For a brief space after the departure of Tobias Hawkins and Merchant Livingstone, Ben Cooper and the Porcupine continued to look inquiringly at each other.

“Well?” said the dwarf, at last.

“Well?” returned Ben, in the same tone, and with that they burst into a laugh.

“An odd fish,” commented the Porcupine, crossing one short leg over the other and nodding his head. “An odd fish, indeed. And he seemed to have some sort of a hidden meaning behind his words as he went out.”

“A threat,” said Ben, thoughtfully; “undoubtedly a threat. He seemed to object to my watching him as I did.”

“And the way he started, and the rage he flew into when you joked him about also being at Bunker Hill. It was peculiar.”

“And if he was there—and I am, somehow, now inclined so think he was—why does he desire to keep it hidden? All whom I have met who took part in that fight have been proud of it. Indeed, most have made it a boast.” Ben paused for a moment, deep in thought; then he suddenly leaped up.

“What is it?” cried the Porcupine, all alert, and also rising.

But seeing that he was attracting attention, Ben resumed his seat.

“Sit down,” said he, calmly enough. And when the dwarf had done so, he leaned across the table and continued in a low-pitched voice: “Master Hawkins was present at the Bunker Hill fight. My watching him so intently, and my later jest have convinced him that I saw him there.”

“But,” said the Porcupine, not understanding, “he seemed afraid. Why should he fear you seeing him there?”

“There is only one reason in the world,” replied Ben Cooper, and his voice sank lower than ever, “and that is that he was upon the side of the enemy.”

The Porcupine sank back into his chair; his lips formed a circle, and he blew out his breath hissingly. Then with one finger he pointed at Ben and said:

“You’re right. You’re exactly right. It couldn’t be anything else. He belongs to Howe’s army, and he’s here for no good.”

But Ben was silent; he too, so it appeared, was convinced that the man’s presence in the city had an evil meaning. And the Porcupine, as he watched his comrade, felt sure that its possible intent suggested itself to him. Ben stared into the fire, his chin in his hands, and the dwarf heard him mutter:

“No, no! Such a thing is almost impossible. It might enter the minds of the enemy to attempt it; but it could not be carried out, for no American would lend himself to it.”

It was some little time before Ben aroused himself.

“I had almost forgotten Master Morris and the dispatch,” said he as he looked at the coffee room clock. “You get to bed, Porcupine, for there’s no knowing how long I shall be gone.”

He pulled on his heavy coat, and felt of his inner pockets to be sure that his message was safe; then with a parting word to the dwarf, he left the inn. The streets were very quiet at that hour; the stars looked cold and far away; the stones rang under his spurred heel.

There was a light burning behind a curtain in the Morris house.

“He’s home, I think,” said the lad, “and perhaps sitting up, awaiting my return.”

Ben ascended the high stone steps and sounded the knocker gently. There was a pause, then a step was heard in the hall, a bar fell, a chain rattled and the door swung open. To his great astonishment, Ben saw standing before him, a lighted candle above his head, the gentleman who had supped with Livingstone and Hawkins at the inn.

“I desire to see Master Robert Morris,” said the lad.

The other inspected him closely.

“Did you, by any chance, call here earlier in the evening?” he asked.

“I did, and left a note saying that I would return.”

The door was held open to its fullest extent.

“Come in.”

Ben Cooper entered the hall; the other then closed the door and led the way to an apartment where several candles burned in long silver candlesticks upon a writing table.

“I reached home only a short time ago,” said the gentleman, after they had become seated, “and was startled to find myself the cause of delay. The general’s dispatches are usually urgent.”

Ben took out a folded paper sealed in several places.

“You are Mr. Robert Morris?” he asked.

“I am,” replied the gentleman.

Upon receiving the paper he at once broke the seal, and drawing one of the candles nearer, proceeded to read. When he reached the end of the message, his lips were compressed and a troubled expression appeared in his eyes.

“I was afraid it was something like this,” he said, shaking his head. “The wants of the army are urgent, I know, but money is very difficult to get just now.” He looked at Ben and tapped the edge of the refolded paper upon the writing table. “It is a matter of wonderment what becomes of the hard money at times,” he went on. “When it is the most urgently needed, it is the scarcest.”

“That,” said Ben, “I think may be said about most things.”

The financier of the Revolution smiled.

“Why,” said he, “that’s true enough. But money is the worst of all. Let me see.” The speaker pulled open a drawer and took out a book. “What were the last moneys I sent to the general?” He turned page after page, running his finger down each.

“Here it is,” pausing at an entry. “There were four hundred and ten Spanish dollars, two crowns, ten shillings and sixpence English, and one French half-crown.” He closed the ledger and sat regarding it with nodding head. “A small sum, indeed, to supply a general in the field; it could not go far.” He was silent for a space; then he opened the message once more, and reread what Washington had written. “This time such a pittance will not answer. The call is more urgent; a large sum must be had. But,” and his chin sank upon his breast, “where shall I ask for it? Where has my credit not been tried?”

For a long time he sat buried in thought, apparently oblivious of the boy’s presence. Finally he arose and began pacing up and down the apartment, his hands behind him and his brows puckered thoughtfully. One, two, three hours were struck upon the great bell in the State House tower; Ben was nodding in the comfortable chair which had been given him; the financier, with muttering lips and mind concentrated upon the problem before him, continued his pacing. At three o’clock he sat down and began to go through documents, books and files; with a blunt quill he scratched notes upon a slip of paper. It was past four o’clock when he pushed the mass from him and arose; twice had he replaced the candles, and the last were now guttering and flickering in the sockets of their supports. Mr. Morris was putting on his cloak when his eyes fell upon the relaxed form of the drowsy youth.

“My poor lad,” he said, astonishment and then amusement showing in his face, “I had really forgotten all about you. It is too bad of me, but I was so taken up by these affairs of mine that everything else was completely shut out.”

Ben rubbed his eyes.

“I was told to await an answer,” he said; “and believe me, sir, I have passed a much longer and less comfortable time often enough and upon less important business.”

“You are very good to say so,” replied the merchant. He took up his hat, and in the act of placing it upon his head, a thought seemed to occur to him. “Perhaps,” he added, “you are not even yet too fatigued to prolong your share in this matter.”

“Sir,” replied Ben Cooper, arising and lifting a hand, military fashion, “I am ready and willing to give what time you require to it.”

“Very good,” said Mr. Morris, nodding his head in a satisfied way. “You have the making of an excellent soldier in you, sir.”

After settling the long comforter about his neck, the merchant went to a low chest of drawers and took from it a pistol.

“I trust you are armed,” said he, as he examined this. Without a word Ben showed the pistol and short hanger which he wore buttoned under his greatcoat. “Good,” said Mr. Morris. “If I have fortune attending me, I shall have a large sum in hard money before very long; and it will be as well to be prepared to defend it against highwaymen, if any be abroad.”

Without any clear understanding of the nature of this errand, Ben Cooper followed the comfortable looking Mr. Morris into the street; the dawn was paling the sky in the direction of the Delaware, and the air had a penetrating chill which made him shiver. Not very far did they go before Mr. Morris ascended a pair of steps and beat a tattoo upon the knocker.

“You will be a much astonished man, Jethro Sharpless,” chuckled the merchant, “and there will be many like you before the dawn comes up on the New Year.”

In reply to the vigorous rapping upon the door, a window went up, a head popped out and a complaining voice demanded:

“Who is it that comes at such an hour as this? Be off with thee or I will summon the watch and have thee taken to the lock-up.”

“Is that you, Jethro Sharpless?” asked Merchant Morris. “This is your friend Robert Morris, who bids you come down as soon as you may and hear what news is come from the Jerseys.”

“THIS IS YOUR FRIEND ROBERT MORRIS”

There was an exclamation above, and the window closed hastily. The announcement by Mr. Morris was in a clear, round voice and in the quiet of the early morning it carried surprisingly. From across the way an anxious voice called:

“What news is it that you bring, Neighbor Morris? Good or bad?”

“Ah, did my knocking awaken you, Robert Chaney? Arouse you, then!” Mr. Morris had his face toward the place where the voice had sounded.

Apparently the rat-tat-tat upon the door of Friend Sharpless had brought others out of their warm beds to learn what was going forward. At any rate there came a full half dozen voices from as many different points, all charged with suspense:

“What say you, Morris? What is it?”

“Has a battle been fought?”

“Has Cornwallis crossed a state so soon?”

“How went the fight?”

“Did our troops give a good account of themselves?”

But Robert Morris offered them scant satisfaction.

“You will have to gather round about, my good friends, before I relieve myself of my budget. I have news of the first importance—news that must come home to every real friend of the cause.” Here the door of the Sharpless house opened, and the nightcapped householder showed himself, candle in hand. “You will find me in the parlor of Jethro Sharpless; and any of you, who care to hear what General Washington himself says, will gather there at once.”

In the parlor, Mr. Sharpless, who was a tall, bony man, with scraggy, gray brows, placed his brass candlestick upon the table and looked at the two who had so disturbed his sleep.

“News from the Jerseys,” said he, his scraggy brows drawn together with anxiety. “And what has been toward, Friend Morris? Has there been a swording and a bickering with the guns? Or has the army retreated once more?”

Mr. Morris took a seat at one corner of a settle, crossed his legs and balanced his three-cornered hat in his hands.

“I fancy,” said he, quietly, “there will be a number of your neighbors here in a few moments, Friend Sharpless; so, perhaps, we had better save the news until they arrive.”

With as good a grace as may be, the householder set about waiting; and in no great while Mr. Morris was surrounded by a ring of eager faces.

“Come now, the news,” was demanded of him.

“Never say it was anything but a victory,” said a second.

“Trenton has but whetted our appetite,” declared another. “Americans can beat the British as readily as they can the Hessians, so let’s to the news of how they did it.”

Merchant Morris regarded them with his shrewd eyes. He knew every man of them; they were persons of means and circumstance; none in the entire city more capable than they when matters of credit or ready money were discussed.

“So,” spoke Mr. Morris, carefully, “you desire a victory, do you, my friends? Very good. Not one of you is more desirous of it than I. And no one more willing to point out to you how it can be gotten than I.”

“What,” demanded Friend Sharpless, “has there not been a fight won, then?”

“A fight won!” replied Robert Morris, scornfully. “A fight won! And with what, pray?” He looked from one to the other of them. “Would you ask a man to dig and give him no spade? Would you require a man to build and provide him with no bricks? You would not! You are all too shrewd for that—too well acquainted with the wisdom of practical things. But still you would have a general win battles without an army; you would have him face the ice of winter without shoes or blankets for his scanty force; you would have him keep the field in all the rigor of the season with no medical help for his sick; you would have him front a powerful foe with only a few muskets and artillery of the poorest.”

To this there was no answer, save a look of gloom from each of the circle. Robert Morris went on:

“You have the cause and you have the general. Put the power into the general’s hands, and the cause is won.” There was a pause, and the speaker drew out the dispatch which Ben Cooper had brought from Trenton. “It is, perhaps, in your minds,” proceeded the financier, “as to what form this paper is to take. My reply is simple. Funds! Hard money! I do not expect you to fill the empty treasure chest. Merely cover its bottom and it will suffice for a time.”

“Times,” spoke one with a shake of the head, “are hard.”

“Ready money is difficult to come by,” added another.

“The war has ruined trade,” bemoaned another. “A gold or silver coin is a rarity nowadays.”

“Here,” said Robert Morris, apparently paying no heed to their complaints, “is the letter of His Excellency.” He read the lines with proper emphasis and clearness, and as he was refolding the sheet continued: “You see, sirs, it is a rather large sum that is required; but consider, also, that the need of it is much larger still. A crisis has been reached in the country’s affairs that must be met with swiftness and generosity; if it is not, then never look for a sign of peace until all the sources of supply whatsoever have been drained. By lending a part to the cause at this time, you may save the whole, eventually.”

He placed the dispatch in his pocket and sat awaiting a response. There was a long silence: each man seemed to prefer that his neighbor speak first. There was none of the eagerness of real patriotism which once impelled men to rush to the defense of their native land; their manners were more like those of gloomy pessimists who foresaw nothing but disaster and whose remembrance of self impelled them to think only of what might be saved from the ruins of their cause. Keen-eyed Robert Morris perceived this at once; it was nothing more, apparently, than he had expected; but like the courageous man that he was, he continued to strive, even in the face of defeat.

Picture after picture was drawn by him of what would befall should the army not receive the required money; he left nothing to the imagination; Washington would be driven beyond the western mountains; Philadelphia would fall; taxation would hang upon them like a chain upon a felon.

But his eloquence failed to move them; their heavy faces ringed about him unbelievingly; the doubt in their hearts seemed to fill the room. At length Morris arose.

“Well,” said he, “I cannot remain to reason with you longer, friends. The money must be had swiftly, if it’s to do any good; so I must call upon some one more promising before it is too late. Should any of you chance to alter your minds,” he added, pausing at the door, “you know where I live. I shall be very glad, indeed, to see you.”

With Ben Cooper at his side he left the house of Jethro Sharpless, and proceeded to another house at no great distance; but with no better fortune. Then began a hurried round from house to house, a hammering at knockers and a rousing of quiet citizens from their beds. Excuses, apologies and promises were many.

“But no hard money,” said the financier to Ben. “Nothing that will help an army desperately circumstanced for arms and clothing and food.”

The dawn had passed, and the streets were well peopled by those starting upon the early duties of the day when Robert Morris with empty hands and haggard face gave up the hopeless task.

“I am ashamed of my fellow townsmen,” he said. “They are without a particle of that daring necessary to bring a cause to the point where success may be had.”

Side by side he and Ben walked back toward the Morris house; the merchant’s head was bent, his moody eyes were upon the ground.

“I will write a letter to the general which you will be good enough to carry,” he said. “Perhaps in a few days I shall be more fortunate in my appeals for help, and will say so in the letter; if you are asked any questions, it will be as well, perhaps, if you place the matter in as hopeful a light as you can. It will not do to allow any definite discouragement to gain circulation at this——”

Here Merchant Morris was interrupted by a quiet voice saying:

“Good-morning, Friend Morris; thou art early upon thy affairs to-day.”

It was a tall, quiet-faced Quaker, wrapped in a gray woolen shawl, and with his broad-brimmed hat pulled well down.

“It is a pressing matter, though no more my own than yours, friend, which compels me to be early astir,” replied Morris.

“Ah,” said the Quaker. “Some affair of Congress, or the army.”

“A most active necessity,” said Morris. He drew off his gloves, took out Washington’s letter and read it aloud once more. When he had concluded, he added: “You see, it was not a thing to be dandled over.”

The tall Quaker nodded.

“As thou sayest, friend, a most pressing business, indeed.” He looked at Merchant Morris for a moment with quiet eyes. “What sum does General Washington mention?” he asked.

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

“It is a great deal.” Again came the pause; then he continued in the same unruffled voice, “Friend Robert, what security canst thou offer against a loan of such size?”

“My note and my honor,” promptly.

The Quaker smiled and nodded.

“More no man could ask,” said he. “Thou shalt have it, but,” with a wave of the hand, “thou must allow me one day to gather the sum together, since it must be in coin.”

“Friend,” said Robert Morris, delightedly, “I am greatly beholden to you.”

“By this evening, then,” said the other, as he started on his way, “you may expect it.”

When he had gone, Ben Cooper fell in silently by the side of Mr. Morris. Already the latter was planning the next step.

“You rode from Trenton yesterday,” he said, “and because of me have had no sleep during the night. It would be too much to ask you to take horse again this morning.”

“If it is necessary,” spoke Ben, “you need only give me the word.”

“Excellent! Then, if that is your spirit, I say to you that it is necessary. What is the earliest hour you can reach the camp?”

“By sundown.”

“Very well. I will not detain you to write a letter. Merely say to the general that fifty thousand dollars will be on its way to him in a swift carriage by the time your message is delivered.”

Seeing that there was no more to be said, Ben saluted the financier, military fashion, and started at a brisk pace for the City Tavern. Within an hour both he and the Porcupine had breakfasted and were in the saddle, headed for Washington’s camp on the upper Delaware.