The Musket Boys of Old Boston
Date: 2025-06-10T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: War stories; United States -- History -- Revolution; 1775-1783 -- Juvenile fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Musket Boys of Old Boston

This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The Musket Boys of Old Boston
or, The first blow for liberty

Author: George A. Warren

Release date: June 10, 2025 [eBook #76265]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Goldsmith Publishing Company, 1909

Credits: Aaron Adrignola, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MUSKET BOYS OF OLD BOSTON ***

THE MUSKET BOYS OF OLD BOSTON

Or

The First Blow for Liberty

BY GEORGE A. WARREN

AUTHOR OF "THE MUSKET BOYS UNDER WASHINGTON," ETC.

The
GOLDSMITH
Publishing Co.

NEW YORK, N.Y.

MADE IN USA

Copyright, 1909, by
Cupples & Leon Company

CONTENTS

I. | A Puff of Powder
II. | A Fruitless Chase
III. | "Hurrah for Liberty!"
IV. | On Duty
V. | A Great Name
VI. | Down the River
VII. | Old Berks' News
VIII. | The Road to Boston
IX. | In the Enemy's Hands
X. | Lost
XI. | Close Quarters
XII. | A Nest of Tories
XIII. | A Serious Dilemma
XIV. | On Board the Vixen
XV. | A Friend in Need
XVI. | A Dash for Liberty
XVII. | A Safe Port
XVIII. | Troubled Times
XIX. | "Sachem"
XX. | Paul Revere's Ride
XXI. | Along the River
XXII. | "On to Lexington"
XXIII. | The First Skirmish
XXIV. | Brought to Book
XXV. | The Battle of Concord
XXVI. | Spoils of War
XXVII. | In Camp
XXVIII. | Boston at Last
XXIX. | The Old Warehouse
XXX. | Bunker Hill
XXXI. | A Message from Concord
XXXII. | A Notable Exploit
XXXIII. | Conclusion

THE MUSKET BOYS OF OLD BOSTON

CHAPTER I

A PUFF OF POWDER

"That's a queer proceeding, Phil."

"I should say so. Why, Andy, what is the fellow up to?"

"Let's watch and find out. Here, dodge down behind this bush out of sight."

Puff!

"Gunpowder!" declared Phil Warrington in a thrilling whisper. "There, the fellow has turned around. He is running away. I say, Andy, I know him!"

"You know him, Phil?"

"Yes, he is the same boy I told you about this morning. See, there is the long-tailed muskrat cap I described to you. See it is certainly the mysterious boy who startled me so here in Concord, and who, I am mightily certain, I met before that somewhere in Boston."

"After this boy of mystery, then!" cried Andy. "I am curious to know the secret of all these peculiar proceedings."

The scene was wild and wintry, the time March, 1775, the place a stretch of woods and fields just back of the famous old town of Concord.

The two boys were Phil Warrington and Andy Sabine. The former was on a brief visit to his best friend and chum. Phil's father was a merchant in Boston and Andy's father was a storekeeper in Concord, and the two men were old-time friends. Andy had spent a month in Boston the year previous, and Phil was now returning the visit. The latter had left his home city at a time when loyalty and royalty were beginning a conflict that had already set the country afire. Phil had brought to the excited juveniles of the backwoods town not only the keen, snappy vigor of an all-around intelligent lad nursed by the exhilarating, briny breezes of the Bay, but the grim echo of the gunpowder days. Those were stirring times, and everybody was on the tip-toe of expectation, waiting for something to happen.

Phil belonged to a club called the Musket Boys of Boston. Its existence dated back to the day after the famous "tea party," when some Boston citizens, disguised as Indians, resisted the Stamp Act by throwing a whole cargo of English tea into the waters of the Bay. Phil had witnessed that stirring event personally, and that made him an object of interest to every lively, patriotic lad in Concord.

Then, too, Phil was one of those boys who had formed themselves into a committee to visit General Gage at the British headquarters in Boston, to complain of his rude royalist soldiers. The soldiers had spoiled the snow slides of the boys on Boston Commons out of malice, taunting them with being "young rebels."

Whenever Phil related this incident, he stirred his manly young hearers to deep indignation and patriotic fervor, and they voted him quite the hero that he was.

This all led to stir up more deeply the latent spirit of resistance and outbreak long smoldering in the bosoms of the ardent youths of Concord. Their parents talked nothing but war, and were already organizing for the conflict that seemed inevitable. The boys followed their example, and many secret meetings of youthful warriors were held in Andy's barn. They had even drilled like real full-grown soldiers. Phil was the leader in these operations. In fact, he and Andy had just come from target practice with the self-same muskets that they now dropped to the ground as they arose to their feet simultaneously, after curiously watching a boy about their own age who stood at a distance.

They had been following some rabbit tracks across the snow when Andy Sabine uttered the remark which opens our story:

"That's a queer proceeding, Phil!"

It was decidedly an unusual spectacle that the two friends witnessed. About a hundred yards distant the land ran up a small hill. It was covered with light brush, except at the top, where there was a barren space. Here, clearly outlined against the dull grey sky, stood a lad wearing a muskrat skin cap, thinly clad and shivery-looking.

The stranger, as Phil and Andy saw, had some kind of a parcel done up in paper. This he had rested on a solitary tree stump. Then with flint and steel he ignited some tinder he had placed across the top of the tree stump. As this ignited, he retreated to a little distance.

The tiny flames curled around the paper, and finally there was a giant puff. The strange boy watched the ascending smoke for a minute or two and then pursued his way, disappearing over the crest of the hill.

"You cut around that way," directed Andy, pointing, "and run across to him. I'll head him off at the bottom of the hill if he tries to run away from us."

The boys had disencumbered themselves of their muskets and game bags to brace for a dash. Phil somewhat hesitated.

"I say, Andy," he observed, nodding towards a line of low rail fencing, "won't we be trespassing?"

"Where? when?" demanded Andy, somewhat puzzled, staring askance at his comrade.

"That's old Jasper Bram's property, isn't it," asked Phil.

"Yes, and this, too," replied Andy. "What of it? This is not like Boston—no trespassing around these diggings. Free as the air, Phil, full range when a fellow wants to make a short cut or chase a rabbit."

"I don't know about that in this especial case," said Phil to himself, with a grimace. "Andy don't quite understand our pleasant family relations with Jasper Bram. I met the old curmudgeon once since I came to Concord, and I don't fancy a second encounter. Here goes, though, on a venture!" and Phil promptly started in the direction indicated by his chum.

Two things were uppermost in Phil Warrington's mind as he made for the hilltop—Jasper Bram and the mysterious boy he was after, the latter first of all, in a speculative, curious sort of way.

Two nights previous Andy and his friends had held a club meeting in the roomy loft of Mr. Sabine's old barn. They had wound up with a kind of banquet. Phil, starting with Andy to escort their guests home, suddenly remembered that he had left his pocket knife on the rude deal boards that had answered for the banqueting table.

"Go on, boys, I'll catch up with you in a minute or two," Phil had remarked, running back to the barn, which he soon reached. He clambered to the loft, and by aid of the bright moonlight, made his way to the table, groped for his pocket knife, secured it, and was about to leave the place when a sound at one end of the loft caused him to turn quickly.

Some one had mounted the sloping roof of an adjoining shed and had pulled open a narrow wooden window. This person was a boy. He was reaching towards a barrel on which stood some of the remnants of the recent feast.

"Hold on, there!" irresistibly called out Phil. Then, noticing more closely the outline of the marauder, he added: "Don't run. Take what you want—nothing to be scared at. I say, haven't I seen you before?"

In a flash Phil had been interrupted. The stranger, a boy about his own age, at being so startlingly hailed, had dropped a handful of doughnuts he had grabbed. He drew back and disappeared as if by magic. Phil ran to the window in time to see the night marauder slide the slanting shed roof, reach the ground and flit from view beyond some garden bushes.

Like a photograph, however, there had been imprinted on his mind the thin, starved-looking face of the boy and the peculiar muskrat skin cap with a long tail which he wore. The picture remained vivid for a long time, the more so as Phil puzzled himself to make out where he had seen the boy before. He concluded, that it must have been in Boston.

"The poor fellow must have been terribly hungry," Phil had decided. "He looked like some refugee in trouble," and Phil later recited the incident to Andy, and revived it just now as for the second time he had happened across the strange lad in as strange a way as on the former occasion.

This was the first thought Phil had in his mind as he ran rapidly on. His second thought was of Jasper Bram.

Phil had heard that name many a time long before he came to Concord. His father had frequently mentioned it in conversation with Phil and Mrs. Warrington. From what he had heard, Phil came to understand that his father regarded Jasper Bram of Concord as an enemy.

Since the trouble with the British troops in Boston had begun, Mr. Warrington had met with severe business losses. He was a strong loyalist, and had refused to side with the English troops in the matter of supplies in which he dealt.

One night his warehouse was set on fire in a mysterious way, and was burned to the ground. There was no doubt in the mind of the merchant and his patriotic friends that the British soldiers had committed this outrage.

A few days later Phil overheard his father remark to his mother that he was pretty nearly ruined financially by this great loss. He said, too, that he could not see his way very clear to continue business unless he could get money or help somewhere.

Mr. Warrington, in discussing the situation, complained bitterly of a great business wrong done him some years before by Jasper Bram. He alluded to trickery, robbery, and stolen documents. He said that if he could get what Bram legally owed him he could renew business.

Phil naturally thought of all this when he came to Concord. He made some inquiries about Jasper Bram, to find that he and his loutish son, Greg Bram, were very generally disliked. The more so was this true because they were designated as "regular Tories."

The day preceding Phil was coming home from the river when he stepped out of the road to let a sled pass him. Its driver had eyed him sharply. Phil recognized him as the person whom Andy Sabine had pointed out to him a few days previous as Jasper Bram.

The grizzled, mean-faced old man stared hard at Phil. He drew his team to a sharp halt.

"Hey, you!" he hailed. "What's your name?"

"My name is Warrington," replied Phil.

"Thought so. Heard you were in town, saw you were a stranger. Now look here, you young cub," and old Bram flourished his whip in a way so menacing, and his crafty old eyes gleamed with such furious rage, that Phil was positively electrified—"you come sneaking around again trying to spy on me, and I'll fill you full of shot and salt and pepper!"

Phil's eyes flashed. The insulting tone and manner aroused him indignantly. Only the age of his challenger prevented the youth from saying something desperate. He controlled himself, and remarked:

"Your place? Why I don't even know where it is."

"Bah! Think I can't figure out that your father sent you here for a purpose? Think I can't guess you to be the boy that I saw peeking in a window of my stone shed, if you don't wear a muskrat skin cap now, as you did then? Just you keep away from me and mine, young Paul Pry, or you'll get a dose that will lay you up for a while."

And then with a vicious snort, and shaking his fist venomously, old Jasper Bram drove on with the sled.

"Well! well!" the stupefied Phil had commented, staring wonderingly after the old man, "that's a fine reception for a fellow. My father is right, and Jasper Bram has little use for our family. A muskrat skin cap. I never owned one. That half-starved fellow who tried to get the food at Andy's barn must have made old Bram a visit, too."

All these varied memories and reflections darted through Phil Warrington's mind as he now made the ascent of the hill on the land of the man he knew to be no friend. Soon he reached the summit.

In an instant his meditative mood took flight. Real action fixed his attention. The minute Phil came into view of the summit of the hill a loud call rang out:

"Stop him!"

CHAPTER II

A FRUITLESS CHASE

Phil Warrington looked over the landscape to trace the source of the echoing shout that had reached his ears. It was getting late in the afternoon, there was no sunlight, but the snow that showed here and there in patches and drifts dazzled his eyes somewhat.

"That's Andy's voice," declared Phil. "Ah, I see him, and the mysterious boy, too! He's coming this way! None too soon, and he surely did not see me."

Phil had made out Andy at quite a distance. He was pursuing the boy who wore the muskrat skin cap. As the young Bostonian had appeared in sight, Andy had seen and instantly recognized Phil. Not so the fugitive. His head had been turned to ascertain if he was gaining on his pursuer. By the time he looked in front of him again, Phil had jumped aside to shelter himself behind a tree stump.

There was only one clear course for the fugitive to take. This lay across the crest of the hill right up to where Phil had secreted himself. There a shallow ravine, all choked up with bushes, cut the landscape. The fugitive might here run down the slant which Phil had just ascended, or he might continue along the plateau, and, passing near to the Bram farmhouse, come out on the regularly-used country road.

Phil posed so as to be ready for prompt and decisive action the instant the fugitive neared him. The latter was a splendid runner, and he easily outdistanced Andy. For all that, however, he did not let up on his rapid rate of speed. He came on, panting heavily, and as he neared the tree stump made a movement that showed to Phil that he was going to cut to the left. As he did so, he cast a quick glance backwards to ascertain the nearness of his pursuer. That was Phil's chance. He arose erect as if on springs and with a swift glide ran right into the path of the fugitive. The latter, turning his head forward again, did not have time to dodge aside. He ran squarely into Phil's outstretched arms, and the Boston boy grappled with him.

"Got you!" said Phil. "Look here—"

Thump!

The force of the collision sent both of the boys flat to the hard, frozen ground. At first Phil was under. Then a brief roll direct to the edge of the ravine brought him uppermost. He threw the arms of his captive outspread, holding them firmly pinioned in that position, and stared keenly into his face.

"Let me go," panted the fugitive. "You have no right—"

"Why," fairly shouted Phil. For the first time at Concord this close to the mysterious youth, memory and recognition flashed vividly amongst his varied thoughts. "I know you now. I remember you perfectly."

The boy under him uttered a desperate cry. He was like some hunted, trapped animal.

"Let me loose," he cried, "let me loose, I say!"

"You're the fellow we snow-balled for carrying water into the British camp," declared Phil, in an excited tone. "You're the Tory boy of Boston Common!"

"Suppose I am?" fairly shouted the boy, quivering all over with emotion. "You're not my master. Let me go—I'm no Tory. Let go, I say! That other fellow is coming. I'm as good a patriot as you. It's dangerous for me to be around here. I won't be held down this way!"

"No you don't!" said Phil, tightening his grip as his fugitive writhed, uttering incoherent words and gasps.

"Yes I do!"

"Whew!" cried Phil "you've done it, I declare. The mischief!"

His captive had speedily turned the tables. Massing all his strength, which Phil suddenly learned was of no mean quality, the fugitive had wriggled hard, twisting his arm with a maneuver that made Phil's wrists fairly crack. Then, slipping from under, as Phil from sheer pain relaxed his grip, the boy gave him a push and sent him over the ravine headlong.

Phil did not fall far, for the chasm was not deep. He rather slipped over the tops of some snow-crested bushes, his head hit a strong branch, which made him see stars for an instant, and then he came to a halt, nestled in the centre of intermingled bushes and vines.

All sight of the upper world was now shut out, and the mysterious boy was blotted from view. Phil tried to right himself instantly.

"Ouch!" he cried, as he seized a vine pendant from above. "Ouch! ouch!" he repeated, as he rustled about. Then he raised his voice loudly: "Andy! Andy! Help! Help!"

"Halloa!" came ringing back to him. "Halloa!" nearer the responsive challenge echoed.

Phil was content to sit still and await the arrival of help. He was in no pleasant position. The network of vines and bushes enclosing him seemed set everywhere with spiky thorns, so that to try to pull himself out of the pit would be to lacerate his hands and riddle his clothing.

Finally there was the sound of violent breathing, and Andy Sabine leaned over the edge of the ravine and peered down.

"So there you are!" remarked Andy grimly.

"Yes, here I am," responded Phil, "and in no pleasant fix, I can tell you. Say, Andy, what of the boy?"

"Oh, he's slipped us for good," announced Andy. "Last I saw of him he was running like a whitehead. He's got beyond the grove and out of sight, and shouldn't wonder if he was going yet. I thought I saw old Jasper Bram running after him through a break in the trees, but maybe I was mistaken. Anyhow, we won't catch him this time. Why don't you climb out?"

Phil with a wry grimace explained why he did not climb out of the ravine. Andy went hunting for a long tree branch, lowered it, and Phil with a few scratches and rips in his clothing finally gained solid ground again.

"Well, what are we going to do now?" he asked, with a sigh of relief.

"Go after our guns and get back home, I reckon," replied Andy.

Phil straightened out his disarranged clothing and picked some thorn points from his wrists. Then they started away from the spot together.

"I say, Andy," observed Phil, after a thoughtful spell, "coming face to face with that fellow we chased, I find I know him."

"Aha!" nodded Andy, looking curious, "is that so?"

"Yes, it's been bothering me ever since the night he appeared at your barn. I got close to him just now."

"Should say you did," smiled Andy.

"And I recognized him all in a flash."

"Who is he anyway?"

"A Tory."

"Well! well! Sure of it?"

"I ought to be," asserted Phil, "no mistake about that breed of cats in old Boston town. There's mighty few Tory boys in Boston, for even when parents lean that way the young fellows side with us. So, when we found a boy a turncoat to the colonies, we just marked him."

"As how, now?" inquired Andy.

"Well, if it was at school, we made life miserable for him. On the streets it was generally a crowd fight, for the corners flocked together and the best side won. This boy we just chased I remember perfectly now. He used to carry drinking water around to the British soldiers when they were fixing up their barracks."

"For pay, of course? Maybe he had to take the first job he could lay his hands to, so he might keep flesh on his bones. He's starved-looking enough," said Andy.

"A job from the Tories!" cried Phil with indignation. "Why, we'd tar and feather one of our crowd if he so much as carried a message for those impudent, roystering redcoats."

"Well don't get mad about it," said the easy-going Andy. "This boy was one of the Tory crowd. Why isn't he with them now, I wonder?"

"That's it—that's just it," commented Phil excitedly. "What is he doing here at Concord, and acting like some mysterious spy, too? I suppose you'll admit that these are times when a good lot of trickery is going on, as you well know, Andy Sabine. What's more, look at that funny freak of his with the paper of gunpowder. Signals? Experiments? Gunpowder!" pronounced Phil very seriously. "It's in the air everywhere just now, and the word means mischief."

"What would the boy be spying on here?" inquired Andy.

"That's what we ought to try and find out," answered Phil forcibly. "Here we find him, too, right on the land of old Jasper Bram, a Tory himself. Oh, say, this all means something, you just bet, Andy Sabine."

"Hello!" was Andy's vociferous answer and interruption at that same time, and he stood stock still, staring down at the ground.

They had reached the spot where they had hidden behind the bushes to watch the boy that had sent aloft that puzzling puff of gunpowder smoke. A disturbing discovery confronted them.

Here they had left their hunting traps, and now muskets and game-bags had disappeared.

CHAPTER III

"HURRAH FOR LIBERTY!"

Phil and Andy were very much dismayed at the discovery of the disappearance of their hunting traps. Every boy in Concord who owned a gun was proud of the fact. Lately this sentiment had grown deeper than usual, for the feeling of war in the air, the constant drilling of the local militia, the target practice of the juvenile clubs, had brought firearms to the front in a vivid way.

"Well, this is a nice fix, isn't it?" Andy was the first to remark.

"Some one has stolen our muskets, that is sure," said Phil.

"Perhaps some of our crowd are playing a trick on us."

"It doesn't look that way," replied Phil, who had glanced sharply in every direction. "See here, Andy."

Phil pointed to a spot where the snow was much disturbed. Then he started along a trail that showed red and plain on the snow-crusted earth surface.

"Why!" exclaimed Andy. "It looks as if there had been a terrible scrimmage right where we left the musket. And this—why, Phil, this is blood!"

"Yes," nodded Phil, reflectively regarding the ground. "Some one has been hurt or wounded, that is sure," and he started forward, guided by occasional drops of blood in the snow. These soon ceased entirely. The boys returned to the spot from which their hunting traps had disappeared.

Phil took the situation seriously, trying to surmise what had occurred. Andy was entirely nonplussed, but his comrade moved restlessly about, studying the ground. Soon Phil made a new discovery.

"Some one with a cane or round-ended stick has been around here, Andy," he announced.

"What makes you think so, Phil?"

"See those round marks in the snow? Ah, they're a sure trail. They lead that way. Come on, this is worth following up."

"Why, Phil," said Andy, his eyes suddenly brightening. "I guess who made those marks. They're no tracks."

"What are they then?"

"Old Silas Berks' wooden leg. See, just a stride length apart, even and regular. Yes, Silas has been here. What makes it sure, is that the marks lead right over the hill in the direction of his house."

"Do you mean the queer old fellow who came up to the barn to see us drill?" inquired Phil.

"Exactly, the old soldier who was in the French and Indian War. That's where he lost his leg, you know."

"Why, he wouldn't be so unfriendly as to steal our guns."

"Certainly not, but I believe he knows all about their disappearance. We'll go right to his cabin and inquire, anyway."

After crossing two rises in the landscape the boys came to the river, and in sight of a hut near its banks. The rude log cabin was a novelty. Cord wood piled quite high like a stockade surrounded the immediate plot of ground upon which the structure stood. There was an open space like a gateway, and the boys entered the little enclosure. Andy hammered at the door of the cabin.

"Hurrah for liberty—zip! biff! boom!" shrieked a strident voice.

Phil was startled and astonished. Before he could question Andy, however, a chorus of cackling, clucking, and an immense flutter as of birds, mingled inside of the hut with the strange shout that had greeted them at their arrival.

"Silas don't seem to be at home," decided Andy, as the door did not open.

"Someone is in there," said Phil.

"No, that welcome was Silas' parrot. He is the greatest man you ever met for having pets. He has some homing pigeons that are famous. Wonder where he can be?"

"There's someone," said Phil, and just then a plodding but wiry figure appeared through the gateway.

"Present arms!" cried old Silas Berks, giving a military salute to the boys. "Glad to see you. Just been looking for you."

"I say, Mr. Berks," interrupted Andy eagerly, "have you seen anything of our guns?"

"Certainly I have, lad," replied the veteran, with a pleased grin. "I have them. That's why I was searching for you."

"How did you come to get them?"

"Shoulder arms!" explained Berks in triumphant tones. "That was Greg Bram, the young villain. Aha, there he was as I came up, a musket and a game bag on either arm. I'd seen you two in the distance, and knew the trappings. 'Company halt,' says I, and young Bram snickers in my face. 'Trespasser,' says he, 'it'll cost 'em something to redeem these fixings.' 'Trespassers, nothing, you young thief, you've robbed my traps and shot at my homing doves. You'll rob two honest lads, too, will you?' I unstrapped my belt and larrupped him good and sound. He got one wallop that bloodied his nose and went off snivelling as to how he'd get even. Ready—fire!—Pop! If the young villain ever comes nosing around here to make trouble, I'll turn old Tom loose on him, now I will."

"Old Tom" was an old-fashioned cannon planted just outside of the door of the cabin. There were other warlike tokens scattered about the one living room of the hut. Phil noted these with interest. There were several muskets, some swords, a couple of tomahawks and some smaller weapons, mementoes of old Silas' warlike experience in the war with the French and Indians.

"I brought your traps here," proceeded the veteran, "and went looking for you, knowing you must be somewhere around. Thought I saw you in the distance, over towards Bram's. I got to looking closer, though, and the two I finally made out was old Bram and a boy. The old skeesicks had the boy's arms strapped to his sides and was pulling him in the direction of his house."

"Say," broke in Andy excitedly, "what kind of a boy was he?"

Silas described the lad the best he could from having seen him at a distance.

Phil and Andy exchanged meaning glances. They took up their hunting traps, and after thanking Silas for his trouble in their behalf started from the hut.

"Seems to me I heard you come from Boston?" observed the old veteran to Phil with an inquisitive look.

"That's right, Mr. Berks," answered Phil promptly.

"Going back soon?" pressed the old man, his bright restless eyes sparkling with the interest and vim he put into everything he said or did.

"I think in a day or two," said Phil.

"You're going back to lively times then, young man, lively times," repeated the old war veteran with a serious shake of the head. "Andy, look here."

The old man made a whistling kind of noise with his lips, and from a dove cote overheard some half a dozen pigeons came flocking down to his feet. Berks reached into a grain measure standing on a bench and scattered some feed to the friendly pigeons.

"Mates in Boston, Andy," said Silas, with a very solemn stare. "I'm an old soldier, lads, and I can read the signs of the times. For instance, I shouldn't wonder, no matter how soon one of those Boston carriers came sailing down into the cote here. A dove with a message under its wing, see? Keep on drilling your squad, Andy, lad, only when that message comes—Attention, company! Sleep light, lad, and when a certain thing happens, day or night, you'll know it by that old field piece of mine."

Silas pointed to the rusty old cannon, and Andy looked startled and impressed.

"As how, now, Mr. Berks?" he inquired in an eager tone.

"When old Tom barks," answered the veteran Indian fighter, "you may know that something serious had broken loose in Boston."

"Yes, Mr. Berks, and then?" pressed Andy in an intense tone.

"Then," answered old Silas sententiously—"Shoulder arms!"

"Hurrah for liberty!" added the parrot, from inside the hut.

CHAPTER IV

ON DUTY

"Well!" ejaculated Andy Sabine, as soon as they were out of hearing of the queer old man who had returned to them their stolen hunting traps.

Both Andy and Phil were considerably stirred up by the happenings of the last few minutes. If old Berks had dealt in hints, they were certainly strong ones. His forcible remarks had increased their patriotic fervor, already at high heat with his young friends. Andy acted as excitedly as if the first gun had been fired and he was anxious to start right off to meet the enemy.

"Tell you what," say Phil thoughtfully, "that wise old veteran ought to know what he is talking about, and probably could tell a good deal more if he wanted to. Of course, everybody thinks as he does,—if there is going to be any trouble, it will begin at Boston. I want to be there when it comes, Andy, if it is only to be near the folks, and I believe I will start away from Concord sooner than I had planned."

"I wish I was going with you, Phil," said Andy in a longing tone. "Your Musket Boys will smell the first powder. My! it would be exciting to be right in the midst of so much bustle, not knowing how soon a company of militia might come dashing down the street sweeping everything before them. Hold on, what are you heading that way for? Aren't we going home?"

Phil had led the course across the hills in the direction of the road running by the farmhouse of Jasper Bram. This meant quite a wide detour from the direct route homeward. But Phil had a purpose in the digression.

"I was thinking of the mysterious boy," he explained to his comrade, "and I don't feel like leaving all of our guessing and running go for nothing. He may be going back to Boston some time. There he was a Tory. Why mayn't he be acting for them here in some secret way? I'd like to know. Mr. Berks said he saw him a prisoner of Jasper Bram."

"Don't that look queer? Both Tories? I should think they would be friends, he and old Bram, both being of the same stripe," observed Andy.

"Yes, it looks puzzling, so I am going to try and fathom the mystery," replied Phil seriously. "There's the Bram farmhouse. We'll skirt it as near as we dare and see what's going on."

"Something is going on right now!" declared Andy suddenly. "What's up I wonder?"

At a break in the hills they came within a few hundred yards of the house where Jasper Bram lived. In front of it was a horse, and into its saddle a boy had just climbed.

"That is Greg Bram," said Andy, peering attentively.

"And that's his father," added Phil.

The old man was gesticulating as if he were very much excited. He pointed to a stone shed back of the house and then in the direction of the town, and finally struck the horse that Greg rode a vigorous slap on the flank that sent the animal forward like an arrow.

All the time the boys had been approaching nearer to the house. Their glance was now transferred to the stone shed behind the house, and fixed there. It was a low, strong structure with a heavy wooden door, and had windows crossed with iron bars. At one of these could be seen the figure of some one within, beating at the bars with a thick club and then trying to pry them apart.

"That's our friend with the muskrat skin cap," said Andy. "He is a prisoner in there and is trying to break out. He can't make it. He has given it up."

"No, he hasn't," corrected Phil, a minute later, while they kept advancing closer and closer to the scene. "He is putting shavings, splinters and kindling wood in the embrasure."

"Aha!" cried Andy—"He has set the place on fire! See there, Phil, he is trying to make his way to liberty by burning out the wooden window sash."

Old Jasper Bram had gone into the house and Phil and Andy had ventured to cross his domain from the road. They were less than a hundred feet from the farmhouse when Bram came out of it. The old man was making for the stone shed and had quite reached it, when he started back with a wild yell of the most positive excitement and alarm.

Turning, he started a wild run—not into the house, nor near it, but squarely away from it—his face ashen and working with fear. His arms were thrown upwards in a sort of a desperate terror and his breath came in quick gasps. Thus, running, he nearly collided with Phil and Andy. He did not seem to recognize them, but shouted out.

"Run—run for your lives! It's doom, it's death—blown—to—a—thousand pieces!"

The boys just caught the echo of his disjointed sentences. Bram never halted nor looked to see if they were following him. He acted like a person bereft of his reason. Over a rise in the landscape he dashed and disappeared.

"Well, this is sensational enough," exclaimed Andy. "Now, what does it all mean?"

"It means one thing we must see to," declared Phil, hurrying towards the stone shed. "That boy in there has started quite a blaze. He must be about choked with the smoke. We must get him out of there."

"To bolt again—to leave us in a more puzzling fix than ever?" demanded Andy. "No sir-ree! Let him out if you like, but not until I am right behind you, ready to grab the slippery fellow before he plays us another jumping-jack trick."

"Hey!" shouted Phil, halting in front of the burning window frame.

A human face wavered for a moment in the wreaths of smoke clouding the aperture.

"Let me out!" shouted a voice in muffled tones. "Let me out, quick!"

Phil went around to the single door of the shed. It was stoutly secured by a hasp and padlock. Phil picked up a big stone and smashed the padlock. Then he pulled open the door.

"Come out, quick!" he cried.

Andy had placed his gun against an old box. With his arms outspread he posed to seize the refugee when he should appear. There was no necessity for haste or violence, however, for with the opening of the door a great cloud of smoke floated out, enveloping a form which struggled past it—the mysterious boy. He was staggering and gasping and rubbing his smoke-blinded eyes.

"Thanks," he said, rather faintly. "I'll never try that again—thanks."

The speaker tottered against the outside wall of the shed for support and leaned there weakly, getting back his breath and his wits. Then suddenly he straightened up and peered towards the house and all around it in a scared sort of way.

"I—I must get away from here, and—thanks," he spoke for the third time in a strained and embarrassed tone of voice.

"Hold on," ordered Andy, firmly planting himself in front the refugee and seizing his arm.

The lad shrank and turned a white pallor. Phil, studying him, saw the old hunted, desperate expression he had noted on two previous occasions come back into the wan, starved-looking face.

"What do you want of me?" the unknown lad asked of Andy.

"What do we want?" repeated Andy, purposely blustering. "That's a fine question to ask after all the bother and mystery you've made for us. We want to know a lot, and you've got to tell it."

"Easy, Andy, gently now," directed Phil. Then, turning kindly and courteously to the refugee, he said:

"We first want to give you a good meal—you look as if you needed it."

The boy's face, for a moment lightened by Phil's gracious words, grew sad again and he spoke with a dry, choking little laugh.

"I'm hungry enough," he said, but casting the old scared glance all about him added hastily: "I can't stay around here! Not a moment—not a single moment! Don't stop me."

"You can't go!" shouted Andy, catching and imprisoning both of the boy's arms from behind, and thus struggling with him. "You're up to something mysterious. These are times when every loyal Concord boy must watch out for fellows like you—a Tory."

At that the refugee ceased struggling. He allowed himself to remain limply in Andy's grasp, but he fixed an earnest, pleading look on Phil.

"Do you believe that?" he inquired. "But of course you do, for you called me a Tory yourself a little while ago."

"Don't I have reason to?" asked Phil bluntly. "I saw you in Boston working for the British soldiers."

"Yes, you did," admitted the captive.

"Then, how can you explain?"

The boy cast his eyes down, but it was quite apparent, not in shame. He seemed thinking. Then with an uneasy start he glanced all around the place and acted as if he would run for it on the slightest provocation.

Thinking better of it, he faced Phil in a frank, manly fashion.

"See here," he said, "you are doing wrong in keeping me here—more wrong than you dream of. You shouldn't make me tell you what you really have no business to know, but, if you are true blue, and I know you must be, I'll tell you something. Let go of my arms—I won't run. Now then, if I prove to you that I am not a Tory, do I go free?"

"Yes," said Andy promptly, and Phil gave a nod of assent.

"All right," said the refugee, as Andy freed his arms. He groped one hand inside of his jacket and beyond it. He drew out an oilskin package, opened it, and took from it a folded sheet of paper.

"Read it," he said, almost solemnly, "and when you have read—forget."

Andy stared eagerly at the open sheet of paper displayed. Phil, more puzzled and curious than ever, ran his eyes over the open page. It read:

Boston, March, 1775.

All loyal colonists will give this young man, my authorized messenger, on duty, all the assistance possible.

"Great guns!" vociferated Andy, and Phil drew back, gazing at the refugee now with a look of admiration and respect.

For the passport,—or whatever it might be called, but at all events official and convincing,—bore a signature that was the watchword of obedience and fidelity for every member of the Musket Boys of Old Boston, wherever he might be.

The paper was signed:

"Joseph Warren."

CHAPTER V

A GREAT NAME

"Joseph Warren!"

That was a great name in those days. It was no wonder that the sight of it impressed Phil and Andy. With a sort of awe they read it, and their interest in the homeless, hunted lad who showed it to them increased greatly.

Phil Warrington knew Dr. Warren. With a thrilling kind of pride he recalled an encouraging word from the popular patriot one day, when he and his comrades were drilling on a vacant city lot in Boston. Phil felt that he was getting quite an experience as a young revolutionary patriot.

He recalled how Gen. Gage had listened patiently to the complaints of the serious, manly little delegation—how he had said quite earnestly to a brother officer at his side: "These sturdy young fellows show the mettle of their rugged sires—if there is ever any serious trouble these people mean to fight it out."

There were three names to conjure by in Boston and its neighborhood in those stirring days,—Joseph Warren, Samuel Adams and John Hancock. These men were the leaders in every patriotic move of the times. They were the men who, because of their great influence and determination, were approached with bribes, threats and persecutions by Tory emissaries and enemies.

Especially was Dr. Warren the idol of the patriots. In all but official title he was practically commander in chief of the sturdy New England "Sons of Liberty," the patiently waiting "Minute Men"—all those earnest, enthusiastic militia organizations whom the great genius of Gen. George Washington was so soon and successfully to merge into the Continental Army.

Little wonder was it that Andy Sabine felt as if he was getting to be of some importance in his little world, and that Phil felt a decided thrill of enthusiasm at being directly concerned in an affair in which the notable patriot, Warren, was interested.

All this was leading Phil's mind into an ever-increasing vortex of speculation and excitement. Every day and its every event of late seemed links in a strong chain of circumstances, all bearing more or less on the spirit of war that was in the very air.

"That's your letter, is it?" inquired Andy in his impetuous, irrepressible way.

Before the refugee could answer something startled him. He glanced at a fringe of timber beyond the house. There was some movement there. Phil made out Jasper Bram's hired man hauling cord wood on a sledge. The strange boy seemed aroused at the proximity of others. He dodged quickly to the rear of the stone shed, out of range of the man and horse in the distance. Then he beckoned to Phil. In a very flustered voice he said:

"I can't stay here. I will get into trouble if I do, but I would like to see you again."

"Then come along with us," directed Phil. "We'll cut out of range of these diggings across to Andy Sabine's barn."

"Go to town—in daylight!" exclaimed the strange boy in dismay. "I don't dare to. Is that man out of sight? Yes I must get away from here. Good-bye, and thank you. Say," added the lad, dropping his voice as a new thought came into his mind, "You know where the old cooper shop is?"

"Down the river, yes," nodded Phil.

"I'll be there until after dark to-night."

"I'll come and see you there before dark," said Phil.

The fugitive sped away at this. He cast many a furtive look about him as he did so. Bram's hired man was now shut out from view by intervening hills, but the runner never relaxed his speed and went over a rise in the landscape like a fleet hare bounding for cover.

"H'm!" observed Andy, approaching his friend. "On the jump again, eh? He's a lively one. What did you let him go for?"

"What right have we to stop him?" submitted Phil mildly—"Especially after that document he showed us."

"That's so, but it's—it's worrying!" cried Andy in a desperate sort of a way. "What was he saying to you, Phil?"

"Oh, he is to see us later," explained Phil.

"Good!" vociferated Andy eagerly—"when? where?"

"That's all arranged. That passport of his calls on all loyal patriots to assist him when possible. So I think the first thing for us to do is to get up a roaring good meal for him, and carry it to his hideout."

"Oh, he has a hideout, then, has he?" persisted the inquisitive Andy.

"Yes, and we are to meet him there about dusk."

Phil and Andy got some water from the well and put out the smoking window frame in the shed, and reached home without any further adventures. There was a good deal that was inexplicable in the occurrences of the afternoon, but they trusted to later expected developments to clear the situation. Andy had free range at home, and within an hour the chums were on the march again. They carried with them a basket well filled with eatables.

The old cooper shop was a landmark of Concord. It had once been a grist mill, but now in moderate weather was used as a work shop by an old villager, who made kegs, barrels and vats. It was a good hiding place in winter, for it was not much in use except during the warm months of the year.

The boys crossed the bridge over the river. That stream was open. Ponds and ditches had frozen up, but the river showed clear water and a steady current, with occasional floating cakes of ice.

It was getting on towards dusk when Phil and Andy reached the old mill. It had windows supplied with wooden bars and a great high door. The latter they found closed.

"Hello, inside there!" shouted Andy, knocking vigorously on the stout planking. Phil whistled sharply once or twice. The door ran in a groove. It was rolled open about a foot.

"It's us," announced Phil, as a cautious head protruded.

"Oh, all right," answered the strange boy. "Squeeze in quick. Look around first though, will you? Weren't followed? Didn't see anybody lurking about, did you?" he inquired quite anxiously.

"For a fact, we didn't think about it," replied Andy. "What are you afraid of, neighbor, anyhow?"

"Seems, nothing—I am," replied the boy soberly enough. "Principally, I am afraid of Jasper Bram."

"Knows you, does he?" interrogated Andy.

"Only too well—he and his brother, and that son of his, Greg. I've kept out of his clutches so far. I wouldn't like to get into them now, just as I am going away from here with my work done."

"What work?" projected Andy forcibly, his eager soul in his face, his eyes sparkling with animation.

The strange boy gave him a keen and then a meditative glance. He seemed studying seriously some difficult problem in his mind. Phil saw that he was troubled. The Boston youth, who was a natural leader of boys, understood that they were dealing with a lad in a strained position, his nerves all on edge, filled with alarm, on the perpetual jump and go, and might be scared off the track again by a suspicious word or an impulse of timidity.

"See here!" cried Phil—heartily, swinging the basket in his hand, "never mind Jasper Bram, just now. You take a good solid feed, and then do your talking if you want to."

The face of the strange boy changed quickly. His hungry eyes darted at the basket with avidity. He led the way into a small compartment where there were working benches and boxes to sit on.

There was just enough of the sunset light left to allow the boys to see one another. The strange lad acted embarrassed as Phil made a spread of the wholesome, substantial food brought from the Sabine larder. Then as his eyes ranged over the mince pie, cold pork and beans, half chicken, and some nicely buttered brown bread, they filled with tears.

"Thanks," was all he could say in a choked, sobbing tone.

"That's four times you've said it," rallied Andy brusquely. "Once will do. Nice fellow you are, hanging around half-famished, when the club would have treated you like a prince after a sight of that passport of yours."

"I can't show it to everybody, you know," murmured the boy.

"If you had shown it to us before you did, we would have made it easy sledding for you here at Concord," declared Andy heartily. "Now you have shown it to us, suppose you enlighten us as to a few points that are burning me up with curiosity."

"Let a fellow eat, won't you, Andy?" admonished Phil, and he drew Andy to one side under the pretence of showing him an old cooperage tool lying on a bench, so as to afford the strange boy a chance to eat in comfort.

"Say, he was hungry, wasn't he, now!" whispered Andy.

"He acts it, I should say," responded Phil, who tried to relieve any embarrassment on the part of the boy by keeping up a casual conversation with Andy. The strange lad made him feel sad and glad both at the same time,—glad to see him enjoy his meal, sad to realize from the way he partook of the same that the poor wayfarer must have been half-starved to death.

"That was good, I tell you!" finally exclaimed the boy in a tone of mingled contentment and gratitude.

"And, now what is the next best thing we can do for you?" inquired Andy impetuously, hot on the trail of information.

"You can do something for me, for a fact," spoke the boy seriously, and he looked out of the window across the dreary landscape and down at the river in a doubtful way. "I don't want to risk staying here any longer than I have to, so I won't take up much of your time. My name is Burt Noble."

"Glad to know you," nodded Andy airily. "Wanted to know you before, but you wouldn't come close enough to hand."

"I'll explain that," went on Burt Noble, still seriously, and taking no notice of Andy's flippancy. "You can guess that I am no Tory from that passport. Dr. Warren knows me and trusts me. It came right, and it was right for me to find out what the Britishers were up to, and that was why I seemed training with the Gage troops in Boston."

"We understand," nodded Phil encouragingly.

"Did you come down here to find out something for Dr. Warren, too?" questioned Andy boldly.

"Why, yes, in a way," answered Burt with directness. "I had some private business of my own to attend to, and it all seemed to fit in together."

"Jasper Bram, your secrecy, that puff of powder!"—began Andy. "Oh, say by the way—that puff of powder, what was the mystery of that maneuver? And say too," added Andy with accumulating excitement, "that fire in Bram's stone shed. Old Jasper ran from it yelling out something about 'being blown to a thousand pieces.' Why—say, why?"

"Because he thought there was danger of being blown to a thousand pieces," replied Burt Noble, with a faintly humorous smile on his face.

"How was that, now?" persisted Andy.

"He believed that down in the cellar of the shed there was enough gunpowder to blow the whole farm to atoms."

Andy looked "stumped," and Phil was interested and startled.

"Bram ought to know if it was so," murmured Andy.

"He thought he did," said Burt. "Yes, Jasper Bram had reason to believe that there were four kegs of gunpowder under the stone shed."

"Four kegs of powder!" shouted Andy.

"Yes."

"What in the world was Jasper Bram doing with all that ammunition?" cried Andy in sheer bewilderment.

Burt Noble did not reply for a moment or two. He looked anxious, undecided and thoughtful. Phil read correctly from his intelligent, expressive face that he was debating within himself how much he should tell them. Finally Burt said:

"If I can't trust good fellows like you whom I know to be true-blue fellows, whom can I trust? Here's the whole story in brief. As you must guess, I have been trying to help Dr. Warren by keeping tab on the doings and plans of the Britishers. I don't like the sound of the word spy, but, if it fits me, all right, it's in a glorious cause, isn't it? I don't know whether you know it or not, but Gen. Gage has been getting ready for a long time to crush out liberty at one sudden, powerful blow. They haven't been working in Boston only. They have had emissaries out all through the colonies, in little towns, sending them information and ready to act as soon as the word is given."

"How do you mean?" inquired the intensely interested Andy, his eyes as big as saucers.

"Well, for one thing a lot of Tories have been buying up all the ammunition they could find. I suppose you know what it would mean if war began, with all our military stores seized or destroyed by the Britishers."

"Whew!" whistled Andy in a long-continued series of trills. "I guess I begin to understand! I heard my father talking something about that."

"I found out that Peter Bram, at Farmington, who is a brother of Jasper Bram, was making a regular business of going around secretly and forming little parties of Tories to help in the general scheme," proceeded Burt. "I left Boston to sort of look up Peter Bram on my own account, too. He was away from town, so I came on here to Concord, hoping to find what I wanted from Jasper Bram. Well, I discovered that he had been driving around the country—or had sent that precious son of his, Gregory, visiting stores and buying up powder and shot. That sent me on the trail of doing some good work for my country. Jasper Bram knows me, yes, indeed he does," continued Burt, with a serious shake of the head. "He can hold me, too, if he catches me. He nearly caught me snooping around his house. He did catch me, for a fact, to-day, as you know."

"What has he got against you—what power has he over you?" inquired Phil, somewhat puzzled.

"Why, he knows that I am a bound boy—a runaway apprentice from his brother, Peter Bram."

"Oh, is that so?"

"And he sent Greg lickety-switch to town to get a constable to take me in charge. That would mean going back into the old slave life with that cruel brother of his."

"What about the powder, though—get to that!" urged the impatient Andy.

"Simply this," replied Burt quickly: "Jasper Bram gathered up four kegs of it, and had it stored in the cellar of the stone shed—a ready-made arsenal for the Britishers, if they ever got so far as Concord in their raids. Even if they never used it at all, it was so much out of the way of us 'rebels,' you see."

"I don't wonder he was scared into fits when you set fire to the shed," observed Phil, "but weren't you afraid, too, of being 'blown into a thousand pieces?'"

"Not at all," replied Burt calmly. "Jasper Bram didn't know it, but there wasn't an ounce of powder in that cellar."

"Eh, how was that?" inquired Andy, with a stare of perplexity.

"I had removed it."

"You—you!" stammered Andy.

"Had taken it away. It took me parts of three nights to do it, without disturbing the Brams or leaving any trace of my secret midnight operation. Yes, that gunpowder is all safe out of the clutches of Jasper Bram, although he little dreams it. And I tested the powder, too, as you saw on the hilltop."

"Good! hooray! say, Burt Noble, you're a hero!" shouted the vociferous Andy, slapping the lad enthusiastically on the shoulder. "Phil, this is action, real and brisk. My! I wish I could do a thing like that! Burt Noble, you're smart—yes, you're just grand!"

"I hope it all comes out right," said Burt. "There's a lot to do yet. I think I have told you all I ought to."

"But the powder?" asked Andy. "What became of that?"

For answer Burt Noble drew a sealed envelope from his pocket. It was getting quite dusk. He went to the end of a bench, lit a candle, and came back to the boys.

"My orders," he explained, "were to return to headquarters and report any discovery of importance, where it was of local interest, though, I was also to advise a leading patriot in the vicinity. Here is a letter," and he handed the envelope to Andy.

"Why," exclaimed the latter, peering at the superscription by the aid of the candle—"this is addressed to my father!"

"Yes," nodded Burt. "Be very careful of it. It tells where I have hidden the powder—where it can be found by the people who need it worst, when the first gun is fired."

"Hello!" shouted Andy sharply just then—"that sounds like it now!" for of a sudden at the big front door of the old mill there rang out a vivid, echoing—

BANG!

CHAPTER VI

DOWN THE RIVER

Burt Noble blew out the candle quickly, but not until Phil had noticed a keen look of alarm in his eyes. Then Burt ran to a window looking down from the front of the building, and Phil darted to the same opening.

"What was that?—Who is it?" asked Andy sharply.

"It's the Brams, bag and baggage," replied Phil, staring down through the gathering gloom.

"Yes, and, Adam Woods, an officer of the law, is with them."

"And two others!" added Burt Noble in a gasp. "Oh, I feared this! I shouldn't have come back here. At least, I shouldn't have stayed."

Burt had run to one side window and then to another. Then he backed to a bench and stood wavering undecidedly, and evidently frightened.

Phil had followed his movements quickly. He also glanced out of the two side windows in turn just as Burt had done. On the ground at the south side of the mill was Bram's hired man. He was armed with a musket, and was looking up at the old building.

On the north side of the building, evidently keeping guard in that direction, was a man whom Phil recognized as one of the town watchmen.

"They have got a big log in front there," said Burt. "There they go again! They are trying to break down the front door. I guess they have got me this time."

"Not yet," declared Andy with vim, his eyes snapping with excitement. "Warrant, due process of law, and all that, eh? The old Tory curmudgeon! trying to get you into his clutches and shut you up as his slave, and shut you out from doing your duty by the country he hates! That's his game, is it? Well, it won't work. We're just going to circumvent them."

"I am afraid it is hopeless," said Burt. "Bram has a right to arrest me as a runaway."

"Come here for a minute, Phil," came from Andy, paying no attention to Burt's last words.

There came another tremendous bang at the door down stairs. Andy whispered something rapidly to Phil.

"Come on, Burt Noble," said Phil. "Go ahead, Andy. Hold those fellows in check as long as you can."

"You see they saw the light," observed Burt. "I feared being traced here. After I left you this afternoon I noticed Jasper Bram's hired man watching me from a clump of trees. Later he passed the old mill here. He has told Bram and the officers."

"Never mind. They won't get you just yet," Phil promised confidently. "Follow me quietly. You do your part, Andy."

"Rest assured I will!" announced Andy, descending the stairs.

As Phil and Burt passed him on their way to the rear of the place, Andy stepped on a big bench and pulled open a little window about ten feet from the ground.

"Hey you!" he hailed to Bram, his son Greg and the officers outside, who poised a heavy tree log on their shoulders, ready to make a run for the door.

"Come out of that!" shouted Jasper Bram, dropping his end of the impromptu battering ram and waving his arms excitedly up at Andy. "We've got you—oh, pshaw!"

Here he recognized Andy. His face fell, while that of Andy broke into a tantalizing grin.

"What's all this rumpus about, anyhow?" demanded Andy.

"Don't let him fool you!" shouted Greg Bram to the officers. "It isn't so cozy in that old barn of a place that Andy Sabine would shut himself in. The other fellow is in there, too. Make him come out—make Andy tell."

"See here, Andy Sabine," spoke up the town officer, trying to look and act dignified and important, "I suppose you know that it's a pretty serious offense obstructing the majesty of the law?"

"Why, I am obstructing nothing," declared Andy innocently.

"You be!" shouted old Bram. "You've shut us out. Come down and open that door, or it will be the worse for you."

"I didn't lock the door. Huh! what have I got to do with your old door!" exclaimed Andy, in right royal indignation.

"Well, the boy we're after did. You're harboring him. Do you know what harboring a criminal means in the eyes of the law, young man?" demanded the town officer.

"Bosh!" cried down Andy, "get in the best way you can. I'm not around opening doors for people."

Andy shut the window with a slam, for he had parleyed with and delayed the enemy to some purpose. Of this Andy was apprised by a low whistle sounding from a distant part of the structure. It was an agreed signal with Phil Warrington, and Andy now felt very independent and fearless.

Meantime Phil had led Burt Noble to a lower floor of the old mill, in pursuance with a suggestion of the clever and quick-witted Andy. Phil had been in the building several times since his arrival in Concord during the desultory rambling excursions along the river, and what he did not know about the place Andy had told him.

A section of the building reached out over the water. Its floor at this place was covered with a movable wooden grating. There was still light enough, as the boys reached this, for Phil and his companion to discover outlines. Phil pulled the grating up and tilted it against the side of the room.

"Now then, Burt Noble," he said briskly, "can you swim?"

Burt glanced down at the watery pit below, fed from the river, and at the stream itself, chill and uninviting and carrying frequent ice-cakes on its surface. He shivered, smiling, but quite anxiously.

"I can swim," he replied, "but I don't care about trying it in that ice-water bath."

"You don't have to," said Phil. "I asked the question incidentally. Only, if you should happen to duck down or get under, why, I'd feel easier to know that you could reach shore."

"Duck down? get under?" repeated Burt in a puzzled way. "Why, how do you mean?"

"You've got to get out of this, haven't you?" demanded Phil.

"I should say so."

"Well, this is the only route," proceeded Phil, pointing down into the water runway. "Look down closer. See a big tub there, almost a hogshead?"

"Yes, I see it!" answered Burt, staring dubiously.

"Well, we are going to barrel you up in it and send you adrift."

"Barrel me up?" repeated the astounded refugee.

"Just that, and trust to luck that the floating tub will not be noticed by the man watching out at the south end of the mill."

The big tub below was an immense affair. It was partially filled with ice which bore it down about half its depth. Its use at present had been suggested to Andy through a memory of former swimming exploits in this same vicinity. Phil slanted a board until it rested on the level ice in the tub.

"Slide down," he directed. "Stoop, when you land. Then I'll lower one of these round covers. It will be loose, and you will have plenty of air. You can even look out. I will climb down the rafters, and with that pole yonder help you out into the river. Stay aboard until you pass the bend in the stream. Then land, and make for Andy's house. You know where that is?"

"Oh, yes," responded Burt, "but I don't think I had better go there."

"What—not among friends? Why not?"

"Because the Brams will hunt me out. No," said Burt seriously, "I am through with my work in Concord, and I had better get back to Boston."

"All right, you know best," said Phil, "only, move briskly, for those men in front may break in at any moment. And here," continued Phil drawing some silver from his pocket, "take that."

"Oh, see here—" remonstrated Burt.

"It will help out on your route home. If the trifle worries you—wish I had more—call it a loan until you get on your feet."

"You're right good fellows, both of you!" said Burt, with enthusiasm and emotion. "Wait," he added, as Phil touched his arm to urge him into action, "I want to tell you something."

Burt drew from an inner pocket of his coat two narrow folded strips of paper. He cast his eyes down to these as if to distinguish one from the other. Then he selected one and handed it to Phil with the question:

"Let me ask you—is your father's name John Warrington?"

"That is right," nodded Phil, in some wonder.

"I was sure it was. Let me ask you again. Has he ever had anything particular to do with Jasper Bram?"

"Too much, I fear, for his own good, in a business way," replied Phil promptly.

"I don't know as this strip of paper I am giving you will be any good to you," went on Burt, "but the singular way in which I got it made me treasure it as maybe a—a what you might call it? yes, a clew to something."

"But what is it, and where did you get it?" inquired Phil, made very curious by his father's name coming up amid this strange and unusual environment.

"It is simply a paper band marked in ink: John Warrington," explained Burt. "I found it with a band like it marked with my own name. The place I found it was in Jasper Bram's house."

Phil started, and all kinds of curious speculations ran rapidly through his mind.

"At Jasper Bram's house?" he repeated. "When did you get into his house?"

"Night before last, when they were all away to town," replied Burt. "The truth is, I was hoping to find some papers that would tell me the truth about the right of Peter Bram to hold me as an apprentice—hoping to find out something about my father, who it seems disappeared when I was a child. There is some mystery about that, about me, and the Brams hold the key to it, I feel certain. Well," proceeded Burt, with a sigh of disappointment, "I learned little that was of any use, through my raid on the desk of Jasper Bram. There was a waste basket full of old documents, torn to little bits. It looked as if old Bram had been recently cleaning up his desk, destroying unimportant papers and putting his affairs in order, maybe for a move, or because he knew we were going to have a war."

"It looks that way. Go on," urged Phil eagerly.

"To me these two paper bands look as if they had held some papers that concerned your father and myself."

"Why, it is a sure thing," declared Phil. "But if Bram has destroyed them—"

"We don't know that. More like, if they have been of some value to him all along, they are of value now. I think he has selected what he wants to save, and has planted it somewhere for safety until he sees how the trouble in the colony is going."

"This will be interesting to my father," murmured Phil, pocketing the strip of paper. "About yourself—I shall start back for Boston in a day or two. Be sure to come and see me."

"I surely shall," promised Burt. "Good-by, I hope these people outside don't discover me."

At this Burt slid down the plank that Phil had lowered, and landed in the tub. Phil tilted the board to a beam, and selected a big wooden cover from the cooper's stock. Not much more conversation passed between the boys. Phil had some difficulty in placing the cover on the tub. It was not easy to hold on to the rafters, and, progressing foot by foot, shove the tub with the pole in his hand towards the river end of the water runway.

"Are you all right in there?" inquired Phil at last, as the tub began to whirl.

"Right as a trivet," came the prompt reply in muffled tones.

"Good-by, then!"

"I'll see you in Boston—many thanks."

Phil gave the tub a final push, and it passed from his view, out into the night and into the current of the fast-rolling stream.

It was then that Phil gave the signal whistle that told Andy Sabine that the coast was clear. Phil hurried to the ground floor of the mill and peered out of one of its south windows. He saw Jasper Bram's hired man still on guard, with his musket, but now facing towards his companions at the front of the structure. Phil quickly glanced towards the river. The fast gathering darkness made him strain his gaze to make anything out. The surface of the river was turbid and broken, and only because he sought a definite object was he enabled to catch a fleeting view of the floating tub that he had just sent adrift.

It moved along with ice-cakes, scarcely noticeable amid the gloom. Phil watched it rock and drift with the current, and where the river curved lost sight of it. Then Phil whistled again, and joined Andy near the front door.

"Did you manage it?" inquired Andy eagerly.

"Yes. Burt is safe out of this place," reported Phil with satisfaction. "It was a grand idea of yours, Andy. We have outwitted the enemy."

"Hear them grumble!" said Andy.

There was a great hubbub outside. Jasper Bram, his son, Greg, and the officer were all talking together at once. Each was suggesting some different plan to assail the stout barrier and force a way to the interior of the old mill. Phil ended the commotion by abruptly removing the bar to the big elm door, pushing it back, and stepping into the midst of the attacking party, Andy promptly following him.

"Where's the other boy?" yelled Jasper Bram, with a ferocious look of hatred at Phil.

"This is a pretty serious affair, obstructing the majesty of the law," began the officer, in his former poll-parrot fashion.

"Obstructing nothing!" interrupted Andy bluffly. "The door's open, isn't it? If you're looking for any one, you had better be brisk and find him."

"If we don't, we'll remember your share in this affair, young man!" snarled old Bram venomously.

"You want to be quick about it, then," retorted Andy spicily. "If I know anything about it, this town will be too hot to hold Tories of your stripe before long. Come on, Phil, let them have their turn at the fun, now."

The boys proceeded from the spot. As they crossed an old bridge, Phil, who had kept a sharp lookout all along the river bank, pointed to a place where some ice-cakes had massed in a sort of crevasse.

"There's the old cooper's tub, Andy," he remarked.

"Yes," nodded Andy complacently, peering, too. "The cover is off, so I reckon our friend is safe and far on his way to Boston."

The chums found it pretty hard to dismiss the stirring events of that eventful day from their minds. After supper they went out to the barn, and held a mutual discussion over the situation. They decided to tell everything to Mr. Sabine. Andy called his father out to the barn, and they had an interested auditor in the "club room," in the hay loft.

Mr. Sabine rather curiously inspected, opened, and read the letter that Burt Noble had given Andy. His eyes brightened. Then his face became thoughtful, and he said:

"This is a big piece of work, lads. I would like to know that plucky fellow who has put just the ammunition the cause needs into our hands. I will have to report this to the citizens' committee at once."

Phil and Andy prepared to retire to rest at once, for they were tired out. For a long time, however, they sat on the edge of the bed talking about Burt Noble, the hidden gunpowder, and the events generally that seemed to show that they were approaching the crisis of truly-spirited times.

Phil's mind was as well taken up with the discovery of the paper band taken from Jasper Bram's house and bearing the name of his father. Somehow, this fitted to the remarks concerning "documents," which Mr. Warrington had hinted Jasper Bram possessed, and which he had said involved quite a sum of money.

"We'll have a great story to tell the club, eh, Phil?" remarked Andy. "Of course, we can't tell about the gunpowder, but—"

"We'll be dreaming about gunpowder, if you don't turn in!" cried Phil. "Tumble in, now!" and he threw a pillow at Andy. It struck his active bed fellow and knocked him flat, but Andy suddenly sprang up.

"Hark!" he cried sharply, "what was that?"

Both listened intently, with the echoes of a dull but unusual explosion in their ears. Andy ran to the window. Phil was equally excited.

"A musket shot," he began.

"Musket shot, nothing!" retorted Andy, with great animation. "That was a cannon, and nothing else. Why, I know!" and Andy jumped for his clothes.

"Know what?" demanded Phil, scrambling likewise into his garments with the activity of a wide-awake lad aroused by a fire alarm.

"Old Silas Berks, Phil! Don't you remember what he told us to-day? That was his cannon we just heard. Can war have been declared—for that was Old Tom barking!"

"Sure as you live!" shouted Phil in an extravagant state of excitement, and both boys dashed downstairs and out of the house.

CHAPTER VII

OLD BERKS' NEWS

In the rash of the natural excitement of the moment, Phil Warrington did not realize for some time that they were taking a good deal for granted. Now, as they reached the street, he checked his speed and that of his companion with the sharp ejaculation:

"Hold on, Andy—don't let us start out on a wild goose chase till we know what we are about."

"What do you mean? Come ahead. You heard the old cannon, didn't you? Well, then, fly!" cried the irrepressible Andy.

"But we are simply guessing at things, don't you see?" demurred Phil. "Our heads are so full of old Berks and the rest of our day's adventures, that we imagine—"

"Not a bit of it!" shouted Andy, on fire with enthusiasm. "Think I don't know the sound of Old Tom? Didn't it come from the right direction? Didn't he tell us—aha! what do you say now?" cried Andy with a positive yell.

In those days Concord was a small, scattered village, nothing more. Two minutes running had brought the boys to a sparsely tenanted patch of ground, with the fields and woods just beyond it. Among the distant timber was a brilliant glow. It flashed up, died down, and then flashed up again.

Phil was impressed with the sight, for his quick eye discerned that the strange glow was in the precise direction of the queer old stockade inhabited by Silas Berks, in fact, the radiance seemed to indicate the exact location of the home of the eccentric old Indian fighter.

No one else in the town seemed aroused as were the boys. They had a lonely dash of it across the river, through a fringe of underbrush, up a rise, and through the trees just beyond the Bram homestead where they could see the flames through the forest.

"It's Berks' place, right enough!" declared Andy.

"And he has fired the cannon to call for help," suggested Phil.

In about five minutes the boys were descending the last hill their side of the old hut. That structure, brightly illuminated, was now in full view. The hut was not on fire at all, but just outside of the stockade a big haystack was blazing up.

"No danger of the house," said Phil. "I wonder how it caught on fire?"

There was a light in the hut as they dashed up to it, and a great uproar emanated from inside. The parrot was screaming and the doves and chickens flitting about, and two watch dogs were filling the air with manifold barkings. The sound of a cracked old bugle mingled with the general uproar.

Andy gave the door a push. It was not locked it seemed on the inside, and it flew open readily.

"It's us, Mr. Berks," cried Andy, staring at the object of his anxiety.

Silas Berks lay stretched out on a bed, his face red and perspiring. He was blowing upon an old brass military bugle with all the power of his lungs. He removed the mouthpiece from his lips as the boys made their appearance.

"Good for you!" he piped. "Say, what's on fire outside?"

"A haystack," explained Andy. "It can't do any further damage, it's burned out."

"Lighted wad from the cannon must have done that," said Silas. "Too bad—but it's worth the money now you've come."

"We don't understand it all," said Andy, in a perplexed way. "What has been happening around here? Was the barking of Old Tom an accident? Why don't you get up?"

"Because I can't get up," replied Silas. "I've got a spell—a bad one. I always get one when I have been over-excited, and I reckon I've had enough to stir me up this night. You're grand, true boys, you two are. Remember what I told you, when Old Tom barked, hey? Well, I made him bark. It's cost me my haystack, but cheap at the price, yes, sir! cheap at the price."

The old soldier's eyes snapped as he spoke at first, but the words finally died down to a faint, droning sound. His eyes closed, and he acted like a person who had sunk into a sudden stupor.

"Mr. Berks! Mr. Berks!" called Andy in some alarm, hurrying to the side of the bed and seizing and shaking the arm of the old soldier. Berks smiled stupidly and muttered some incoherent words, but he did not open his eyes.

"What shall we do, Phil?" inquired Andy quite anxiously. "He certainly is ill."

"But he does not seem to be suffering," said Phil. "You know he spoke of a spell. Leave him alone for a few minutes and see if he doesn't get better. I'll go and look after the burning haystack."

Phil found a heap of burning cinders. There was no danger of fire spreading, and he returned to the cabin, to be greeted with the animated remark of the parrot.

"Hurrah for liberty!"

That familiar cry aroused old Silas. He opened his eyes and smiled at the parrot and the boys. Then he said.

"Andy, lad, go to the old cupboard yonder there, will you, and bring me a bottle of medicine you'll find on the middle shelf."

Andy found that bottle, and Old Silas drank some of its contents. It seemed to do him good. He managed to sit up in bed, but not without considerable wincing, as if the operation caused him some pain, and he did not attempt to get out of the bed.

"Don't look worried, lads," he said, in his usual cheery, piping tone. "I'm simply laid up as a bad lumbago patient for a few hours. As I told you, when I allow myself to get excited and move around too briskly, it upsets me and seems to affect a wound I got in an Indian skirmish years ago. It's a nerve weakness, I guess, and takes me in the limbs. I'll be well again tomorrow. Front face, now! and Attention, company! I got some news to-night."

"From Boston?" inquired Andy eagerly.

"That's right, lad, from headquarters,—from the seat of war. I've got a very good friend busy in the cause there. He sent home one of my pigeons to-night. It brought me a message."

"Oh, Mr. Berks! what was it?" inquired Andy.

"Something very important. I bustled around to get my old nag hitched up to go to town to carry the news to your father or some other good member of the committee, when I felt my spell coming on. I had just strength enough to fire off Old Tom, trusting to chance that some one would hear the report and come up here."

"Was it important news, Mr. Berks?" inquired Phil, thinking of his native city and the folks at home.

"It is, lad," answered the old Indian fighter. "There's a big plot afoot with the Britishers to squelch the patriots, and I've got wind of the first section of it."

"Say, tell us about it," urged the impetuous Andy.

"Because I know you to be two good, loyal boys, and because you must be the bearers of a very important message for the good of your country, I will," said Silas. "You know that the provincial Congress met here at Concord only a few days ago."

Both boys nodded. The Congress had been an important and decisive step with the colonists. Many noted patriots had been present, and the event had been of great interest to the Sabine family, for its head had been one of the leaders in the convention.

"Very well," continued Silas, "the reports of defiance—the determination of the convention—reached Gen. Gage in Boston. According to my message from my friends there, the Britishers decided that the iron was hot, and that now was the time to strike. Warren, Adams and Hancock were the leading spirits at the Congress. Gen. Gage has decided to arrest them the hour they set foot in Boston again, send them aboard a British man-of-war, and ship them to England to be tried for treason. They hope to crush out the spirit of the masses by taking away their leaders and hanging them."

"But they can't do that!" cried Andy indignantly. "It's against the law. It's piracy. It's—it's—"

"They mustn't be allowed to do it," interrupted Silas gravely. "You boys must get back to town at once. Tell your father, Andy, what I've told you. Warren, Adams and Hancock have left Concord, but I understand they were going to make the journey to Boston by stages, taking time to consult militia leaders at the various towns. Tell your father to send a messenger at once after them, and warn them under no circumstances to return to Boston, as a plot is on foot to arrest them."

"We'll do it, Mr. Berks,—we'll be off like a shot!" cried Andy.

"If we can do anything for you to make you more comfortable—" began Phil.

"I'll be right as a trivet in the morning," declared the staunch old soldier. "Just shut the door tight, and see that the haystack fire is out, and don't lose any time with that message."

"My," exclaimed Andy, as he and Phil cleared the doorway on a bound, "this is just like going off to the war!"

CHAPTER VIII

THE ROAD TO BOSTON

"Phil, it doesn't seem real!"

"It seems only too real to me, Andy."

"Well, then, I mean that it appears all like a dream."

"It's a dream we'll have to keep awake in, if things are as serious as your father thinks," said Phil Warrington.

It was pitch dark, two o'clock in the morning, and the situation was so strongly in contrast with the usual midnight hours spent in sound, healthy sleep under a hospitable roof, that Andy Sabine might well think it all had a decidedly dreamy and unreal aspect.

Four hours previous, Phil and Andy had rushed into the home of the latter in Concord breathless, excited and full to the brim of the mystery and importance of the message intrusted to them by the old Indian lighter, Silas Berks.

They had to arouse Andy's father, for they found him in bed. When Andy in a hushed, impressive voice recited the latest adventure of the night, Mr. Sabine acted very much aroused and serious.

"This is a matter of grave import, boys," said the sterling patriot. "I believe in Silas Berks. He is a true-souled man, and his message fits in with information we had already received. We felt sure that Gen. Gage and his minions were on the point of making some demonstration—underhanded as usual—to break up the Sons of Liberty and the Minute Men. Old Silas has given us a valuable hint. It is important, indeed, that Dr. Warren and his friends should be warned of their danger. Let me think for a moment."

Mr. Sabine paced the floor for some time, plunged in deep meditation. He seemed to be turning the situation over in his mind thoroughly.

"I would go on this mission myself," he said at last, "only that I have arranged to visit some towns north of here in the interests of our Congress. It is late, yet not a minute should be lost. Dr. Warren and his friends were to visit Manchester first, then Merrimack, and then in turn the various towns on the old Boston stage line. I am sure, according to their plans, they would not reach Boston for some days to come, but might change their programme and run their head right into the noose. They must be reached, but how?"

"I'll tell you, Mr. Sabine," spoke up Phil, promptly and respectfully. "I am anxious to go on this mission and would have to leave Concord in a day or two, anyhow. There is no stage coach until Thursday for Boston. If I could arrange for a horse, I could start off to-night,—this very hour,—after Dr. Warren. I could keep on until I overtook the doctor, don't you see?"

"You're a plucky, loyal lad, Phil," said Mr. Sabine warmly, "only—"

"Father, let me go to, too!" broke in Andy eagerly, "let me go with Phil. I've just been dying to really do something. Please let me go, father!"

"Impossible," answered Mr. Sabine, and that seemed to end it. But it did not, for a discussion of nearly an hour's duration followed. At the end of it, the triumphant Andy was aglow with enthusiasm and excitement. Reluctantly Mr. Sabine had agreed to send Phil on the urgent midnight mission after Dr. Warren and his compatriots and Andy was to accompany his chum.

Andy left a message of direction for his club mates, and arranged that some one should see in the morning that Silas Berks was all right. It was also decided how they should leave his father's two horses, that they were to ride, to be sent back from whatever town they found Dr. Warren at, and continue the journey to Boston on fresh-hired steeds, by stage coach, or part of the way on foot, if they so desired.

An hour saw them mounted, and bidding Mr. Sabine a subdued good-by in the stable yard, so they would not disturb the sleepers in the house. In an hour they were some miles on their route. At two o'clock in the morning they passed a settlement.

It was then, traversing a rutty, snow-crusted road, that Andy made the remark about the unreality of the situation, and now Phil discussed its merits and their plans freely.

"It's a nice state of things, when respectable citizens like Dr. Warren have to hide for their lives and keep away from their friends," he remarked indignantly.

"I should say so," replied Andy. "Oh, this thing is going to end in a fight, and soon, too. Everybody is ready for it."

Daybreak brought them to a second little settlement, where they found a farmer milking his cows. They arranged for breakfast here, and slept two hours in a hay mow while the horses were fed and rested. They resumed the journey, had another rest at Nashua, and here learned that Dr. Warren and his friends had been there three days before and could probably be found at Lowell.

It was dark the next afternoon when the tired-out horses and the tired-out boy-messengers reached that town. Both Phil and Andy were glad to stretch their limbs, and it gave them a feeling of comfort to watch their wearied steeds enjoying their fodder, housed in comfortable stalls in the stable of the town tavern.

A good meal for themselves was the next thing in order. After supper Phil spoke to the landlord of the inn, first in a general way, and then began questioning him as to the whereabouts of Dr. Warren and his friends.

"Dr. Warren is in town," said the landlord. "He has been here two days. Adams and Hancock were here too, but they left this morning. Dr. Warren is staying with one of the selectmen, but he has been holding a secret meeting with some of our townsmen down at the village hall. I think you'll find him there."

"Where is the village hall?" inquired Andy, and the landlord directed them.

The place was a rudely-built two-story structure. The boys halted in front of it, to find it dark and locked up. They decided that the meeting must have adjourned, and started out to locate Dr. Warren elsewhere. Phil remarked, however:—

"Being a secret meeting, it may be held at the rear of the place. Wait for a minute, Andy, and I will make a tour around the building."

Andy stayed in front of the structure, whistling to himself. He saw Phil pass along the side of the hall. At the extreme end of the building, Phil halted suddenly and started back. A man had appeared from a sheltered doorway, as if he had been lurking there. He seemed to question Phil. Andy saw his companion draw back. The man seized his arm, and Phil was pulled violently around the corner of the building, and entirely beyond the view of the startled Andy.

"Hello!" exclaimed Andy in mingled stupefaction and wonder. "Now what is the meaning of that, I wonder?"

He ran along the side of the building. He fancied he heard a muffled shout in Phil's voice, and ran still faster. Very near to the doorway where the strange man had lurked, Andy halted with a shock.

"Hey, there!" challenged a sharp though cautious voice from overhead. "There you are! Get away from here, quick!"

A vague pair of arms appeared at an open upper window. They dropped a square package done up in paper. So suddenly did all this come upon the wonder-stricken Andy, that, before he could catch the package or dodge its descent, it struck him squarely on the head, and sent him flat.

CHAPTER IX

IN THE ENEMY'S HANDS

Something had happened to Phil Warrington as he reached the rear of the town hall building—something unlooked for, sudden and alarming. His trusty chum had seen only part of the mishap to Phil. The latter was now struggling for release from the grasp of a brawny villain.

Just as Phil had passed the deep doorway at the rear of the building, a man had stepped from its obscure shadows.

"Hello! who are you, and what do you want?" he demanded sharply.

Phil was rather startled by the unexpected appearance and keen manner of the challenger. He was somewhat embarrassed, too. The first thought suggested to his mind was that here he had obtruded on the sentinel guarding a secret conclave within the structure.

"I was trying to find out if there was a meeting here," said Phil. "I was looking for Dr. Warren."

"Eh? Warren? What for?" demanded the stranger.

"I have a message for him."

"You have?" cried the man eagerly. "Give it to me! I'll take it to him."

"No," said Phil, "I will deliver it to him myself."

At that Phil drew back—rather dodged back. The man had acted eager, and even had reached out as if to seize Phil. Then, too, the boy noticed his face more clearly. It was an evil face, and his suspicions were aroused. He saw that, thrown momentarily off his guard, he had imparted too much to a stranger, and he turned to retrace his steps quickly to the street. Then the man reached out and seized his arm firmly, and forcibly pulling Phil with him, jerked the lad around the corner of the building, out of the sight of the street and of Andy.

"Hold on,—stop!" demanded Phil, trying to make a resolute stand.

"I'll take you to Dr. Warren," cried his rough captor quickly. "It's only a few steps from here. He's waiting for you. Told me if any messages came to take 'em, or bring 'em to him. I'm his body-guard, I am. Hurry up, he'll be anxious to see you."

The glib, eager fellow had said too much, and Phil at once saw that he was not telling the truth. Dimly as Phil viewed his face, there was light enough to show it belonged to a person of unprepossessing, if not absolutely suspicious, appearance.

"There is no need of quite crushing my arm, if you are a body-guard of Dr. Warren," said Phil, trying to draw away from the clutch of the fellow.

"No, you don't!" said the man, tightening his grasp. "You come right along with me."

The fellow was powerfully built. He fairly dragged Phil over the ground. He was making across a vacant space for a hollow in which stood a dark rambling building, one-story high, and apparently untenanted. Phil made a desperate struggle, and set up a shout. His captor placed his free hand over the boy's lips to silence a further outcry.

"Ouch!" he ejaculated, as Phil sank his teeth deep across his fingers. The man was viciously irritated. He dealt Phil a fearful blow across the side of the head with his clenched knuckles. Phil swayed, and partly lost consciousness. He believed that the man lifted him up and carried him. At least, in a half-dazed state he felt that he was helpless, and when he opened his eyes clearly he was lying on a heap of straw in some kind of a cellar.

A lantern burned on a barrel. The man who had captured him was talking to another man, roughly-dressed and fierce-looking. Phil listened.

"So, I brought him here," said the speaker. "He's got a message for Warren. It may be important."

"I'll soon know," the other man. "Did you get the papers yet?"

"I was waiting for them when this fellow came along."

"Get right back and get those papers!" directed the other. "They are what we came to Lowell for, and we mustn't miss them. I'll attend to this fellow."

Phil sprang up the minute his original captor left the place. Inside his hat was a letter to Dr. Warren from Mr. Sabine. He did not know its contents, yet at all hazards, he was bound to protect its secrecy. He seized a stool resting on the floor and held it in front of him as a shield. Thus armed, he made a rush for the door.

The man laughed, and so nimbly interposed his bulky form that Phil could not get past him. In fact, spreading out his arms, he began to drive Phil back towards a corner of the cellar.

"Got you caged," he chuckled. "Come, young spitfire, it's no use. Give up what you've got, or it'll be a double-broken head for you!"

Phil was in a desperate dilemma, and realized it. He suddenly lifted the stool and flung it at the man. The latter dodged, evaded it, and advanced for a final swoop on his victim.

Phil quickly drew out the sealed letter that Mr. Sabine had written to Dr. Warren. He crumpled it up, planning to stuff it in his mouth and reduce it to a pulp, if he choked for it. His assailant read his purpose, and made a great lunge for him. Phil, about to put his project in execution, suddenly uttered a little cry. Then, staring beyond his advancing opponent, he raised the hand containing the crumpled letter and gave it a fling clear over the head of the man, with the sharp direction:

"Catch it, Andy, and—bolt!"

The man came flat up against the wall as Phil ducked, but, reaching out a frantic arm, tried to seize his coat. Just then a blow from a stick of wood knocked him to one side. Andy Sabine followed up the attack by grabbing Phil's arm.

"Run!" he cried. "I've got the letter. Out of this, before the other fellow comes back."

They could hear the baffled cries of the man back in the cellar as they ran down a damp, dark passageway and up a pair of steps, and out into the open air.

"This way," ordered Andy, guiding his friend down into the hollow, out of it, and, after that, into the street beyond the scene of their latest adventure. "We want to steer clear of the Town Hall. The other fellow is back there."

"Why! how did you find me, Andy?" panted Phil.

"Saw you all the time, pretty nearly," declared Andy, "but it wasn't the right thing to put in an appearance until the right minute. I noticed that fellow grab you, and ran after you. Got knocked down by this—"

"What is that, Andy?" inquired Phil, as Andy lifted his coat from the belt sufficiently to show the edge of some kind of a long, flat package stuffed in, next to his shirt.

"Never mind now—tell you soon," replied Andy. "I knew the package was not intended for me, but I suspicioned something and stowed it away on general principles. Then I followed you and the man to that cellar. When he came out, I sneaked in."

"To some purpose, friend Andy," commented Phil warmly.

"And now then, to get to the selectman's house and see Dr. Warren."

A few brief inquiries directed the boys. They were soon knocking at the door of the home of a Mr. Longworthy in their quest for Dr. Warren.

A sweet-faced girl attired in neat homespun welcomed them with a pleasant smile, and making his mission known led them into the best room of the house. A man sat at a table reading a book.

"That is Dr. Warren," whispered Phil to Andy, whose heart was beating fast at the thought of meeting at last the great colonial leader whom he worshipped as a hero.

"Two young gentlemen to see you, Dr. Warren," said the girl.

"Why, this is young Warrington," instantly spoke the well-known patriot, as he arose and shook hands warmly with the Boston boy, whom he remembered and whose father was a cherished personal friend.

"This is my chum, Andy Sabine, of Concord, Dr. Warren," introduced Phil.

"Another good colonial name," said their host, and shook hands also with Andy, whose finger tips tingled with pride and pleasure. "It seems to me that you both are pretty far from home."

"We came purposely to see you, Dr. Warren," said Andy. "Phil has a letter from my father."

"I had better explain its crumpled condition," said Phil, after Dr. Warren had broken the seal and perused the note.

"In a moment," said Dr. Warren, his face growing grave and perturbed as he read the missive. "This must be acted on at once," he added, almost to himself, arising and pacing the floor restlessly. "So they are going to arrest us, are they? I am thankful for the warning, and Adams and Hancock must know of this without delay. They have gone on to Brookton. I can join them there day after tomorrow, but they may take a sudden impulse to go to Boston. Yes, by all means, they must be speedily notified."

"Dr. Warren, we can attend to that for you," spoke up Phil. "We could leave here before daylight. We need only a little rest for the horses."

"You are brave, true lads," said Dr. Warren approvingly. "We will think of this plan you suggest. And about the letter?"

"Tell him all about everything," urged Andy—"clear back to Burt Noble, and all that," and then Phil began his graphic story.

Never was there a more interested listener, Andy thought. The expressive face of Dr. Warren betrayed many sympathetic emotions as the narrative continued. Surprise, interest, anxiety, satisfaction in turn played over his noble features.

"One month more with such loyal lads as you are and Burt Noble to aid us elders in our patriotic work," he said, with flashing eyes, "and neither Gen. Gage nor his hireling navy will be on hand to conspire to kidnap reputable citizens. You spoke of your friend here being struck on the head, of the man who captured you. I cannot understand that part of your story."

"I can," said Andy abruptly and with considerable excitement, he drew from under his coat the package he had concealed there, and handed it to their host.

Dr. Warren undid the paper covering. His face showed consternation as he brought to light a blank book with many loose papers between its leaves.

"Treachery!" he spoke, his tones rising to the deepest excitement. "I must see Mr. Longworthy at once, and the others. Lads, remain here till I return," and taking up his hat and placing the book under his arm he hastened from the room.

He was gone nearly an hour. Meantime the selectman's pretty daughter looked in to see if her guests were comfortable. This led to some conversation and then an adjournment to the kitchen, and the boys had just finished a feast on some prime hickory nuts and some rare, rosy-cheeked apples, when Dr. Warren returned with the selectman and several others.

These held a long conversation in the best room. It was an hour later when Dr. Warren came out to the boys.

"You have done us a great service, lads," he said. "The book and papers thrown from the upper story of the town hall comprise the secret records of the Sons of Liberty, a dangerous document for us, in the hands of the enemy. It seems that the man in charge of the hall is a traitor, and had agreed for a bribe to give the record to emissaries of the British, who have mysteriously disappeared. We don't know how to thank you for all you have done for the cause. It seems hardly right to ask you to hasten on your mission, to reach Mr. Adams and Mr. Hancock and warn them of their intended arrest.

"We'll be only too glad, won't we Phil?" cried Andy.

Definite arrangements were made and detailed instructions given to the boys. They were warned to look out for British spies.

At earliest daylight, Phil and Andy, mounted on their refreshed steeds set off to continue their dangerous but necessary mission.

CHAPTER X

LOST

"Phil, I'm clear tuckered out."

"Don't say that, Andy."

"I do say it, and I mean it, too," declared Andy Sabine in a vehement tone. "Whew! roar ye winds, and blow ye tempests, blow! I'm chock-full of snow. Oh! it's great to be a hero on a smooth road in fine weather, but this—. I wish I was back in Concord."

"Why not Boston? so brace up and get there!" cried Phil doughtily. "Leave the reins alone, Andy, we've got to a pass where horse sense is better than human sense. If old Dobbin's instinct can't direct us to a harbor of safety and a haven of rest,—well, we've just got to stand it, that's all."

It was three days after the boys had met Dr. Warren. Both mounted on one horse slowly, tediously traversing a dreary solitude amid snow at some places two feet deep, surrounded by black, tempestuous night, Phil and Andy realized what it was to be lost in a gloomy New England forest.

Everything "had gone just lovely!" Andy had declared only that morning when they had left Brookton in gay, hopeful spirits. Without mar or adventure they had executed their mission for Dr. Warren. They had taken his message to Adams and Hancock, had been praised and rewarded by those two sterling patriots, had sent the two horses belonging to Mr. Sabine home and had started for Boston mounted on the only horse they were able to hire.

They had taken turns ambling along on the slow-paced old nag. Then as night came on and a blinding snow storm set in, they had gotten off the road in some way, and now knew they were lost in a vast gloomy forest, far from any human habitation.

The horse steaming, panting, and his head bent low, was plowing his way forward. Phil called a halt. He got as much shelter as some fir trees afforded, and spreading out a blanket placed nearly the last of their oats before the tired animal. Then he and Andy divided some bread and cheese they had bought in the last town visited.

Andy suggested that they try and make a lean-to, or some temporary shelter for themselves and the horse, and wait until the storm abated, but Phil demurred to this.

"We'd be snowed under and half-frozen to death," he remarked. "No, Andy, we must keep on the move. Even old Dobbin, tired out as he is, says that."

"How does he say it?" inquired Andy curiously.

"Watch him move about restlessly, and sniff and head south as if he realized we mustn't stand still, and as if knew that some habitation or town is ahead. I reckon we'll trust to horse sense, Andy, and see what it brings us to."

After a spell the two youths got themselves in as comfortable a position as was possible on the single saddle. Phil kept hold of the reins, but he did not attempt to guide the horse. That intelligent animal made slow but sure-footed progress. The snow was falling heavily and swirling all about them. The boys spread the blanket over them. It served as a tent shelter for themselves and as a partial covering for the horse.

"That's a good deal warmer," said Andy. "I hope the old horse doesn't give out. I never saw such a night, Phil!"

They conversed casually for some time. Then there was a lapse to silence. Phil felt Andy lean up against him, breathing heavily.

"He's asleep, poor fellow," soliloquized Phil. "I'm drowsy myself. This will be an experience to talk about, I'm thinking. This tent of ours is getting a pretty heavy roof, it seems to me."

Phil shook the blanket and dislodged some of the snow that had gathered there. Then he settled down to make the most of an unpleasant and dubious situation. The blanket shut out the cold. The faithful horse seemed to need no guidance, and Phil dozed away before he was aware of it.

"Hello!" was his waking exclamation, how long afterwards he could not estimate. "Why the horse has stopped, and—what's that?"

A dull crash greeted Phil's ears. Instantly he roused up, threw the blanket off, and tried to make out where he was and what had happened.

"Why, it's a house," said Phil—"we are bolt up against it and the horse has nosed in a window. Andy! Andy!" he shouted, shaking his companion violently. "We've arrived—somewhere."

Andy was quickly aroused, and both boys were actively wide-awake in an instant. They slipped from the horse, to land to the knees in snow. The horse had poked his nose through the window he had broken and was sniffing, as if inhaling warmth.

The house, which occupied a clearing, was built of logs and had a shed behind it. Phil wandered around to the front of the place. He knocked loudly at the door several times, then he shouted. There was no response, and he lifted and rattled the latch. To his surprise the door gave and opened inwards.

A pleasant breath of warm air was wafted across to Phil's face. It gave him a sense of comfort to step out of the cold and storm. In an old-fashioned fireplace there was a glow of half-burned out embers. Phil peered around the room, which contained several rude articles of furniture, but he could not detect the presence of any other human being besides himself.

"Funny," mused the boy. "I've made noise enough to arouse a troop. There doesn't appear to be anybody about the place. Andy! I say, Andy!" he called out, through the open doorway. "Come in here for a minute, will you?"

Andy entered, shaking the snow from his clothing, pleased and excited at reaching a place of shelter, but fully as much surprised as Phil at finding no one in the house. There was a candle on the table, and Phil lit this. He pushed open a rear door, which led into the shed extension he had noticed from the outside. The lower portion of the house comprised only one room. There was a ladder running to a scuttle in the ceiling. Phil took the candle and ascended this ladder.

"No one up here. Only a garret with a few old traps in it," he reported to Andy, descending again. "Now, Andy, what do you think of all this?"

"I don't know what to think," said Andy. "There is a fire, the place looks and feels as if it had a regular tenant, out of the way, desolate locality as it is, but where is he?"

"Well, we'll wait his return," said Phil accommodatingly. "The most cross-grained old hermit in the world wouldn't refuse shelter to man or beast on such a wild night as this is. We must attend to the horse, too. Faithful old fellow! he's done his duty well by us."

Phil went outside, to find that the horse had strolled around to the shed. The intelligent animal had nosed open its door partly. Phil pulled it clear back with some difficulty, for the snow was very deep. Then he led the horse in. Andy had opened the door leading from the house, illuminating the shed.

The place had a quantity of hay in it, and evidently had been used as a stable on former occasions. It held also some split cord wood. Phil blanketed the horse and carried an armful of the wood into the house, replenishing the fire.

"This is comfort all around," he observed with satisfaction, as the fire blazed up.

"Yes," asserted Andy, trying to fix the pane of glass that the horse had broken, so the snow would not drift in. "Tell you one thing, though," he added.

"What's that, Andy."

"This is a queer old place in the wilderness. There isn't the sign of bed or food here, no cooking utensils, nothing but wood and hay. Isn't it funny?"

"It is queer, Andy," answered Phil. "It looks as if this was a place that people stayed in once in a while, but didn't exactly live here."

"Well!" cried Andy, as he happened to bump against the small table that stood in the center of the room. Its cover rattled off onto the floor. "Hello!" he added in surprise, as he went to pick up the loosened cover, and observed its reverse side. "I say, Phil Warrington, here is mystery on top of mystery!"

CHAPTER XI

CLOSE QUARTERS

"What now?" inquired Phil.

"Look for yourself," cried his companion. "House without an owner, ready made fire to order, table with reversible top. What next, I wonder! Why, just that—look."

Andy took up the board from the floor and placed it wrong side up on the table frame. Then both boys stood staring down at it most curiously.

Tacked to the surface was a large sheet of paper. It seemed to be a map. There was a coast line and various stars and dots which seemed to indicate especial points, like cities or towns.

"Why," said Phil slowly, "this looks to me like a map of the state north of Boston. Here's Boston, here's Lowell and Salem,—in fact all the towns grouped around Boston to the north. Queer, isn't it, Andy?"

"I should say so. See, here's something more."

Andy with his finger nail poked out a small folded paper slip from between tacks which held down the map. He opened this. It was in pencil writing, and it read:

"Report from Storm Cove. Goods can be landed. Straight man will answer signal from the ship."

"What does this mean, Phil?" inquired Andy, speculative and serious. "It sounds like smuggling, but what the map and the letter are doing in this out of the way place, bless me if I can understand!" and Andy rubbed his head in perplexity.

Phil did not reply at once, for his eye, wandering reflectively, had lit on some scraps of paper lying on the hearth, just disclosed as his feet accidentally disturbed a piece of firewood. He stooped and gathered up these fragments with the remark:

"Some one has been tearing up a letter. These pieces may tell us something."

For fully half-an-hour Phil and Andy tried to piece the paper fragments together, but this they found they could not accomplish, as a part of the torn-up document had evidently been burned in the fire. Many times, however, they deciphered the names of "Gen. Gage," "Boston," "rebels," "spies," and the like.

"There is one thing certain," declared Phil finally, "some one in the interest of the British has been in this house. If I ventured a guess, I would say that this is a sort of rendezvous for emissaries of the British. They may make this lonely spot a place to meet and report, exchange notes and receive instructions."

"If that's so," cried Andy excitedly, "at any moment a whole nest of Tories may come pouncing down on us!"

"That's right, Andy," assented Phil. "Whether or not, though, we can't go back out into the storm, and I doubt if anybody is anxious to tramp through two feet of snow to this place. We had better try and get a little sleep, hoping it will clear up in the morning."

"All right," acceded Andy willingly, with a tired yawn. "I declare, my head aches with all these adventures and mysteries we are running into!"

They took off their coats and shoes and placed them near the fireplace to dry. Then, each arranging a wooden pillow, they got as near as they could within the circle of warmth, and soon dozed into comfort and rest.

The sun was shining through the south window of the house when Phil awoke and stirred Andy. Phil went into the shed, gave the horse a few oats he found at the bottom of their provender bag, and returned to the room with a little package containing some bread and cheese.

"That's just an appetizer," observed Andy, smacking his lips over the light lunch. "Let's get on our way, Phil. I've got to reach a breakfast of some sort soon. We can't be very far from some traveled road. What is it, Phil?" he inquired as his companion, at the window, peering out, uttered a sharp ejaculation, and shook the sash to knock off some snow on its outside so that he could look out more clearly.

"Andy," answered Phil quickly, "some one is coming!"

"Coming here?" exclaimed Andy, springing to the side of his comrade. "Two men!"

"I know them both," cried Phil. "Andy, sure as you live, those are the two men we had the trouble with near the town hall at Lowell."

"We're in for it," said Andy, dreadfully excited. "They have followed us here."

"Scarcely," dissented the more level-headed Phil. "Their coming here is of course an accident so far as we are concerned."

"I guess you're right," said Andy. "It shows one guess correct, though. This is a rendezvous for the Britishers. Why wouldn't they come here? Now what are we going to do?"

Phil could not readily reply. They stood watching the two men plowing through the snow at some distance. There was no question with Phil but that they were the same persons with whom he had experienced trouble at Lowell.

"Get back from the window, Andy," directed the Boston boy. "They may see us."

"Suppose they do? They are bound to, sooner or later, aren't they?" demanded his chum.

"Well, we needn't invite our fate until it is closer upon us," philosophically observed Phil. "That's our chance," he continued. "Grab up your coat and shoes and bolt with me, Andy."

Phil had run for the ladder leading to the attic. Andy followed him quickly. Once in the low loft overhead, Phil replaced the ceiling scuttle carefully. Andy crept away from it.

"I say," he observed, "go slow. The beams are about six feet apart. The covering is only strips of tan bark, and they sag like slippery elm."

"Steady, Andy, get directly over a beam as near as you can."

"I'm fixed," reported Andy.

Phil posted himself several feet away from Andy, so that their weight would not be bulked. He was a trifle uneasy. They knew nothing as to the plans or dispositions of the men they had seen at Lowell and now approaching the hut. It seemed impossible that they would not be discovered if the new visitors remained any length of time.

The way the tan bark bent and rustled and sifted down into the room below startled Phil. There were a dozen breaks in the flooring, and Phil could easily keep the door in sight. Upon this he fixed his eyes, expectantly and anxiously.

A moment or two later the door was pushed open. There was a prodigious stamping of feet, and the sounds of heavy, tired breathing.

"Thunder!" exclaimed one voice—"that was a hard tramp."

"Yes," echoed the other. "If royal old King George don't pay us well for this bit of work, we'll sell out to the enemy!"

CHAPTER XII

A NEST OF TORIES

"Hush!" whispered Phil warningly to Andy.

The latter was all a-quiver over the intense situation.

"Humph," muttered Andy. "I never could keep still and, balancing on this sharp beam, I'm worse than ever. My, those are two tough-looking fellows."

The men came stamping into the room, puffing and panting from their exertion in the deep snow. They indulged in some casual conversation about their journey and their satisfaction on reaching warmth and rest. They kicked off their overboots and sat down near the fire.

Phil instantly recognized one of the men as the fellow who had held him a prisoner near by the town hall in Lowell and the other as his original captor. Listening to the talk he learned that the former was named Peters, the latter Swithins.

Peters rested for a minute, then went over to the table to inspect the map tacked to it. He took up and read the note which Phil and Andy had already perused.

"Balfour has been here, Swithins," he reported. "He gives us a point to report and act on at once."

"What's that, Peters?" inquired the other man.

"Storm Cove. It seems he has arranged, and the boat will be met on signal by a true-blue. Some of the others have been here, too, it seems, according to the dots and crosses on the map."

"Good thing," commended Swithins. "Our bad break at Lowell was pretty discouraging. We can get square, though, by reaching the Vixen and rushing the landing through at Storm Cove."

"I'd like to get my hands on the fellow who knocked me down in the cellar," growled Peters, gritting his teeth savagely. "Those papers would have been a great haul. Besides, it's gotten the fellow in trouble who sold us the documents. It was a bad mess."

"Yes, and we missed finding out the message that boy had for Dr. Warren. It might have been something of vast importance to Gen. Gage, for, while we think we are doing great things, planting our supplies to make a vigorous raid through the colonies, trust me, those fellows, Warren, Adams and Hancock, aren't letting the grass grow under their feet."

"Oh, those two gritty boys were certainly spies, and no mistake," declared Peters.

"Well, what's the programme?"

"We'll rest a bit, put for the coast, hail the Vixen and get aboard. Then we will either go to Boston and report to headquarters, or, if so ordered, stay on the warship and help land these goods at Storm Cove."

"S—st!" again warned Phil. Andy had rustled about. Phil could readily guess the mental disquiet of his excitable friend. He surmised how intensely Andy was realizing that they had happened upon "a nest of Tories." Andy was naturally as brave as a lion, but he could not endure suspense. Phil was a good deal worried, for every time Andy rustled about particles of the tan bark dropped into the room below.

The Boston boy became very serious as he understood plainly that the affairs in which they were now mixed up were of the gravest import. The life of the colonies depended on knowing all that was possible about the plans of the Tories. Should the so-called "rebel" leaders be imprisoned, or the secrets of the Sons of Liberty and the Minute Men become known to Gen. Gage, it would weaken the patriot cause very much.

"The Britishers have had their spies everywhere," reflected Phil. "They have a regular organization of that class, and these men are at the head of it. They intend to land something at Storm Cove. We shall have a good deal to tell our friends when we reach Boston. Oh, the mischief!"

Peters and Swithins had settled themselves comfortably. The latter had taken out a small blank book to consult, and Phil was looking for some further secret developments when Peters jumped to his feet with a start.

"I say!" he cried, "what was that?"

"Whew!" uttered Andy recklessly.

"I guess we're in for it now," Phil told himself.

"Why, that was a horse's neigh," exclaimed Swithins, also arising to his feet. "Whose horse? What is he doing here?"

His partner had pulled open the shed door. He looked sharply at hungry old Dobbin, calling for oats. He retreated into the room, perplexed and suspicious.

"Don't like the look of things," he observed. "What's that, another horse up in the loft?" he cried suddenly.

"You've done it!" groaned Phil audibly.

"I reckon I have!" gasped Andy.

He had slipped off the beam, bending a piece of tan bark till it cracked in two. A piece of it had fallen on the head of the staring Peters. Now there was a gap in the ceiling.

"Some one up there," declared Swithins convincedly.

"Come down, you!" shouted Peters.

Phil and Andy did not respond.

"Come down, I say! You want this?"

Bang! Bang! Peters had pulled out his pistol, and two bullets, in quick succession, scattered the tan bark.

CHAPTER XIII

A SERIOUS DILEMMA

"Hold on, I'm coming!" cried Andy quickly. He was, indeed, falling clear off the beam. He started a descent, grabbed at a dangling strip of tan bark, and dropped from its end dismayed and disordered looking. Some loose bark, debris, shoes, a cap and his coat rained down after him.

"Who are you, anyhow?" demanded Swithins, striking an attitude of astonishment mingled with suspicion, and staring sharply at the lad.

"Who is he?" cried Peters, with a dark scowl. "Ask me. I know. He's the boy who fetched me that blow back at the old cellar in Lowell."

"What!" shouted Swithins, fairly bristling with suspicion.

"Yes. I saw him as he ran. Where's the other? Where is he, I say?" demanded the fellow, advancing menacingly upon Andy. "Who else is up in that garret?"

"Don't you see I'm alone?" inquired Andy doughtily, standing his ground and shielding his companion.

"Alone, eh?" sneered Peters, pointing to the mass of debris at Andy's feet. "One boy don't wear three shoes, does he?"

Andy saw it was no use trying to shield his comrade, for his own shoes and one belonging to Phil lay at his feet. The man Peters made a jump for the ladder and ascended it rapidly. With his shoulder he thrust open the scuttle, stuck in his pistol, and yelled:

"This way and out of there, or I'll put this Tory bullet in your rebel hide!"

Phil crept over the beams and a minute later stood in the room below. Peters eyed him with a wicked look as he reloaded his pistol. Swithins thrust both of the boys into the corner near the chimney, and seating himself viewed them with a threatening eye.

"Right you are, Peters," he remarked. "No accidental meeting that with these fellows back at Lowell, message for Dr. Warren, planted here at our rendezvous. Regular spies, take my word for it—regular spies. Now then, what brought you to this place?"

"Just happened here," declared Andy airily.

"Tell that to the marines. Search them, Peters. Then we'll consider this case a little closer."

Phil and Andy were forced to submit to the rough handling by Peters. The man emptied their pockets, inspecting their miscellaneous belongings critically.

"Humph!" he remarked, as he found Andy's full name scratched on the German silver of his pocket knife.

"Aha!" he added, as he glanced at the inside cover of Phil's memorandum book. "Swithins, this is a real catch. Now then, you two in turn answer the questions of this here court martial, or it will be the worse for you."

"What makes it a court martial, if I may ask?" demanded Andy coolly.

"Spying!" shouted Peters, with emphasis and a grewsome leer. "A spy is a hanged man when he is caught."

"Sort of spies trying spies, eh?" laughed Andy irrepressibly. "Go on—you're joking!"

"Your name is Sabine," said the man. "Swithins, this boy must be the son of the rank agitator we've got on our Concord list."

"Right enough," responded Andy with pride, "if you mean the kind of agitator who has over two hundred armed patriots at his call the minute a redcoat sticks his nose out of Boston Town."

"Oh, you can't get me wrathy, with all your bold sauce, young jackanapes," chuckled Peters. "You won't crow so loud, my young bantam, when they come to wring your neck for this smart spy act of yours. It's all right," he added to his companion. "T'other one is Warrington. He's a son of that rich merchant in Boston who wouldn't sell our people supplies. Why, this catch is almost as good as Warren himself. I think Gage will know how to handle things with sons of two rebel leaders as prisoners."

"Yes," observed Swithins, with a calculating expression in his eye, "and I fancy those two old rebels would pay a fancy price to ransom these boys. Come here, I've a private word for your ear."

The two men went to a remote corner of the room and indulged in a serious, low-toned conversation. Phil caught an occasional word, such as "rebels," "spies," "confess," "ransom," "the ship Vixen," and the like. It was easy to surmise the plan of the two men. They intended to make capital out of their capture in some way.

Peters finally approached the boys, his reloaded pistol in one hand, while Swithins, as if by concerted arrangement, went out into the shed. The former tried to impress and scare the boys by trying to appear dangerous, but Phil and Andy only looked tranquilly interested.

"I pronounce you two, prisoners of his royal majesty, King George," observed Peters grandiloquently, and with a swagger.

"That sounds real big," observed Andy.

"We have decided to turn you over to the government, as you are spies," continued Peters, "and as such by the law of nations are placed in the desperate cat—cata—"

"Catalogue," prompted Andy recklessly.

"Yes, catalogue. No, no," dissented the speaker with a scowl—"gory,—category. We shall shoot at first attempt to escape."

"All right," piped Andy cheerily. "You are having all the fun just now, but when the real trouble begins, somebody will be looking hard for us and—you."

Phil had not spoken. He was more thoughtful than Andy. He did not for a moment believe that they were in any serious danger. They might be kept for a time in the hands of these men, but when they found there was nothing of importance to be learned they would be set free.

For all this Phil very gravely realized that things were working along the line of war, as Old Silas Berks had said. Every step in their recent progress, Phil discerned, showed more and more clearly that a crisis was near. It needed but a spark to set the whole country aflame. They had helped in their humble way, he and Andy, to upset some of the plans of the British. He hoped that their further possible usefulness might be tested when the war broke out.

It was about an hour later when Peters and Swithins perfected their plans as to their captives. They strapped Phil and Andy on to old Dobbin. They left a letter under the map for some confederate who was expected to arrive at the lonely hut later.

Then, Swithins leading the horse, Peters walking behind, a pistol handle sticking out of either side of his belt, the party proceeded on their journey through the snow drifts.

CHAPTER XIV

ON BOARD THE VIXEN

"Give it up, Phil. You couldn't make it in a hundred years."

"Never say die, Andy. I shall keep right on trying."

"Wasting time. We'll never get out of this hole except through the door that let us in."

"Then it's the door I'll try next," declared Phil dauntlessly. "I've managed to dig out all the lead that these window bars are sunk in. Give me a two-foot bar of iron or a stout oak cudgel, and I'd open the way to liberty in ten minutes."

"And what then, Phil? A drop into nobody knows how many fathoms of water, a shot from the ship if we're seen, a two mile swim. No," and Andy shook his head decidedly. "We're in a bad box, and we've got to make the best of it."

While Phil Warrington talked, he was working with the blade of a big jackknife at the wooden casing of a barred window at the rear of the hold of the British man-o'-war, Vixen. Andy lay stretched on a mattress on the floor, watching his companion.

It was over two weeks since the young captives had found themselves afloat. It had taken old Dobbin and Peters and Swithins all of one day to reach the coast. The two British spies had signaled a ship in the distance. A yawl put ashore, the old horse was turned loose, and after a brief row over the fast-darkening waters, Phil and Andy were hoisted aboard the Vixen. They were immediately conveyed to their present prison place and locked in.

The little strong room in the rear hold was an apartment having a heavy door set in a strong partition and two barred windows about eight feet above the water mark. Here the boys had remained close captives. An old mattress comprised their bed. Twice a day a gruff old fellow in a semi-naval uniform brought them their meals, which consisted of the ordinary ship fare. The man never addressed them, and they asked him no questions.

The lads had seen nothing of either Peters or Swithins until that morning. The former had been let into the prison room by their jailer and the door locked behind him. He looked surly and ill at ease, and Phil decided that he acted like a man who had met with some hitch in his plans.

"See here, Warrington," observed Peters, "I don't fancy you care about taking a trip to England."

"I don't exactly ask to go," responded the Boston boy.

"It wouldn't be on request," growled Peters. "There will be a good many traitors sent over the water before long."

"Why, what for?" queried Andy, with an innocent expression of face.

"King George will answer that when they come to trial," said Peters, in a tone meant to be very impressive. "They're not likely to come back again,—that is, if the supply of English gallows trees doesn't give out. You can grin, you impudent young jackanapes," the man continued to the undismayed Andy, "but you'll laugh the other side of your mouth before this affair is done with, I can tell you. Once aboard the traitor's ship, it means that you took a man's chances in acting the spy on his majesty's loyal subjects, and you'll have to take a man's punishment."

"Like a man, exactly," nodded Andy, quite buoyantly. "All right, governor—bring along your traitor ship, we aren't afraid, only you've got something else up your sleeve. You aren't the kind to come consoling us or scaring us without a purpose."

"I'm not talking to you," snarled Peters wrathfully, turning his back on the imperturbable Andy. "See here, Warrington, your folks are a good deal worried over your absence."

"I'm sorry," said Phil, "but you don't seem disposed to mend the situation."

"Yes, I am," declared Peters quite eagerly. "That's what I've come for."

"Yes, that's what he came for. I told you so," piped Andy airily. "Out with it, governor."

"See here, you fellows are pretty young. I've got sons of my own, and know how it is with boys. My evidence settles your case, so I've been thinking."

"He's been thinking!" mimicked Andy. "A penny for your thoughts, governor."

"You write a note to your father," plunged on Peters, more rapidly. "I'll dictate it. You are to say about the awful fix you're in, and all that. He's to pay a bill for your keep I shall present to him. Well, say a hundred pounds. Then I'll see that you and your mate here get home safe. Understand?"

"No, I don't understand," replied Phil simply. "In other words, you want to exact a ransom from my father. He is in business trouble, he has no money to waste on such a villainous proposition as you name. He wouldn't treat with you on principle. I will write no letter to him nor have anything to do with the affair, on such a basis."

"You won't, eh?" shouted Peters, fairly wild with chagrin and disappointment. "Then I'll find a way to make you sweat for it—you see if I don't!" And with that the Tory flounced out of the room.

"You see, we are not going to get out of this except by our own exertions," said Phil, and forthwith set at work on the barred window.

The Vixen lay at anchor most of the time. She was quite a distance north of Boston, Phil calculated, and about two miles from the shore. Twice she had run down the coast in the night and had sent the small boats ashore, but on each occasion had returned to her present anchorage.

Properly speaking, the Vixen did not appear to be a regular war vessel, but from what they had seen when first brought aboard of the vessel, the captives decided that she was on armed duty of some sort. There were several small cannon on the deck, and a drill was in progress over their heads for an hour each morning.

Phil found the bars of the hold window sunk through a frame of oak and imbedded in lead. He managed to dig out all of the lead that anchored three of the steel bars. This loosened the bars, but he could not force them out. It was towards late afternoon when he boasted to his less industrious comrade of how easily they might escape, if they had some instrument to bend the bars or force them out of place.

Both boys hurried each to one of the windows in their prison room, as some unusual commotion on the deck was followed by shouts echoing from a distance across the waters.

"Hello!" cried Andy, peering. "Some kind of a big sailboat is coming to this vessel. There, she's veered out of range. Wonder what's up, Phil?"

The shouts grew nearer. The listening boys could trace the apparent arrival at the side of the ship of the craft they had momentarily viewed. There were turbulent greetings on the deck. A moment later the same sailboat fell astern. It was paid out at the end of a rope about a cable's length, so as to be free of collision with the ship, the rope was secured somewhere on the deck, and the new arrival floated up and down at anchorage.

It was a very large sailboat, and had good breadth of beam and a sort of storage pit, which seemed to be heavily loaded, and which was covered by a sheet of canvas battened down at the sides.

"Wonder what the craft is, anyhow," spoke Andy speculatively.

"Yes, and what is its load?" supplemented Phil. "I say, Andy, I have an idea."

"Speak it out, Phil," directed Andy.

"You know those men, Peters and Swithins, talked a good deal about a load they were to order delivered at Storm Cove."

"I remember," nodded Andy.

"This may be that load," suggested Phil. "Powder to blow up some town? Arms for some of the traitorous mob in the settlements? Wish I had a chance to investigate."

The mysterious craft gave the boys a scheme for speculation for a long time. There was considerable uproar overhead. About an hour after the sailboat had arrived, a small yawl put out from the side of the larger craft, past the rear hold windows. It contained a man and a boy. The latter was rowing. His back was to the two interested onlookers.

When they arrived at the sailboat, the boy held the yawl steady, while his companion clambered aboard. He lifted the canvas, secured a small keg, and placed it in the sailboat.

"Spirits, I'll bet," said Andy. "They'll have a high time on board here, I suspect. Oh, my!"

Andy's whole body gave an excited jerk, his eyes bulged, and he pressed his eager face close to the bars of the window.

"Look, Phil," he added, staring at the yawl, now coming back to the Vixen. "Sure as you live, that boy is our old friend, Burt Noble!"

CHAPTER XV

A FRIEND IN NEED

Both Phil and Andy stood breathlessly regarding the lad who had been the starting point in all their recent, varied adventures. Burt Noble did not look their way. He appeared more comfortably fed than when they had last seen him. He seemed at home with his companion. The latter was of course a Britisher, but that did not disturb Phil or Andy.

"Back in his old line," observed Andy, as the yawl passed beyond their range of vision. "Never dreams we're here, does he?"

"I don't know about that," responded Phil. "Burt is a smart boy. He is in the confidence of the Tories. Why mayn't he have an inkling of our dilemma? He may not know in exactly what part of the Vixen we are under lock and key. He may not even know as yet we are aboard at all, but he'll find out, trust him for that. Andy, I feel someway that somehow we are going to hear again from Burt Noble soon."

In the course of the next half-hour there seemed to be quite a jollification on board of the ship. There was heavy trampling, as if some persons were dancing, some singing, boisterous shouts, and these continued less audibly to the boys as all hands apparently adjourned to the cabin.

"It's easy to figure it out," said Andy. "That keg of spirits is the centre of a general jollification. They're all having a gay time. What a big chance to get away, if we were only through one of those barred windows, Phil."

"Yes indeed, Andy. There is probably little discipline on deck just at this present time."

About half an hour before dusk the man who brought them their meals was heard by his captives approaching the door of their prison place. His gait they could trace was somewhat stumbling. The eyes of the comrades met, and expressed a mutual thought.

"Phil, I have half a mind to tackle him and make a rush for it," whispered Andy.

"Not this time, Andy, for some one is with him."

"Too bad—that's so."

They could hear their jailer speaking. The door was unlocked, the usual supply of food and water passed in.

"There's the young rebels," spoke the man.

"They look pretty desperate, don't they?" said a voice that thrilled the captives. "Must be sort of lonesome for them to look out of those windows about dark and see nothing but sky and water."

"Burt Noble!" exclaimed Andy, as the door was closed and relocked.

"He's found us," added Phil quite excitedly. "It won't rest there."

"Say Phil, did you hear his funny remark about looking out of those windows at dark?"

"I did."

"He meant something by that."

"We'll take it that way, at any rate," said Phil. "Burt is not the boy to dream over a chance to help a friend. It won't do for him to forfeit his position with these Tories for our sake, but, trust me, he will manage to send some comfort or assistance before he leaves the Vixen."

Phil had great faith in the smartness and fidelity of their mutual friend. Andy indulged in all kinds of imaginings as to what shape the efforts of Burt Noble would take in their behalf. He posted himself at one of the windows, and Phil did the same at the other.

It was dusk, and dreary waiting in the hold room. Outside, a cloudy evening was fast setting in. The sounds of jollity from the cabin of the Vixen were in sharp contrast to the helpless condition of the two boys and the cheerless prospect upon which they looked. It had been warmer for a day or two, but night was setting in chill and murky.

"Something!" suddenly muttered Andy in a quick and excited gasp, and Phil saw what it was that attracted his watchful, staring eyes and sent both arms groping through the window aperture and beyond it.

From overhead some one—of course Burt Noble—had lowered a string. At its end dangled a package done up in a towel or a piece of cloth of some kind. In an instant Andy had seized the swaying parcel, broke it from the string, and had the package inside the prison room. Quickly he unrolled the cloth.

It contained a short iron thwart pin and a heavy blunt-edged chisel. There was light enough to inspect these, and also to make out some writing in heavy pencil lines on a rough piece of cardboard:

"No one on deck, yawl at the side," ran the hasty scrawl. "War will be on inside of a week. Get to Boston, quick."

"Bravo!" exulted Andy, on fire with delight. "Burt is a smart boy and a good friend. Phil, to work."

Without a word Phil seized the thwart pin. Something that would do staunch prying duty he had wished for all along, and here it was ready to his hand. He got a purchase on one bar and then another, already loosened, and the powerful pressure twisted the lower ends out of their sockets. Forcing the free ends to one side, the avenue to liberty was open at last.

"It's a cold plunge," observed Andy, poking his head through the window, with a mock shudder of discomfort. "I wonder which side the yawl is on?"

"Never mind the yawl, Andy," said Phil.

"Oh,—why not?"

Phil's eyes were thoughtful as he pointed to the sailboat, a cable's length in the offing.

"Andy," he said, "this is a desperate chance we are taking. We may as well make it complete. Wait ten minutes—by that time it will be dark. We will swim for the sailboat. We can reach it a good deal less certain of discovery than if we go fooling around the side for that yawl."

"Whew!" whistled Andy. "Say, can we make it?"

"Make what?"

"Get that big craft afloat and manage it. Why, Phil, if we could—I say, it must be loaded with important military stores. Oh, say! if we could sneak them away, get them into loyal hands—what an exploit, what a feather in our cap!"

"Andy," said Phil steadily, "we are going to try just that."

Ten minutes later Phil spoke a single expressive word:

"Now!"

And then, one after the other, the two dauntless lads dropped into the water.

CHAPTER XVI

A DASH FOR LIBERTY

Phil floated until he was sure that Andy had landed all right. Then both struck out for the sailboat, dimly outlined in the night mists at a short distance. They did not look back, but bent all their energies towards reaching the sailboat. They clambered aboard of this, out of breath, dripping, and chilled through. Their first glance was toward the Vixen.

"Not seen so far," chattered Andy. "What next, Phil?"

"Cut the rope," ordered his comrade, passing to Andy the big-bladed jackknife that had been of such service to him in their prison room. "I'll see to the sail."

Phil knew all about a sailboat. He had never handled one so large as the craft they now seemed to have in their control. He immediately, however, saw that all he had to do was to raise the big sail and use caution and judgment in its manipulation.

The craft gave a sudden jerk. It was caused by the taut cable parting at the final strand into which Andy had cut. Almost simultaneously Andy uttered a low, expressive cry.

"Phil," he gasped, "they're coming!"

"Who? I see. Get to the tiller, Andy, and simply obey orders."

Phil did not raise the sail. That near to the Vixen, its wide surface outspread, would be a prominent object. To his entire satisfaction he noticed that the sailboat was drifting away from the Vixen.

Glancing back at the war vessel, Phil discerned what had attracted Andy's attention. Lights were being prepared near the forecastle, and descending into the yawl at the side of the ship was a boy bearing a lantern. A man followed him.

"Andy," said Phil, "Burt Noble and a sailor are starting out to place a light on the boat here."

"And won't find us!" chuckled Andy.

"I hope they don't even see us. Two minutes more, and they won't be able to do it. Clever Burt Noble!"

"Hello! what's happened?" exclaimed Andy, his glance riveted, as was that of Phil, on the yawl at the side of the Vixen. "The light has gone out."

"Yes," said Phil. "Burt has accidentally dropped it overboard. He must know we have escaped, and is causing all the delay he can with the yawl."

The sailboat drifted away so rapidly, that by the time a new light was lowered into the yawl it was a mere speck in the distance.

"Phil, we've made it!" cried Andy in exultant tones.

"I fancy we have," acquiesced Phil complacently. "Now then, watch your knitting, and heave yo! up goes the sail."

The comrades forgot chilliness and discomfort in a sharp, inspiring run during the next half-hour. Phil handled the heavy sail superbly, and Andy obeyed orders promptly. Each felt sure that the friendly darkness protected them against the possibility of those on the Vixen locating them, for that night at least.

They ran down the coast line in a southerly direction, keeping about a mile from shore and looking out for lights that might indicate another craft afloat, but met with none of such. As they eased up a little, Andy called once to his comrade.

"What's the programme, Phil?"

"To get this boat fast and sure where those Tories will never be able to find it again—especially its load."

"Good! You won't land at Storm Cove, of course."

"Hardly, seeing we are running south away from it as fast as we can."

Andy laughed gleefully. The task they were engaged in just suited his volatile spirits.

"Imagine what those Vixen fellows will say when they find this boat gone. Oh, this is a famous adventure, Phil!"

"We mustn't forget Burt Noble's share in it," observed Phil. "I hope we meet him soon in Boston."

"Going to Boston, are we?" queried Andy.

"That's where we started for, isn't it?" said Phil, with a smile.

"Yes, but you don't suppose we can ever get into the Bay without being challenged and stopped by the Britishers?"

"Oh, I'm not thinking of going to Boston by water route. You see, Andy, we probably have a valuable cargo aboard, or rather I should say an important cargo."

"Munitions of war and all that, eh, Phil?" appended Andy glibly.

"If I can get my bearings from having been up and down the coast here more than once," pursued Phil, "I shall feel pretty good when we locate Sandy Creek."

"What's Sandy Creek? Where is it?" asked Andy.

"It's the feeder from a sort of a swamp lake running into the ocean. At the inland end of the lake is a little settlement called Bordenville. I have a cousin living there named Ralph Post. He used to be a sailor, but lives now with a Mr. Eaton, who is a staunch patriot, and who has done lots of good for the cause. I know of no one who would know just what to do about the sailboat and its load as well as Mr. Eaton. Then, too, he keeps posted on everything that is going on, and he can tell us just how things are in Boston."

"Capital!" cried Andy. Then there was a spell of silence, while Phil kept as near to the shore as was wise, trying to catch sight of some guiding landmark.

"I know where I am," he said at last. "That rocky point we just rounded is about a mile north of the creek. Now then, not to miss it in the dark."

It must have been nearly midnight when the sailboat stuck in a mass of high reeds. Phil and Andy waded to the edge of a swampy reach they had gained through some skilful handling of the craft into the creek and across the lake Phil had described to his comrade.

"There, that's the best we can do for the present," declared Phil, as they stood on solid ground. "It's not far to the settlement. Mr. Eaton will take care of the boat as soon as we tell him our story."

They were tired and uncomfortable, but they plodded on cheerfully, until they came in sight of some houses. All were dark and silent except one, where a light was burning, and for which Phil was making.

"Is that where Mr. Eaton lives?" inquired Andy.

"Yes," replied Phil "and some one seems to be up, judging from the lights."

A few minutes later Phil was lifting the heavy knocker of a door of the house in question. A boy answered the summons, a bronzed pleasant-faced youth, whom Andy had never seen, before, but at a glance he felt that he should like him. The boy lifted the candle he bore high above his head, and stared in wonder and then in perplexity at the two forlorn wayfarers.

"Phil!" he shouted, the next moment, his face beaming with a glad, welcoming smile. "Phil Warrington!"

"Yes," nodded Phil. "It's me—and this is my friend, Andy Sabine, from Concord."

"Why—when—how—what are you boys doing in that trim, at this hour of the night?"

"We have just escaped from the Tories, and are bound for Boston."

"Boston!" echoed Ralph Post, in a startling tone. "Why, Phil, don't you know that the city is under martial law? The order has just gone out."

"Whose order?" demanded Andy.

"Gen. Gage's. No one can leave or enter Boston without a Tory passport."

CHAPTER XVII

A SAFE PORT

At the announcement of Ralph Post, Andy Sabine almost uttered a yell. His fists went up in the air clenched, and his eyes flashed.

"Nobody get into Boston? Nobody get out of Boston?" he cried. "Gen. Gage's orders—the Britishers bossing the country! Why, we'll sweep them off the face of the earth!"

Ralph Post smiled indulgently at Andy's ferocious patriotic outburst. Phil placed a restraining hand on the shoulder of his excitable comrade. The next instant of thought, however, made Phil take the situation very seriously. A wave of anxiety crossed his face as he thought of the folks at home. Then he eagerly turned to his cousin, feeling that he had further revelations to make.

"Tell all about it," he said, but Ralph replied:

"You get to a fire, you two. Why you look half-perished. I fancy," he added dryly to Andy, "you won't start to wipe out those Boston tyrants until you've got dry clothes and a good meal."

"I'm fighting mad, all the same," muttered Andy, and then, a thought of their last adventure crossing his mind, he added with an exultant grin: "Those Tories will have one less boat to guard Boston, anyhow."

Phil thought he had never been so delightfully comfortable, as when a few minutes later he and Andy occupied two old-fashioned armchairs in front of a blazing kitchen fireplace big enough to hold a couple of cords of wood. Meantime Ralph hustled about the room, pulling out a table, diving into a pantry and placing on the hob a coffee pot.

"Don't seem to be a bit curious," said Andy, in an undertone to Phil.

"Oh, he is dying to know all about our story," answered Phil, "only I guess a look at us tells him we have just gone through some tough adventure, and he is thinking of our comfort first and foremost. You see, Andy, Ralph is a fellow of experience. He was on a trading vessel for two years. He's been twice to Europe and once clear to China. It would make the hair rise on your head to hear of some of his thrilling escapes. I reckon he's been so used to have sailors come into the galley on board ship to eat and rest when working in some terrific storm, that he can't break the habit of filling up a fellow and getting him nice and cozy before he sits down to chat."

Soon, however, they were chatting like three magpies. Ralph was a capital cook. In a jiffy he had a royal spread, consisting of a dishful of boiled eggs, bread and butter and steaming coffee, before his guests. He sat down then, looking them over with a curious glance, but saying nothing until with a sigh of rare content Phil put down his knife and fork, with the remark:

"That was simply fine."

"Best ever!" added Andy with enthusiasm.

"Things are bad," said Ralph bluntly, bolting into a subject he knew naturally to be the one then uppermost in the minds of his young friends. "It's war, boys, swift and sure. Everybody has waked up. Why, for two nights we haven't even been in bed at this house. There are friends coming from all directions, couriers arriving, messages sent out. Mr. Eaton has made a kind of office of the best room here. Two men from Lexington arrived just before you did. They are massing some military stores there, and men, too, and Gen. Gage has to make just one more move of tyranny to have the Colonial army march down on Boston and drive him out of it."

"What has the general been doing?" inquired Andy.

"He had a plot to capture and hang all of the patriotic leaders. Somehow, the plot failed."

Phil and Andy exchanged gratified glances. Each was filled with a thrill of gladness as they were moved with the mutual idea that their humble exertions had something to do with this favorable aspect of the case.

"Gage has been planting spies and massing secret supplies all over the colony," went on Ralph. "The main trouble in organizing our army has been in getting arms and ammunition. Why, in some districts the British agents have bought up all the loose powder in the country stores. Some of it they hid, and a lot of it they burned up."

"The rascals!" flared up Andy.

"Three days ago," pursued Ralph, "we got word that Gage was ready to make some big move. We couldn't find out his plans. Day before yesterday the first part of his plan came down upon the colony like a thunder clap. He put Boston in a state of blockade, martial law was ordered. As I told you, no one could leave or come into Boston without a Tory passport."

"Why was that, I wonder?" murmured Andy.

"Why, to prevent the outside colonists from getting word from the city. Yesterday a courier reached Mr. Eaton, and then went on to warn Lexington, Concord and the other principal towns. The redcoats are drilling, massing and getting ready to leave Boston for a raid on outside towns. We don't know exactly when they are going to strike, but we shall know before they leave."

"How? Why?" spoke Andy in rapt interest.

"We have men inside the lines who are watching every move of the British. The moment they make a definite start, a signal will be given to our agents just outside of Boston. Then the arrangements are such that the news will be spread to the outside towns like wildfire."

Andy was so wrought up that he was pacing the floor restlessly while Ralph was talking. Phil was thinking of his folks and his friends. Phil knew more about Boston than Ralph or Andy. He realized more than they did the seriousness of the high-handed outrage on the part of the Tories in striving to subdue the valiant spirits of the patriots. He knew that the effect of such action would be to deeply arouse the Musket Boys of Boston to the fighting fever point.

"There will be bloodshed," he said with conviction, to himself. "If the war never breaks out, this will lead to trouble for the redcoats." Then Phil thought of something else, and arose to his feet with the words: "Ralph, I have something important to tell Mr. Eaton."

"Hold on, though," was the response—"you've a story to tell first. Where have you been? Your folks have been inquiring for you everywhere. They have been worried to death about you."

Phil detailed the various experiences of his friend and himself since they had left Concord. Ralph's face worked with interest as they told of the adventure at the Lowell town hall. It was when they came to their imprisonment on the Vixen and their escape in the sailboat, that he became so excited that he could scarcely sit still.

"Grand!" was his comment, when Phil told of the cutting of the cable. "Superb!" he added, when they related how they had sailed the boat into Sandy Creek. "Famous!" he fairly shouted, when Phil narrated the run across the swamp lake.

"And there she stuck," concluded Andy, breaking in on the narrative. "There she is now, and nobody knows how many kegs of powder and how many muskets she has aboard."

"Boys," said Ralph starting for the front of the house in a state of intense excitement, "You've done a big thing. Just one or two clever tricks like this, and we'll be able to whip the Tories and the redcoats with our hands behind our backs!"

CHAPTER XVIII

TROUBLED TIMES

It was a big thing that Phil Warrington and Andy Sabine had done in capturing the consort of the Vixen, floating it to safe and secret harborage, and delivering its valuable cargo over to trusted agents of the continental army. The chums tried to appear simply glad and modest, when Mr. Eaton, after a visit to the swamp, returned to them filled with admiration for their act and the deepest satisfaction over results. For all that, Phil thrilled with genuine pride over the compliments of the sterling patriot, and Andy held his head an inch or two higher.

The big sailboat was found to be loaded with military stores of which the colonists were in sore need. There were in fact, sufficient arms and ammunition to equip a whole military company and defend a town. Mr. Eaton had taken Ralph with him to inspect the boat, he insisted that his guests had seen enough hardship for one night at least. When he returned, it was to send Ralph to rouse up some neighbors. Phil and Andy, worn out with their arduous exertions, went to sleep on the long settle in the kitchen. When they awoke, it was to find Mrs. Eaton bustling about the room preparing breakfast.

She greeted Phil and his introduction of Andy with a welcoming smile, and, putting on their dry coats and shoes, the boys went outside to find Ralph at a grindstone in a shed sharpening an old hunting knife.

"Hello, fresh as larks, eh?" cried the energetic lad cheerily. "Lots of work been done since you went to sleep."

"How's that?" questioned Andy.

"Well, if the Britishers should happen to trace that sailboat, they will find her cargo gone. Left here on wagons for Lexington and Concord over two hours ago. I tried to get Mr. Eaton to rig up the boat with a couple of small cannons, furnish it with some muskets, and I'd go pirating down the Bay. They laughed at me, so I've got to give up that wild idea, as they call it, for the time being. Tell you a secret, though," continued Ralph impressively: "if things get desperate I'll come back here, get that boat afloat and do something for my country. She's a trim craft, I tell you—too good to lie rotting in the swamp. You may yet see her under sail with myself the bold privateer of Boston bay."

Ralph was only half-fooling. His suggestion caught Andy immensely. There was a call to breakfast, and then Ralph took his guests up to his room in the attic. He showed them a bundle on the bed, beside which lay the hunting knife and an old-fashioned pistol. Everything indicated preparation for some emergency, and Phil regarded Ralph inquiringly.

"Looks as if you were getting ready to go to war," he observed.

"It's about that," responded Ralph in a spirited tone. "Anybody would be blind not to see that cannons will soon be booming and the Tories scampering back to England. I'm going to Boston. Why, I can't sleep nights thinking of the turmoil and excitement there. I was born to be in the center of a mix up, always. Yes, I'm going to Boston, and I'm going to get into Boston, too."

"Of course we will go with you," said Phil. "I am anxious about the folks. The Musket Boys will need me, too."

"Hope I'm not going to be left out of the procession," observed Andy.

"No, indeed," replied Ralph with unction, and so it was settled.

Ralph waited until Mr. Eaton returned from the settlement, and had quite a lengthy conversation with them. The patriot shook hands all around and Mrs. Eaton kissed the boys good-by in a motherly fashion, and handed Ralph a home-made wicker basket.

"When the war is over, Mrs. Eaton," said Andy, "I'm coming back here to eat some more of those splendid doughnuts of yours."

"You will find a supply in the basket there," replied Mrs. Eaton, with an encouraging smile.

The morning had dawned bright and beautiful, and early spring was beginning to touch the landscape here and there with green. There was a pretty good road clear to Boston, and the wayfarers took their time, planning that they would reach the city after dark, which would certainly be the best time to make an attempt to evade the British soldiers in an effort to reach the Warrington home.

They came across few people going towards the city. In one little village they passed through, they found business practically suspended. Nearly all of its residents were gathered on the village green listening to the oration of a man, who was desperately in earnest in warning them to prepare for war.

He aroused a vast patriotic spirit, and when he had concluded his speech he sprang at once to the saddle of a mettled steed standing by the horse block, and dashed down the road in the direction of the next town, probably intent on warning all the colonists along the route.

At a second little settlement the boys were halted on the highway and questioned by one of a party of men, all armed with muskets, and seemingly guarding the road.

"Things are certainly humming," observed Ralph Post a little later, as, passing a lonely farmhouse, they observed a stalwart woman and her two sons burnishing up a sword and two muskets.

Dusk found them only a few miles from Boston. Phil, who knew the road, told his companions that they could reach the city within an hour. Ralph, it seemed, had been instructed to go to a certain place on the river opposite the city, and there consult with some friends who would advise them as to the safest way to get past the sentry lines of the Tories.

"Perhaps we had better keep off the main road the rest of the way," suggested Phil. "Besides, I know a good short cut to Dockrell's Mill, where Mr. Eaton said we would find his friends."

This was acceded to by the others, and Phil piloted the way along a by-path and through some stunted timber. Then it was a hit and miss progress for about a mile, and in the gathering dusk Phil would have been confused only that they were guided by lights in houses in the distance.

"I say, what was that?" exclaimed Andy suddenly, as they took a detour to escape a reach of swampy ground.

"Sounded like a horse's neigh and a great floundering in among that tangle of weeds yonder," said Phil, halting and gazing sharply in the direction indicated.

"Mercy!" cried Andy with a decided shock.

They all stood stock-still. Abruptly upon the quiet evening air and very near at hand, there rang out a fearful blood-curdling shriek.

CHAPTER XIX

"SACHEM"

Ralph drew out the pistol he carried with a quick movement of his hand. Andy poised the heavy cudgel with which he had armed himself. Phil ran forward a few feet to try and get within range of a bulky moving object partially obscured by some high weeds.

That fearsome yell was not repeated, but its echoes still vibrated in their ears. It had filled the near woods with alarm, and there was a vast fluttering and flight of birds among the trees.

"It's a horse," said Phil, and he peered more closely. Then he ran in among the rushes. "A horse," and, added Phil instantly: "Why, sure as I live, a man, too!"

Phil disappeared partly from view. The curious and startled Andy and Ralph could dimly make him out wading rapidly behind a screen of high flags. Then there was a great floundering. The curtain of reeds parted. There was Phil, struggling with a snorting horse. The animal was plunging and slipping on a slimy foothold. Phil dragged at the bridle.

There was another piercing yell as the steed fell over sideways, apparently submerging a rider. Then the horse righted itself, and Phil, dodging its prancing hoofs, reached dry ground with the panting, breathless appeal to his astonished comrades:

"Andy—Ralph—help me!"

It took the combined efforts of the three boys—and they were exerted just in time—to pull the horse upright and onto solid ground. Once there, the animal stood snorting in fear and exhaustion and quivering all over like an aspen. Phil slipped his hand along the bridle and patted the dripping neck of the overwrought steed gently and soothingly. Then he and his comrades fixed their gaze on the burden that the horse bore.

"Whew!" whistled Andy in the profoundest stupefaction.

"Why," cried Ralph, in surprise and consternation, "It's an Indian."

"Yes, but his plight!" said Phil, almost shocked beyond expression. "Boys, this is horrible."

An Indian the helpless man tied securely flat the length of his body along the horse's back, certainly was. He presented a strange and pitiable sight. His attire was in tatters. One half of his head was shaven clear and was daubed with white paint thickly. On the other side among the matted hair was a great mass of red paint. His face was bruised and slashed, and his hands were bleeding with many open cuts.

The helpless frenzy in the Indian's eyes was terrible. Their frightful expression made Ralph shudder and caused Andy to shrink back. Phil was simply full of sympathy. The man's breath showed that he had been drinking deeply of the pestilent "fire water" of the white man.

"This is shameful," said Phil indignantly. "Some one has been guilty of a mean, cowardly act."

"He looks dangerous," said Andy, but Phil without delay proceeded to cut the straps and ropes that held the Indian helpless. The man was so cramped that he almost fell to the ground, once freed. Phil supported him, easing him to a fallen tree, where the Indian sat swaying for some moments, his fiery eyes scanning his rescuers one after the other.

It was still light enough for them to make out that he had been badly mistreated. The fellow gradually restored circulation to his cramped limbs. Very suddenly he arose to his feet. He threw out his arms with a wild, furious gesture in the direction of the city. A guttural half-choked cry resembling that of some wounded, angry animal sounded in his throat.

Phil went to the edge of the swamp, and wetting his handkerchief in some surface water there returned to the side of the redman and proceeded to wash the blood from his face. The man did not resent this. His hard features softened somewhat. Then he braced upright, and a kind of tragic, heroic pose was his as he folded his arms across his breast.

"Me Sachem," he said proudly, "King Philip Sachem."

"I say!" exclaimed Andy sharply to his comrades, "I know who he is."

"You know him?" repeated Phil vaguely.

"Yes, I've heard about him more than once. He's hung around lots of villages for the last ten years. Pretends to be a great grandson, or something of that kind, of King Philip, the great Rhode Island Sachem, who was a noted warrior some two hundred years ago."

"I've read about King Philip in history," said Ralph.

"This man has been a worthless, idle fellow, who they said didn't do much except steal and drink 'fire-water.' Since the trouble began with the British, I've heard my father tell how he has been hired by the redcoats to try and incite the stray tribes to make the colonists trouble. He's a bad man, I fear, Phil, and I don't believe you can trust him far."

The Indian either did not understand perfectly what Andy was saying, or was engrossed in a wild crooning he indulged in. This was a sing-song chant directed toward the city.

Having finished this, he began a wild war dance. The boys could not but help watch his maneuvers with interest. Finally he came up to Phil and looked him fixedly in the eye. He took one of Phil's hands and placed it on his own head, humbling himself as if trying to convey to the Boston boy that he was thankful and his slave.

Starting back, he began an extravagant and expressive pantomime. His movements were intricate, and Phil had to do a great deal of guessing to get their meaning. An occasional word in English, however, did a good deal towards enlightening him.

When the Indian had finished his eccentric explanation, he made as if to draw a hunting knife, and then his hands lifted innumerable imaginary scalps. He uttered what might have been his tribal war cry. He again placed Phil's hand on his head, humbled himself into a squatting position, and finally came back to practical life by getting the bridle and saddle of his horse in order.

"I've talked finger talk to the South Sea Islanders," observed Ralph, "but this fellow is too rapid for me. What's he trying to tell, anyhow, Phil?"

"Why, as near as I can make it out," said Phil, "he has been sort of friendly with the Tories. They invited him to Boston. He seems to try and tell that they got him to give all kinds of information about various people in the settlements. They gave him plenty of fire-water. Then they turned him loose. He got hanging around the camp, and stole something. The soldiers pounded him, tied him to the horse and started them away from the city. The horse must have swum the Charles River, and had a wild dash of it into the timber and the swamp."

"He acts as if he has some pretty hard feeling against the Tories," said Andy.

"He has. Oh, he will have revenge! he says," explained Phil. "Poor fellow—I feel sorry for him."

Phil handed the Indian some food from the basket, which the man received gladly. He patted Phil's hand and looked him closely in the eye. Then he reached into the breast of his hunting shirt and drew out a buckskin bag. Searching in this, he brought out a piece of very hard wood a few inches square. It was covered with paint—daubed characters and pictures. He handed this to Phil. As he did so, he drew an imaginary circle around Phil. He held up his hands to indicate numbers—of men, Phil thought. Then the Indian made it plain that he had given his rescuer a charm or amulet that would disperse all enemies.

"Good-by," said Phil, heartily shaking the hand of the Indian, and the latter mounted his horse, made a threatening gesture towards Boston, and rode away.

CHAPTER XX

PAUL REVERE'S RIDE

"Well!" remarked Andy, as the Indian was lost to view amid the mazes of the forest. "There's plenty of variety on the road to Boston, it seems."

"Phil has made a good friend, at any rate," said Ralph. "Sort of adopted you, Phil. Those savage fellows mean something when they take a fancy to a fellow. I'll wager you hear from this man again. That funny piece of wood he gave you was the most precious thing he possessed. I know these savages. When I was in the South Sea Islands, a sailor saved the life of a drowning native. The day we left, that grateful native came down to the ship with over one hundred mates, beating tom-toms and hauling aboard a whole wagon load of presents."

Andy listened to Ralph with a suspicious sidelong look. Ralph was continually alluding to this and that remote spot on the globe where he had been, and to Andy it was really remarkable the wide experience of a person so young.

"This poor 'Sachem' hasn't many presents to give, I fancy," said Phil, "but it's just as important to have his good will. The Indians could annoy us a good deal, with the Tories behind them. I don't think this man will ever train with them again though. There's the mill, Ralph," proceeded Phil. "Mr. Eaton has told you what to do, so we will follow the leader until you find out how safe it is for us to try and get into Boston."

"Mr. Eaton told me to see a man named Jewett," explained Ralph. "He lives in the settlement here. I suppose the first move is to locate him."

The boys got nearer to the river and followed its shore until they came to a little cluster of houses. Ralph entered the yard of one of these, went to the front door of the house and knocked. He soon came back to Phil and Andy.

"The woman in that house has directed me to Jewett's place," said Ralph. "It's farther down the river."

At Mr. Jewett's house Ralph remained inside for some time.

"Did you see your man?" inquired Andy, as Ralph returned to them.

"No, but I saw Mrs. Jewett. She asked me all kinds of questions, as if to make sure that I really came from Mr. Eaton. Everybody here acts with suspicion, and all on the tip-toe of excitement. The woman told me to go to Dockrell's Mill. I reckon her husband is there. She thought it over a good deal, and made me tell my story clear through before she decided to send me to the mill though."

"We'll soon be in Boston, I hope," said Andy, as they moved forward once more.

They finally made out the mill and some surrounding buildings in the distance. The boys were chatting animatedly, when, passing some bushes, all of a sudden a sharp, commanding voice spoke the word:

"Halt!"

All three stood stock-still, for from behind the bushes appeared a man, leveling a musket. He had the bearing of a person who would fire at the least provocation, as he craned his neck to make out the faces of the party he challenged.

"Who are you?" he demanded, as Phil stepped forward.

"My name is Warrington," Phil explained, "I live in Boston, and am trying to get there with my two friends here."

The sentry, for such he apparently was, laughed outright.

"You'll have a time of it," he said dryly. "Smarter fellows than you have been trying to get out of Boston and into Boston all day long, and have made a failure of it. You'll have to go back. We have something to say on this side of the creek, and it's no thoroughfare for anybody this route, for to-night, at least."

"We are especially sent to one certain person," said Phil, "and maybe that will make a difference."

"Who is it?" inquired the sentinel.

"Mr. Jewett."

"Who sent you?"

Phil told as much in explanation as he thought necessary.

"You tell a pretty straight story," said the sentry. "If you're up to any tricks, it won't pay you. Who's that with you, or a little behind you, as you came up the path?"

"With us?" exclaimed Phil. "Why nobody."

"Yes, there was," declared the sentry. "Some one was dodging along after you. I saw him plainly."

"I don't see him now," said Phil, peering sharply back the course they had come, "and it seems impossible that any one would be following us."

"Well, he's disappeared now," said the sentry. "It may have been one of our other sentinels. Go ahead. Keep right on this path till you reach the mill. Don't leave it to do any prying."

"Why should we?" demanded Andy, who didn't like the preemptory ways of their challenger.

"Well, just don't, that's all," continued the sentry. "You may get into trouble if you do. The bushes have eyes and ears around here just now, and we don't want any interfering. You had better get through with Jewett soon as you can, and make your break for Boston lively, for, if the signs don't fail, before another night there may be a heavy rain."

"Not with that wind," innocently declared Ralph, who from his sailor experience prided himself on being an expert weather prophet.

"Ha! ha!" laughed the sentry. "Not the kind of rain you mean, my lad—this will be a rain of leaden bullets."

The boys passed on. They did not even converse now for there was a sort of gruesome spell over each. Their nerves were on a strain, for every bush they passed might conceal a sentry. They passed a hut with no lights or sign of life about it. Near to it and about one hundred feet from the path was a barn.

"Some one is in there," said Andy. "I can see a light through the chinks."

"Come on, Andy," directed Phil.

"Yes, better try, no snooking around," advised Ralph. "That sentry told us to follow our noses, straight."

But Andy was persistent. He deviated from the regular path, and the others, irresistibly influenced by his leadership and curiosity, kept pace with him. They came up against the side of the barn, where a long wide crack showed between two shrunken planks.

A lantern hanging from a hook in a rafter illuminated the interior of an ordinary stable room. In the centre of the barn, saddled and bridled, magnificently erect and graceful, was the most beautiful horse Phil had ever seen. The steed stood like some statue of bronze, and the whole picture somehow thrilled the onlookers in an impressive, heroic way.

Seated upon the animal, straight, athletic, was a man as mute and motionless as if he was planted there. He held the bridle reins loosely in one hand, but he was posed as if awaiting some word of command upon which he must act on the instant. His ear seemed bent towards the old mill building not five hundred feet away.

"Why," began Andy in a tremor of excitement.

"S-sh! This way, boys," interrupted Phil, in a quick, cautious whisper.

"But I know," began Andy again, insistently.

What Andy knew or did not know was not disclosed at that moment. There was again an interruption, and Phil was not responsible for it this time.

"Look—say, look!" said Ralph.

Way across the broad Charles River on the Boston shore, from the high window of the old North Church, there flashed out the bright light of two big lanterns, the rays shot against some broad reflectors.

Thrice the lights rose and fell. Immediately from the upper story of the old mill building, just beyond the spot where the boys stood, a blue light flamed momentarily in response. Then darkness again and silence, but the silence reigned for a moment only. There was a shout inside the barn into which the boys had just peered, the sharp, quick clatter of the hoofs of a horse on the hollow planking. The watcher at the window had disappeared. Phil, Andy and Ralph, inexpressibly excited, ran to the structure and again looked into its interior.

The man at the window had darted to the big door of the place. He dashed it open, saying something in a rapid tone to the man on the horse. Rider and animal were posed as if set on springs. One leap, and they cleared the threshold.

The man at the door brought his broad hand down on the flank of the speeding horse. His voice rose to an eager, exultant shout, urging steed and rider out into the darkness with the rapidity of an arrow shot from a bow. A thrill ran through every nerve of the overwrought spectators, as he cried:

"Go, Paul Revere! The liberty of America depends upon your mission this night!"

CHAPTER XXI

ALONG THE RIVER

"Paul Revere! I told you I knew him!" cried Andy. "Yes, sir, it's war. I remember—my father—Concord—fast horse—warn the country."

In an incoherent way Andy made it known to his comrades that he had seen Paul Revere at a meeting of the Sons of Liberty at his home at Concord, and that his father had intimated that the intrepid horseman was listed to act as a courier in the patriotic service.

"Hark!" ordered Phil sharply.

Horse and rider had vanished as if into a cloud. Then they had heard the swift ringing hoofs on the road. These, too, had died away, but now, echoing on the still air, came a prolonged, vibrating call.

"Hulloa—oa—oa!"

Indistinct words followed. Silence again, and then the call repeated. Shouts of others besides the dauntless night riders echoed out. Lights began to flash in the distance. More remote, a great bonfire, a veritable beacon of liberty, blazed out suddenly. Some shots were heard, and mingled with them was a wild alarm bell, summoning some little settlement to arms.

"He has important news," said Andy. "Oh, you can wager he has. He is to warn all the towns along the road. Ralph, let us get quickly to Mr. Jewett. I'm dying to find out what is going to happen next."

"Hey, what are you doing here?" pronounced a gruff voice.

Andy was suddenly seized by the nape of the neck. He was pushed forward, jerked back and whirled face to face with his challenger and captor, the man whom they had noticed at the little window in the barn.

"Hold on, there," broke in Phil, stepping forward to rescue his chum from rough treatment.

"What are you doing, sneaking around here?" demanded the man angrily.

"We are looking for Mr. Jewett," explained Ralph.

"Yes, and we know—let go—Paul Revere—let go, I say—and we're true blue—"

"Know Jewett, do you?" said the man, somewhat skeptically. "Well, we'll soon know about that, for here he comes."

All hands looked in the direction of the old mill. They saw a man running rapidly towards them. But soon he halted, seemed peering in among the bushes, and ran back a distance on his course. Then he came forward again.

"Watch out close," he called to Andy's captor, as if intent on keeping running. "Seems to me I noticed a skulker after me when I left the mill. What of Revere?"

"Gone," reported the man.

"Good! The break has come. Before morning six hundred British troops will be on the road to Lexington. Watch here a bit, then come to the settlement. We must get ready to greet those redcoats with a warm welcome."

The speaker started to hasten on his way, but Andy's captor halted him with the words:

"Hold on, Jewett."

"Eh—why, who are these boys?" exclaimed Jewett, making out for the first moment the companions of the man who had hailed him.

"They say they came to see you."

"I am from Mr. Eaton," explained Ralph. "This is Phil Warrington of Boston, and my other friend is Andy Sabine of Concord."

"Yes, yes," nodded Jewett. "Good names, all. What can I do for you, lads?"

"We want to get into Boston, where Phil's folks live," said Ralph.

"Boston!" repeated Mr. Jewett. "Why, lads, before morning, probably within an hour, you will see that river out yonder covered with boat loads of redcoats. The British are about to make a raid out into the country, Lexington first, Concord next. Look out for yourselves, fight if you can, but don't think of going to Boston. Roberts, take them up to my house till I get our men in trim for the coming fight, and keep a lookout for the man I thought I saw keeping track of me back yonder near the old mill."

The man who had grasped Andy now released him. The boys did not pay much further attention to him. Each of the trio felt that a critical moment impended, and that the situation was serious. Phil looked up and down the dark river, and then across at the city, where a good many lights showed, and which he had no doubt, was now in a state of considerable commotion.

"I'll go up to the house with you soon," said the man, turning to attend to something in the barn.

"We called there on our way here, and know where it is," explained Phil. "We hardly know what is best to do."

"As you like," said the man. "Only, you had better follow Jewett's advice. We have been waiting for a week for what you saw happen a few minutes since, and it means a good deal, all hands around, I can tell you."

"What shall we do, boys?" inquired Phil anxiously of his companions, as Andy's recent captor disappeared into the barn.

"Mr. Jewett said Lexington and Concord," observed Andy, in a reflective tone. "I don't believe that the Tories will ever get that far out, but I'd like to be in the thick of the excitement."

"Phil is pretty anxious about his folks," remarked Ralph. "We can't do much this side of the river except hang around. We have no muskets. We could learn a lot in Boston."

"Well, anyhow, we'll see how it looks along the river," said Phil, with an irresolute sigh. "If we find a boat, I have a good mind to try and get across the river, even if we came right back again."

"All right. Let's see what turns up," said Andy, and they started down the stream and past the old mill. The revelations of the past hour had stirred them up greatly. Andy talked of the boys training club at Concord, Phil of the Musket Boys of Boston, Ralph wished the provincial congress would establish a navy, and give him a chance to show what he had learned as a sailor boy.

They proceeded along the river for over a mile before they made any discovery affecting their plans. Andy had remembered what Mr. Jewett had said about being followed by some one, and had strenuously asserted that he had caught sight twice of a lurking figure in their rear since passing the old mill. Now Ralph, who was a little ahead of Phil, halted.

"Fellows, the very thing," he cried. "Here's a yawl."

All hands came to the water's edge with alacrity. There lay a yawl, the oars set. It was lapping the water unsecured, except for being grounded at the stern, and it looked as though it had been recently used. For all that, Andy leaped into the bow, and Ralph sat down in the center seat and took up the oars.

"I will keep the lookout," said Phil. "I ought to know these waters around here pretty well, and if we don't run across some craft of the enemy before we get across, I am sure we can pick out a safe place to land. There's a fog coming up from the bay. That will hide us some."

"Not yet, my young gallivanters!" suddenly spoke a gruff voice.

From behind a great log near the beach the speaker stepped into view. Advancing slowly upon them, a musket extended, the young patriots saw a redcoat soldier in full uniform.

CHAPTER XXII

"ON TO LEXINGTON!"

The British soldier walked straight up to the yawl, stepped into it, and, his gun still extended, sat down in the stern of the boat. It was all done so easily and naturally, that it fairly took away the breath of the three astonished boys.

"Keep right on," said the soldier—"row away, there."

Andy for once was subdued. He did not doubt but that the redcoat meant business, and that gun barrel looked ugly and threatening. Ralph mechanically placed the oars in motion. Phil half-faced about wondering what would come next.

It seemed to him that he had caught a vague glimpse of a scudding figure shift through the fog and melt away at the water's edge, but he attributed this to a shadow or fancy, his main interest centered on the big, cruel-faced soldier, who now held himself and his companions absolutely at his mercy.

"Row, I tell you," ordered the redcoat. "No fooling, no tricks, or I'll sink you with lead. Trying to get into Boston, were you?" he chuckled. "Well, I'll just help you, that's all."

"Yes, I guess we'll get to Boston," said Andy rather glumly, in a half-undertone.

"Sort of dreaded the row across," continued the redcoat. "Then again, judging from what I overheard you fellows say, I fancy you can tell considerable to our captain. Blame me, if I've found out anything except a heap of signaling. Say," he added to Phil, "what was all that hubbub of shots and shouts and bells I heard down the river?"

"I wasn't down the river to find out, you see," responded Phil.

"Wasn't you, now?" said the soldier, in a sarcastic tone. "You're all very innocent, aren't you? Row faster and steadier, there," he ordered in a raised, angry tone, as Ralph lagged at the oars.

Andy had just whispered something behind Ralph. It was to the effect that he believed boats from the other shore were crossing the river. If this were true, Ralph foresaw that they would soon ride right in amongst the enemy.

"Then we'll be gone for good," Andy declared in a hollow whisper. "Let's fight for it—here and now."

"Did you hear me?" repeated the redcoat wrathfully. "Row faster."

"Not an inch," said Ralph, quietly but forcibly.

He dropped the oars as he spoke, and sitting erect folded his arms and faced the soldier like a statue.

"Andy," he whispered sideways, "there's the old pistol in my belt behind, get it. I'll make a spring." And Ralph moved slightly forward, and managed to touch Phil with his foot as a hint that they were up to something.

The redcoat uttered a wicked snarl. He raised his musket, and the boys heard an ominous click.

"Dodge! duck!" shouted Andy excitedly. "The ruffian is going to massacre us!"

Bang! Sure enough the gun went off, but up in the air. The astonished boys saw the weapon fly up from the hands of the enraged soldier. It came down in the middle of the boat, striking Ralph. What was more wonderful, though, was that accompanying this maneuver. The redcoat performed a series of gyrations that reminded Phil of a man who had been kicked off a horse in a somersault circle.

The soldier shot clear back off the boat, arms and feet sawing the air. He uttered a curdling yell, but its echoes gurgled down to a gasp as he went under the surface of the water with the dexterity of a practised acrobat. Next, there sprang over the stern a dripping but agile figure.

"The Indian,—Old Sachem!" exclaimed Andy. "Don't!"—began Andy, in a horrified tone.

There passed before the boys a rapid, tragic spectacle. They could readily surmise what had transpired—the Indian had followed them from the swamp. Whatever his motive to guard them, to try and do them a good turn for their kindness to him or on the trail of his enemies, seeking revenge, it was evidently Sachem, as he was generally nicknamed, who had been lurking around the old mill and later upon the course they had followed.

Sachem must have swum after the boat, and at the right moment had pulled back the redcoat. Now, seating himself at the stern, he reached back and grabbed out. His wiry fingers were clenched in the bushy whiskers of the Tory. Sweeping his other hand towards them holding a keen-bladed knife, he "scalped" the redcoat's luxurious whiskers.

With a laugh of derision he tossed the handful of hair into the face of the yelling victim, gave him a hard slap on the face and then a push that sent the redcoat swimming for shore, probably more scared that he had ever been before in his life.

The whole incident had been so rapid, tragical and finally grotesque, that Andy broke out into a great laugh. It was quickly subdued. Through the gloom from some near boat came a startling challenge:

"Who is there?"

Instantly Ralph grabbed the oars. There was no doubt but that the British were crossing over from Boston. The shore was near at hand. All saw that they must promptly reach it or drive straight into a new dilemma.

Ralph speedily turned the bow of the boat, and began making for shore. They all kept silent, the Indian stationing himself at the stern, his ear bent attentively, his eye trying to pierce the fog and darkness.

The redcoat he had doused and "scalped" had reached the shore. He was now running away from his landing place, bellowing out directions to the approaching boat loads of his fellows. This helped neither them nor himself, for the gloom hung about like a pall.

The boys leaped from the boat as they reached the shore. The Indian faced them with the most extravagant gestures. These plainly indicated that they were foolhardy to attempt to get into Boston. He turned and pointed in the direction of the old country road.

"Lexington," he said. "Boom—boom!"

Phil nodded actively to indicate to the redman that he understood him. The latter looked pleased. He placed his finger tip to his lip to enforce silence, beckoned his companions to follow him, and then stole down the shore like a shadow.

It was just in time, for two minutes later the refugees comprehended that the British were landing. The Indian proceeded at a brisk pace for over a half a mile. Here there was a thicket, and he led the boys to it.

Soon, he said sententiously—"wait," and disappeared.

"Well, Sachem is proving a pretty good friend," observed Andy.

"I wonder what he is up to now?" spoke Ralph.

"He wants to act quick," said Phil. "The British are certainly landing their troops this side of the river. We shall be surrounded by them if we don't make ourselves scarce."

The boys could see lights here and there down the river shore. Once there were some vague shouts, and the echo of a volley of musketry. Way to the west a reddish glare betokened a house on fire, or some patriot beacon.

"The air sort of bristles with action, hey, Phil?" remarked Andy. "I wish my Concord crowd was here. We'd soon make up some plan to fight or annoy these bold redcoats."

"Some one is coming!" said Ralph just then, and thereupon the Indian stepped into view. To the amazement of the boys he led three horses. These were army steeds fully accoutred, and at the saddle of each hung a sabre and a short cavalry musket.

"Sachem" conveyed to his friends that he had stolen them. He had evidently located other horses, and according to his pantomime had set them free.

"He has happened upon some redcoat detachment this side of the river, waiting for orders to move," suggested Andy. "Say, fellows, here is a layout that's famous, eh?"

"Sachem" pointed again solemnly, and Phil knew that he was indicating Lexington, and advising them to proceed in that direction. He began to thank the Indian, but the latter, with a grunt of satisfaction at having been of service to his friends and at settling his score with the redcoats, backed away and disappeared.

"Phil," cried Andy buoyantly, "this is unmistakable, I reckon!" and he sprang into one of the saddles.

"I'm more at home on a deck than on a horse's back," remarked Ralph, "but this strikes me as the proper thing."

"Yes," said Phil, "we will leave Boston till later. Just now the motto must be: 'On to Lexington!'"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE FIRST SKIRMISH

"Andy! Andy!" screamed Ralph Post.

But Andy Sabine did not answer. Amid a scene of wild riot and turbulence, wreathed with the actual smoke of battle, the centre of a struggling, battling crowd of yeoman and militia, the Concord boy was swept from view like one on the wings of a cyclone.

It was wonderful what a few hours time had wrought in the destinies and environment of the three loyal chums, who had not reached the city they had started out for, but instead had become involved in the first sanguinary conflict of the War of the Revolution at its most active, seething centre. Never could any one of them forget the escapades of the past night. It was like some dream—the wild dash down the old country road from the Charles river, inspirited by Phil Warrington's final heroic decision: "On to Lexington!"

They made little progress that was not attended by stirring incidents. There was not a village they passed that was not in a state of barricade, preparation, or practically deserted. Bonfires were blazing, men, women, even children were wide awake. Some particular building in these little hamlets was usually the focus of local military fever. Here were grouped men with every conceivable weapon from a blunderbuss to a pitchfork, boys with hatchets, bows and arrows, even slingshots. Wherever they owned a cannon, no matter how small, it was planted conspicuously.

The lack of fear was remarkable. All acted as if an hour long anticipated had arrived, and they were prepared for the conflict. Attics and roofs were occupied by men with all their available firearms by their side. The hedges and timber concealed any number of men on the watch for the first token of the approach of the foe. On top of many a hill a great brush fire was kept burning, furnishing a circle of beacons as far as the eye could reach.

All this Phil, Andy and Ralph saw, and every advancing mile showed how well Paul Revere and another messenger named William Dawes had sounded their warnings to the ready colonists. It was only when they reached Lexington, however, that the boys realized that the hurry and scurry and unbottled enthusiasm all led to one central point where the first stand of the patriots was to be made.

The little town was being patrolled by men having some semblance of system and discipline. In fact, as the little group came cantering into the town, they were greeted with suspicion, were boldly challenged, and had to explain how they came to be riding horses with accoutrements manifestly belonging to the enemy. There was a talk of "Headquarters," and, Phil in the lead, their horses hitched outside of the town hall building, they were marshalled into the presence of a man upon whom seemed to rest the leadership of the hundred or more men who were scattered about the village, many of whom had come from neighboring settlements to the defence of Lexington.

Phil told Captain Parker a good deal that was welcome and important. The startling dash of Paul Revere had been only a warning. Here were couriers direct from the midst of the British, already on the march outside of Boston town. Their report was listened to with eagerness and interest. Then their places were taken by new arrivals. A man would come in with all the able-bodied male members of his family. A stray little group of farmers next put in a plea for active service. No one seemed disposed to shirk a duty—all was loyalty, enthusiasm and courage.

"We're here," observed Phil, as he and his comrades stood outside once more, "and I guess we are going to see the first battle of the war."

"See it?" echoed Andy vaingloriously. "Why, we're going to be a part of it. I'm full of fight, myself," and he handled over the sabre attached to the saddle of his horse, to which he had taken a great fancy.

Couriers had been sent back on the Boston road. These began to come in as the hours wore on. The enemy was on the march ten miles, then eight miles, and now only five miles away. In the meantime, the camp, as it might be called, began to come into some shape and substance. Buildings were transposed into forts, and the strongest detachment lurked about the town hall and at the so-called arsenal of the village.

"You see, it's military stores the British are after on this raid," explained Phil. "They know that their capture or destruction will cripple the cause, and here and at Concord are the biggest lot of these stores outside of Boston."

"Why didn't they go quietly about it?" inquired Ralph.

"They expected to, but, as you have seen, our people were watching their every move."

"I bet they will face a tremendous surprise," declared Andy. "Just see how the people are aroused. There's a patriot in every hedge clear to Charles river, and the Minute Men are bound to hinder the redcoats from getting here."

Phil and his comrades were very proud to be sent on their horses to carry important messages to outlying squads from Captain Parker and his assistants. A good many boys of their own age were grouped on a slope near the edge of the town. Phil and his friends decided to join them. They picketed their horses at a short distance and shouldering the muskets they had obtained mingled with the little squad.

The situation grew more tense as time passed on. The couriers came in more numerously and swiftly, and in increased excitement. A belt of timber shut out a sight of the road beyond Lexington, but finally there rounded its final curve the advance guard of the enemy.

Phil never could realize how rapidly and sensationally, from the moment he saw the first British soldier of the invaders, did things develop. There was skirmishing from the instant they came in sight of the town. Shots were exchanged with men from behind trees and hedges, in stable lofts, half-concealed in haystacks. There must have been over six hundred men in the British detachment, Phil calculated, under the British officer Major Pitcairn. They were well-disciplined, for they marched steadily forward, rarely breaking ranks, and seemed to have some definite point in view.

It soon became apparent that the stout log house that comprised the town arsenal, and which held military stores, was the place the invaders intended to reach.

As Major Pitcairn came up close to the assembled colonists he suddenly halted his force.

"Disperse, ye rebels, disperse!" he cried. "Lay down your arms, ere it is too late!"

"Never!" cried several of the Minute Men.

"Disperse!" went on the British officer, and then, as the Americans did not move, he fired his pistol. A moment later the British troops let fly a volley of shots at the Americans.

"The battle is on!" yelled one patriot. "Give it to 'em, boys, give it to 'em hot!" And he took aim with his musket and let drive, and all those around him did likewise. In that first onslaught several were killed on both sides and a good many were wounded.

Phil and those with him were forced to disperse. It was in the scurry to new cover that Ralph made out Andy, who had become separated from them, borne along with an onpressing crowd. Andy was hatless, and a red-stained handkerchief bound his head. That he had been wounded there was no doubt and Phil, made aware of Ralph's discovery, was truly anxious for the welfare of his redoubtable chum.

"Halt—get ready!" roared a stentorian voice, and over the crest of the hill dashed several leaders, directing little groups to action. Phil, Ralph and several of their own age were stationed behind a marked battery of bushes. The road space was cleared. Suddenly twenty men swung around, and Phil saw what was brewing. They carried great round logs.

"I'm in for that!" cried Phil, springing from cover, and Ralph joined him.

Boom! A great log was dropped in its length and started on a roll down hill. Boom! Boom! number two and number three followed. The advance guard of the British, with dismayed yells, sprang aside or ran back. The bottom of the road was piled up with the logs, presenting a formidable barrier to the enemy.

"More logs, rocks,—anything!" was the next stentorian command. All kinds of debris went scurrying down the hill. The redcoats retreated down the road, but a special deploy was at work trying to move the massed logs out of the way.

The word passed along the hill among the loyal contingent as to what was planned. They had formed a stout barricade. If they could defend this and divert the British troops from the road route, they might save the town.

The redcoats however, despite missiles and bullets, kept at work trying to clear the road. Material to continue the barricade was now lacking. The proposed rush down the hill was deferred while two or three of the patriot leaders counselled together.

"Phil, there's Andy again!" spoke up Ralph quickly.

Phil glanced in the direction indicated. Andy, impetuous, heroic Andy, was the centre of a group of men and boys. They were rolling a keg, Andy directing its progress. With a series of forceful yells, in which Andy led, they halted at the crest of the hill.

Ready hands drew out the plug in the head of the cask, and a long fuse was inserted and lighted. The British below saw what threatened, as Andy balanced the keg so as to allow it to slide lengthwise down into the barricade. Sharp orders rang out from the British ranks.

With sudden regularity and discipline the British regiment wheeled, not daring to face the impending explosion. The keg of powder descended. A giant puff shot upward, a great detonating report rang out. The barricade was lifted and scattered about, all ablaze.

When the smoke cleared the boys knew that Lexington was saved. The enemy had deployed, and were passing the town on a detour, but still marching onward among the defenceless towns, carrying death and destruction in their track.

Powder-grimed, a veritable wounded warrior, Andy Sabine ran up to Phil and Ralph, his eyes aflame with the excitement and glamour of the battle.

"Get the horses," he said quickly, "and get ahead of those redcoats. This is just a skirmish. Concord is what they're after, strong, Captain Parker says."

Ten minutes later the three chums were mounted on their horses, on their way to the scene of the first real battle of the War of the Revolution.

CHAPTER XXIV

BROUGHT TO BOOK

"Something wrong, Andy!" said Phil Warrington seriously.

"Hello, is that so? Glad to see you back with the company, Phil."

The two speakers stood in the lower part of the Sabine barn, dimly outlined by a lantern hung from a beam. Overhead, active, rapid footsteps crossed the floor. There was the sound of serious, business-like voices, although they were juvenile in expression. It was easy to surmise that the boys marching club was in session, or rather at practice, for the orders spoken were quite martial and there was the jingle and clank of firearms.

Andy had a patch of sticking plaster on one side of his head. Secretly he was very proud of the grazed skin underneath, which a British bullet at Lexington had furrowed. With his mates he was a grand hero, and many a comrade envied him the honor of being the first boy wounded in the Revolutionary War.

That had been a strenuous morning for Phil, Andy and Ralph. On their horses that had safely rounded the British marchers, they had reached Concord to find that town prepared to meet the enemy, but glad to receive the latest intelligence of the movements of the British.

All the night every boy and man in Concord had been doing double duty. Earthworks had been thrown up, some of their military stores conveyed into hiding, various points selected where strong resistance to the invading foe might prove effective, and now all that was to be done was to wait for the climax of the impending conflict.

The Minute Men from Lincoln had come in and were soon followed by the patriots from Acton. Then the British were seen advancing.

"They are too strong for us," said one of the old veterans of the French and Indian Wars. "Better lay back until more men come in." And this was done. Soon the Minute Men from Bedford, Westford, Carlisle, and other points appeared, until, all told, the ready-to-fight colonists numbered about four hundred and fifty. They massed themselves on a hill on the opposite side of the Charles river, overlooking Concord.

Andy's family and friends had given Phil and Ralph a royal welcome. Now since dusk the club had been drilling in the barn loft. Phil and Ralph had been gone about an hour, when the former returned to report.

"There may be no attack for some hours yet," he said to Andy. "The Britishers are moving cautiously. What I have found out is that some one here in the village is in league with them."

"And that some one?" asked Andy.

"Is old Jasper Bram. I have been watching his house. You know old Silas Berks advised it. Mysterious persons have come and gone away in the direction of the British troops. Bram is doing something to help them. I am going straight back there on the watch as soon as I get a morsel to eat. We may find out something important, see?"

"Yes, I see," said Andy, "only, don't you miss being here with the company when the trouble begins."

"I shall not, Andy."

Phil went into the house. Andy stood alone in the barn, halting reflectively. He had spoken of "the company," and he felt quite the leader and captain. Andy had won a war record. His loyal fellows had enthusiastically resolved to do and die under his direction, and Andy intended to do his share when the actual fighting began.

"Hello, Andy," spoke an interrupting voice and Ralph Post entered the barn. "S—st!" he added, raising his linger warningly to his lips. "Talk low. No movement of the British as yet. That's the news your father sends from headquarters. Say, Andy," continued Ralph in a low whisper, "there's a spy outside."

"Eh? what? who?" demanded Andy, with a start.

"Don't know. He's on the plank running across the two rain casks—head nearly on a level with the second story of the barn, and he tip-toes when he wants to look in through the window of the loft."

"Come with me," cried Andy instantly. "A spy, eh? I can't imagine—aha! I see."

Ralph it seemed had entered the barn without being seen by the spy in question. Andy, quite as fortunate, now glanced around a corner of the structure. At its other end he made out the lurking form Ralph had described. Dodging back, he whispered hurriedly to his companion, and Ralph ran around the barn. Andy himself waited a minute or two, edged around the corner again, noticed the lurker on tip-toe, calculated his chances, and with a sudden movement seized the end of the plank and gave it a swift pull.

There was a dancing figure over the water cask for a second or two, a wild clutching at space, and then, as Ralph came abruptly into view, the lurker missed his hold and disappeared with a yell and a splash into the cask, full to the brim.

"Duck him again," ordered Andy, rushing to the centre of attraction. "Greg Bram! I thought so. Up there, hey? Company to the rescue!"

Once, twice, a dozen times the would-be spy went under the surface. The crowd came downstairs and direct to the scene of commotion. It was only when Greg Bram's plaintive bellowings became weak, showing that he was nearly exhausted, that the boys let up on him. A dripping, dilapidated specimen of humanity he staggered from the spot amid the jeers and hootings of the patriotic boys.

Phil, after a hurried meal, coming out of the house, saw the end of the episode. Greg became his guide, for it was to Jasper Bram's that Phil was bound. The son amid his chagrin and misery made straight for the parental roof.

Phil trailed Greg clear up to the door of his home, and then glided around to the side of the building, posting himself just beyond an open window looking into the room, up and down which old Bram was pacing, some rare excitement and a look of satisfaction expressed on his weazened, avaricious face. As Greg burst into the room, wild with rage and uncomfortable to the last extreme, the old man stared at him in amazement and then in wrath.

"Nice plight you're in!" he cried. "Now, what does this mean?"

"It means that I want to join the British army and sweep this old town off the face of the earth!" snarled Greg venomously. "Oh, if I had the burning of this burg! Oh, if I could massacre the whole crowd of them!"

"Did you learn anything about where they have moved the ammunition?" demanded his father.

"No, I didn't," retorted Greg, "seeing that I didn't have the chance, I was fool enough to try and find out what Andy Sabine and his crowd were doing. They caught me. Dad, you show me how to get revenge, and you needn't pay me a dollar for all those messages to the Britishers this afternoon."

"Do you think any of the town people suspect what is really going on?" were the next words that fell on the ears of the eagerly-listening Phil, in Jasper Bram's rasping tone of voice.

"No, I don't think so," replied Greg,—"how could they?"

"You don't seem to know anything that's important," snarled old Bram. "This is no time for thinking, or guessing. I'm in for a big reward if my information to the British enables them to come into the town as they wish, by the north road. You haven't helped much, Greg, and that's a fact."

"Helped!" cried Greg. "I've done nothing but help. You're talking that way so you won't have to give me anything for all my work. Who found out all about the plans of the Sons of Liberty but me, and—aha! didn't I help you bury our dog, yes, our poor old dog, ha! ha!"

There was a vicious twinkle in Greg's eye and a sneering expression on his lips. It was evident that he had hit the old man hard at a sensitive point. There was some deep undercurrent to the remark, for, like a tiger aroused, old Jasper Bram, with clenched fists and flashing eyes, sprang at his son as if he would strike him down where he stood.

"You'll bring that up, will you?" he shouted. "After all I've told you, you'll threaten me, will you?"

"Well," retorted Greg, backing away, "I just wanted to show you that I've helped you out whenever I could. Who else would do it—and keep his mouth shut? That's the point—wouldn't blab. Why, if the father of Phil Warrington, drat him! or that young Burt Noble, knew about burying that dog—"

"Stop! Stop, I tell you!" roared the old man, "or I'll thrash the life out of you. Even so much as hint at this thing again, and I'll turn you out of house and home."

In his rage old Bram tore about the apartment in a frenzied manner. He kicked over a chair, he slammed a door, he jammed down the window at which Phil had been peering and listening. But Phil did not mind this. He was ready to hasten back to Concord now, for he believed that he had secured some information of the most vital importance to his patriotic friends.

"I see their plan—that of the British," he murmured. "They intend to enter Concord from the north, where they are not expected, where no preparations have been made to repel them."

Phil started on a keen run in the direction of Concord. He was figuring out how the enemy could make a detour and accomplish a good deal by getting right upon the boundary of the town without being discovered.

"One good piece of information, that," he soliloquized. "And about the dog they buried? What made old Bram so wrathy when his son, Greg, alluded to that? He meant something, I feel sure. He meant something of interest to my father and Burt Noble, I believe. That dog business hides some mystery. I'll make a mental note of it, and I'll think it over and act on it when we have given the British a double dose of what we gave them at Lexington."

Phil halted. Way to the north he caught a sudden alarming sound. It was vague, distant—the echo of a volley of musketry. His worst fears were confirmed. The British soldiers had made the detour of the town. He dashed on with renewed speed. Would he be too late to save Concord?

CHAPTER XXV

THE BATTLE OF CONCORD

Phil Warrington dashed into the barn belonging to Andy Sabine's father, breathless. Andy and his company had just filed down the stairs from the loft. Their leader ran up to the scurrying figure of the new arrival with expectancy in his face.

"What is it, Phil?" he cried.

"The Brams have been giving information to the British, and the redcoats have rounded the town. They are planning to attack us from the north. I heard some firing in that direction."

"Out of this!" ordered the impulsive Andy quickly. "Scatter the news! Tell everybody! I'll get to my father and the committee. Then all hands meet at the square."

There was a tremendous bustle. Phil was borne along in the wake of the dispersing company. He made sure first, though, to secure his musket. As he ran down the street, in every direction he could hear the ringing voices of his young friends, scattering far and wide the news he had just brought into Concord.

He helped with voice and feet, too, as his share in the action of the moment. When he reached the square Phil found it the center of a great commotion. He espied Andy's father moving rapidly from group to group of the volunteers, and managed to get to his side.

Phil hurriedly explained what he had heard Jasper Bram tell his son, Greg, about the plans of the redcoats. He referred as well to the firing he had heard north of the town. Mr. Sabine looked very much interested, but was excited and worried.

"All our forces and points of advantage are bulked at this end of the town," he said. "We never counted on the British coming from any other direction. It will have to be a scattered fight. You lads keep out of trouble. Do your duty, but don't take any reckless risks."

A short time later Andy and Phil, with the patriotic boys of Concord, marched out of town and across the bridge to the hill occupied by the Minute Men and the other patriots that were assembling. Everything was in a state of excitement.

"Musket Boys to the front!" cried Andy, and soon he gathered many of his friends about him. All had muskets, some new and some dating back to the French and Indian Wars.

It was not long before smoke could be seen coming from several points in Concord.

"Will the British try to burn the town?" was the question on every tongue.

"Men, we must protect Concord!" cried Captain Barret, who was in command. "We'll march down to the bridge."

In a few minutes the Minute Men, with many of the Musket Boys, reached the vicinity of the North Bridge.

"See! see!" cried Phil. "The redcoats are wrecking the bridge!"

Phil's words proved true. The British soldiers were forcing up the planking of the bridge.

"Stop! stop!" cried a number of the patriots. "Let that bridge alone!"

"Keep back!" was the order from the British commander, and then, as the Minute Men and the Musket Boys drew closer, he gave the order to fire on the patriots.

Bang! bang! bang! spoke up the firearms of the redcoats, and two of the Minute Men fell.

"Give it to the redcoats!" was the yell, and then Minute Men and Musket Boys returned the volley, and several on the Concord side of the bridge went down, two to rise no more.

From that moment the fighting became general. The Musket Boys were in the thick of the fray, and worked as hard as did the Minute Men. Colonel Smith, the British commander, did all in his power to hold the bridge, but, more Minute Men arriving, he saw that it would be impossible to do so, so at last he gave the order to retreat.

In the meantime, there started up fighting at other points, and a distant cannon boomed out, followed by the explosion of some gunpowder.

"Phil, this is war, actual war!" cried Andy.

"Yes," answered the Boston boy, "and the Musket Boys must do their duty."

From the bridge, the redcoats were followed into Concord, and then another skirmish took place. At last the British commenced to retreat in earnest. Little did they dream of what that withdrawal was to cost them!

In the midst of the excitement Phil and Andy saw a forlorn figure pass the lines. Some shots followed him from the British groups, but he dashed resolutely into the midst of Andy's contingent.

"Ralph—Ralph Post!" cried Andy excitedly. "What news?"

The sailor boy's face was streaked with powder smut, his hair and eyebrows were singed, and his coat was burned at the edges. A truly heroic figure, he waved his hand triumphantly.

"They're on the run!" he cried.

"What! we have beaten the British?" spoke Andy.

"Tooth and nail, horse and foot, van and rear, hurrah!" responded Ralph, but his cheer, meant to be exultant, was decidedly faint, and he had to lean against a post, pretty well exhausted.

"I tell you it has been hot work," continued Ralph, when he had recovered his breath. "Those redcoats came down on us like an avalanche. They were just a solid mass, sweeping away everything in their path except the town hall. That turned them. They got such a steady hail of bullets from the windows, from the roof and from behind trees and fences, that they turned double quick. But they made for the arsenal. Our men simply couldn't withstand such a force, for most of the crowd on duty there earlier, had been sent north to fight. They're getting in on us. Oh, dear!" sighed Ralph dolefully. "Those elegant cannons!"

"What about the cannons?" inquired Andy impatiently.

"Spiked, smashed, two of them. The redcoats did it. And the powder—all that precious powder!"

"And what about the powder?" demanded Andy.

"Some barrels emptied into the river. But we beat them—some. A smashed keg they were rolling along with the other kegs near the river. One of our men dared everything, ran to the spot, fired his gun among the loose powder, and that ended it. Why, those redcoats and the Tories with them ran like scared rats. Then our men put after them. They are after them now. They have driven the redcoats down the road, just lined with our skirmishers. It's pop! bang! all the time. A lot of our men have cut across country to head them off, if they try to return that way. The rest of our men are just driving the enemy back to Boston on the double-quick. Oh, we've lost something, but it's a rout, and the battle of Lexington is won!"

"Let's follow," cried Andy.

"Hold on, break ranks! Attention company! Halt!" rang out a cheery, martial voice.

A clattering wagon had driven right into the midst of Andy and his companions. It was recognized at once as the antiquated, familiar rig of old Silas Berks.

"Whoa!" roared the veteran Indian fighter, getting to his feet and waving his hand excitedly. "Fellow-citizens—no; I mean friends, boys, pile aboard. There's a party of redcoats stuck in the road with four field pieces just beyond my place. If you want to cover yourselves with glory, all aboard! the more the better, and I'll show you a capture worth your while."

"I heard something about some of the heavy baggage of the Britishers unable to make the detour of the town, and ordered to get back to the next village," said Ralph. "Our men have cut off any chance of the others reaching and helping them."

"Company—march!" ordered Andy grandly.

The way the "company" obeyed was to pile into the wagon, those of them who could. The others, eager and excited, strung along on a run behind as the crazy old vehicle clattered back on its route among the hills beyond Concord.

CHAPTER XXVI

SPOILS OF WAR

Captain Andy Sabine's company consisted of over a dozen boys. All of them had muskets, and most of them knew how to use the firearms, for hunting was a great part of the life of the average Concord boy of those days.

All were eager for the fray, as the saying goes. They had already "smelt powder," and old Silas Berks, proud of the junior military coterie he had advised and once or twice drilled, "calculated" they could do the work in hand as efficiently as the regular adult volunteers who were off on more important duty.

"There's six men in charge of the cannon wagons and two carts," he told Andy and Phil, whom he had insisted should occupy a place of honor with him on the front seat of the vehicle. There had been over a dozen Britishers left in charge of the baggage, but most of them had gone away to find more and fresher horses to help get the gun carriages out of the ruts where they had almost broken down.

Andy and Phil knew the situation they were expected to confront very well from the garrulous old Indian fighter's report, and made their plans accordingly. As they drove past the home of Jasper Bram, Andy noticed that it was all dark and the shutters drawn, and commented on the fact.

"I reckon they've made themselves scarce until this scrimmage is over," said Silas. "It's as well, if they're wise. Take my word for it, if they have found out that the redcoats have been routed, they won't show their faces around here for some time to come. Now then, lads, we'll have to drop the wagon right here. There's only a footpath through the timber, and we want to be silent and cautious like. My, how this reminds me of the prime old Indian days! Many a lonely trail I've followed—"

"There's a light," said Andy suddenly, as they surmounted the crest of the hill.

"Yes," nodded old Silas, peering ahead, "they're your men. Same spot where I first saw them. Go slow now, Andy. Get your Musket Boys under orders, and make no mistake in dealing with those fellows."

Andy's volunteers grouped about him as he imparted his instructions in low tones. They could see at a miry stretch of the cross-country road a lot of wagons, some horses and two men with shovels digging around the wheels of the half-overturned gun carriage. A lighted lantern swung from a nearby branch.

About two hundred yards beyond them, where a brush-covered space ended at the edge of a forest, were four other men, a lantern carried by one of their number, while the others were selecting and sorting dead tree branches, as if gathering material to construct a temporary corduroy road.

"Phil, we'll divide evenly on the men," advised Andy in a truly military tone of voice. "I'll attend to the fellows in the road, you see to it that the other redcoats near the timber don't get away."

"We are to make them prisoners—if we can!" suggested Phil.

"I should say it," responded Andy, with the decision of a Napoleon. "Remember what we heard about Gen. Gage imprisoning some patriots in Boston. These six redcoats will count for six of our own people, don't you see?"

"Very well," nodded Phil. "Come on, fellows."

Half of the boys followed Andy's sub-commander with alacrity. Phil was a favorite, and the politic Andy had avoided creating any hard feeling by appointing a boy who did not really belong to Concord as his lieutenant.

Andy and his cohorts advanced cautiously in the direction of the stalled wagons. Some high bushes and the darkness of the night enabled them to come almost directly upon the British without discovery. Andy silently and effectively disposed his "men" in a semi-circle. Then, his sabre drawn, the naked blade glittering impressively in the lantern light, he stepped from behind a big bush with the single word:

"Surrender!"

"Hi—hello!" cried the Britisher digging under the front wheel of the gun carriage, and he stared askance at the sudden apparition.

"Why, you young jackanapes!" began the other man, dropping his shovel and staring also.

"Ready!" said Andy, as immovable as a statue.

The two men started back. From the bushes, focussing them as selected targets, the muzzles of numerous muskets told them that the situation was no joke.

"Stand out in the middle of the road there," ordered Andy.

"Bill, call the others!" hoarsely spoke one of the men.

"Raise your voice or make a move outside of what you are ordered, and we fire," said Andy, quietly but firmly.

The two men got into the middle of the road. Andy told off four of his company to get ropes from one of the baggage wagons and tie the hands of the captives behind them.

This had scarcely been accomplished when Phil and the others appeared upon the scene, driving at the muzzle's point the four men who had been working in the timber. The captives looked immensely sheepish, but they had no weapons, they were completely outnumbered, and Phil had acted all through in a way that convinced them that he and his assistants were in deadly earnest.

"I guess this is all there is of them," observed Ralph.

"It won't be soon," growled one of the captives. "There'll be a whole army following our men back here."

"I fancy you don't quite understand the situation," remarked Andy with a triumphant smile. "Your messengers will be lucky if they come up with the army, as you call it, this side of Boston."

"Yes, and then they'll have to run pretty fast!" chuckled old Silas. "I'd tie the other four there," he advised. "Bring 'em to the wagon and take them to the town jail. As to this wagon truck, et settery—spoils of war, my friends, spoils of war."

Andy had got a taste of war, and paraded the military feature to the full as the captured redcoats were marched to the wagon, conveyed and guarded by the nine members of the company. He put sentinels on duty, and with remainder of the company grouped about the baggage outfit, awaited the result of his report sent to Concord.

It was two hours later when old Silas returned. With him were some twenty men on horseback, provided with ropes and crowbars, as well as weapons. They proceeded to get the baggage train righted, fresh horses in the harness, and were soon able to start with their prizes for Concord.

From what they had told, Phil and Andy realized that there was no danger of another raid on the town in the near future. The British invaders were in swift retreat, with pursuers hot on their trail. All along their route they were being peppered constantly with shots from thickets and houses. Their loss had been heavy, their first effort to subdue the colonists had resulted in dire disaster.

The tired boys trailed homeward, feeling glad and proud of the share they had taken in the heroic episodes of the evening. As the crowd neared the stockade that surrounded the humble home of Silas, the old Indian fighter fell behind somewhat in company with Phil and Andy.

"I say," he observed to the latter, "I feel so good over to-night's work, it makes me lonely for company. There'll be no more fighting to-night. Tell your comrades to notify the folks that you are going to stay with me for a couple of hours, won't you?"

The boys were anxious to get back to town, for, more fighting or not, they knew that Concord would be in a vortex of excitement for many hours to come. There was lots to learn of the experience of others. However, both Phil and Andy appreciated the good service the old veteran had given, and they turned into the stockade, past "old Tom," after communicating their intention to their comrades.

"First and foremost," said Silas, when they had entered his cozy hut amid the noisy greetings of parrot, pigeons and other fowls and pet animals, "I'm going to refresh the inner man."

It was a prime meal that the famous old Indian fighter speedily had ready for them—bear steak, coffee, apple sauce and mince pie, home-made from his own skilled hands. Then Silas brought from the dove cote two of his favored carrier pigeons, and allowed them to walk about the table picking up crumbs, while he began writing on a sheet of paper a brief narrative of the recent battle.

"That will get to Boston long before the redcoat raiders," he observed, after finishing the screed, in composing which his guests helped him considerably.

"You are going to send that to Boston, Mr. Berks?" spoke Phil, a speculative look on his face.

"Yes, right away," nodded Silas.

"I don't suppose you could do me a service in the same line?" went on Phil.

"Why not? I guess what you're after. You would like to get word to your folks."

"Yes, sir," replied Phil hopefully.

"Easily done, lad. There's paper and pencil. Get your letter ready. I'll send it by the first mail to a friend in a certain house-top in Boston, who will see that it is delivered before sunrise."

"Oh, that is great!" commented Andy.

When Phil had written his letter, he gave it to Silas. The latter folded the sheet, wrote some directions on its back, enclosed it in a thin piece of oilskin, did the same with his own letter, and attached one under the wing of one of the doves, the other under the wing of its companion.

Then, the doves fluttering affectionately on his shoulder, he went to the window, opened it, spoke some pet words, and the trained doves took flight into the darkness on their route to Boston.

"I must thank you greatly for that service, Mr. Berks," said Phil. "It takes a great load off my mind to know that my folks will learn where I am, and my plans. I've sent a message to my company too."

"The Musket Boys of Boston?" spoke Andy.

"Yes, I've told them to expect me among them, and to be sure to keep up their drilling, for they soon will be needed."

"That's right," nodded old Silas sagely. "The ball has opened, and America will soon need the help of every loyal lad who can handle a musket."

The old man bustled around getting his pets comfortable. Andy suggested that it was about time for them to leave for home.

"Yes, we're due in town," observed Phil. "We'll go by Bram's house. I've a good deal of curiosity to know if they have left the place."

Phil recited in detail the conversation he had overheard between the Brams, father and son, about burying a dog.

"Why, that was queer," commented Andy. "There's something under that talk hard to understand, Phil. It looks as if Greg Bram was sort of hinting at some secret he knew about. And it certainly refers to your father and Burt Noble."

"What's that about Bram and the dog?" piped up old Silas curiously.

Phil repeated his story for the benefit of their inquisitive host.

"Buried a dog, did they?" said the old man, when Phil's narrative was concluded. "Why, they never owned a dog. Old Jasper is too stingy to feed one."

"That makes it more puzzling than ever," said Phil. "Why, Mr. Berks, what are you doing?"

The old man with quite a thoughtful air had taken up a piece of chalk from a shelf, and had written on the wall just under the shelf the words: "Bram buried dog."

"Oh, that's my memorandy book," chuckled Silas, his shrewd eyes twinkling busily. "I have lots of time on my hands. You're interested, and I'm keeping that memorandy as a reminder. Shouldn't wonder," and the veteran Indian fighter squinted enigmatically, "if I started out some day to find out where Bram buried that dog—that never existed, mind you—and why he did it. When I do, Warrington," and he placed his hand impressively on Phil's shoulder, "expect a message from me by my carrier pigeon route to Boston."

"Hurrah for liberty!" screamed the parrot.

CHAPTER XXVII

IN CAMP

"Count noses, Andy, and be quick about it," said Phil hastily.

"My own squad are all here, Phil. Look to your own Musket Boys. If the tally's right, we'd better take leg bail, for the mischief is done, and—here come the Tories!"

It was a new scene, that occupied by Phil, Andy and others, the time nightfall, the spot opposite Boston, near Cambridge.

Some twenty boys bubbling over with animation and excitement surrounded Phil and Andy. Each ran his eye over the two groups of which the crowd was composed.

"All here," sang out Phil. "Run for it fellows!"

Down the bank of the Charles river Phil and Andy started on a keen run, their laughing, gossiping comrades following them. They left behind them a large yawl and several men, rushing towards it. Out in the stream there bobbed up some bulky bales and parcels, floating swiftly with the current.

"Didn't even see us," said Andy triumphantly, slowing down his gait. "Trick number two—inside of a week. Those fellows will think it wise to leave a guard on their plunder, the next time."

"We don't want to try it too often," advised Phil. "They may set a trap for us."

The occasion was a raid on the enemy at close quarters. Affairs had changed for Phil and Andy and their friends during a month's rapid and exciting flight. They were now real soldiers, for the continental army was an actual fact, and they were members of it.

After the defeat at Concord, Gen. Gage's troops had ventured on no more forays into the surrounding country. The raiders were taught a lasting lesson, and had met with a terrible experience in their retreat to Boston where every inch of the way was disputed. Utterly routed, harassed at every town and hedgerow by patriot skirmishers, a forlorn, defeated remnant of the original invading force, they had skulked back into Boston, "very small potatoes," indeed!

They had shut the loyalists out of Boston. Now the loyalists retaliated by shutting the redcoats and Tories into Boston. In fact, the city was beleaguered. There were points open to the British for an occasional brief foray into the country across the Charles river, but they did not dare to go far, for the country, fully aroused by the Concord incident, had sprung to arms instantly. The result was the formation of the continental army all over the land, and the New England forces, forming a well-disciplined camp at Cambridge, virtually held the Boston redcoats passive.

Everybody in the colonies was enlisting. Andy had selected nearly a dozen of the older boys of the Concord marching club, and had signed the military roster.

The party, including himself, Phil and Ralph, had gone to Cambridge. They were accepted as volunteers a day or two afterwards. Many members of the Musket Boys of Boston managed to cross the river undiscovered in the dark, and Phil found himself a juvenile leader with his dear old chums under his official wing, ready to battle for him and the cause of liberty.

They had managed to rig up a uniform that distinguished them from the every-day home boy. They had tents of their own, were under the orders of strict superiors, and did sentinel duty with their older comrades in the service.

The boys fell into the new camp life as if they had been brought up to it. They were useful in many ways to the general service. Phil had not yet gone to Boston. It would have been a risky experiment, and, besides, he felt that his duty lay with the army, and he put off the visit from day to day. His folks had received the message sent by the carrier pigeons, so they were assured of his safety, and his volunteer chums had brought him messages from home when they came to join the army.

One night Phil and Andy and their comrades came across a sailboat, evidently belonging to some Tories who had stolen across the river probably to exchange sentiments with emissaries from the interior. They were warmly commended in camp when they reported this prize moored near its river confines.

Now for the second time they had made a successful foray. They had watched from ambush that afternoon a squad of redcoats cross the river in the big yawl they had just despoiled. The men had left the boat and had gone into the country to collect flour, horse feed and other supplies, paying for them in some instances, and in others intimidating the farmers into giving them the articles for nothing.

The boys kept on the watch until dark, and saw the raiders load up the yawl with their plunder. Somewhere the Tories had got a supply of "fire water." They one and all congregated in a little copse near by to indulge in a free jollification before returning to camp. Phil and Andy had directed a cautious visit to the boat. The Musket Boys had taken prompt action. Every package aboard was dumped into the creek, and the despoilers had fled in safety just as the Britishers detected the trick that had been played upon them.

"Some one to see you, Warrington," said a sentinel, as the party of young marauders passed into the camp.

"That so?" returned Phil. "Who was it? Is he here now?"

"Yes. About twenty new Boston recruits came in to-night. They've been two days coming by the Breed's Hill route. Forty started, but got blocked. This man is a neighbor of your family, and he had some message for you, I believe."

"I hope there is no bad news," murmured Phil.

He hurried to the little group of tents where the Musket Boys were encamped. There was one big tent where half-a-dozen of them bunked. There was a light in this, and Phil heard conversation within, pulled open the entrance flap, and noticed a man he knew seated among several of the boys.

"How are you, Phil?" the newcomer said arising and greeting the boy with a hearty handshake. "You see, we are all moving into your camp gradually."

"I am glad to see you, Mr. Monroe," replied Phil. "How are the folks?"

"All well, Phil, only there has been a little trouble, and your mother wanted me to see you. She sends her love, and has given me some money to give you."

"And father—" began Phil.

"Well, Phil," said Mr. Monroe, "your father is paying the penalty for being true to his country. You know he and Mr. Powell and Mr. Clinton have been most active in encouraging recruits for the army and smuggling them out of Boston. Gen. Gage got wrathy at their success. He ordered their arrest three days ago, and they are now prisoners."

"The tyrants! the scoundrels!" flashed out Andy, who had accompanied Phil and now overheard the conversation.

Phil was a little pale and worried.

"What will they do with my father and the others, Mr. Monroe?" he questioned.

"I don't think they can do anything much," replied Mr. Monroe. "In the first place, your father's loyal friends won't appear as witnesses. In the next place, if the British proceed to any extreme measures, they will raise a riot. It is only by constantly parading their militia and firearms that they depress the loyal people of Boston. We are all very sorry, for since it has been planned to have George Washington take command of the army and introduce some organization and discipline, they have been selecting good men as officers, and I believe it was the intention of your father and his two fellow prisoners to join us in coming over here to go into active service."

"That settles it. They shall come!" cried Andy Sabine, whipping out of the tent, on fire with some new idea that had entered that active mind of his.

Phil did not see his chum again that night. The Boston boy reflected a good deal over the unfortunate situation of his father. He was afraid that a charge of treason might be made against his parent by the Tories. Mr. Warrington and his colleagues might be transported to England, which in those days meant life imprisonment or death.

Phil saw his commanding officer early in the morning and had a talk with him over the troubles of the imprisoned patriots. That official intimated to him that if his father was a member of the continental army in open conflict with the British, they could not make the charge of treason, as they might on a subterfuge while he was a mere citizen under direct British rule.

"If your father could escape and join the army before any definite charges were made against him, he would be free from any of Gage's kidnapping-hanging tactics," explained the officer.

"Then a way must be found to rescue my father and his friends," declared Phil.

He thought over the situation all that morning, and had a talk with Ralph Post. Together they went to see the commanding general. Phil asked for a week's leave of absence from duty, and he frankly told the general that it was his plan to get into Boston in some way to rescue his father and his friends and to get them safely out to Cambridge. The general listened gravely to the project. Then he said:

"You are a brave young fellow, Warrington, and a loyal son. I wish we could help you. You are welcome to the leave, and take as many of your comrades as you need. We wished to get some important information to friends in Boston, and if you decide to attempt to get through the lines report to me and I will give you a letter. I hope you will be able to deliver it at a certain address in the city."

"Thank you," said Phil, and retired to find Andy waiting for him impatiently in the main tent of the Musket Boys.

"Andy, I'm going to Boston," announced the boy impulsively.

"Of course you are," nodded Andy, without betraying any surprise whatever, "and I'm going with you. I've been thinking it over all night long, and planning for it all morning."

"Oh, you have," murmured Phil.

"Think I'd leave you in the lurch? Think for a moment we're going to leave your father in trouble? No, sir! Before midnight you and I will be in Boston. I've arranged it all. I've got a scheme that will get us across the Charles river as easy as rolling off a log."

CHAPTER XXVIII

BOSTON AT LAST

"Go slow, Phil."

"We couldn't go much slower if we tried."

"That's so," returned Andy Sabine. "I meant in the way of caution. Now then, anchor your side of the old raft with your pole, and I'll do the same on my side. We've arrived. What's the lookout?"

"Dismal enough," answered Phil, peering ahead in the semi-darkness of twilight through a maze of reeds. "I see a big scow loaded with hay. I hear voices, but they are at the other end of the old craft."

"That scow is our destination, Phil," said Andy smartly.

"Oh, is that so?"

"It is. The voices you hear are Johnny redcoats, and we are simply to get to the scow unobserved, smuggle down serenely in the hay, and heave yo! for Boston."

"Good," nodded Phil cheerily. "So far, very good. It's quite a little stretch from here to the scow, though."

"About fifty feet," calculated Andy. "I think we can wade most of the way. If we have to swim, a little ducking won't hurt us."

"All right, when you say the word. I'm ready," reported Phil.

"I say it right now," responded Andy. "Make straight for the center stern. No noise, now—here we go."

Andy stepped over the edge of the rude log raft which they had been two hours poling through the mazes of a swampy river stretch. Phil followed him promptly. They found the water up to their knees, and, where the weeds were sparse, up to their waists. At length they had covered all of the odd fifty feet between the raft and the yawl except about five yards of clear water space. Here they had to swim for it.

"Made it," breathed Andy softly, as, dripping but exultant, they both clambered aboard the scow and snuggled in among the hay, burrowing into it a few feet.

"I don't think anyone saw us," remarked Phil.

"Then we're safe for a free passage across the river," declared Andy.

The Concord boy had noticed the scow come across the river earlier in the day. The pilot to which it was attached by a stout cable was a large yawl, with three pairs of oars manned by stalwart redcoats. They had come across the stream to gather forage for their horses, selecting a spot where a coarse swamp hay grew thickly.

Andy had told Phil this back at the camp at Cambridge, and his comrade had made his arrangements accordingly. His commanding officer had given Phil a letter to deliver in Boston. Phil's Musket Boys chums had sent a cheering word to their parents, and, assuming their old civilian clothes, Phil and Andy had started out on the desperate enterprise of trying to rescue Mr. Warrington and his fellow prisoners from the hands of the British. Now they had made a favorable start in their project, and it looked very much as if the hardest part of their task, crossing the river to Boston, had been accomplished.

The boys lay snug and contented, conversing in whispers when there was occasion for talk. After a while the scow began to move. They gazed out from their screen of hay to watch the shore they had just left fade from view. There was slow and hampered progress when they met the strong central current of the broad Charles River. After that the scow proceeded steadily on its course. As it turned now and then they could make out the river docks and the lights of the city. Then the scow sided up against a wharf bulkhead and became motionless.

"What now?" inquired Phil of his companion.

"We seem to have arrived for good. The boat has brought us over. How are we going to leave it?"

"I'll reconnoitre a bit, I guess," answered Andy, and he began to cautiously work his way beyond the hay into the open starlight. Then he trod along the extreme edge of the well-loaded craft, and managed to reach the side of its deck without accident.

Andy took a look down the wharf, and then bobbed back quickly. He returned as fast as he could to Phil.

"The fellows in the pilot yawl have cut loose and are rowing up the river," he informed his chum, "but a new crowd of men has just come out from sheds in a big hay yard to unload. There may be twenty of them—big roystering fellows. They've got pitchforks, and will start right at work. Let's get out of this, Phil."

Andy at once led the way along his recent course, whispering his plan to Phil to spring up on the wharf and make a run for it. A high fence set back about four feet lined the wharf. It had no break for some distance.

"Come on now—hold on!" said Andy, peering past the side of the scow. "Thunder, Phil! smell that? see that?"

Smoke was what both boys instantly scented. A flare it was that dazzled their eyes. Loud shouts greeted their startled hearing. Some careless smoker among the unloading gang had set fire to the great load of hay.

"Jump!" said Phil quickly, giving Andy a push. "We can't be in a worse fix," and both landed on the planking of the wharf. As they did so, they fairly ran into two men retreating from the blaze. Both were armed with pitchforks.

"Hello," yelled one of them. "Smugglers!"

"Run for it," directed Phil, and down the wharf both put at their best pace. Andy turned his head to discover the two Tories in hot pursuit of them, as well yelling loudly for their comrades to join in the chase. Phil glanced ahead down the wharf, its location and outlines becoming suddenly familiar to him. As they dodged around a curve in the planking, Phil suddenly exclaimed!

"Andy, we're in a trap. If those fellows follow us, it's a sure capture unless we swim for it."

The Concord boy saw at a glance what Phil meant. A hundred feet further on the wharf ended, blocked squarely by the wall of a big brick warehouse.

"Now I know where we are," panted Phil. "You see that building? It's the old warehouse my father used to own before the Tories came and his business got bad. One of the Musket Boys told me that the redcoats had confiscated it to their own use for storage. Oh, Andy, I have an idea."

Whatever his idea, Phil did not pause to discuss it. He knew the old warehouse like a book. Many a gay ramble he had enjoyed over it from attic to cellar, and suddenly there had come to his mind a memory of its outlets where he had escaped playmates in games of hide and seek. Andy came to a sudden halt as Phil did—directly behind the warehouse where a hinged wooden grating covered some wharf subway. Phil pulled at this, and lifted it a few feet.

"Jump down," he ordered quickly. "Don't be afraid. I know what I am about," and Andy leaped boldly, and Phil after him, letting down the grating into place just in time.

They had landed on a hard clay surface. Holding their breath, they heard their pursuers running down the wharf. They came to a halt, blocked by the warehouse wall. Then the lurkers heard a man's voice ejaculate:

"Those two fellows have mysteriously disappeared."

"They must have jumped into the river and swum for it, then," came the response. "Come, they've slipped us, and we'd better get back to helping the others shove that blazing hay into the river."

Phil expressed a sigh of relief and his comrade nudged him with a chirping chuckle.

"What's next?" propounded Andy.

"We've got to get into the building," explained Phil, "and out upon the street."

"Can we do it?"

"I think I know a way, provided things are not too much changed around the old building since I was last here," said Phil. He groped about, located a break in the foundation of the warehouse, and a minute later he had hold of Andy's hand leading him in the darkness across a damp cellar. The boy located a door at its front end and pushed it open. They found themselves under some planking, crept along a few feet, and crawled up a slant of earth leading to the street.

Phil poked his head out and announced that it was safe to emerge from covert. They stood on a known street that was deserted, hurried to the next corner, and, gaining confidence as they got among houses and shops, felt that they were safe to go their way as unchallenged as the regular residents of the city.

"Where first, Phil?" inquired Andy.

"Home!" answered Phil promptly, and the eager, heartfelt ring in his voice made Andy think of Concord with a queer, longing thrill.

After that Phil said little or nothing. Andy was too absorbed in watching what was going on about him to notice at once the silent mood of his comrade, but finally he asked:

"What makes you so quiet, Phil?"

"The change," answered the Boston boy seriously. "It doesn't seem like the old town at all. It is so quiet and dreary. In the old springtimes like this the boys would be out playing Hunt the Grey or Pump Pump Peel Away, and the shops would be bright and cheery. See those redcoats parading everywhere, scaring women and children. There seems to be a blight and gloom on everything."

"There's your house, Phil," said Andy recognizing the Warrington home from his former visit to Boston.

"It doesn't look much like the bright, jolly old place, does it, now?" asked Phil, rather mournfully. "Just to think of the changes of a year—father out of business and a prisoner. Oh, it seems to me the whole city is in mourning."

"It won't be long, though," declared Andy. "Gen. Washington says he has come here to drive the redcoats out to sea, and we'll help him at it."

"The back way, Andy," said Phil, as they neared the house. "You know, it mustn't get around that I am home. There may be some neighbors in the house. It might reach the ears of the Tories, and they'd probably make no bones of shutting up the son of a rebel."

"And a continental soldier in the bargain," added Andy. "That's so, Phil. How will you keep from being recognized in the streets when you go around in daylight, though!"

"We must make some change in our looks. Here we are."

Phil had gone around to the kitchen door. He peeped in at a side window of the other part of the house. He saw some visitors in the sitting room. He knocked lightly at the kitchen door. Then, with a quick whisper to Andy, he pushed him forward. In a moment or two the kitchen door was opened. Phil's mother confronted Andy in the dark.

"Who is it?" she asked gently.

"Close the door for a moment, Mrs. Warrington, please, and come outside, will you? Don't be afraid—I'm Andy Sabine, from Concord."

"Why—" began Phil's mother in a fluttering whisper, but coming out upon the steps.

"Nobody must know that we are here, so don't betray us," went on Andy.

"We? us?" repeated the gentle lady.

"Yes, Mrs. Warrington. Phil is with me."

Phil stepped into view,—to be wrapped in the arms of his mother.

"My boy! my boy!" sobbed Mrs. Warrington, overcome with emotion. "My dear, loyal boy! The nation's boy, too, for we have heard of your bravery. Come in, come in!"

"No, mother, not until you have got rid of your visitors. No one must know that we are in Boston until we have had a chance to do what we came for," said Phil earnestly, "and that is to rescue father and his patriot friends from the British."

CHAPTER XXIX

THE OLD WAREHOUSE

Phil Warrington went to bed that night with a good deal on his mind. There were many saddening changes that oppressed him. His father was a prisoner. Business and home had been affected by the cruel war. His own liberty was threatened should he be recognized by the Tories. Danger would attend every hour he spent in his native city.

For all that, it was sweet and rarely peaceful to be once again in the dear old room under the eaves, feeling that sense of safety and comfort that home only can bring. Both of the chums were tired out, and were soon fast asleep, without a break in a deep, refreshing slumber until quite late in the morning.

Mrs. Warrington had recognized the wisdom of her young guests remaining under cover as much as possible. The messages with which Phil had been intrusted by his Musket Boys comrades, she undertook to deliver in a way that should not disclose the messenger until he was safe and far again from the nest of the Tories. Phil and Andy were served breakfast in a windowless room off from the kitchen. Then Mrs. Warrington took them into a spare room and showed them a lot of old clothing lying on the floor.

War times had compelled the Warringtons to dispose of their servants. Some of these had left odds and ends of their belongings behind them. The young volunteers soon made a selection, and Phil was transformed into a common-looking stable boy, while Andy made up as a poorly-clad city lad who might be anything, from a cook's scullion to a grocer's apprentice.

"You see," observed the Concord boy, "hardly anybody knows me here, Phil, but everybody knows you. You might pass all right among a hundred people, and then run up against some one who would recognize you at once. If I were you, I'd bandage one side of my face, and keep that old hat slouched well down over my eyes, and get a sort of rambling crook into your walk."

It was about noon when the two boys bade Mrs. Warrington good-bye, leaving the house from the rear, and getting quickly into a less familiar quarter of the city. There were a great many loiterers about the streets, for the war had practically suspended business, and they passed without any extraordinary notice in the crowd.

"I suppose the first thing to do is to deliver that message for the general," suggested Andy.

"Yes, I want to get that off my hands," responded Phil. "I wonder who this Peter Dawson can be? That's the name on the letter. Here's the street. 'At the sign of the Pestle and Mortar' is the address. There's no shop going here now, though—moved out. It must be upstairs."

They were now in the meanest part of the city, which Phil told Andy in ordinary times was known as a sort of rendezvous for smugglers, fugitives from justice, and that class of social outcasts. They entered an open passageway at the side of the building and ascended a rickety pair of stairs. Phil knocked long and loudly at a door until some one inquired in the rasping voice of an asthmatic old woman:

"Who is that, now?"

"We are looking for Mr. Peter Dawson," said Phil.

"Who be you?"

"We're from the man who is waiting," answered Phil promptly, just as he had been instructed to say by the general.

"And you want to see the man who knows?" came the quick query. "I reckon you are all right."

"She has answered with the counter-challenge the general spoke of," said Phil to Andy, "so, I guess we're at the right place."

The door before them was unbarred, and a very old hobbling woman confronted the Musket Boys, let them into a poorly furnished room, relocked the door securely, and said:

"You wait just a bit."

She left the room for a minute or two, returned to them, and beckoned for them to follow her. At the end of a long dark passageway she stepped aside, pushed open a door, and Phil and Andy passed into a small apartment. It had but one entrance and exit—the door behind them,—but over at one side a small sashless slit appeared in the wall. Through this came a quick challenge:

"If you have anything to say, speak it out. If you have a message, hand it through here."

"Adams," said Phil, as he had been instructed.

"Washington," came the prompt response from behind the wall aperture, and Phil knew that everything was all right. "Why, say Phil—Phil Warrington!"

"Well!" ejaculated the petrified Andy. "You aren't known, or anything! And in that disguise, too!"

"I wonder"—began Phil, and then he knew who had spoken his name. There was a scramble from the slit in the wall, and a minute later a glad, familiar form bounded over the threshold of the same doorway at which the two chums had entered.

"Burt Noble!" cried Phil, and Andy returning the kindly outburst, they vied with one another to show how glad they were to see him.

"You did not expect to see me here, eh?" propounded Burt. "I didn't expect to have you come here, either. Well, we're satisfied, all hands around. Get through with business, and then I want to know everything you've done since we last met."

Burt Noble took the written message Phil had brought him, broke its seals, and his young face grew very grave and thoughtful as he perused its contents. He read it over again, tore it into tiny pieces, chewed these into a ball, and stamped the wet wad into an indistinguishable mass under his feet. Then he asked Phil.

"How long will you be in Boston?"

"Just long enough to get what answer you may have to send to that message," replied Phil, "and set my father at liberty."

A queer expression came over Burt Noble's face. He seemed on the point of making some extraordinary statement. He, however, employed great control over himself in asking quietly;

"Do you know where your father and his friends are imprisoned, Phil?"

"They tell me in the old brick jail that the Tories have used for headquarters."

"They were there until yesterday," said Burt. "Then they were removed. If you will mix in with the people on the streets to-day, you will find that the rumor is being generally spread by the redcoats that your father and his friends have been sent to England by order of the King."

"Oh my poor father—" began Phil sorrowfully.

"Hold on. Don't go mourning until I have time to tell you that it is all a Tory lie covered up by a Tory trick. They have removed the patriot prisoners, sure enough, but only to another part of the city. What their real plans are I do not know, except that they are going to send your father and his friends secretly to some other Tory nest, while the report of their being shipped to England is used as a whip to scare other patriots from leaving Boston and joining the continental army."

"Burt," cried Phil in good deal of agitation, "do you know where my father is now?"

"I do," nodded Burt.

"Is it possible to rescue him?"

"A good deal easier than from right under the noses of the Tories at headquarters. At just dark to-night meet me outside of Fanueil Hall. In the meantime go back home, and don't take any risks showing yourselves publicly. You can busy yourself sewing this packet of papers somewhere about your clothes, where it won't be found easily."

Burt handed Phil a small square packet, heavily sealed.

"Phil," he said seriously, "those papers are very important. It has cost a lot of time and risk to get them. They mean success for the patriots, if their contents can be quickly acted on. Knowing this, I am sure you will guard them closely."

"With my life!" declared Phil fervently.

"To-night it will be every man for himself," continued Burt. "You will keep close to me whatever happens. The papers—your camp. That must be your only thought after we have made the attempt to rescue your father."

"Do you think we will succeed?" pressed Phil anxiously.

"Yes," was the simple answer.

With that Phil had to be satisfied. He and Andy proceeded directly homewards, after leaving the boy who seemed to be so strangely and importantly mixed up with the destinies of the American conflict. Phil told his mother of his meeting with Burt Noble, and Mrs. Warrington was in a flutter of mingled anxiety and hope. Phil and Andy amused themselves about the house, playing checkers and rather impatiently waiting for nightfall.

It was just after dark that the two young patriots stole by unfrequented streets out of the neighborhood of the Warrington home. As they came nearer to Fanueil Hall, they found the public thoroughfare pretty well crowded. They were watching a British company gaily bedecked march by, when Burt came between them.

"It's exactly the best time ever was for our enterprise," he said. "A regiment of regulars has arrived from London, and the redcoats are having a jubilee. There will be great carousals before morning, and spirits distributed pretty freely. Things will be free and easy for the soldiers, so I hope for the best."

The speaker led his companions from the spot and threaded several dark streets. He bade them wait for him finally outside of a little shop, in front of which hung an enormous wooden key. When he came out, a grey-haired old man carrying a bag, evidently containing some tools, was with him.

"All right, Mr. Bond," he said. "These are friends,—Phil Warrington and a chum."

"Friends, indeed," spoke the old man, "if he is the son of the man I'd like to serve. John Warrington provided me with the means of starting in business."

"You'll have a chance to-night to show him how well you have learned the trade," said Burt.

The speaker himself carried a large official envelope, but made no explanation concerning it for the time being. However, as he halted in the shadow of a large building, he said:

"I shall leave you here, Phil. I have a message to deliver for a British officer in this building. There are exactly four men guarding the stores and incidentally the prisoners here. They are two rooms away from them. Only the north half of the building they occupy. If you can manage to get into the untenanted half and reach the room next to that where the prisoners are kept, the rest will be easy. Trust me to keep the sentinels entertained while you are at work. I have gone into details about the situation with Mr. Bond here. Follow his lead, and do all you can to help him."

"Why," exclaimed Phil to Andy, as Burt moved away, "this is my father's old warehouse!"

"Yes," nodded the old locksmith quietly, "and as both of us know something of its interior, I fancy we will not have a very difficult task in reaching the prisoners."

The bells were tolling eight o'clock when the locksmith and Phil and Andy forced a door at the extreme south end of the building. They were ringing out nine o'clock when five silent figures emerged from that same rear grating through which Phil and Andy had fled from the dock Tories two nights previous. The old locksmith had departed by the public street route. The rescue had been successful.

Mr. Warrington grasped his son's arm affectionately, and took a great, deep breath of the balmy air as he reached the deserted wharf. Andy was busy explaining to his two recent fellow prisoners the details of the rescue.

Certainly Burt Noble had done his share in entertaining the guards. The rest was easy. The prisoners had been placed in a room sealed with thin boards. Their jailers had depended entirely upon their heavy manacles to keep their captives from escaping. Their prison room located, a hole had been sawed by the locksmith in the wooden side of the room. He had crept through, and released the manacles with his tools. They had reached the open air, and now it was only a question of getting across the river to the Continental camp.

"We must go cautiously down the wharf, and try and find a boat to take us over," said Phil.

But no boat showed until they reached a break in the fence, affording a lane leading down to the wharf. Some distance beyond lay a good-sized yawl, but further was a sort of a cabin boat that showed lights. The little party stood irresolute. They were undecided as to the best course to pursue. Phil was half-minded to go back into the city and find some good shelter for his father and the others, until they could arrange more safely for their transportation across the river.

Just then, however, a man turned down the lane, a British officer in full uniform. He was waving a naked sword and singing loudly. As he made out the refugees, he advanced straight upon them.

"Want the admiral—got any admiral round here?" he demanded in a stumbling voice. "Sent here from England—just arrived. Going to clean out these rebels, root and branch. Left grand reception to—to inspect harbor. Duty—am a slave to du-ty."

"Yes, sir," said Phil. "There is no admiral here, but—"

"Ha! there's a boat. Ha! my jolly men, get aboard. Insist on duty. Insist on making inspection at once."

Phil was delighted. He led the way to the yawl. He managed to guide the British officer to a seat in the bow, where he sat very pompous and self-important. Just as the rope was released, there was a shout from the cabin boat just beyond. Two men with muskets came running down the planking.

"Halt, there! who are you?" demanded a stentorian voice.

"Col. Flashleigh Buckingham, sir!" roared the military dignitary, his bright epaulettes and gaudy gold braid making their due impression on the sentinels. "Straight from King George, sir. Sent specially to sweep out the rebels, and going to do it. Row on, men."

The dazzled sentinels allowed the boat to pursue its course. The swaying victim of circumstances in the bow was comically dignified, as he imagined he was "inspecting" something, in the "line of duty." He slipped in his seat and his head fell upon his breast.

"Past the Rubicon," uttered Phil fervently, as they crossed the central current of the river.

"Yes, and what a prize prisoner!" chuckled Andy gleefully.

And the young volunteers knew, as they saw the distant lights of the camp of the Continental army at Cambridge, that they had done a big thing.

CHAPTER XXX

BUNKER HILL

The proudest moment in the life of Phil Warrington had arrived. As for Andy Sabine, as he described it later to his friends, he felt that he could keep on fighting for his country till he was an old man under the generous and appreciative commander who welcomed the two chums at headquarters the morning after the rescue of the prisoners in the old city warehouse.

They had been summoned to headquarters by the general who had given Phil the message to deliver to Burt Noble, to be welcomed heartily by that official, but as well to receive a greater honor. A fine-looking gentleman, a visitor in the camp, sat at a little distance, but noting the boys attentively while the general was speaking to them.

"I cannot find words to express my approbation of your prompt and brave action, my loyal young friends," said the camp official to Phil and Andy. "It was a right royal rescue, an important capture, and the packet you brought from another splendid young man of the colonies cause, has given us information so vital that it may lead us to change the entire progress of the war. This gentleman has requested that I afford him an opportunity to thank you in the name of the continental army."

The grand-looking man who had sat silent until now, arose and extended a hand to each of the boys in turn.

"Philip Warrington and Andrew Sabine," he said—"I shall not readily forget those names. Young men, your country may well be proud of you."

And then he bowed them from the room with a friendly, fatherly smile that thrilled each lad with delight, and Andy did not know whether he was on his head or his feet as the orderly who accompanied them whispered:

"That was Colonel William Prescott!"

How important the word was that Phil had brought from Boston, the camp began to surmise as the day wore on. Phil later heard from Burt Noble's own lips that the latter, as a hanger on of the British army, had managed to gain access to a secret conclave of the Tory officers, and had learned of an important military move they were about to make. He had communicated this to the patriot general, intelligence that led indirectly to that famous conflict of history—the Battle of Bunker Hill.

Col. Flashleigh Buckingham of the British army, much to his disgust was shut up in the camp prison. Mr. Warrington and his rescued friends were at once given important military commands. For two days the camp was under strict discipline. There was constant drilling, and finally the word went the rounds that at dusk that evening a rapid and important march of several miles was to be undertaken.

One hour before dusk an orderly came to the quarters of the Musket Boys. Phil, inside the tent, heard his name called, and went outside to be greeted by a genuine surprise. Surrounded by a curious crowd, some jeering, come curious, there stood Sachem, his old Indian friend.

There was a new dignity in the manner of the Indian, as Phil shook his hand heartily. Sachem was stern and erect. He drew his blanket around him proudly. With a very few pantomimic gestures, he made it clearly known to Phil that he had spurned the deadly "fire water," and that he wished to join the army. He posed like an athlete, to intimate that he could run like the wind. He tallied off numerous fingers, to show that he could influence a company of braves to join in the cause. Then he drew out his scalping knife, and the crowd fell back as they understood that the delight of his life would be to be let loose among the British, to gather up the scalps of the enemies who had tortured and humiliated him.

So persistent was Sachem in his resolve to fight the enemy, so determined to do that fighting under the leadership of Phil, that the latter was compelled to entertain the proposition in all earnestness. He saw his commanding officer and explained the situation. The result was, that when at dusk the army started on the move, Sachem was in the ranks, insisting on carrying on his shoulder a load of baggage representing the trappings of three or four of the volunteers.

"What is the general up to anyway?" inquired Ralph Post of Phil, as they rested by the roadside after following the course of the river for some miles.

"I can't tell you," answered Phil.

"You don't suppose they are thinking of closing in on Boston?"

"We would have to swim over, if we did," replied Phil, "for we haven't a craft that could get away from the Tory harbor boats. It is some strategic move."

"It's action, anyhow," observed Ralph lightly, "and that suits all hands, judging from the enthusiasm."

Strict silence had been enjoined on the troops. It was about ten o'clock in the evening when the army passed through the little town of Charlestown. This was located on a narrow peninsula to the north of Boston, but separated from it by rather less than half a mile of water.

Behind the town lay two small connected hills, which commanded a great part both of the town and the harbor of Boston. Breed's Hill, which was nearest to Boston, was about twenty-five feet, and Bunker Hill was about one hundred and ten feet in height. The peninsula, which was about a mile long, was connected with the mainland by a narrow causeway.

In the vicinity of Bunker Hill the army was brought to a halt. Col. Prescott with some skilled engineers and two field guns silently moved to Breed's Hill. The soldiers divested themselves of their trappings, and, under direction, every man began to assist in throwing up a formidable redoubt.

"It's no secret now, as to what the colonel is up to," said Phil to Andy, as they met amid the busy scene. "It seems the British had planned to get this hill. It would give a great point of advantage. Well, my guess is that our friend Burt sent word of the Tory plans, and we have simply forestalled them."

Tory Boston awoke on that memorable day in June to face a vast surprise. The laggard redcoats, with wonder and chagrin confronted an enemy solidly ensconced behind the fort on Breed's Hill. Before noon several thousand British troops were on the march. Galled by the fire of riflemen in Charlestown, they ruthlessly set the town ablaze and came marching for Bunker Hill.

The word passed round that the continental army would make a stout stand in the fort. This was the first tactical battle in which the patriot militia had engaged for many months. Andy's contingent and Phil's gallant Musket Boys were posted in set positions of difficulty and danger, and were willing to do the full work of men.

General Howe was now in command of the combined British forces, and about half-past two in the afternoon he gave the order to advance in two divisions, one to storm the redoubt and the other a rail fence which many continentals were using for shelter.

Israel Putnam, that brave fighter of old, was on hand, encouraging the soldiers, and when he saw the redcoats advancing he said:

"Take your time, boys, don't hurry! Make every bullet tell. Wait till you can see the whites of their eyes. Aim at their waistbands. Pick off the handsome coats!"—meaning by the latter words, the officers. And the gallant soldiers obeyed instructions, as the list of dead and wounded afterwards testified.

Though the Musket Boys had been under fire before, this shock of real battle was tremendous, and for one brief instant they thought to retreat. But then each lad closed his teeth tightly, and fought to the best of his ability. They saw men mowed down on all sides of them, but continued to load and fire, and with good effect.

"That's the way!" shouted Colonel Prescott, dashing past. "Give it to 'em good and hot!"

"We will!" yelled Phil, and the others set up a wild cheer. Then the smoke of battle hid the officer from view.

The first onslaught quickly drove back the British, but they recovered and came on again, each in full marching equipment,—a mistake on this warm day. Once more, and then again the muskets of the continentals blazed forth, and rank after rank of redcoats went down, many to rise no more.

"Hurrah! We're giving them all they want!" cried Ralph Post enthusiastically.

The repulse at the redoubt was duplicated at the rail fence, and for the moment General Howe was nonplussed. But then he reorganized his shattered forces. Yet even this was of no avail—again the redcoats went back, with many more left dead on the battlefield.

"This is battle," spoke Ralph Post to Phil, as the Musket Boys, glad of a respite from the repulse of their determined enemy, rested on the ground within the redoubt.

"They are more than two to one," replied Phil, "but if we can hold them in check that same way once or twice more they will be beaten."

The next dash up the hill caused a scene amid which every soldier engaged fairly lost his head. They were at such close quarters, assailer and besieged, that the constant fusillade was deafening, the very air seemed to breathe fire. The younger volunteers were thrilled at many a brave act of heroism, and sickened and shuddered as they viewed sudden and terrible death.

General Howe was now bewildered, for he had not dreamed of such a determined resistance on the part of the colonists.

"If this battle is lost, America is lost," said one of his under-officers. To this Howe did not reply, but bit his lip in deep thought.

General Clinton had witnessed the repulses of the British from Copp's Hill and now he thought it high time to go to General Howe's assistance. He came over in a hurry, with such soldiers as he could summon in haste.

"The rebels must be short of ammunition," said one officer. "They are holding back their fire." And this was true.

The ammunition was indeed low, and the Musket Boys had less than three rounds all around. More than this, the boys were dry, for none of them had had a drop of water for hours, and the day was growing hotter and hotter. In many spots the gun-wads had set fire to the dry grass.

"Here they come again!" was the cry, and once more the redcoats advanced. The Americans blazed away until all their ammunition was gone, then fought with swords, clubbed guns, bayonets, sticks, rocks, and whatever came handy. It was the fiercest hand-to-hand conflict yet held, and never had the Musket Boys fought more bravely. The din was terrific, and the thick smoke rolled on all sides.

"Give it to them, boys! Don't surrender!" cried General Warren, and ran from one of the trenches. A few minutes later a bullet struck him in the head, killing him.

With their ammunition gone, the Americans could not hope to retain their position and so began at last to retreat slowly. Putnam had gone to the rear to secure additional men and now he took command, and under him the continentals fell back to Prospect Hill. Some thought the British would pursue them, but the redcoats had had enough of the slaughter. Out of a force of three thousand they had lost more than a third, including many officers! The American loss was not near so large, but included many well-known patriots besides gallant Warren.

Hand to hand in conflict with the foe, Phil and Andy and their brave young followers contested every foot of the way. Phil, in evading a sabre stroke from a British officer, dodged, slipped, fell, and rolled over and over down the hill towards the advancing group of redcoats. It was like falling into the maw of a devouring monster. Phil's comrades stood petrified with dread.

Then a lithe, nimble figure cut the air like a person diving into the water or from a trapeze. It was Sachem. Just in time he seized the prostrate Phil, flung him over his shoulder, and bore him harmlessly amid a leaden hail of bullets into the midst of his comrades.

One final fusillade, a great huzza of confidence and defiance from the patriot hosts, and Bunker Hill and its heroes had passed into history.

CHAPTER XXXI

A MESSENGER FROM CONCORD

The patriots had made no mistake in bulking their bravery to teach the Tories a lesson at Bunker Hill. The effects of that event was felt all through the country, not only by the British but by the American. Bunker Hill had demonstrated a significant fact to the Tories. This was the powers of endurance of the hardy colonists and their superior marksmanship.

Outside of a few regular companies in Boston, the British troops were men hastily recruited from the rural districts of England. These men had received little or no training. For years they had lived under the most rigorous game laws. The result was that some of them had never had a gun in their hands. When they were given one to fight with, they did not know how to use it.

The patriots, on the contrary, were natural marksmen. They had to hunt for a great portion of their food, and had become very skilful in the use of the musket. Most of them belonged to train-bands, and the local militia were well-officered and under fairly efficient discipline.

It depressed the Tories after the battle of Bunker Hill to review and analyze these potent facts. There could be no question that one colonist was a match for two redcoats. Besides this, all over the country the remarkable exploits of the New England army infused new courage in the hearts of their brethren to the south. They had held Boston as in a state of siege for many months, and there were rumors that Gen. Gage was about to be recalled, and that possibly his troops might be sent to Canada.

"If we can only hang out, we will certainly win the game," remarked Phil to Andy and some others in the big tent of the Musket Boys, one day.

"We've got to hold out," retorted Andy. "The only thing I worry about is the fodder. I say, fellows, can't you pick out some rich and fat Tory farmer we can make a raid on? Fried chicken, fresh eggs, doughnuts, pies—anything to break in on the corn meal!"

All hands laughed merrily. They had become true Spartans in the matter of appetite. Many a day, more than one of them had tightened his belt a hole to keep down the cravings of hunger. The country about them had been drawn on for food, until there was little left to gather up. Supplies sent from the interior were slow in arriving. Recently, the Tories had captured a wagon load of food sent from Concord. There were a good many pale, thin, starved-looking volunteers about the camp, and there were some desertions on this account.

Phil knew that the commanding officers were very anxious on this score. One day, with some "picked men" he went out foraging. They captured a pig, and managed to buy a keg of maple syrup, but this supply barely went the rounds of the volunteers in the hospital.

One morning, Andy, in his tent, was aroused from a doze by the sounds of the approaching voices of Phil and Ralph. They were conversing animatedly with some one. As the latter was ushered into the tent, Andy recognized him as Peleg Patterson, a Concord lad. He knew the boy well, a good-natured, accommodating fellow, of weak intellect at times. Peleg was a great admirer of old Silas Berks, and when he was not wandering about the country, lived for weeks with the old Indian fighter. He had a drum and was a fairly good drummer.

"Why, Peleg," said Andy, giving the poor fellow a hearty welcome. "What brings you here? Thinking of joining the army?"

"You know better," said Peleg, with a grin. "I'm afraid to shoot. No, sir—I just came to find you."

"What about?" demanded Andy curiously.

"Why—humph, I forgot. You know that's my weakness—always forgetting things. Lemme see. Yes, I've got it. Your folks said—Your folks said—I've forgotten it," concluded Peleg, hopelessly and helplessly.

"Did my folks send you?" pressed Andy.

"No, they didn't. Some one else sent me."

"Who was it, then?"

"I forget—no, I don't. Oh, yes—Silas Berks sent me. Why, of course, I can't forget that," and Peleg looked almost triumphant.

"What did he send you for?" asked Andy.

"I'm stumped again," was the slow, confused reply. "I don't remember," and the speaker rubbed his head in a vacant, despairing way.

Andy tried in every way he could to arouse the latent memory of the boy, but it was of no avail. Peleg could simply not remember. He made all kinds of grimaces, he stared, he gulped, and finally he burst out crying.

"I always was a stupid—not much good I am in the world."

"See here," said Andy, in a kindly tone, placing a friendly hand on poor Peleg's arm, "you cheer up. You're a mighty good fellow, and everybody knows it. We're glad to see you any time, no matter what you forget. Come ahead, you shall have some breakfast with our mess, such as it is, and we'll show you all the sights of the camp."

"Will you, now?" spoke Peleg, brightening up. "Maybe I'll remember it all, if I give this poor head of mine a rest."

Andy and his friends certainly gave Peleg a happy hour. He was so interested in the drill maneuvers, a sight of the big cannons, and the buglers and the drummers, that, when something unexpected started his thoughts in a new direction, he aroused like one from a dream, jumped a foot in the air with a yell, and amazed Andy and his companions with the words:

"I remember, now!"

"Do you?" spoke Andy, hopefully.

"Yes—look, see."

Peleg pointed animatedly to an orderly, carrying a sealed letter in his hand from headquarters to some other part of the camp.

"Yes," proceeded Peleg excitedly, "old Silas sent a message—a letter."

"Where is it?" inquired Andy eagerly.

"It's—I've forgotten again."

Andy fairly groaned.

"No, I haven't!" shouted Peleg instantly. "Off with my coat!"

Andy helped him to remove the garment.

"Off with my shirt!"

The crowd was intensely interested, though laughing merrily.

"Off she comes!" reported Andy, helping.

"On my back."

"It looks like a porous plaster."

"'Tis."

"Hey?"

"In an oilskin—strip it off," exclaimed Peleg. "I ain't forgot, this time. Remember perfectly. Silas said 'we'll hide it under the porous plaster in an oilskin covering-message-letter.'"

"Bully for you," shouted Andy, fairly overcome, as he sure enough found just what Peleg had described, and gave the erratic messenger a sharp, friendly slap on his bare shoulder.

"Ouch!" roared Peleg. "Hooray, I mean! My memory is coming back."

"Good for you!" piped a mischievous member of Andy's company, repeating Andy's slap.

"Who told you to hit me?" demanded Peleg. "Now, I'll just butt you for taking that liberty."

Half in fun, half in earnest, Peleg made a bolt for the offender. He turned the laugh quickly. Peleg was an expert at butting. The Musket Boys held their sides laughing till the tears ran down their cheeks, as Peleg butted the other this way, that way, head over heels into a puddle, and bang! into a tent, carrying the canvas to the ground in a wreck.

Good nature was soon restored all around, and the kind-hearted fellows, even the one who had been butted so vigorously, made Peleg feel comfortable and happy by showing him all kinds of attentions.

Meantime, Andy had opened and read the note which the porous plaster had concealed. Phil, watching him, noticed Andy's face draw down sober and serious. It increased in these expressions as Andy carefully read again the little note.

He looked up thoughtfully. Then he beckoned to Phil and Ralph.

"Come to our tent," he said, in a very impressive tone. "I've something great to tell you."

CHAPTER XXXII

A NOTABLE EXPLOIT

"What is it?" inquired Phil quite eagerly, the moment they entered the tent of the Concord Company.

"A letter from Silas Berks."

"Yes, we know that, but what's it about?" urged Ralph.

"Fellows," replied Andy smartly, his face working with a good deal of excitement, "we were talking about being hungry a little while ago. What would you say, if I told you that I think we have a chance to make the biggest kind of a haul of all kinds of food, and lots of it?"

"We'd say," cried Ralph enthusiastically, "show us the chance!"

"Good! Read that letter, both of you. Then Phil, as you know our commanding general best, if you see anything in the proposition, go to him and arrange for the raid."

In turn Phil and Ralph perused the crabbed missive that the old Indian fighter had sent. It was a strange message. Briefly, it informed Andy that the writer knew of the needs of the Continental army. From a friend who had been burned out and robbed by the Tories, Silas had learned that something strange was going on in the neighborhood of Berkston.

His friend had told Silas a strange story. The British had raided the territory, burning houses, stealing cattle, and driving the colonists away. Somewhere near Berkston Hills, they had a kind of a rendezvous, Silas said. Here by spells they came frequently to gather up and carry to ships on the coast a vast amount of provisions obtained by bribed agents in the interior districts.

Recently the Tories had hired a vagrant band of Indians to scour the country, visiting the settlements, begging, stealing, breaking into stores, houses and barns, and pilfering generally in both a small and a large way. They had carried away the whole contents of farmers' smoke houses, in some instances. At one isolated town the general store was swept clean.

Old Silas stated that he was satisfied that these robbers massed all their stealings at one central point, where the Tory agent bought the goods for little or nothing, giving in exchange British gold and "fire water." Their latest headquarters, from what his refugee friend told him, he believed to be in the vicinity of Berkston Hills.

Phil and Andy did some thinking, planning and arranging with their commanding officer. That afternoon they started Peleg home, made happy with various trifling gifts, and sending a reply letter to Old Silas, thanking him for his kindly interest in his boy friends and his fidelity to the cause.

"Sachem would be the prime fellow to consult about this proposition," remarked Andy, as, accompanied by twenty of their "picked men," the two young volunteer leaders left the camp.

"Sachem has won the confidence of the general by his continued sobriety and usefulness," explained Phil, "and has been sent off on a mission where fleet-footedness means something. I think he will be back by nightfall, but this affair of ours is important, and can't wait."

There was a brisk march to Berkston. Only a few half-burned buildings of the little town were visible. The place was lonely and deserted. The hills lay to the east of the village, and the boys threaded many a valley and ravine, searching for the place of the rendezvous of the marauders.

Just toward the end of the afternoon, as they passed down a rock-protected glade, Phil made out a human form. It appeared and then disappeared where the valley turned.

"Did you see him?" inquired the Boston boy of Andy, who had been keeping a close lookout by his side.

"I fancied that I saw something or somebody," responded Andy, "but it was only a momentary flash. Human or animal, I couldn't make it out."

"It looked like an Indian to me," declared Phil. "I've got the spot well in mind. We'll hurry on; leave the men in ambush, and you and I will do a little investigating."

"All right," acceded Andy, and this was done. When they came to the spot where Phil had seen the supposed Indian disappear, the company was ordered to cover, while their leaders proceeded cautiously around the turn in the valley.

"We've struck it," said Phil, after they had proceeded several yards.

"Yes," nodded Andy convincedly, "for here are a lot of well-trodden paths, diverging over the hills both ways from this spot. See, Phil—here's a regular route. Here they end."

"A cave," said Phil.

They had met many of these formations in traversing the valley. The one that now showed its verdure-covered entrance plainly, seemed to be of considerable magnitude. Phil and Andy entered the place, looking curiously around them. There was an outer cave, and this narrowed so as to be a kind of a doorway to a vast inner cavern. The roof of this had some breaks, letting in the daylight, and, although the place was dim and gloomy, the intruders could make out their surroundings.

"I say!" exclaimed Andy, in petrified wonder, staring about the queer place. Phil was equally spellbound. The cave was simply a great storehouse. Scattered about were heaps of plunder of every description. Here was a heap of smoked bacon and ham, there were kegs and barrels, probably containing molasses, sugar, cider and vinegar. There were sacks of grain, flour and vegetables, sugar, salt, dried beans, peas and fruits. Boxes of candles, clothing, bed linen, heaps of firearms and garden tools—the mixed mass of booty resembled the despoilment of half-a-dozen towns.

"Phil," exclaimed Andy breathlessly, "Old Silas was no dreamer. Oh, what a find!"

Phil was surprised, in fact fairly agitated, as he realized what all this plunder meant to the patient, ill-fed continental army. He could not keep from trembling with anxiety. Here was the booty. How could they get it to camp? It was extremely improbable that its owners would leave it long, unguarded. At any moment their intrusion might be discovered.

"I'll go for the company," said Andy excitedly. "We'll leave half of them on guard here. The rest of us will carry off what we can to camp, and the general will send a full company or two for the rest of the plunder."

"We certainly must act quickly and decisively," rejoined Phil, and both started for the exit from the cave.

"Ugh!"

"Wagh!"

Suddenly from behind a great heap of bags four Indians stepped directly in their path. They leveled muskets and looked fierce and dangerous. Just then from outside came the echoes of a series of frightful yells mingled with the explosion of firearms.

Phil and Andy made a rush to rejoin their comrades outside, whom they felt certain had been attacked. Seemingly all hands had fallen into a trap, their recent progress having been closely watched by redskins in ambush. The four Indians intercepted Phil and Andy. The youths were seized, disarmed, and were dragged back into the inner cave, as their volunteer friends were driven into the place by a party of Indians nearly double their number. There was scuffling and struggles, some shots were fired, some blows given, and, at the end of the general mix-up, the young volunteers found themselves driven en masse into a corner of the cave. Their weapons were taken from them, and forty or more Indians squatted on the stone floor about ten feet from them, fully armed, and in instant readiness to resist and punish any attempt at escape.

"Well, we're in a nice fix now, aren't we?" spoke Andy, in a disgusted tone. "I wish we'd fought to the last second."

"No one had the chance—it was all so sudden," replied Phil. "It would have been a massacre, if our fellows had attempted it."

Beyond the guards the four men who had prevented Phil and Andy from leaving the cave stood together, evidently holding a council. There was a noisy pow-wow in a tongue the boys could not understand.

The apparent leader of the redmen finally approached the Indian guards. He spoke briefly and rapidly. He seemed to be putting some case before them for them to vote upon. When he had concluded speaking, a great, unanimous shout from the entire group appeared to affirm the decision of the council.

"They've voted 'Aye' on whatever it is," said Andy. "Now he's coming to tell us our fate, I'll wager."

The stalwart savage looked very stern and cruel as he approached Phil and Andy, recognizing them as the leaders of the intruders. He spoke in poor English, and his words were few. He gave them to understand that he knew they were enemies—being colonists—also, that their friends were the British. They had come to rob the native redskin, as their forefathers had robbed them. If they were set free, they would bring a revengeful horde on the trail. Ugh! wagh! they must die!

The speaker drew back, waved his hand and uttered a sharp, quick command to the Indian guards. As if by magic the latter dropped their firearms. Then each one of them drew a knife or a tomahawk from his belt.

There was no mistaking their ferocity or their purpose. They were fully intent on slaying the intruders. It seemed that the scene was to be a repetition of cruel massacres to which these untutored savages had been incited several times since the Revolutionary War had begun.

Phil never could analyze the promptness with which a sudden, wild suggestion entered his mind. In a flash there occurred to him a vivid thought. In a kind of erratic desperation his hand went to a breast pocket. It was to draw forth the singularly engraved and painted token that Sachem had given him, on that memorable day when he had rescued that redman from the fugitive horse in the swamp.

With a vague cry to attract attention Phil raised this in plain view of the Indian leader. The latter stared, glided forward, regarded the token fixedly, and spoke sharply to the guards, who fell back astonished.

"Whew!" ejaculated Andy. "That was a close shave. Phil, they must know Sachem. It's mighty lucky you thought of it. They're pow-wowing over it, see?"

The four principal Indians were discoursing animatedly. Evidently Phil's possession of the token mystified and influenced them, and checked their bloodthirsty instincts, at least temporarily. Finally the head Indian came up to Phil. He asked some questions about the token, which Phil truthfully answered. Then he asked about the whereabouts of Sachem. He seemed troubled and irresolute. He told Phil that a friend, an agent of the British, who had gone to see about a ship, would be with them soon, and they would get his opinion about affairs.

At that moment a peculiar Indian call echoed from outside the cave. It stirred the savages greatly, and some ran out. It was to return with one of their own people, though he was not in Indian garb.

"Sachem!" cried Phil. "We are saved."

Sachem had returned to camp, and had set out on their trail at once. He had arrived in the nick of time. He made a short speech to the savages. He promised them money from the continental general.

Within an hour the young volunteers and the Indians, each bearing a heavy load, were headed in the direction of the camp at Cambridge. The influence of Sachem had won the day.

As soon as they arrived and Phil reported to the general, a company of militia was dispatched to bring in the remainder of the plunder. The camp rang with the exploit, and the army had a royal feast for many days to come.

CHAPTER XXXIII

CONCLUSION

Into the continental camp a lone juvenile figure had come speeding down the river bank on a mettled steed. It was Burt Noble. He had slipped out of Boston at daybreak. Once across the river, he had made for a friendly farmhouse. Now he rushed up to headquarters, flushed and panting.

The young patriot spy was not five minutes in confidential consultation with the commanding general. As he emerged from his presence it was to break into a run, after asking some quick questions from a sentry. He burst into the main tent of the Musket Boys, aglow with delight and excitement.

"Well, if here isn't Burt Noble!" shouted Ralph.

"Great news, grand news!" cried Burt, making for Phil to shake his hand boisterously. "I've left Boston just in time, they had got suspicious."

"You said 'great news'?" intimated the curious Ralph.

"Yes, it's no secret, or won't be, soon. Ah, it's out now! Hear that?"

Outside, from the direction of headquarters, there echoed a wild, glorious babble of human shouts, a chorus of trumpets.

"What is it, Burt?" asked Phil.

"Boston. The British are evacuating the city!"

"Hurrah!"

Such a shout went up from the throats of the assembled Musket Boys, that it seemed to fairly lift the cover of the tent. They broke loose then like mad schoolboys on a frolic. They lifted Phil on their shoulders, and carried him outside in triumph. They took up Burt next, and, bearing him to the tent of Andy's company, filled the air with their fervid exultation.

Like wildfire the news spread through the camp. Then courier after courier began to arrive from Boston, for the British ships were sailing out into the bay, and the long blockade was ended.

Phil looked back in vivid memory over the weary months of waiting and watching since Bunker Hill. There had been skirmishes, noble acts of heroism where the volunteers had stolen a march on the enemy and had secured supplies for the suffering, ill-fed soldiers of General Washington. Ralph had been one of the party who had sailed a schooner down the coast clear to New Jersey, and had captured a rival vessel loaded with powder.

Then Dorchester Heights, other battles further from Boston, and then Howe had superseded Gage, and now—victory! triumph! The royal fleet was sailing for Halifax, leaving the gallant patriots masters once more of their dear home city.

It was not until the next morning that a portion of the army, consisting principally of volunteers from the city, entered Boston. Their reception was a glad one in public. At homes everywhere supreme joy reigned over the return of a father or a brother.

At the Warrington home the hours became a continual round of happiness. It seemed, indeed, like old times, to have the house free and open, and filled with kindly, affectionate friends. That first night in Boston neither Phil, Andy nor Ralph slept a wink. Neighborhood boys, too young to volunteer, stuck to them tightly, begging for story after story of their army experiences. The Musket Boys were the heroes of the whole town.

Two evenings later affairs were on a somewhat more rational basis. Phil and his friends and his family were seated in the big sitting room of the house, listening to an officer who had come from the camp to explain that within a few days the New England army would be reorganized to join Washington near New York, when there came a tremendous thump at the front door.

Phil went to open it. There stood a man with a covered box in his hand, dancing from foot to foot in an excited, jubilant sort of way, as he piped out as cheerily as ever:

"It's only me, old Silas Berks, and his parrot. Andy, hooroar! Attention, company! this is the gladdest hour of my life."

In the effulgence of his happy feelings old Silas set the box on the step. It tumbled over, its cover came open, and out flopped Polly, bobbing and eyeing the audience with the ringing sentiment for the occasion:

"Hurrah for liberty!"

It took some time for affairs to settle down to normal. Andy had many a question to ask about the friends at home. Mr. Warrington gave the old French and Indian fighter such a warm welcome, that he grinned and bobbed around in the best rocker in the house, feeling, indeed, that he was a guest of honor.

"And now then," observed old Silas finally, his snappy little eyes blinking mysteriously, "what brought me to Boston? Can anyone answer that? What brought me to Boston?"

"You tell it," directed Andy.

"The dog that old Jasper Bram and his precious son Greg didn't bury!" cried the old man.

"What?" exclaimed Phil, arising to his feet in some excitement. "You haven't found out—?"

"Didn't I tell you I would?"

"Yes, but—"

"And I did," pursued the veteran complacently. "I used to look every day after you boys went away at that old chalk memorandy of mine under the shelf. It made me think of you, and then I felt less lonesome. I puzzled and puzzled, but nothing came of it. Old Jasper came back and Greg joined the Tory army, and time wore on, and nothing came of the memorandy until last week."

"And then, Silas?" urged the impatient Andy eagerly.

"Then one night there comes to my house Bram's old hired man. He had dared to ask that vicious old Tory for his wages, and Jasper had given him a drubbing and turned him out to starve. Well, I took him in. He is an innocent, stupid sort of a fellow, and he felt great gratitude towards me. One day I happened to look at that chalk memorandy, and it comes to me to ask the man if Bram ever had a dog. He said 'No'. Then I asked him if Bram had ever buried a dog."

"Go ahead," urged Andy, as the narrator paused to take breath.

"Well, that hired man looked at me queer, and just laughed."

"What about?" inquired Phil.

"He said it was funny, but about the time war broke out he one day met old Bram and his son carrying a bag and a spade. He asked them where they were going. Greg Bram told him to bury a dog, and chuckled as if he had made a smart joke. Well, the hired man watched them, and saw them bury the bag in a thicket. He thought no more of it until the day he was discharged by Bram. The old man asked him to get a certain spade. It was broken by accident, and that was what Bram abused him for. Bram got another spade. The hired man watched him. He dug up the bag, and buried it in a new spot. I asked the man where."

"Did he tell you?" inquired Andy in rapt tones.

"He did, and I dug up that bag day before yesterday. Then I came here."

"Why?" spoke Phil.

"Because in it I found nearly five thousand pounds in notes and gold. Now, I'm not stealing anybody's money, but I brought that bag right with me. It's outside on the steps now. I'm taking it to the owners."

"Who are the owners, Mr. Berks?" inquired Ralph Post.

"Mr. Warrington, for one. In the bag were papers, and contracts and deeds. They show that Jasper Bram owes John Warrington over four thousand pounds."

"Yes," said Phil's father, considerably moved, "that is true, but he stole the proofs of it from me."

"Then there is a document there about one Burt Noble," continued the old veteran. "It shows that his father left a thousand pounds with Jasper Bram years ago, to provide for his son. The father, it seems, got into some trouble that made him flee from New England. In the bag are recent letters in which the father begs of Bram to send him some word of his son. They have no date and no signature, but they seem to come from Mr. Noble, who has joined the continental army somewhere in the south, but does not come to New England on account of his old troubles."

"Then my father is alive!" said Burt Noble, arising to his feet in fervid emotion. "Oh, this is what my heart longed for! It shall be the aim of my life to find him!"

"And we will help you, Burt," declared Phil, as he placed a brotherly arm across the shoulder of the brave young spy who had been to him so loyal a friend.

The bag was brought in and investigated. Its contents were found to be just as old Silas had described.

"I shall keep this money and these papers," said Mr. Warrington. "I shall go about it in a legal way to prove that this money belongs rightfully to me, except the share that is the property of Burt Noble."

"Oh, how happy everything has turned out," said Mrs. Warrington, earnestly.

"Yes," added Phil, "but it is only an encouragement to go right on in the path we have chosen."

"Exactly," nodded Andy. "The war has only just commenced."

"And we are volunteers until the last redcoat is driven back to England!" declared Phil. "The next move is to join the reorganized army of Gen. Washington."

And how the lads did join the reorganized army, and went forth to fight valiantly, will be told in another volume, to be entitled, "The Musket Boys Under Washington; Or, The Tories of Old New York." In that book we shall see some fierce fighting on Long Island, and learn the particulars of how the boys came to the rescue of a girl who was in the power of a miserly Tory who wanted to send her to England against her will.

With the money that had been restored to him, Mr. Warrington went into business once more, and, although the times were very unsettled, he did very well.

"And what will you do?" asked Andy of Burt Noble, when the two met one day.

"I am off for General Washington's headquarters," answered the young spy. "I guess we'll meet again." And the boys did meet,—not once but many times.

"I rather imagine we've seen some hot fighting, Andy," said Phil.

"You are right,—but the future may hold hotter fighting still."

"This war has but begun," came from Ralph. "King George won't give up yet. We'll have to whip his redcoats many more times ere he will be willing to admit our independence."

"Never mind—we'll do it!" cried Andy, with flashing eyes. "From now on our watchword must be Liberty forever!"

And the other Musket Boys echoed the sentiment.

THE END

[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MUSKET BOYS OF OLD BOSTON ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™ electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™ works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™ trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™ License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- THE MUSKET BOYS OF OLD BOSTON
- The First Blow for Liberty
- CONTENTS
- THE MUSKET BOYS OF OLD BOSTON

- CHAPTER I

- A PUFF OF POWDER

- CHAPTER II

- A FRUITLESS CHASE

- CHAPTER III

- "HURRAH FOR LIBERTY!"

- CHAPTER IV

- ON DUTY

- CHAPTER V

- A GREAT NAME

- CHAPTER VI

- DOWN THE RIVER

- CHAPTER VII

- OLD BERKS' NEWS

- CHAPTER VIII

- THE ROAD TO BOSTON

- CHAPTER IX

- IN THE ENEMY'S HANDS

- CHAPTER X

- LOST

- CHAPTER XI

- CLOSE QUARTERS

- CHAPTER XII

- A NEST OF TORIES

- CHAPTER XIII

- A SERIOUS DILEMMA

- CHAPTER XIV

- ON BOARD THE VIXEN

- CHAPTER XV

- A FRIEND IN NEED

- CHAPTER XVI

- A DASH FOR LIBERTY

- CHAPTER XVII

- A SAFE PORT

- CHAPTER XVIII

- TROUBLED TIMES

- CHAPTER XIX

- "SACHEM"

- CHAPTER XX

- PAUL REVERE'S RIDE

- CHAPTER XXI

- ALONG THE RIVER

- CHAPTER XXII

- "ON TO LEXINGTON!"

- CHAPTER XXIII

- THE FIRST SKIRMISH

- CHAPTER XXIV

- BROUGHT TO BOOK

- CHAPTER XXV

- THE BATTLE OF CONCORD

- CHAPTER XXVI

- SPOILS OF WAR

- CHAPTER XXVII

- IN CAMP

- CHAPTER XXVIII

- BOSTON AT LAST

- CHAPTER XXIX

- THE OLD WAREHOUSE

- CHAPTER XXX

- BUNKER HILL

- CHAPTER XXXI

- A MESSENGER FROM CONCORD

- CHAPTER XXXII

- A NOTABLE EXPLOIT

- CHAPTER XXXIII

- CONCLUSION

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE