The two had ridden no great distance from the river when, close to the roadside, they came upon a small wooden house, from a window of which a light was streaming. This in itself was rather unusual in such a place at such an hour; but, more surprising still, they saw, through the window, a man sitting upon a low bench hammering merrily away at a piece of leather.

“A cobbler,” said Nat, surprised, “and at work so late in the night.”

“His customers must be in great haste,” laughed the Porcupine. “They don’t give the poor man time enough to get his natural sleep.”

“I think,” answered Nat, who had brought the gray to a stand in the road opposite the window, “that it might mean more than that. At any rate, it will do no harm to exchange a word with this hard-pressed mechanic.”

They rode close up under the cobbler’s window; he, roused by the trampling hoofs, paused in his hammering and lifted his head.

“You work late, shoemaker,” saluted Nat, genially. “Business must be over good.”

“You ride late, young sir,” replied the cobbler, shrewdly. “And how is business with you?”

Nat laughed. The night was warm, and the small-paned sash was pushed up as far as it would go, making easy conversation.

“My present business is a great deal of a puzzle,” replied the boy. “And I think I had better see the end of it before I pass any sort of judgment.”

The cobbler was a small, dried-out looking man of middle age. He had a weazened face and cunning eyes; and yet there was something engaging about him. He beat at the thick piece of leather upon his lap-stone for a moment, then laid down the hammer and said:

“There is no one on this side of the Schuylkill that can outdo me in puzzles this night, young man. And whatever your matter is, I’m quite sure that it can’t compare with the situation that I find myself in.”

“Why,” said Nat, and the watchful Porcupine saw an eager look come into his face, “I had not thought the making of boots so exciting a trade.”

“It has nothing to do with the making of boots,” replied the mechanic. “If it had, I could understand it readily enough. It is something else, and something most peculiar when a man comes to examine it from its different sides.”

Nat said nothing to this. He saw that the cobbler had something upon his mind and that he was most anxious to unburden himself of it, even to a stranger who appeared at his window in the night.

“It’s best to let him take his own time,” reasoned the lad. “If I begin to ask questions, he might take the notion not to speak—and somehow I fancy that I should greatly benefit by what he has to say.”

The little shoemaker rubbed his stained and calloused hands together reflectively; the thick candle that burned in a sconce over his head threw a bright light about his work-room, with its array of farmers’ thick boots awaiting repair, and its clutter of leather and tools. Finally he spoke, and with the air of a man who was asking advice.

“What would you think,” he inquired, bending forward, “if you were sitting here upon this bench, pegging away at a sole and wondering what sort of fall and winter we have coming upon us, when a very young chap rode up, much like you have done, only it was by daylight, and says to you:

“‘Is this Neighbor Parslow?’

“‘It is,’ says you.

“He tries to look careless like, but you see at once that he’s keen for something; so you go on pegging and pegging and let him take his own time about his own business. So after a while he says to you:

“‘As I was riding along the river I saw a rather smart looking barge.’

“‘Did you?’ says you.

“‘Yes,’ says he, ‘and as I was told it was your property, I’ve come to see you about it.’

“‘It’s not for sale,’ says you.

“‘Oh, I don’t want to buy it,’ he says, quick enough. ‘I just want to engage it.’

“‘Very well,’ says you. ‘That’s what I keep it for; my charge is four shillings for the day.’

“‘And how much for the night?’ asks he. And with that you see he’s a merry chap and has an honest face.

“‘It’s seldom or never,’ says you, ‘that any one hires the barge for after dark, so I don’t know about that.’

“‘Have your boat ready at ten to-night,’ says he briskly, ‘and you’ll earn a handful of Spanish dollars.’

“So at that you’re a little taken by surprise.

“‘Do you want it for a pleasure party?’ you ask him, and he laughs again in a way that makes you like him more.

“‘I don’t know but what you might call it that,’ says he. ‘I and my friends will take great pleasure in it; but I have a suspicion that there are some others who will not like it so well.’

“He looks at you closely,” continued the cobbler to Nat, who was listening with great attention, “and he sees that you’re not taking to the idea very keenly. So with that he whips out a leathern purse and counts out a sum of money upon the window sill such as you have not seen in months.

“‘There,’ he says, ‘is your pay in advance. Have the barge at the ferry landing across the river and await me and those who shall bear me company.’”

The cobbler arose and came closer to the window, brushing the scraps of leather from his apron. He peered up at Nat with his small eyes.

“Somehow,” he proceeded, “for all the lad has an honest look and a merry laugh, you don’t care to do what he asks. There seems something secret about it. But at the same time there is the money—all Spanish gold—on the window sill, staring you out of countenance.” The speaker paused a moment, then asked earnestly: “Now, if all these things happened to you—and remember you are a poor man—what would you do?”

“I think,” replied Nat, “I would try to earn the money.”

The shoemaker nodded and seemed much relieved.

“There are some lads,” remarked he, “who have more wisdom than their years give them. I think you are one of that stamp. That is the very thing I did. Promptly at ten, for it was a still night and I could hear the town bells strike the hour, I was at the landing upon the other side.”

“Yes,” said Nat, so eagerly that the watching dwarf gave him a warning prod with his knuckles. “And what then?”

“No one was there,” replied the cobbler. “And I wailed until eleven struck; then until almost twelve. At length a great party of riders came down the road. When a light was struck I could see that they were all armed and wore looks that boded no good to somebody. This troubled me more than ever; but I had scarcely a glimpse of them when the youth who had engaged me told me to recross the river, tie the barge up and hold myself in readiness here until they wanted me.”

“Is that the last you saw of them?”

“No; the entire party—or so it seemed to me, at any rate—crossed the ferry and rode by here less than two hours ago.”

“I suppose,” said Nat, carelessly, “you had no idea as to where they were heading?”

“Not the least,” replied the worried cobbler; then as a sort of afterthought: “Have you?”

“How far is it to the nearest inn—on this road—riding as we are?” Nat ignored the question, as he had no desire to confide his suspicions to the talkative mechanic.

“A matter of some six miles. Perhaps a little more.”

“Perhaps your friends have stopped there; if so we might get a glimpse of them.”

“And if you do and should see anything that would make you think they’re trying to entangle me with the king’s laws, it would be a friendly act for you to ride back and give me warning.”

“Take warning now,” said the dwarf, speaking for the first time. His odd squeak startled the shoemaker, who had apparently not noticed him before, and the man stood staring at the great head and small body in something like wonder.

“If you want to avoid entanglements of every kind,” proceeded the Porcupine, smoothing his stiff crest, “take warning now by what I’m going to tell you. Go quickly now and hide your barge somewhere along the bank; then return, close up your house, put out your light and go quietly to bed. In that way you’ll be sure to do no wrong.”

The man seemed greatly struck by this advice and nodded his head as though it pleased him. Nat gathered up his reins and was about to give the word when a thought struck him.

“Did you by any chance,” asked he of the mechanic, “hear the name of the boy who engaged your boat?”

“I did,” was the answer. “A large man was speaking in a loud tone of voice as they rode up to the ferry landing and he called him Prentiss.”

“Thank you,” said Nat, and without further words the pair turned and put their mounts at a hard gallop down the road.

“I think I could name what use is to be made of the barge,” said the dwarf after a long pause.

“And I,” replied Nat. “If the Virginian members of Congress are taken, they will be put into it, sculled down the river and placed upon the British vessel which is, no doubt, at anchor there for the purpose.”

“And I hardly think she’d wait to take on any further cargo,” remarked the Porcupine, wisely. “They’d up sail, and away for England, a quick trial, a tall scaffold and a short rope.”

“You are pretty near the truth,” replied the young mountaineer, grimly. “I’m afraid the British ministers would not give the prisoners much of a chance for their lives.”

The gusts of warm wind had been growing heavier. And now the rain began to fall in torrents. The two riders bent their heads, doggedly and in silence. Before the storm began objects had been made out with the utmost difficulty; now the darkness grew all but impenetrable; lakes and rivulets formed in the road; the horses were given their heads, as being the safer way, and stumbling, snorting and shaking the streaming rain from their manes, they pressed onward.

Nat never knew how much time had elapsed or how far they had gone, when suddenly he felt his companion tugging at his sleeve. Lifting his head, he became conscious of a warm, yellow glow. Turning, he saw the bright front of an inn, set back a little from the roadside.

“And look!” said the Porcupine, forced to lift his voice, that he might be heard above the roar of the rain. As he spoke, he pointed to a long open shed where a couple of wind-mad lights were dancing. Nat saw a full dozen horses, saddled and bridled and looking as though they had but lately been hard ridden.

The young mountaineer’s face expressed the satisfaction that filled him.

“The inn of which the cobbler spoke,” said he, “and Royce and his companions are inside.”

In a few moments the gray and the chestnut were also beneath the shed; a couple of stable hands took them in charge and began rubbing the rain from their streaming coats.

“And now,” spoke Nat, when he saw that they were being well taken care of, “let us go inside; there is sure to be a good fire in the kitchen where we can dry our clothes.”

But the dwarf shook his big head.

“Go in yourself,” said he. “You may be needed. But I’ll stay here.”

“But you are wet to the skin,” protested Nat.

“I’m used to that, and it will do me no harm.” Nat was about to say something more, but the Porcupine interrupted him. “There may be some of Master Royce’s people who know me,” said he. “And that would bring suspicion, or at least direct attention, upon you. So you see, it is best for me to be outdoors. Another thing,” and a cunning look came into the odd, round face of the speaker, “I’m used to prowling around. I may be of more service out here than you think.”

Seeing that his new friend was determined to have his way in the matter, Nat said nothing more upon the subject.

“But,” he cautioned, “keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Trust me for that,” grinned the Porcupine.

Nat pushed open the heavy door and found himself in a large, square, low-ceilinged room with rafters and sanded floor. There were heavy settees and chairs and tables standing about and many rain-soaked coats hanging upon the wall. The rain and wind together had turned the night rather chill; a good-sized fire was burning in a wide-mouthed fireplace, and a number of men were standing about it, their bands behind them and their backs to the blaze.

As the boy opened the door, the landlord, a small, meek-looking man in a white apron, was speaking.

“But, gentlemen,” he said, “you are well acquainted with what is required of an innkeeper. It is quite impossible for me to do what you ask.”

The burly Tory, Royce, to whom these words were apparently addressed, slashed his tall boots with his riding-whip and stalked up and down angrily. His heavy tread sounded noisily upon the sanded floor; his big, coarse-featured face was flushed.

“Now listen to me with attention, my good fellow,” spoke he, wrathfully, and he pointed the heavy whip at the landlord threateningly. “We know little of what you call the duties of an innkeeper and care a great deal less. As for it being impossible for you to do what ask—well, we’ll request you to reconsider that.”

“The gentlemen when they came begged the use of the room,” said the other. “It was to be strictly private. And I could not now intrude others upon them.”

The angry, flushed face of Royce now became fairly purple.

“Intrude!” stormed he. “Intrude! Do you call our presence in your beggarly inn an intrusion?”

“No, sir, surely not,” the meek little innkeeper hastened to say, lifting both his hands in a gesture of protest. “I am quite overjoyed to have you, sir; and also your friends,” with a frightened little bow to the others, who stood scowling at him menacingly.

Royce was about to reply to this when he for the first time noted Nat, who still stood near the door listening to the conversation with attention. For a moment the Tory scanned the boy; then he inquired sharply:

“Well, sirrah, what do you want?”

Nat shook the rain from his hunting-shirt; then he removed his cap and tossed the clinging drops with a flirt out upon the floor.

“I don’t think,” replied he, after a pause of some length, during which he smilingly studied the growing fury in the big man’s face, “that is any affair of yours.”

For a moment it seemed as though the Tory would leap upon him and strike him down. But perhaps it was the stalwart, strongly-made figure with its wide shoulders and arching chest that gave him second thought. At any rate, he stood and glared; and Nat, as though he had not noticed his anger, advanced quietly toward him.

“Gentlemen,” spoke he, courteously, to the men about the fireplace, “if you could make room for me, I’d be extremely obliged to you.”

Whether it was the calm, indifferent manner of the lad, or something that they expected of Royce that made them act as they did, it would be difficult to say; at any rate, they drew silently away toward the settees and chairs at the side, leaving the fireplace to Nat, while Royce stood inspecting him, enraged, but mute.

Finally the man found his tongue once more; but instead of bursting out in a blaze of wrath, as all no doubt expected him to do, he spoke quietly enough.

“It seems to me,” he said, “that you are rather forward and plain spoken for one of your age.”

There was a sneer in his voice and a look in his eye that were infinitely more dangerous than his vented fury could be. Nevertheless, Nat spread the dripping fringe of his hunting-shirt to the blaze and answered him, smilingly:

“In my part of the country we grow rather quickly, as I suppose people do in most wild places. So if you find me rather beyond my years, I beg of you, sir, to lay it to that.”

In spite of Nat’s seeming carelessness, he was keenly watching all that went on about him. For the first time he noticed the air and dress of those who made up the Tory party; and for all the slim acquaintance with the section, he knew at once that the men did not belong in or about Philadelphia. Another thing: The queer face of the Porcupine was pressed inquiringly against the streaming panes of a side window; and beside and above it were those of a number of stable hands, who were frowning belligerently at the unconscious loyalists. At the sight a quick understanding of the situation came to Nat and he smiled once more.

“I see,” thought he, “that the Porcupine was quite right when he said that he was used to prowling about and might be of service outdoors. Those fellows look hardy and courageous; and I’ll need them before long, if I’m not mistaken in my reading of the face of Master Royce.”

“And where,” inquired the latter, who had been studying the young mountaineer in silence after his last reply, “where might that wonderful region be?”

“In the north,” answered Nat. And as he spoke the words, the saying of old Stephen Comegies came to him like a flash. “In the north,” he repeated, “where I think,” waving his hands toward the others, “most of your friends are from.”

Watching, he saw Royce suddenly catch his breath; also there was a quick stir among the other Tories; some of them even came to their feet.

“You are a lad of remarkable observation,” spoke Royce, after an amazed pause. “But don’t you think it as well not to see too much?” a different note creeping into his voice—a note that at once challenged Nat’s attention.

“I don’t know,” replied the boy, with the same undisturbed air as before. “A good outlook is not a bad thing to have; indeed, I’ve found it of distinct advantage more than once.”

“Unless I am greatly mistaken,” said Royce, “this will not be one of the times.” He advanced until he was within arm’s length of Nat, then resumed: “I asked you, when you first came into this place, what you wanted. The inquiry was made simply because your presence was undesirable.”

“I think I understand,” replied the boy, easily enough. “Persons who have particular and urgent business don’t like to be intruded upon.”

“I’m going to ask the same question now,” continued Royce, his jaw set in a grim way, “and this time I want a plain, straightforward answer.”

“The night is wet,” said Nat. “I have ridden quite some distance. And the lights of an inn are always particularly attractive at such a time.”

With a snarling sound the man made a clutch at the boy’s throat; but Nat, with a light, quick movement, evaded him. Then he in turn shot out his hand and gripped the Tory by the wrist. Though not much over seventeen, Nat was as large as most men and stronger than a great many, as Royce at once discovered. The clutch upon the wrist was like iron, and with a quick whirl, the young mountaineer spun the man around.

“It would be as well, sir,” said he, “not to lose your temper. It will hardly do you any good, and may result in doing you considerable harm.”

In weight the Tory was greatly the young mountaineer’s superior. But his bulk was soft, flabby, untrained and his breath scant. On the other hand, Nat was hard, supple and swift, with wind and endurance that would carry him far.

What a struggle between them would have resulted in was still to remain in doubt; for a quick, forward movement of the followers of Royce caused Nat to let go and step back, his hand going to the butt of Mr. Chew’s pistol. However, there was no need of immediate alarm, for the men, while their attitudes toward him lacked nothing in hostility, seemed to have something else in mind. They whispered and argued with Royce, holding his arms. He began by struggling and storming at them and demanding that they set him free that he might chastise Nat for his impudence in resisting. But in a few moments he calmed wonderfully.

“You are right,” said he, quietly enough. “We have more important matters to carry out. Gentlemen, I beg your pardon. I’m afraid I have not kept my temper very well, and have risked compromising our errand.” He shook himself like a great dog; turning once more to Nat, he said:

“I’ll see to you in a few moments, my lad, if you’ve the courage to remain.”

“I shall be at your service whenever you are disposed to take the matter up,” replied the youth from the Wyoming.

Royce addressed the little innkeeper, who had remained a silent spectator of all that had passed.

“Now,” said he, coldly, “let us have that door open,” indicating a door that apparently led into another of the inn’s public rooms. “And let there be no further delay about it.”

“But, my good sir,” protested the frightened little man, “this is a much more comfortable room. It’s larger and more airy.”

Without more ado, Royce threw him aside, for the man stood between him and the door.

“Stand out of the way,” growled he. “I’ll save you the trouble by opening it myself.”

His hand was upon the knob and he was about to throw the door open, when a clear voice cried:

“Wait!”

Royce and the others turned their heads, startled by the suddenness and sharpness of the command. Nat Brewster stood upon the hearth facing them, and plain in view of all was a long-barreled, shining pistol.

“Before you intrude yourselves upon those people within here,” said the lad, firmly, “let us have another word together, Mr. Royce.”

At the sound of his name the man started, and he and his followers exchanged looks of wonder.

“Yes,” went on Nat, “I know your name; and more than that, I know why you are here to-night. Also, if it’s any pleasure for you to be acquainted with the fact, I know why Mr. Dimisdale and some others hold the ferry landing across the river; why a certain cobbler awaited you in a barge and why a British ship is anchored near the mouth of the Schuylkill.”

Open-eyed, the Tories gazed at the daring boy; while Nat laid the long barrel of the heavy pistol in the hollow of his left arm and regarded their amazement amusedly.

“And you’ve come here alone to tell us that?” asked Royce grimly.

“Not altogether,” replied Nat. “I have this,” and he held up his weapon. “You may depend upon its being a serviceable arm, for it is the property of Mr. Chew. Also,” with a laugh, “I have some small reinforcement without.”

Almost as he spoke, the main door swung open and across the threshold, bearing uncouth but effective looking weapons, trooped a half score of stablemen and farm laborers. With them was the Porcupine, rain-soaked and with his stiff crest bristling with excitement.

“There they are!” squeaked the dwarf. “Stand to them, men!” And pointing to the innkeeper, who was just rising from the floor, he added, “Shall they do as they like? See how they have misused the landlord.”

“I  ASK YOUR PARDON, MR. WASHINGTON”

The newcomers gripped their blunderbusses, scythes and bludgeons tightly and were preparing for a rush upon the Tories, when the door which Royce had been about to open was thrown back and a tall, superbly made man stepped into the room. For an instant his steady eyes swept the apartment; the sight of drawn weapons seemed to occasion him no surprise; he merely turned to the trembling landlord and said:

“Sir, you said your inn was a quiet one, and that we would not be disturbed.”

“I ask your pardon, Mr. Washington,” said the frightened host. “Nothing like this has ever taken place in my house before. I regret it exceedingly, sir, indeed I do.”

As Mr. Washington once more directed his steady gaze at the Tories and stablemen, Nat addressed him quietly.

“I think, sir,” said he, “that the disturbance is about over. This gentleman,” and he bowed to Royce, who stood, a picture of baffled fury, at one side, “has about discovered that he’s made a mistake. At any rate, he and his friends will intrude no longer, as I think the landlord objects to their presence.” He paused and waved his hand toward the door leading to the road in a gesture that was both an invitation and a command. “The rain, I see, has somewhat slackened, Mr. Royce,” he proceeded, “and you will no doubt find your horses rested and ready.”

There was a short silence. Then Royce, who had evidently no desire for a struggle with the hardy workmen who faced him, made a sign to his followers, and with never a word they strode out into the night, the inn people close at their heels.

And while the sounds of mounting and the jeers of the onlookers came from without, Nat Brewster stood upon the hearthstone before the log fire and explained the situation to the grave, attentive Mr. Washington.