Bristol was a fair-sized village upon the west bank of the Delaware, and one very well known to persons upon their way to and from New York. Consequently there was a good inn and our wayfarers at once sought it out.

“When I stopped here on my way south,” said Revere, seriously, to a hostler who came forward to receive their mounts, “you did not give my horse proper attention as I desired. It will not do to rub him down with a wisp of straw and rush him in, still wet, to a sloppy supper of bran mash.”

The hostler protested, but Revere waved his hand for silence.

“I want him brushed and combed, and rubbed with a cloth,” proceeded he, severely. “And these others,” pointing to the steeds of the boys, “are to be used likewise. Then they are to be blanketed until they are dry and cool, when they should be fed—not with mash, but with grain.”

The groom promised faithfully to do as he was bidden; but it was not until he had carefully repeated his instructions several times more that Revere was satisfied and consented to enter the inn.

“The beasts can’t speak for themselves, or do for themselves,” said he. “So it is our duty to see that right is done by them.”

The inn was a cheerful place, with many brass candlesticks and painted china plates; and the landlady was a good-natured, rosy dame, who bustled about making them comfortable.

“I shall get you a good supper,” she told them, “for I’m quite sure that you’ll need it after being so many hours upon the road. And there’s warm water and basins and towels and soap in the little room close by the kitchen. So you can make yourselves clean and fresh while you are waiting to be served.”

They thanked her for this and made good use of the articles named. Nat was the first to finish, and as he stepped back into the inn parlor he noticed that a newcomer had taken possession of a big chair at the window overlooking the road, and was calmly reciting his desires to the obliging hostess.

“I shall want some boiled mutton,” said he, “with a savory sauce. And pay heed to the sauce, madam; let it not be the flavorless thing one gets at so many inns. The meat served may be ever so good, but if the sauce has a breath too much garlic it is all ruined.”

“Yes, sir; it shall be just as you like it, I assure you,” said the landlady, dropping the stranger a curtsey. “And will there be anything else, sir?”

“Some potatoes—baked in their jackets—a small loaf and some mead—if you have any that’s fit for a gentleman to drink.”

“There’s none better, sir, in this section,” said the good dame, rather nettled. “And I might even say that you’d hardly find better in your own country.”

“My own country!” repeated the stranger, and he looked at her keenly.

“Yes, sir,—England. For you are an Englishman, unless your tongue belies you.”

The man laughed and waved his hand.

“That will be all, I think,” said he. “So make haste and don’t stand making hazards at the private affairs of your guests.”

Indignantly the hostess turned away.

“Such high and mighty ways,” she muttered to Nat. “It’ll be a blessing if he has enough money in his purse to settle his score in the morning.”

And with this she went angrily into her kitchen, slamming the door, leaving Nat to seat himself upon a settle along the wall and amuse himself by studying the stranger.

The latter was a tall man with a high, prominent nose and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. His hair was very long and worn in a queue, and his black-stockinged legs were thrown carelessly over the arm of his chair in an unsightly, lounging way that gave him the appearance of great awkwardness. There was still considerable daylight, and he read a newspaper which he took from his pocket as soon as the landlady had departed.

“And the newspaper has something in it which amuses him greatly,” thought Nat, as he watched the humorous twitching of the thin-lipped mouth.

Wider and wider grew the smile and at last the man threw the news sheet from him with a roar of glee.

“Now out upon them for a parcel of raving maniacs,” said he. “Did ever any one hear of such folly before since the world began?”

As he laughed his eyes rested upon Nat, and, apparently for the first time, he became aware of the boy’s presence. The eyes were light colored, cold and keen, as the lad saw when they became steadfastly fixed upon him; and that they were also cruel, he was firmly convinced.

“Young gentleman,” said the man, growing sober enough, “good-evening.”

“Good-evening, sir,” returned Nat, politely.

There was a long row of brass buttons down the front of the man’s coat; he took the one at the top between a thumb and forefinger in a speculative sort of way; then the touch dropped to the second button and so on down the row until he reached the bottom. And all the time the cold, light-colored eyes were fixed upon the lad from the north country; and they were studying and weighing and estimating him steadily. Finally, so it seemed, the stranger made up his mind. He removed his legs from the chair arm and stretched them out before him; the waning sunlight played upon the big brass buckles upon his shoes as he turned his feet first one way and then the other, inspecting them thoughtfully.

“It will be a fine evening,” ventured he, at last.

“So I’ve thought myself,” returned Nat.

“And following a fine day,” said the man.

Nat nodded. He was disappointed. Evidently the stranger was not nearly so interesting as he looked.

“Travel far?” asked the man, after another pause, but not so long as the first.

“Not a great way.”

The stranger pursed up his thin lips and looked at the boy carefully. Seemingly he made up his mind that he might venture the question, for he asked:

“From the city?”

“Yes,” was the brief answer.

That there might be no mistake the man persisted:

“Philadelphia?”

Nat nodded. Clearly the stranger was nothing short of a bore.

“I’ve just ridden from there myself,” said the lean stranger. “There is much excitement there, eh?”

Nat nodded.

“I’ve seen places where there was a great deal more demonstration, so to speak,” went on the man, “but for genuine interest, felt of the heart, that city is ahead of them all.”

“I’ve thought that it seemed impressed with the importance of the occasion,” said Nat. “But that is scarcely to be wondered at.”

“It is not, indeed,” agreed the man, readily. “It would, in fact, be cause for great wonder if the town and its people were not impressed.” He leaned toward the boy in a grave sort of way and continued: “Modern history does not show anything that can compare with the events which have happened of late in these colonies; and those which are on their way to happen will be greater still. We shall show a stubborn and narrow ministry that we are determined to be justly dealt by.”

Nat looked at the speaker with attention.

“Do you know,” said he, “I’m just a little surprised to hear you speak after this fashion?”

“Why?” asked the stranger, and the cold, light-colored eyes peered through their wrinkled lids.

“Because, as our landlady said a short while since, you are an Englishman, or your accent greatly misrepresents you.”

A shade of annoyance crossed the stranger’s face; Nat, ever watchful, saw his hands clinch upon the arm’s of his chair. But this only lasted for a moment; the lean countenance cleared up, the hands relaxed their grip and the man lay back in his chair, smiling amusedly.

“It is an odd thing,” spoke he, “that the fact of my being English has been so noted of late. No sooner do I open my mouth than I am looked at askance; if I utter a sentiment in favor of liberty, I am stared at in amaze; if I condemn tyranny, as every honest man should, my hearers regard me with wonder.”

He paused and watched Nat, the smile of amusement still wrinkling the corners of his mouth. Then he leaned forward, as before, proceeding:

“But I can tell you the reason of this. It is because the country is young. It is inexperienced. It is not yet mature enough to know that a man may be a friend to freedom no matter where he was born. Don’t forget, young gentleman, that true liberty began in England, and that it still has its lovers and upholders there.”

“Why,” said Nat, “I have no doubt but that there is a great deal of truth in what you say.”

“It is all truth,” stated the stranger positively. “The fact is recognized by the leading spirits in this movement, at least. And if the time ever comes, and I sincerely hope it shall not, that blows be struck in this land, there shall be no lack of men of English birth in the colonial army.”

The man then proceeded to enlarge upon his theme and to point out to Nat that the great mass of the British population sympathized with the colonists, that it was only certain merchants and ministers who, it seemed, had combined to oppress them. He was still so engaged when the landlady appeared in the kitchen door.

“Sir,” she announced, addressing the Englishman, “I would be much beholden to you if you would step in here and look to your dishes before they are made ready. I am not honored by so particular a person every day, and would wish to be sure that my poor skill as a cook has not led me wrong.”

With a laugh the stranger arose, and Nat saw that he was of remarkable height and had wide, strong shoulders. And, while the young mountaineer had had little opportunity to observe the habits of military men, he at once put him down as a soldier.

“He has the bearing that I would think a trained officer would have,” was the lad’s instant thought.

“You’ll pardon me, I know,” said the stranger. “The art of dining well is a very important one, as you’ll learn by the time you reach my age: so I must not miss this opportunity.”

After the speaker had followed the hostess into the kitchen, Nat sat upon the bench and cogitated.

“There is something queer about him, for all he’s so well spoken,” was the lad’s judgment. “I hardly think I should like to have much dealing with him.”

He patiently awaited his three companions; but as they seemed in no hurry to join him he bent over and picked up the newspaper which the Englishman had so contemptuously thrown aside.

As it happened, it was folded just as the man had been reading it, and Nat saw at once that it was a detailed account of the proceedings of Congress that must have excited the reader’s derision. Nat put down the sheet, and an expression of understanding crossed his face.

“Lucky I saw that,” said he. “The man’s quality is plain enough now, and I’ll know how to use him from now on.”

A little later at the sound of high voices he went to a window overlooking the inn yard. Paul Revere was there, as was also Ezra and Ben, and the former was lecturing the grooms for some shortcoming in their care of the horses. Nat looked and listened, greatly amused at the earnestness of the man from Boston, and as he did so, he indistinctly saw, out of the tail of his eye, a small figure under the brick arch that opened into the yard. Swiftly turning his head in that direction he was surprised and astonished to recognize the form of the Porcupine.

That the dwarf saw Nat at the window was at once evident; for he lifted one hand in a quick beckoning movement and gave a flirt of his hand toward the front of the inn. Nat nodded; he turned, walked to the main door and out upon the porch. Across the road was a tall elm tree; the Porcupine now stood near this, but in such a position as not to be readily seen by any one looking from the windows of the inn.

Nat crossed to the elm in a state of amazement.

“Porcupine,” began he at once, “you are the most astonishing little animal I ever saw. How did you ever get so far from home?”

The dwarf grinned.

“Oh, this isn’t so far,” replied he. “I’ve often been here with Simon Nichols, the kitchen gardener. You see, he has a sloop and takes it to the city every second day, in the season, with fresh green things. When I heard that you were going off to Boston, I knew you’d stop here overnight; so I boarded Simon’s sloop yesterday in Dock Creek and got here about noon to-day. He’s always glad to have me because I can help work ship and do lots of things when he’s short handed, as he ’most always is.”

Nat laughed heartily; and yet he was touched.

“And you put yourself to all this bother just to see me off, did you?” he asked; and the other nodded. “Well, you’re a queer little fellow, aren’t you?”

“So I’ve been told before,” grinned the Porcupine. “But,” more soberly, “there are some just as queer, and at no great distance from here, either.”

The tone in which these words were spoken attracted Nat’s attention at once. He had known the dwarf but a short time, but he had come to understand that when he spoke in a certain way he was very much in earnest.

“Has anything happened?” asked the lad from the north.

The other shook his head dubiously.

“I don’t know,” answered he. “But I should say something is going to, unless the signs are all wrong.”

Nat looked at the speaker attentively; but as usual he did not try to hurry him.

“As this is the inn where I felt sure you’d stay for the night,” proceeded the Porcupine, “I came here as soon as Simon had tied up the sloop at his place about a mile above. The landlady is a good sort, for when she saw me standing about the door, she gave me some bread and cheese, and I came over here in the shade to eat it. And while I sat here, a man came up—a strange-appearing man with gold rings in his ears and the look of a gypsy.

“‘Good afternoon,’ he says as he gets sight of me.

“I, politely enough, bid him the time of day and fell to studying him as he stood there looking up at the inn. He carried a heavy staff and pack upon his back. As he came along, I had noticed that he limped like one footsore from a long journey; but for all, he seemed cool and clean. There was but little dust upon his shoes and none at all upon his stockings.”

“THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG, THEN”

“You have excellent observation, Porcupine,” praised Nat.

“It does not do to keep one’s eyes shut in such times as these,” answered the dwarf, wisely. “And, again, I shouldn’t get any credit for it, because I was just idling away the time until you rode up and had no notion of anything being wrong.”

“Ah,” said Nat, with increased interest, “there is something wrong then?”

“Again I must say that I don’t know,” and the speaker shook his head. “It only seemed queer to me; and what followed looked a great deal more so. But sit down here,” added the dwarf, indicating a place where some bushes would screen Nat from the inn windows. “It would be just as well, maybe, if you were not seen talking to me.”

Nat did as directed; then the speaker once more took up his story:

“After a few moments the gypsy-looking man walked over, threw off his pack, sat down and began to fan himself with his hat. Then I saw that he was tattooed upon the back of his hands, and looking carefully I saw that on one was a ship and on the other the Union Jack.

“‘Do you belong hereabouts?’ says he.

“‘Not very far away,’ I answers him.

“‘I’ve come a long distance,’ says he, ‘to meet some friends. Has any one gone into the inn lately?’

“‘The landlady,’ I told him.

“And with that,” continued the Porcupine, “I could see that he began to think me a great deal of a fool. He was not so careful thereafter.

“‘If you’ll go into the inn yard and see what horses are there, freshly come in, I’ll give you a shilling,’ he says.

“‘Very well,’ says I; and I was about to start across the road; but he stopped me.

“‘Especially mark,’ says he, ‘if there is a fine looking bay horse, a small mare, a wicked looking raw-boned black and a buckskin stallion.’”

“Our horses!” ejaculated Nat, “and described as well as I could describe them myself.”

“I found that out afterward,” said the Porcupine, “though if I’d thought, I’d have recognized your nag and Ben Cooper’s, even then. But anyhow, I went into the yard and looked about, also into the barn; but there was none but old work horses, and so I told the man with the rings in his ears when I came out. He didn’t appear to relish it very well and muttered and went on at a great rate. Then something seemed to strike him.

“‘Is there another inn in Bristol?’ asked he.

“‘There is,’ I told him. And I was just giving him the directions when we heard the clatter of hoofs, and along you came with your friends. I stopped until you had all gone into the yard; and when I turned my head once more, the man was running down the road in the direction from which he had come.”

“But,” questioned Nat, “why did you not come in and tell me all this at once?”

“Because I felt sure there was to be more come of it. And I was right. The foreign-looking man had gone no great distance when a second one rode into the path and stopped him short. They talked together for a little while and then the first man disappeared in a thicket, while the second came on quietly enough and entered the inn.”

Nat nodded.

“He was a tall man, lean and with a large, thin nose, was he not?” came the question.

“I looked through the window and saw you talking to him a while ago,” answered the dwarf. “I suppose, though,” with a grin, “he didn’t tell you what he wanted.”

“Hardly,” said Nat, “for from what you have seen, it would scarcely bear telling.”

They were silent for a moment, and then the boy from Wyoming resumed:

“The day has not been without its interest; and from the look of things, the night is promising to keep pace with it.”