When George Prentiss stepped aboard the shallop once more he found the master and crew of one awaiting him in high admiration.

“Well, lad,” cried the former, in a tone of satisfaction, “you can manage yourself as trimly as any craft of your tonnage that I ever clapped an eye on. Give me your fist!

“I was surprised,” he added, “to see you go over the side to the rescue of that scolding old fellow. A lad that’s exchanged shots with the British at Boston, as I have no doubt you have done, could hardly be expected to take up the quarrel of a Tory in New York.”

“As it happens,” said young Prentiss, gravely, “Mr. Camp is a sort of connection of mine. The girl you saw just now and the young militia officer are my cousins, though, indeed, I never saw them before. In a time like this families are divided—some members of it are upon one side, and some upon the others. This teaches me to be a trifle tolerant.”

“Ah, yes,” said the master of the vessel, “I understand. Well,” with a lifting of the brows, “if you have Tories in your own household, I’m sorry for you. It must be lowering to a man’s pride to know that his own kin would stoop to such ideas, and when they are once set that way there is little hope of ever making them alter their views. Once a Tory, always a Tory.”

“Not always,” and George shook his head. “I was, in the beginning, a king’s man myself. My friends convinced me that the king’s way was the best—that the colonists should submit—that they were rushing to destruction in making an armed resistance. They assured me that Gage’s force would deal gently with my countrymen—that not a shot would be fired in anger upon them. But Lexington showed me the falseness of this. I knew then that the Americans had taken the only hopeful way to secure justice; and from that time on I was one of them.”

But the seaman shook his head.

“When you tell me this is so, lad, I believe it,” said he. “But it’s only an odd case. The Tory, take him all standing, is a narrow bigot who cannot see beyond the tip of his nose. He was brought up to believe that King George and his government were ordained by Providence; and the stiffest gale that ever blew would not sweep him from his moorings.”

George Prentiss did not reply to this; he had no keen reason for converting the shallop’s master to an opposite way of thinking; and even if he had, he knew it would be of no use to try.

“I think I’ll be setting about my affairs,” he said. “It’s coming on midday.”

The skipper hitched up his trousers. “Of course,” stated he, “I don’t know what your affairs are; but, as I said before, I have suspicion of them. And look you, my hearty, give no heed to old Dana’s talk. Go about your business in your own way.”

“Thank you,” said young Prentiss. “I had made up my mind to do that. Mr. Dana,” he added to himself, “has been mistaken; he expected one passenger, evidently, and found another.”

Directly up Broad Street he made his way until he came to Beaver; here he turned in toward the Parade at the foot of Broadway. The red-coated sentries were mounting guard upon the walls of the fort; the British ensign floated from its tall pole; but the streets were filled with the blue and buff of the young American army, and the numerous and strangely devised flags of the revolution.

Apparently the Parade was a favorite place for the showing of oneself in the middle of the day. Ladies in carriages and upon horseback drove and cantered up and down the paved ways; groups of citizens and scores of militia officers stood here and there; companies of raw troops were being put sternly through the manual by hard-faced sergeants.

As George walked across the Parade he gained not a little attention, for the dispatch bag which hung across his arm, the broad shoulder belt supporting a steel hilted hanger, the pistol butt which showed beneath his coat, gave him a particularly businesslike appearance. And then his bronzed looks, the breadth of his shoulders, and the cock of his hat, spoke of a youth to be reckoned with in any company.

Pausing before one of the numerous groups, he inquired politely:

“Will you have the goodness to direct me to headquarters?”

A foppish young dragoon officer with a mincing manner, who had been entertaining the occupants of a carriage beside which he stood, turned upon the speaker.

“Hah!” said he, “you have news for old Put, have you?”

There was something in the cheap familiarity of this that aroused the anger of young Prentiss. He had seen the bluff, straightforward Putnam face a thousand dangers that night upon Breed’s Hill, he had seen him storming in the midst of the rout, striving to rally his men, pleading with them to make one more desperate stand. And now to hear him so referred to by this mincing fop filled him with resentment.

“My business is with General Putnam,” said he, stiffly.

The dragoon marked his manner and laughed, while at the same time his glances bade the ladies in the carriage mark his wit.

“What?” cried he. “Here’s a right proper New Englander, indeed.” He smoothed the sleeves of his well fitting coat and flecked some invisible specks from his epauletted shoulders. “They hold their officers as something more than human at Massachusetts Bay,” he proceeded, addressing the group of militiamen. “And one must not style them with anything less than their full dignity.”

The militiamen smiled broadly, while the citizens guffawed; the ladies in the carriage tittered, and cast mirthful looks at the youth from the northern colony. But one among them did not smile; and George noticed this at the moment in which he recognized her. It was Peggy Camp.

“A man wearing a uniform for the first time,” said George tartly, and with a sweep of the eyes that took in the other’s immaculate costume, “should show a little respect for a soldier of the general’s known service. At least that is the belief generally held in Boston.”

The fop choked, stuttered and grew red at this biting answer. The mirthful looks of the ladies were now turned upon him; and while he was mentally casting about for some witty rejoinder, a soggy looking man in the dress of a merchant and a countenance like a point of interrogation, took young Prentiss eagerly by the sleeve.

“There is fresh news, then, from Boston way? Of what nature is it, young man?”

“Any news that I personally have,” said the youth, “is very commonplace and of no value.”

“That you personally have? Ah, yes, perhaps,” and here the man’s face grew more interrogative than ever. “But your dispatches?”

“They are for the eye of the commandant of New York,” replied young Prentiss, annoyed.

“But surely,” and the merchant smiled in a very knowing way, “you had a little glance at them on the way—the briefest, of course, but still a glance.”

The youth’s face flushed beneath the bronze. “Do you speak in ignorance of a soldier’s duty, sir?” demanded he; “or is this meant for an insult?”

The inquisitive face of the merchant paled. “No, no!” cried he in much haste. “An insult! Goodness bless you, young man—no! Why, I thought the thing would be the most natural in the world. Just a slight glimpse, you see. What hurt would it do? I’ll leave it to any gentleman here.”

But none of the party saw fit to support him; and much abashed he fell to the rear, not relishing George’s looks. The foppish dragoon had by this time recovered, and now put himself forward.

“I presume by your tone,” said he, acidly, “that you hold the commission of Congress.”

But George shrugged his shoulders.

“What!” and the presumption of the dragoon immediately began to mount. “A common soldier, and have you the effrontery to use this manner to officers and gentlemen?”

There was a stiffening among the militiamen at this; they had re-collected themselves and were beginning to feel their superiority. But George, his temper returned to its level, only smiled.

“Sirs,” said he, “I stopped to ask a civil question in a civil manner. If this gentleman has received what he considers a sharp answer, he has himself to blame for it only. And as to the commissions,” here George squared his shoulders and drew himself up proudly, “don’t forget that they are harder to come by in the face of the enemy than here in New York, where influence will get one, apparently, for any jack-a-dandy.”

“Take care, sir,” cried an officer.

George smiled, flipped his hand to his hat in a most cavalier manner and stepped briskly away across the Parade. But through the tail of his eye he saw a grave officer, who had just come up, halt at the carriage before referred to; and he also saw Peggy Camp lean forward and whisper something to him swiftly. Then the officer motioned a young ensign forward, said something in turn, and the ensign made after George with all speed. Overtaking him, he said, politely:

“Pardon me, but I understand you are looking for headquarters. It is just above here. Lord Sterling requested me to show you the way.”

“Lord Sterling!” echoed George, and he could not help a backward glance at the officer who still remained beside the carriage speaking with Peggy Camp and her friends. Of late he had heard much of the distinguished man who, born in New York, had made such a great fight in the English courts for the earldom of Sterling. He had failed in this; but all America believed him the rightful heir, and so called him. His service to the colonial cause had already marked him; and he had been created general of brigade.

“You are a friend to Miss Camp, I take it,” said the ensign. But George shook his head.

“What, no! I thought from the interest she took in your welfare,” with a laugh, “that you were. And, too, she appeared quite delighted at your brisk handling of young Henderson. You seem to be quite fortunate.”

There was considerable stir about the doorway of the building which the ensign pointed out as headquarters; a sentry passed them at a word from this same obliging young officer.

“If you desire to see General Putnam in person,” said the ensign, “you’ll first have to see Major Hyde. And as he happens to be our cousin to Peggy Camp, you’ll no doubt get along famously with him.”

The laugh that followed this sally was still ringing in George’s ears as he crossed the room to speak to Major Hyde, who was seated at a big table engaged in writing. The major was a young man of sallow complexion and with a cold, supercilious manner.

“Well,” demanded he, his lip drawing back from his fine teeth in a sneer that seemed one of his characteristics, “what now?”

George resentfully slapped his dispatch bag upon the table, being careful, however, to keep a grip upon it.

“Dispatches,” said he, bluntly, with a salute. “From General Washington to General Putnam.”

“Ah, yes.” Major Hyde’s hand went forward toward the packet. “I will take charge of them.”

But as the hand advanced, the packet retreated. “My orders,” said young Prentiss, drily, “are that these dispatches be delivered into General Putnam’s hands only.”

There were several other officers seated about the room transacting headquarters business; at the young man’s words they looked up, surprised. Major Hyde sprang to his feet, his eyes snapping with anger.

“What do you mean?” cried he. “You’ll do as I bid you. Don’t forget that! I am your superior officer.”

“I am aware that you are,” replied the young man, “but my orders from General Washington are unmistakable, sir. And he is your superior officer.”

For a moment Hyde remained standing with rage; then he sat down abruptly and rapped upon the table for an orderly.

“Dispatches from Boston for General Putnam,” said he shortly. “Tell him so.”

George stood back and awaited the soldier’s return; and as he waited he could not help wondering at his odd experience in New York.

“I have been on shore but a bare hour—scarcely that long—and I have met with nothing but affronts and rebuffs,” he said to the young ensign who sat in a window overlooking Broadway. “I can’t understand the attitude of the colonists here. At Boston, one has but to be a patriot to meet with consideration. But in New York, apparently, it makes little difference what your sympathies; you have but to be a stranger to be marked for insolence.”

“New York,” said the ensign, who seemed a person of some intelligence, “is very different from Boston—from my own city, Philadelphia, or from any other place in the colonies, for the matter of that. It was settled by mixed races—Dutch, Huguenots, English and Scotch. Their interests, desires and ideals have been different from the beginning. They have become so accustomed to facing each other down and sneering at each other’s social peculiarities that it has, so it seems, grown to be a part of their deportment.”

Here the speaker was about to plunge into an elaborate discourse upon this subject, but George was saved from listening by the orderly reappearing from an inner room and beckoning him forward.

“The general will see you,” said he.

In another moment the young man found himself in the presence of the stout, red-faced Putnam who sat puzzling over some intricate maps at a great table. Beside him sat another officer whom George at once recognized as General Sullivan, and standing near by was General Heath, who had done so much to train the raw levies for the fight at Breed’s Hill.

GENERAL PUTNAM GLANCED UP

General Putnam glanced up as George entered; his good-humored face took on a smile, and he at once threw aside the map, which, to speak the plain truth, did not greatly interest him.

“Ah, Prentiss,” said he. “So it’s you, is it?”

George saluted; drawing the packet of sealed dispatches from his saddle-bag, he laid them before the bluff commander. The latter tore it open eagerly; one by one he mastered the contents of the papers, and as he did so, passed them on to Sullivan, who in turn read and handed them to General Heath.

“And so General Washington will be with us within a few weeks,” said the latter, upon finishing the last of the dispatches. “Excellent!”

“It is all we require to make the place safe,” said Putnam. “The batteries are planted, the redoubts completed and the passes all made good. With the main body of the army here we can welcome the enemy at any time he chooses to show himself.”

“The general is bringing the forces on by way of Providence, Norwich and New London,” spoke Sullivan, referring to one of the papers, “and says that he will remain with them until they are safely embarked at the latter place.”

Here Heath and Sullivan fell into a debate as to the probabilities of the main body’s securing sufficient suitable craft to carry it expeditiously from the Connecticut port to New York; and while they were so engaged, Putnam arose and crossed the room to where George Prentiss was standing. In his hand he held a slip of paper which he had not passed on to his brother officers; and he folded and refolded it carefully with his strong, thick fingers, as he said:

“And so the general has made you a bearer of his dispatches.”

A flush of color came into the young man’s face, and he replied earnestly:

“I was proud indeed to be called upon for such service. I had had no thought that I might be so trusted.”

“Tut, tut,” said the kindly Putnam, “if you made a mistake at the beginning, you but showed that you were human. We are all likely to do the same. All of us were at one time or another king’s men; and if you were somewhat late in renouncing your allegiance, so to speak, what great matter? You are as determined upon liberty now as the best of us. You proved that a score of times about Boston and Cambridge last winter.”

“I am pleased that you hold so good an opinion of me, general,” said young Prentiss, “and, believe me, I shall try to be worthy of it.”

“I understand your feelings,” and Putnam laid a big hand upon his shoulder. “So we’ll say no more about it. And now, good-bye; I have some matters to attend to. But leave word with Major Hyde where you can be found. I may want your service upon business of importance.”

George saluted; and as the sturdy old soldier turned back to the table, the young man left the room. He inquired of the ensign, whom he found still at the window, as to the inns and lodging places.

“The ‘King’s Arms’ is the place for you. It is but a step or two above; look,” pointing from the window, “you can see its sign-board from here.”

Thanking the affable young man, George turned to Major Hyde and gave the “King’s Arms” as his address, after which he left the building and took steps to install himself at the inn.

It was something past high noon by this; and as he sat at a table in the “King’s Arms” discussing a beefsteak pie and a brown loaf, he chanced to glance from the window near which his table stood. Upon the opposite side of the way stood Major Hyde and Henderson, the foppish officer of dragoons; in earnest conference with them was a burly personage in a long skirted coat and having the manner of an ill-trained mastiff. Every now and then Hyde would punctuate his remarks by pointing at the inn, and each time the little, fierce, deep-set eyes of the burly man would follow the gesture with satisfaction. After some moments, during which George observed all three closely, they appeared to come to some sort of understanding. The burly personage, after assuring them of something, at once crossed the street toward the “King’s Arms.”