TELLS HOW PEGGY GAVE A WARNING
The three horses proved to be hardy and fleet; and they seemed to see
almost perfectly in the dark. For almost a half hour they were kept at
a free gallop, then their riders, feeling them beginning to blow, drew
them down to a walk.
Turning in his saddle, George listened, but there were no sounds of
pursuit, and he laughed.
“I think our little plan carried very well,” said he.
“Our plan!” It was Lieutenant Camp that spoke, and his voice contained
a note of protest. “Yours, you mean; and believe me, sir, the very
cleverest that I ever saw executed.”
George laughed again.
“You are giving me credit for a great deal that was purely chance,”
said he, lightly. “The bolt upon the door, for instance, and the fact
that the horses were not tied fast.” He turned to Peggy, who rode upon
the other side of him, and added: “The element of chance is the great
factor in most enterprises; don’t you think so?”
She made some reply, but in a voice so low that he did not catch the
words.
“We plan as carefully as we can, we weigh and calculate every
possibility that presents itself; and then when the time for action
arrives, some utterly unlooked-for thing happens that brings us victory
or defeat.”
He paused, expecting her to make some reply to his philosophizing;
but she did not do so; steadily she sat her horse, and from the vague
outline that he had of her, he fancied that she was looking straight
ahead. Plainly, she desired no part in the conversation. They had kept
to the Kingsbridge Road, and now pressed south as soon as their horses
had recovered from their long gallop. Little was now said except upon
the part of the lieutenant; he talked eagerly and largely upon the
topics of interest to Loyalists. At another time George would have been
vastly interested in his remarks, but now he gave them small attention.
Somehow the silence of the girl at his side piqued him; her manner was
a subtle irritation. He took exception to her attitude toward him; he
felt that a more friendly aspect was but his due.
Mile after mile fell behind them; they passed the long bends in the
road that lay just opposite Hell Gate, and then into the straight
length near Horen’s Hook. However, they had reached the junction of the
Bloomingdale Road below Kip’s Bay before Peggy Camp spoke again.
“Perhaps, Herbert,” she said to her brother, “we are presuming too much
upon this young gentleman’s good nature.”
“What’s that?” and the lieutenant was plainly surprised.
“He may have his own affairs to attend to,” she said. “And we should
not keep him from them.”
“Oh, I say now,” protested Herbert, “that is just a trifle unfriendly,
Peggy. He is going to ride with us into town.”
“It is just as Mistress Camp desires,” returned George, distantly, and
sitting very stiffly in his saddle.
“It was a mere suggestion upon my part,” she said, and her voice was as
cold as his own. “I have no great interest either way.”
Her brother brought his horse around until he gained her other side;
and from the way the animal reared, it was plain that its rider was
angry.
“What in the world ails you to-night, Peg?” he demanded heatedly. “One
would think that you had been affronted. We all ride together to town.
There is some business to transact.”
To this Peggy made no answer; but George, though he could make her
out but dimly, knew that she was riding on with head held high, and
he also felt sure that her eyes--if one could but have had a glimpse
of them--bore the proud look that he had seen in them more than once
before.
When they reached the line of defenses that ran westward from Corlear’s
Hook, a voice challenged them out of the darkness. Lieutenant Camp
rode forward to answer; and no sooner had he vanished than George felt
Peggy’s horse press closer to his side.
“Sir,” she said hurriedly, in a low voice, “I must beg of you not to
ride into town with us.”
“I don’t understand,” said the young man.
“It is plain that you do not,” she returned, “or you would not be so
willing to go.”
He considered for a moment, his eyes trying to search her face.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you could make it clear if you had the mind.”
“It may be so,” she answered. “But I cannot do so. Even in warning you
so far I fear I am doing wrong. Nevertheless you have twice been of
service to me, and it’s only a poor return to tell you that you are in
danger.”
“Danger!” He laughed a little. “In times like these, one is constantly
in danger.”
“But not such danger as this.” He felt her hand touch his arm and noted
that it was trembling. “There are some dangers that a person of courage
can face and overcome. But this----” and her voice trailed away into an
unintelligible quaver.
George was about to make answer when they heard the clup-clup of
horses’ hoofs and the voice of Lieutenant Camp calling:
“All’s well. You may come forward.”
The girl bent toward George imploringly.
“For the last time! Will you be warned by me?”
“I don’t understand,” he said. “And I would much prefer to go on. But
to do so would apparently worry you; and I have no desire to do that.”
“Go now,” she said, eagerly. “Don’t stay. I will ride forward and
explain your disappearance as best I can.”
He wheeled his horse and rode back along the road; pausing at a little
distance he heard the voice of Lieutenant Camp as he loudly gave the
countersign; and again as the lieutenant made an angry exclamation. For
a time George expected that the young officer would ride back in search
of him; but this did not happen, and in a short space he heard brother
and sister pass the sentries, and then all was silent.
The girl’s meaning was shadowy and mysterious; he could not conceive,
even in part, what danger could threaten him in the city that did not
also threaten them.
“Why, not so much, by far,” he told himself. But then in a moment came
another thought. “It is possible,” he reflected, “that she fancies her
brother’s known rank in the American army will serve to save him; and
that I, being a stranger, would fall under suspicion.”
However, still another thought upset the preceding one.
“She heard me, only yesterday, declaring that I bore dispatches from
Boston to General Putnam. That must have convinced her that I, too, am
fairly well known.”
For some time he sat in the saddle pondering this puzzle but at last he
gave it up.
“No matter what her meaning,” he told himself, cheerfully, “there has
been no harm in doing what she requested. It is not as though the
brother were unknown to me. I can pick him up at any time--to-morrow
perhaps--and resume the matter just where it was broken off to-night at
the inn.”
Riding back some little distance he found a road that led westward and
brought him to Broadway; and then, after passing the guard, he made his
way to the “King’s Arms” and went quietly to bed.