TELLS HOW BEN COOPER ENCOUNTERED THE MAN WITH THE YELLOW SMILE
Before retiring on the night before, Lord Cornwallis had looked at the
lines of American camp-fires and listened to the sound of the mattocks
and spades at the east end of the bridge.
“In the morning,” said my lord, using the language of the English
huntsman, “I will bag the fox.”
At daylight, however, the thunder of cannon from the direction of
Princeton awoke him from his sleep; once without he saw the dying
watch-fires and deserted camp of the Americans.
“They are gone,” said his general, Grant, in a tone which was one of
mixed wonder and rage. “They have escaped us.”
Again came the roar of guns from along the Princeton road.
“Harken to that,” said Cornwallis, bitterly. “They have probably not
only escaped us, but are making a rush upon Brunswick to capture our
stores.”
With the celerity of trained soldiers, the British veterans got under
way, and at top speed, with their officers urging them on, they marched
toward Princeton. The Pennsylvania militia had ceased their pursuit and
were engaged in destroying the bridge at Stony Brook; it was partly
down when the cannon of Cornwallis drove them away; then, unable to
pass by way of the bridge, the British, horse, foot and artillery,
plunged into the cold water and gained the other side.
But the delay at the bridge permitted the Americans to draw a long and
safe distance away; and seeing that there was no hope of overtaking
them, Cornwallis pushed on to Brunswick, thankful at least that his
stores were safe.
The American troops were still on the march toward the hills when Ben
was summoned by an ensign to report to the commander-in-chief. Riding
through a press of officers, his right hand at the salute, the boy
reached the side of Washington.
“Is your mount fresh enough to make a second journey to Philadelphia?”
asked the commander.
“Yes, general.”
“I have another message for Mr. Robert Morris; and as there is no time
to write it, you must carry it as you carried his to me.”
Ben saluted.
“The money which he was to dispatch on the night of the first has been
delayed, so Master Morris states in a letter received but now. Say to
him that the utmost care must be exercised in the transportation of the
coin, because of the unsettled state of the roads; say that I desire
him to have a guard accompany the carriage, and instruct the person in
charge to make for Morristown and not Trenton.”
There were some minor additions to this; and upon receiving the order,
Ben wheeled his horse and rode back to his friends.
“Back to Philadelphia,” he announced, “and at once.”
They gathered around him and offered advice as to the most trustworthy
way of making his journey. It was no child’s task to cover the ground
between their present situation and the river, as they well knew. Ben
shook each of them by the hand and bid them good-bye; then taking a
rough by-road which ran almost directly toward the Delaware, he spurred
forward upon his mission.
It was almost noon and the January sun sparkled upon the snow-covered
fields; lower and redder it fell in the west until at length, when he
sighted the ice-packed Delaware, the long shadows were stealing along
the fringes of woods and upon the eastern slopes of the hills.
The cold which had so fortunately followed the veering of the wind upon
the night before, freezing the soft road under the feet of the American
troops, had here served a like purpose. The river was a solid mass
and, after a little examination, Ben had no hesitation in venturing
his horse upon it; the footing was strong every step of the way and he
arrived upon the far side without any trouble.
“That was a piece of rare fortune,” muttered Ben, as he sat in the
saddle and looked back at the long stretch of gray ice; “indeed, it was
by far the most uncertain part of the journey.”
With a brief stop upon the river bank to rest his horse he rode forward
upon the way to Bristol, and pulled up at the inn at that place some
time after dark. There was a cheery light streaming through the inn
windows; the sparks that flew from the chimney told of a roaring fire,
and the scent of most excellent cooking crept out of the keyholes and
under the doors. After his horse had been seen to, Ben was about to
enter, when the hostler, a pale little man, with scant light hair, and
mild eyes, said rather hesitatingly:
“These be rather uncertain times upon the road, sir.”
“Ay, and every other place,” answered Ben, with a smile.
The pale little hostler shook his head.
“But the road is the worst of all, I think,” said he. “For, you see,
sir,” in explanation, “the road is most frequented--especially a road
like this. And being a great deal frequented,” ominously, “a great many
desperate characters are to be found upon it.”
Ben looked at him; there was something in the mild face which held his
attention.
“Ah, yes,” said the lad, “desperate characters. In wild times like
these there are many such, no doubt.”
“You may say so, young gentleman, you may say so, indeed. We are in
fair terror of some of them, at times. They come here and do as they
please; and if we say but a word they threaten our lives.” He paused
and one hand stroked the horse’s neck for a moment; then he added:
“Perhaps you wouldn’t care to go in there,” with a nod toward the inn
door, “if you knew that one of that sort was within.”
Ben smiled good-naturedly.
“Why,” said he, “I confess, friend, that I have no great liking for
such persons. But as my business at this time brings me in contact with
more or less ungentle conduct, I don’t suppose that I need put myself
about because of a trifle additional.”
He nodded, still smiling, to the little man, and lifting the
latch entered the inn. As he had noted, the room was filled with
candle-light; a great fire of billets crackled and blazed in the
fireplace; and the smell of savory dishes being prepared in copper
saucepans came with added distinctness to his nostrils. Ben’s round
face, fresh colored cheeks and merry eyes always made him liked
wherever he went, and as he stood stamping the snow from his boots in
the doorway, he said to the buxom landlady:
“A good-evening to you, mistress; I hope your cooking is as good as it
smells, for I am well toward being famished.”
He knocked some clogging particles from his heels with the stock of
his riding whip; and as he was doing so, he noted with surprise that
his cheery greeting was not replied to. He had stopped at the inn upon
frequent occasions, and was known to the landlady; never before had she
failed to bid him welcome.
So glancing up, he was about to say something more, when he noticed
that her face was pale, and that she was trembling with anger.
“And so, landlady,” said a voice, “I may have no supper, eh?”
“You may have supper, sir,” said the woman. “You have but to conduct
yourself in a fitting manner.”
The person whom she addressed was a huge, loose-jointed fellow with
long black hair as straight as that of an Indian, and attired in a
soiled traveling costume. He had sharp, ratty black eyes and a wide,
thin-lipped mouth. His grin at the landlady’s words showed a row of
yellowed teeth.
“Conduct myself in a fitting manner,” said he; “why, mistress, you
asking that is like demanding that the fire be warm or the breeze be
cool. I always so conduct myself.”
“That you do it now is all I ask,” said the landlady.
“Then serve my supper, which I see upon the coals; it seems to be done
to a nicety, and I am rarely hungry.”
“Again I tell you that these,” and the landlady pointed to the
saucepans bubbling away in the fireplace, “belong to those who came
before you. It is the rule of the inn to serve its patrons in turn; and
I do not intend to break my rules at this late day.”
“But I assure you, good mistress, that I am one who has very little
respect for rules of whatsoever description,” said the man. “A supper I
want, and a supper I will have, and that speedily.”
“It is a young lady, I tell you,” said the hostess; “and with her is a
weak old man, her father.”
“Young ladies have no business upon the road in these times,” said the
fellow, his yellowed teeth well displayed. “And as for weak old men,
better for them if they stopped at home at all times.”
Ben crossed the room and stood by the fireplace, his back to the blaze;
the night was cold, and the heat was comforting.
“Better, indeed,” said the landlady, “when they must be interfered with
by such as you.”
“Keep a civil tongue in your head,” said the man, and his yellow smile
grew particularly evil; his narrow eyes sparkled with anger, and his
great, bony hands grasped the arms of his chair.
“There are few, if any, that can say that I ever treated them
uncivilly,” maintained the landlady, “and if my words are at all
severe, it is your own fault.”
“We have had a-plenty of words,” growled the man; “a-plenty, good lady,
and we’ll have no more. A supper I want at once, and a supper I will
have, so have some of your kitchen folk serve it to me, or upon my
soul I will serve it myself!”
As the landlady said nothing, the man with the yellow teeth arose; and
as he did so a door leading to an inner room opened and a young girl
appeared.
“My father is quite comfortable now,” she said to the landlady. “Thanks
to your kindness in so looking after us,” she added, with a grateful
look and smile. “He says he would like to eat something if it is quite
ready; and that is a very encouraging sign, indeed.”
“His supper is just right,” said the landlady, her lips set firmly
together, as she gave the insistent guest a defiant look. She had
crossed about half the room when he stepped before her. To avoid him
she moved aside; then his huge hand closed upon her arm; and startled,
she uttered a smothered shriek. At this there came a feeble answering
cry; in the doorway where the girl had appeared, stood a tottering old
gentleman in a dressing gown and supporting himself by means of a stick.
“Daughter,” he cried, “Betsy, my dear!”
“Here, father,” and the girl ran to him.
“I thought I heard you cry out,” said the old man. “And I came to your
assistance.”
The man with the yellow smile laughed loudly at this.
“Good for you, old rooster,” said he, highly entertained. “You are
a game one, but over old to be of use. And now, mistress,” to the
landlady, “will you out of my way while I see to my boiled mutton?”
He gave her a fling at which she cried out once more. The old man
tottered forward, his stick grasped in one quavering hand. But his dim
old eyes flashed for all his feebleness, and he cried out bravely:
“What, sir! and would you lift a hand to a woman?”
The man showed his yellow teeth, much as a dog might have done.
“Old sir,” he warned, “meddle not where you have no acquaintance.
As for the woman, I’d never laid a hand on her had she not been so
stubborn.”
“He’d eat your supper, sir, that’s what he’d do,” sobbed the landlady.
“The hungry wretch cares for no one.”
“Right there, mistress,” jeered the man. “I do not, indeed. And to
show that I do not, here’s for the saucepans, for I can withstand the
temptations of their smell no longer.”
With that he strode, with mouth agrin, toward the fireplace; the old
man waved his stick feebly but was thrust aside with no gentle hand;
and then the fellow came face to face with Ben Cooper.
Pale-faced landladies, slim young girls and tottering old men seemed
of the sort that had no power to stop him; and now he leered at the
round-faced stripling with the fresh cheeks of a schoolboy.
“Ah, you are there, are you, my lad?” said he, with enjoyment plain in
his voice.
Ben looked at him quietly and nodded.
“Yes,” said he; “here I am, and here I have been for some time.
Indeed,” thoughtfully, “I think I came during the first discussion with
regard to the rights of the earlier patron.”
“Ah, did you so!” The man waved him aside with one huge hand. “Well,
you have been there long enough. Stand aside.”
But the lad did not move; a wicked look came into the ratty eyes, and
again the huge hand waved him away.
“Belike you’ll have me do more than wave with the hand,” said the man.
“I’ll give you a moment to choose.”
Ben at once stepped aside, giving the ruffian a clear way to the
fireplace. With the yellow grin wide upon his face, the man stooped
to lift the bubbling saucepans from the fire. But before he could so
much as touch them, something beat a sharp rat-tat-tat upon his head;
leaping up, he found Ben regarding him calmly, a pistol in his hand.
“You seem in haste, sir,” said the boy, as he trifled with the lock of
his weapon carelessly. “It may be that the use of a pistol barrel to
drive an idea into your head is not to your liking.”
For an instant the man was taken aback, but he quickly recovered his
poise.
“So they have taken to entrusting children with firearms?” sneered he.
“It is a thing of which I can’t say I approve; and so, lad, I bid you
to put that toy down, or I shall be compelled to assume your father’s
place, and take a cudgel to you.”
“It’s a cold night,” said the youth, “but I fancy that you can bear the
cold much better than we can your company.” The pistol barrel indicated
the door. “So go at once, and let us have no further waste of words.”
The man saw that his attitude of disbelief in the boy would be of no
use; and so with an evil look, he crossed the floor and threw open the
door. Then he halted.
“This is not the first time that I’ve seen you,” he said. “I make no
mistake in you, because you were carefully pointed out to me by a
gentleman who has,” here the yellow smile was most manifest, “your
future much in mind.”
“That,” said Ben, quietly, “is very thoughtful of him.”
The man nodded.
“Ay; and he’ll continue to be thoughtful, unless I am much mistaken
in him. He is a man who, when he once becomes interested in any one,
seldom lets him slip his mind. And in your case,” the man gestured
admiringly, “he has gone so far as to provide against his forgetting.
He has desired me to also remember you; and you may depend,” with a
laugh that made the good landlady shudder, “that no matter what he may
do, I shall not forget.”
And with that the door slapped to, and the man was gone.