There was a complete silence for a moment after the man had gone; then the landlady spoke.
“Well, of all the knaves that ever turned a decent inn topsyturvy, that one is the worst.”
The old gentleman approached Ben, his stick thumping the floor with each step.
“Young sir,” said he, in his piping voice, “I am thankful to you for the service you have rendered us.”
Ben nodded his head and smiled in his usual good-natured way.
“Why,” said he, “it is but a trifling thing to get rid of a rascal of that stripe. They seldom have the courage they seem to have.”
“Nevertheless,” and the old man held up his thin hand in protest, “he was a formidable villain enough. I thank you, and my daughter thanks you.”
Here the girl came forward a step or two.
“I do thank you,” she said, sweetly; “I was in great fear of the man, for he seemed capable of anything.” Then as she saw Ben was of a mind to still make light of the matter, she added, laughingly, “Well, at any rate you have saved our boiled mutton and the rest of the things; and even though you persist in refusing our thanks, perhaps you will not refuse to accept a part of our supper.”
“Now, my dear, that was well thought of,” quavered the old gentleman, very well pleased. “No doubt, young sir,” to Ben, “you have ridden a long way and are both worn and hungry.”
“I can answer ‘yes’ to the latter part,” laughed Ben, as he helped the landlady to set aside the saucepans, “but I am not over tired, as I have ridden but from Princeton.”
“From Princeton, did you say?” The old gentleman was very eager. “Then, perhaps, you came by way of Trenton and saw the army encamped?”
Ben shook his head.
“No,” said he, “I avoided Trenton as much as I could. Lord Cornwallis is not in great good humor just now, and I did not care to fall into the hands of any of his people.”
The old gentleman grasped the arm of a chair, and then sat down.
“Cornwallis in Trenton! Surely you are mistaken,” he said. “Why, General Washington is there.”
“He was there,” corrected Ben, “but now he is at Morristown.”
“There has been a battle!” cried the girl. “And we have been defeated.”
The old man tried to rise out of the chair but fell back.
“No, no,” he said. “That cannot be. If there was a battle, we were victorious!”
“In that you are right,” said Ben.
Thereupon, he related what had happened; the three listened breathless; and when he had done, they were filled with delight.
“Oh, it’s glorious!” cried the girl, her face flushed, her eyes shining.
“Now, will the Hessians murder honest people in their beds!” said the landlady, her chin up and her arms akimbo. “We’ll match them yet, never fear.”
The old gentleman reached out until his hand rested upon the boy’s sleeve.
“You are of the army?” he asked, very quietly.
“Yes,” replied Ben, “a courier and scout attached to the service of General Washington.”
“There are so many young officers,” said the old man, “that it is not likely that you have met with Lieutenant Claflin.”
Ben pondered a moment.
“He is in General Cadwallader’s brigade,” spoke the girl, her tone now as low as that of her father. “A fair-haired young man, not over large, but strong.”
“Claflin,” said Ben, thoughtfully. “Oh, yes, I recall him; he seems to be much thought of by General Cadwallader. I saw them riding side by side in the midst of the Pennsylvanians to-day.”
“After the battle?” The question was asked by the old gentleman and his daughter at the same instant.
“Why, yes, to be sure. The army was then well beyond Kingston, making for the hills.”
The old man cast his eyes upward, fervently; the girl put her arms about his neck.
“There, there,” she murmured, “what did I tell you? He is safe; perfectly safe.”
After a few moments the old gentleman looked at the boy, who was talking in low tones with the landlady.
“He is my only son,” he explained, “and I have been much put out by thoughts of his safety. Indeed, I am now on my way to the camp. I felt that there must soon be a battle, and I desired to see him once more.”
They talked, while the landlady laid the table at the fire with her whitest linen and most shining delft.
“My name is Joseph Claflin,” said the old man. “I once manufactured iron-mongery of many kinds, but am long since retired.”
Ben glanced at him, surprised.
“Not the Joseph Claflin whose foundry is still on the Wissahickon, just above Weiss’s Mill?” said he.
“Hah, you know the place then?”
“I ought to, sir, seeing that I was born at no great distance from it. My name is Cooper, and my father’s place is near to the Mennonite Meeting House.”
“Attorney Cooper’s son! Are you, indeed? Let me shake your hand.” The old hands grasped the young ones in a quavering grip. “Why, I have known him these many years; yes, I knew him when he was not greatly older than yourself.”
And so when they sat down to the smoking supper by the crackling fire they had many topics in common for discussion. The Claflins now resided in the city proper; but they knew Germantown still, and, so it seemed, frequently visited there.
“But,” said Mr. Claflin, “you must call upon us when you get to Philadelphia and have some spare time; our house is on Sassafras Street, not far from Crown, and you will be warmly welcome there at any time.”
Miss Betsy Claflin added her invitation to that of her father.
“Perhaps, after the rough life of the camp, we can make you comfortable if even for only a few hours,” she said. “So please do not fail, if you have the chance, to drop in on us when you are in the city.”
They talked for a long time after supper, and then Mr. Claflin and his daughter took their candles and retired to their rooms.
“I shall see you, of course, in the morning,” said the old gentleman, as they were going. “We will be astir early, for we desire to start as soon as may be on the way to the camp.”
After they had retired, Ben sat for a time chatting with the landlady. Then, thinking to go to bed himself, he arose.
“I shall see to my nag,” said he, “and then get some sleep while I may.”
“As to the horse,” replied the hostess, “you may rest easy about him. The hostler, while he isn’t of much use when hectoring fellows make trouble in the inn, is an excellent hand with the cattle; I never had a better.”
Nevertheless, Ben went to the barn, and there, in the ill light of a lantern suspended from the rafters, he saw the small hostler seated upon a heap of grain sacks, reading an old newspaper. At sight of the lad, the man folded his paper carefully and laid it away. For some little time he sat regarding Ben, as the latter patted his horse and rearranged its bed; then he spoke.
“He was a rare bad fellow, wasn’t he?”
Ben turned and looked at him questioningly, for the man with the yellow smile had vanished from his mind.
“Whom do you mean?” he asked.
“Why,” said the hostler, his mild eyes wide open, “he that was within there a while ago.”
“Oh, yes.” Ben laughed. “I suppose he was as bad as may be. But it all depends upon how you take them. You see it turned out that he’ll do no more harm to-night.”
The other shook his head.
“I am not so sure of that,” said he. “There is more goes on of a night on the road than an honest body generally knows of.”
Ben stood leaning against his nag, looking at the hostler. The dim rays of light fell upon the man with weird effect; his pale skin, light eyes and reddish hair gave him a most peculiar look.
“It takes them as are familiar with the ways of the road after dark to understand it,” said the hostler, with a shake of the head. “No one else can do it. Strange things happen when night shuts everything else out. Deeds are done that would make one shudder in the sunlight.”
“You are one, I take it—from your talk, who is acquainted with the road after nightfall,” said Ben.
The man nodded.
“I am,” he replied. “I am, though I don’t just know why I should be, as I have no liking for such things and am afraid of them.”
“We are not always master of the things that come to us,” said the lad. “Perhaps it is not best that we should be.”
“It may be so,” said the hostler. “But I for one cannot understand it. If I were big of body and had an enterprising mind, I might be able to come to hand grips with some of the people I take note of. But, as it stands, I am neither, and so must content myself with listening and looking and shaking my head.”
“How does one come to be acquainted with the road after dark?” asked Ben, curiously. “I have traveled it many times at all hours, and the night hours have seemed much the same as the others to me, except that the going was more difficult.”
“The secret of the night road does not come to one who travels it merely,” said the hostler, wisely. “No, no. To get at the heart of it, one must study it, one must lie by its side, staring at it; one must listen to the slightest murmur that stirs it, the smallest thing, the faintest whisper, the tiniest throb of life. He must have eyes that can pierce the darkness and ears that can catch sounds a great way off. And not only must he do all this, but he must be able to understand what he sees and hears and feels.”
“YOU SAW SOMETHING THEN?”
The speaker arose from the grain sacks, went to the barn window and looked cautiously out. Then he came close to Ben, and continued in a low voice:
“If I had not been able to do all this, how could I have understood what I saw to-night as I came from the mill, a mile beyond the turnpike road?”
“You saw something, then?” said Ben. The lad thought the man, from his queer words, must be slightly demented; but, for all, there was an earnestness about him which compelled attention.
“I not only saw, but I heard,” said the hostler in the same low tone. “You see, the miller holds some grain belonging to the inn to be ground when wanted. And so to-night, after you had driven the bully away, I went to the mill to tell the miller that we’d need more rye on the morrow. I had not reached the main road on the way back, when I saw a thin shadow moving in the lighter shadows of the road; and as I stopped to watch it, I saw a second shadow move out and join the first.”
The man paused here, and one of his hands touched Ben upon the arm.
“It was here that my knowledge of the night road was of service. One who knew naught of its secrets would have seen nothing of this, or if they had chanced to see, would have considered it of no moment. But I understood—the shadows could be nothing less than men—men who had met together for some purpose which, perhaps, was not of the best.
“And so,” proceeded the hostler, “knowing this, I must know more. They had paused, had the shadows, and it was an easy matter to approach them. There they stood by the roadside, close together, and their voices came clearly to my ears.
“‘And,’ said one of them, ‘you thought it well to keep me prowling up and down in the cold while you had your supper?’
“‘It was no fault of my own,’ said the second. ‘I hurried the best I could. Indeed, if I had waited until they cooked a supper for me, I would have waited until midnight. As it was, I tried to come by that belonging to another, knowing you’d be awaiting me; and I failed even in that.’”
Ben drew in a breath long with interest; the speaker went on:
“The other man laughed. ‘And so you have come out upon the venture with an empty stomach?’ said he.
“‘I have,’ replied the other, ‘and all because of a particular friend of yours who entered the inn while I was negotiating the meal.’ At this saying the other seemed puzzled; and the man had to enlighten him. ‘A close friend of yours,’ said he, ‘and one of whom you spoke with some interest to me not many hours ago.’”
“Ah,” said Ben Cooper, softly. “And what did he say to that?”
“He was fair astonished, it seemed to me. I saw the shadows spring apart, and I saw a movement as though the man had taken out a firearm.
“‘Ah,’ said he, ‘and so he is there! Well, that is a stroke of good fortune that I did not expect. Back you go to this inn, and I with you; we’ll see to this friend of mine at once.’”
“An earnest fellow,” said Ben, quietly. “He would be about his business without delay.”
“But the other checked him,” spoke the hostler; “it would seem that there was other and more pressing work toward. ‘Don’t forget,’ said he, ‘that the hours are passing; and while we are meddling about an inn, wasting time with a boy, the carriage may pass.’”
“The carriage?” said Ben Cooper, and a startled look came into his face.
“‘The carriage may pass,’ were his words,” said the hostler. “And without another instant’s delay the two started off toward the main road, and I saw nothing more of them.”
Ben remained looking at the man for a space; then he asked:
“You don’t know what direction they took, then, when they reached the main road?”
“I lost sight of them in the by-road,” said the hostler; “but,” with some pride, “I can tell you which way they took for all that. My ears made out that they took to the southward.”
“A carriage from the direction of Philadelphia,” muttered the boy as he crossed the yard to the inn with hasty steps. “And being waited for by a gentleman who is much interested in having harm befall myself. I think,” as he pushed open the door, “this is a matter which will bear some little examination.”