response; then a man came out of the barn, rubbing his eyes and shuffling his feet.

“You’ve been asleep again,” charged the woman. “You are the most idle, good-for-nothing rascal in Harlem, I really believe.”

The man blinked ill-humoredly. “Fair words, Mistress Trout,” spoke he. “They go farther than the other sort.”

“Don’t answer me back, you wretch,” cried Mistress Trout. “Don’t do it. And you’d better mend your ways, sir, or I’ll turn you off; and you’ll have a time of it getting another situation, I promise you.”

George dismounted and gave his horse to the hostler.

“I hope,” said he politely to the woman, “that I am not putting you about; but I’d like a snack of something, if I’m not too late.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Mistress Trout, “traffic hereabouts is not so great that we have all the victuals bespoke.” Then turning to the hostler, who was yawning behind his hand, she cried sharply: “Well, and are you going to see to the gentleman’s horse, blockhead? Or do you mean to fall asleep as you stand?”

“A man must have sleep some time,” growled Job, as he took the nag by the bridle. “If I’m kept up at night, mistress, by people that go and come at all hours, it’s little to be wondered at if I try to catch a wink or two by daylight.”

The landlady of the “Wheat Sheaf” gave him a look full of anger.

“That will do,” said she. “You have said quite enough. Now, be off and attend to your work.”

Grumbling, the man led the horse toward the barn; and George followed Mistress Trout into the inn. The public room into which he was shown was huge and square and furnished with heavy tables, settles and high-backed chairs. There was a brick fireplace at one side; the evening was a crisp one with a breeze that rattled the many window frames, and in consequence a heap of billets crackled on the fire-dogs.

“You have it snug enough here,” observed George with satisfaction, as he hung his hat upon a peg and began to remove his gloves. “Facing the spring wind makes a small fire seem a most comfortable thing, indeed.”

“And a pretty penny it runs into for cut wood,” objected the landlady. “But what is a tavern-keeper to do when people come in and hector and bully?”

There came an impatient creaking of a settle near the fire; a head lifted up from a leather cushion, and a voice demanded:

“Am I not paying for all I get, madam? Is the fire-wood not included? No, don’t say anything,” and the speaker gestured impatiently; “put it in the bill, and don’t worry me with your conversation.”

Mistress Trout tossed her head at this, and after receiving George’s order, left the apartment with a wrathful countenance.

Curiously, George approached the fire; holding his hands out to the blaze, he looked into the upturned face, and to his surprise recognized the heavy brows and sullen expression of Lieutenant Camp. As he was still surprisedly gazing into the young man’s face, the eyes opened; seeing himself closely observed, the latter sat up instantly.

“Hello,” said he, rather roughly. “What brings you here?”

“The fire, latterly,” smiled George, still holding his hands extended over the blaze. “But the prospect of a hot supper, mainly.”

The heavy brows of the young man upon the settle gathered in a frown; his eyes searched George’s face with a peculiar look.

“It seems to me that I’ve seen you before,” said he.

George nodded, but just as he was about to point out where they had met on the day before, he caught the odd look in the other’s eyes, and with a quick impulse checked himself. So he merely said:

“It is very likely.”

There was a moment’s silence; the young man upon the settle clasped one knee with his hands and studied George intently.

“You are a stranger hereabouts, I take it,” said he.

George nodded. “Yes,” was his brief reply.

Again there was a silence. Young Prentiss, without seeming to do so, examined the other as intently as he was himself being examined. And, gradually, the impression grew more and more upon him that Merchant Camp’s nephew was keying himself to say something which he considered of much importance. Several times the lieutenant bent forward and seemed upon the point of speaking; but each time he sank back, his lips still closed and an expression of indecision upon his face. At length, however, he seemed resolved to make the plunge. With voice so lowered as to be almost a whisper, he said:

“It is rumored that Washington will soon be here.”

George stared at him; so ludicrously tame did the saying seem after all the cautious hesitation that had preceded it that he almost laughed. But the expression upon Herbert Camp’s face prevented this; it was one of eager expectation—of almost painful interest. A suspicion flashed upon George; a suspicion and a fear.

“It’s a great deal like a test—a signal by which one person makes himself sure of another,” he told himself.

Instantly he was all attention. Bending his head courteously, he replied:

“I have heard the rumor myself, and think that it is true.”

This answer did not repel the other; but at the same time it did not satisfy him, either. He arose and leaning against the brick mantle began slapping at his boot leg with a riding whip.

“Which way are you traveling?” he asked.

“North,” returned George.

The face of the other grew brighter. He endeavored to assume a light manner, and laughed a little as he said:

“Perhaps you think that there will be more to interest you in that direction than in another.”

“One usually travels in the direction in which one’s interest lies,” replied young Prentiss in the same tone. “And I am like most in that.”

Herbert Camp nodded and pondered. For a few moments he stood alternately glancing at George and then toward the window; the lash of the whip continued to cut at his boot leg and to lay long welts upon the sanded floor.

“You came alone?” asked he, finally.

“Yes,” answered George.

“Isn’t it somewhat dangerous to take the north road unaccompanied?”

Young Prentiss smiled. “You did not seem to think so,” said he.

“With me it is different,” spoke the lieutenant with a meaning in his voice that George did not grasp. “But for strangers the way is unprotected. Did you meet no one upon the road?”

“No one.”

“That is strange. Though, as I said, it’s a lonely way, still one is apt to meet a peddler now and then.”

George noted a peculiar stress upon the last part of the sentence, and his mind began to cast about for its meaning. Almost instantly he caught it, and self-control alone prevented his exclaiming aloud. The papers given him to examine by General Putnam had named one Thomas Friend, a peddler, as a suspected person. Was Lieutenant Camp, in his guarded utterance, referring to this man? Like lightning George’s mind was made up; and with a calm voice and a careless manner he said:

“I came upon no peddlers to-day; but,” and he fixed his eyes steadily upon the other’s face, “peddlers are merchants of small degree, perhaps, and I had a visit yesterday from a merchant aboard ship.”

Recollection instantly swept into the lieutenant’s face; dropping his whip he brought his palms together with a smack.

“Now I remember where I saw you. It was on the wharf near ‘The Brigantine’ inn. I am glad indeed to meet you!” He seized George’s hand and shook it energetically; then he added, eagerly: “It was Dana who told you to come here?”

George nodded; he was afraid to do more, not yet being sure of his ground. Young Camp sat down upon the settle and roared with laughter.

“No wonder,” he gasped, “you didn’t grasp my meaning readily. I thought it was Tom Friend, the peddler, who was to bring you here. By Jove, how you stared and winked.”

“The owl,” said George, “does a lot of staring and blinking. And it’s reckoned a wise bird for no other reason.”

“Right!” said Lieutenant Camp. “Right! What you did, you did well. I have no fault to find with you; the only hitch has been in my misinformation. I wonder,” said he, “just how that came about?”

“Sometimes,” replied George, slowly, “it chances that old men are erratic.”

Young Camp slapped his knee.

“There!” he cried. “I never gave a thought to that; and now you mention it, I have no doubt that is what’s to blame in this case.”

Here a waiter, under the personal direction of Mistress Trout, entered bearing George’s supper, smoking hot and very savory and tempting. It was placed upon a table near the fire, which had been laid with a clean cloth, much white napery, and shining table ware. With great satisfaction, George sat down to it.

“I hope,” said he to the lieutenant, “that you’ll join me. Dining alone is sometimes a tiresome business.”

But the other gestured in the negative.

“I had just finished when you rode up,” he said. “Pray go on, and pay no attention to me in that respect.”

George did as he was bidden; and he had already made considerable inroad upon the hot dishes from Mistress Trout’s kitchen when Herbert Camp spoke again.

“I should have thought,” said the latter, “that you would have come here as soon as you got ashore.”

“As it is,” returned George, “I am hours before my time.”

“Then a time was named?”

“To-night,” said George.

The other leaned back upon the settle and shielded his face from the fire; George’s efforts upon the logs had not been without effect, for the blaze was now brisk and high; the sparks shot up the wide chimney in showers.

“At half after nine, I think,” said Lieutenant Camp.

“At nine exactly,” returned George.

The lieutenant here fell back into a long silence. He shielded his face from the heat with his hat and sat looking at the darting sparks as they leaped upward. George, as he proceeded with his dinner, watched him; the face was deeply shadowed by the upheld hat, but the young soldier’s attitude was full of meaning, the changing lights in his eyes spoke of a mind not at rest.

As he watched him George recalled old Merchant Camp’s words of the day before.

“But look you, young man,” he had said, “you are not the only one that feels the impulse of change. It has occurred to me many times of late that my will needs a bit of altering, too.”

Distinctly young Prentiss recalled the blank look that crossed Herbert Camp’s face at this saying. True, he had stammered something about a mere matter of money having no effect upon a person of honor.

“But,” was the thought that crossed George’s mind, “the protest was rather weak. ‘Change your coat, or I change my will’ was old Camp’s next saying, and the young man’s answer to this was more wavering still.”

The old Tory had also said that there still remained a few days more to effect the change he desired.

“And it would seem,” thought the young New Englander, indignantly, “that he’ll get his wish. This young man spoke of principle yesterday; it seems that he’s thought better of it to-day. Sixty thousand pounds has been too great a lure to resist; his greed was greater than his patriotism.”

However, despite his indignation, he went calmly on with his meal; and while he ate, Herbert Camp continued in the same attitude, apparently thinking deeply. Both were engaged in this way when there came a bustle from the road before the inn; glancing through the window, which was on line with his table, he saw in the light of several lanterns a queer looking man mounted upon a tall, bony horse and carrying before him a huge pack. Both Mistress Trout and the hostler, Job, had gone out to receive the newcomer, who slid awkwardly from his pad-saddle, dragging his pack along with him.

From his gestures, George saw that the man was making quite a speech regarding the caretaking of his bony nag; Job listened with great patience, and led the animal carefully to the barn when its owner had done. Then the man, staggering under the pack, followed the landlady to the inn.

Into the public room he shambled; depositing his burden in a corner he stood erect, his breath coming in deep gasps.

“Time was,” said he, “when I could have borne that load and not made half the ado.”

He was a square-built, stocky man, with thick, bowed legs and a partially bald head. He had prominent outstanding ears and tremendous hands, corded and knotted like those of a giant.

“You do very well as it is, sir,” spoke the landlady. “There’s scarce a man in Harlem that could carry so much.”

The man mopped his bald head with a yellow handkerchief and laughed. “Ah, good lady,” said he, “you’ll be seeking to get the better of me in a trade before I’m gone. Sweet words mean only one thing to a man of my business—they seek to take the place of halfpence.”

“Indeed, then,” cried Mistress Trout, “I’ll have no trading with you. I have no time to haggle, and no use for your goods.”

And with that she whisked angularly from the room, leaving the newcomer in a broad grin.

“Now,” declared he with great gusto, “is not that like a woman in every way? ‘I have no use for your goods,’ says she—and never a sight has she of what I have to offer.”

This speech he directed at George, who nodded good-naturedly; the man then put his great thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat and proceeded:

“But women folk are ever hard to trade with, sir; thirty years have I ridden these roads with a pack before me, and that is one of the things which I have learned. They have no judgment; caprice rules them; they’ll bargain for hours over a staple article of known value, and then squander their shilling without a word on trash.”

“You are harsh, I think, sir,” said George.

“Sir,” returned the peddler, “that I am not. I know them. Thirty years on the road has taught me something.” Here he approached the fire. “By your leave, sir,” said he to the lieutenant, and sat down upon an end of the settle. The lieutenant nodded curtly and gave him little direct attention. But out of the tail of his eye he observed the peddler narrowly, as George did not fail to observe.

The stranger crossed his thick, bowed legs and held his hands out to the fire with much satisfaction.

“There is still a tang in the air,” said he. “Winter is not quite gone, even yet.”

“No,” returned George, “and further north, it is colder still.”

The saying was entirely unpremeditated; but instantly he realized that it bore an apparent significance, for the peddler shot him a glance of surprise, and then coughed in a warning way behind his hand. Then, as though to cover an awkward happening, the man thrust a thumb and forefinger into his waistcoat pocket and produced a massive watch. Holding it up that George might have a good view of it, he said:

“There is a rare sight for you; I dare venture to say you don’t often see its like. The king puts no finer gold in his guineas, and the cogs and springs and balances are miracles of art.”

“It looks very fine, indeed,” praised George.

“I offer such rarities only to certain gentlemen of quality,” said the peddler; “but,” and he made a wide gesture, “things are not what they were, and I am scantily furnished with money just now.” He bent toward George. “If you fancy such a thing you shall have it at a small price.”

But George shook his head.

“Have you examined it well?” The peddler got up and stood with his broad back to the lieutenant, his head lowered toward George and his face away from the firelight. “It is a surprising watch in more ways than one. Look; could anything be finer?” So saying he snapped open the heavy case and bent still nearer to the young New Englander. Then his voice sank lower and he whispered:

“What ship?”

“The ‘Nancy Breen,’” in the same tone.

“Does the other,” and a twitch of a mouth corner indicated the lieutenant, “bear you company?”

“No.”

“Oh, very well,” said the peddler, his voice lifting plainly, and his manner that of a man rebuffed. “If you have no need of it, why, then, all’s said and done.”

So saying he stuffed the watch into his pocket, rebuttoned the flap, sat down upon his end of the settle once more and began staring fixedly into the fire.

“I suppose,” spoke Lieutenant Camp, after a few moments of silence, “that you pick up many quaint and curious things in your journeyings here and there.”

The peddler gave him no very tolerant look and replied, shortly:

“Ay, that I do, sir.” Then with a bending of his brows and a shake of his bald head, he continued: “But I always make shift to mind my own business, young sir.”

The lieutenant sat up stiff upon the settle. “Do you mean to infer that I do not, my man?” demanded he.

The peddler turned squarely upon him and looked him in the face.

“I was not aware that I called you by name, sir,” said he pointedly.

“Not having a name to call me by,” said the lieutenant, “it would be a difficult thing to do. But, perhaps, if I gave you one, you’d be more civil.”

He stooped and spoke a word or two in the ear of the peddler; and instantly the latter’s dogged look vanished.

“Well, well!” exclaimed he in friendly fashion, “who’d have dreamed it! Who’d have dreamed it!” He struck the oaken settle a resounding blow with the heel of his hand. “We’re coming on, sir; we’re coming on mightily!”

He beamed genially upon the young men, and seemed quite delighted; and just as he seemed upon the point of launching upon matters that George thought might prove most interesting, there came a clatter of hoofs from the road and the jingle of chains and military equipment. The face lost its cheerful look as a voice gave an unintelligible, grumbled order; heavy feet tramped up the path and upon the porch; then the door was flung open and a party of armed men in the colonial buff and blue thronged into the room.