IN WHICH BEN MEETS A STRANGER AND HEARS OF THE INN WITH THE GREEN LIGHT
For a space after Johnson Quinsey spoke these surprising words, Ben
remained looking at him, steadily, but in silence. At length he spoke:
“I am honored, indeed, Master Quinsey, to know that I am considered
worthy of the trouble it must have cost you to get here.”
Johnson Quinsey waved his hand.
“Let us not start with any misunderstanding,” said he, with engaging
candor. “The fact is, I did not know that such a person as yourself
existed before two days ago. Another thing, it is a matter of business,
and not yourself that brings me; so you see there is no great honor
attached to the matter.”
Ben laughed; there was something about the courier’s blunt way of
speech which he liked.
“Why, as to that,” said the boy, “of course I am vastly disappointed.
But we’ll pass that by and come to the business without any parleying.
I am wanted at headquarters.”
Johnson Quinsey smacked his boot-leg smartly with his thick-stocked
whip.
“For a lad,” said he, “you have a clever knack of promptness. I noted
that when you answered the call, and I was pleased with it.” He stood
gazing at the boy, reflectively. “But,” he resumed, musingly, “I had
no notion when I first heard your name that it was that of such a
stripling.”
“The stripling stage,” said Ben, good-humoredly, “will pass if given
time, Master Quinsey. And remember,” smiling, “that years alone do not
give wisdom.”
“Well do I know that, young gentleman,” said the other; “well indeed
do I know it. I have seen them who are three times your years, and not
once have they been spoken of as I have heard you spoken of.”
[Illustration: “_I AM SUMMONED TO HEADQUARTERS_”]
“Ah,” said Ben Cooper, “it’s a grave pleasure to be well spoken of by
distant friends. Walk along with me to headquarters.”
“Ay, that it is,” and the tone of the man’s voice was slightly
mocking. “That it is, my lad. But what if you should hear that you
were ill spoken of, and that the distant ones were not friends?”
“In that case,” said Ben, promptly enough, “I should say that it were
all one. To have enemies speak evil of one is to show that one is at
least worthy of their ill will.”
“If all that I’ve heard,” said Johnson Quinsey, “be taken at its face
value, you are ill thought of, indeed, in certain circles. But,” and
the man’s face grew grave and his tone lost its lightness, “it was not
mere ill speaking only that I marked. They fear you; and where such as
they fear, there is danger.”
“For the person feared?” said Ben.
“Exactly. And their arms are long, young gentleman, and their clutch
is strong. They are not ones to be despised, these enemies of yours at
York.”
“At York!” said Ben. The Congress was now meeting there. His eyes took
on a glint that the other noted immediately. It was that sparkle which
comes with expectation.
“No less a place,” said Johnson Quinsey. Then regarding the boy
steadfastly, he continued: “It may be that you could, if you so
desired, name one or more of these.”
“I fancy that I could name one at least,” said Ben. “And, perhaps,”
returning the man’s look, quietly, “there might be two whom I could
select.”
“Ah, yes, perhaps there might,” said Johnson Quinsey, encouragingly.
“And to venture so far----”
“Tobias Hawkins,” spoke Ben.
“Excellent,” approved the man. “Once more.”
“A long man with an evil smile; his name is Sugden.”
“Better than ever,” applauded Johnson Quinsey. “It is something indeed
to know two such as these, especially,” with a nod of the head, “when
they hold such thoughts as I’ve heard them express of you.”
“But,” said Ben, “there were some others, I believe, judging from your
tone.”
“A very few, but quite select enough to please any one,” said the
man. “You have no need to feel ashamed of the quality of the enemies
you have made. A member of Congress or two, a colonel much thought of
in certain circles, and some gentlemen of note who are not openly
connected with the affairs of the nation.”
“They honor me too much,” said Ben. “But,” in another tone, “as you
know, I am summoned to headquarters, and must not delay. At another
time I will see you and speak with you on this subject.”
“Another time may not come for many a day,” said the man. “And then,
doubtless, it would be too late. What I have to say must be said now if
it’s to do you any good, for I ride north at daylight to rejoin Gates.”
Ben looked at the speaker inquiringly; the man’s aspect was grave;
indeed, he had all the appearance of one who bore sober tidings. After
a little space, Johnson Quinsey resumed:
“To relate in detail all that has come to my knowledge would take
more time than you now can give, and, perhaps, would be of no benefit
either. So, then, I will tell you what I must tell, in a very few
words.” He laid his hand upon the boy’s shoulder. “These men fear you
for the things that you know, and to which you alone can testify.
There is a plot which is intended to place you in their power. What it
is I do not know. But its workings will be secret, and the lure will be
one totally unexpected by you.”
“There are many such just now,” said Ben, bitterly. “Indeed, Master
Quinsey, those given to plotting seem to exceed those willing to fight.”
“Do you know any one of the name of Seaforth?” asked Johnson Quinsey.
“I do,” said Ben. “A young fellow of my own age, and a courier much
used by headquarters.”
“Ah, I see!” The man looked at him with sober eyes. “Well, Master
Cooper, take care of this young Seaforth, for he is somehow engaged
with your enemies. Another thing: Do the words ‘Crossed keys’ suggest
anything to you?”
Ben shook his head.
“In some way they, also, are to play their parts, though just how is
more than I can say. However, young gentleman, beware of Seaforth and
of anything having to do with ‘crossed keys.’ More than that I cannot
tell you, and in parting I can only wish you luck.”
Ben grasped the courier’s outstretched hand.
“I thank you,” he said, gratefully. “I understand very well that harm
is meditated, for these men have attempted such before; but how they
propose to set about it this time is more than I can imagine. However,
Master Quinsey, I will keep Seaforth in mind and also the ‘crossed
keys.’ Perhaps they will be the beginning of a clearer understanding.”
“I trust that it shall prove so,” said the rider; “and now, good-bye.”
With another hand-grasp the two parted, one walking off among the
camp-fires, the other making his way toward headquarters.
Once at the latter place, Ben was greeted by a businesslike aide.
“Cooper,” said he, “we are instructed to send a brace of couriers for
special service at York. The man asked for is now absent, and I intend
sending you in his place. The choice of a second horseman is left to
him for some reason, and this privilege I will pass on to you. So
select your man; your orders will be given you when you are ready to
depart.”
“To-night?” asked Ben, his hand at a salute.
“At once,” replied the officer, briefly.
In a half hour Ben Cooper and Paddy Burk were standing on the cold
porch at headquarters, while their horses stamped in the snow. The
bareheaded aide from the open doorway spoke to Ben:
“You are to report to the secretary of Congress; what service you are
to render he will be able to say.”
With that Ben and his friend saluted and mounted; then they sent their
nags at a canter along the darkening road.
“It’s no night to be taken away from a comfortable fire,” shivered the
Irish lad as he drew up the collar of his coat and pulled his hat down
to protect him from the keen wind.
“Adventures are to be had at night, Paddy,” laughed Ben. “Don’t forget
that.”
“Why, then,” said the other, “it’s the truth you speak, so it is. A
ruction is a fine thing at any time; but at night--especially on a
dark, cold night--there seems to be more enjoyment in it.”
The horses’ hoofs beat steadily upon the frost-bound road; mile after
mile they put behind them; the few houses to be met by the way were
dark; their inhabitants seemed deep in sleep.
“Faith,” said Paddy, after a long silence, “it’s a queer thing entirely
to have a couple of gossoons ride all the way from Whitemarsh to York
to, maybe, carry a parcel of letters somewhere else. Could they get no
ready lads at their hands, sure?”
“Special service of some sort,” said Ben. “It can be nothing of any
great haste, however, for it will take some little time for us to get
there.”
They clung to the Lancaster road, and as raiding bodies of British
were frequently seen upon this highway, the boys kept a watchful eye,
and saw to it that their pistols were ready to hand. As the night wore
on, it grew, if anything, colder; the road seemed deserted save for
themselves.
Ben had made up his mind to this, when suddenly he chanced to notice,
some little distance to one side, a flicker of light. He was about to
remark on its queerness when Paddy spoke:
“Hello! Is it a light I see there?”
“It is,” said Ben.
“Why, then,” spoke Paddy, “it’s queer conduct it do be having, so it
is. Do you mind the little jumps it gives, as though it were trying to
call out to us?”
Ben’s eyes were upon the light as his companion spoke, and he felt that
Paddy had described the idea conveyed by the light exactly. It moved in
short, rapid circles for a moment; then it would wave to and fro, and
up and down.
“If it had a voice it would call to us,” said Ben with a laugh. “I
never saw anything so mutely eloquent. It must be a signal of some
sort.”
“The British!” whispered Paddy, his hand going to his pistol.
“It may be,” said Ben. “And then it may not be.” He slipped from his
horse and handed his bridle to Paddy.
“Is it going over there you are?” asked the latter, surprise in his
tone.
“Yes,” said Ben. “It seems to me that this is something that should be
looked into.”
Then telling Paddy to remain where he was until he called, Ben made
his way through the darkness toward the light. This had now grown
still and burned with a steadiness that showed that it was a lamp of
some sort. Carefully Ben picked his way along a sort of cow path that
branched off from the road, and in a very few minutes he came upon a
huge fallen tree, against the trunk of which leaned a man holding a
lantern in his hand. As Ben advanced toward him the man held up the
light and chuckled.
“I thought you were not going to stop,” said he. “But I see you were on
the lookout.”
“He who goes about with closed eyes on nights like these,” spoke Ben,
“will be like to run into danger.”
“Dangers there be, and plenty,” said the man. He placed his lantern
upon the fallen tree and took a few steps up and down, swinging his
arms. And as he stepped there came a sharp, clicking sound; glancing
down Ben saw that the man wore a wooden leg, the top of which was shod
with iron. “Danger there be and plenty,” repeated the man with the
wooden leg. “And that you’d find, sir, if you really went all the way
to York.”
Ben glanced sharply at the man.
“And what,” asked he, “makes you think that I might be on my way there?”
The man paused in his walk and turned a face upon the lad, all agrin in
the lamplight.
“Let us not discuss the how or why of things,” said he. “It is for us
to do as we are bidden and question nothing, Master Seaforth.”
Again Ben’s eyes went to the man’s face with more than usual sharpness.
“Seaforth!” was what shot through his mind. “That is the name of the
man whom Johnson Quinsey bid me beware of, only a few hours ago.”
To the other, however, he said:
“You have made something of a mistake, I think, sir. My name is not
Seaforth.”
The iron-shod point of the timber leg rang sharply upon the frozen
ground. The owner of it waved his hand after the fashion of a man who
concerns himself with nothing which does not immediately bear upon him.
“You were sent as a courier to York, were you not?” asked he.
Ben nodded.
“And you selected a certain one to accompany you, as requested?”
“Yes,” answered the boy.
“Then let your name be what you will,” said the one-legged man. “I have
nothing to do with your likes and dislikes in such things. I was to
meet you here, and I was to signal you. And then I was to see that your
companion was not within ear-shot, after which I was to tell you that
your stopping place shows a green light over the door. Once inside you
are to ask for Master Bleekwood. He will tell you the rest.”
For a time Ben stood looking at the man; a score of questions were
in his mind, but a natural caution even in the midst of his surprise
prevented the asking of them. However, he ventured one:
“Why were not these instructions given me before I started?”
Again the man grinned; also he took his lantern as though about to move
on.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you were not to be trusted. It sometimes happens,
as you must know, if you are a person of any wide experience, that
it does not do to make too complete a revelation of one’s plans at
first--even to those whom we know the best.” He waved his lantern at
Ben. “A good-night--or morning whichever it may be--to you, young sir.
It’s over cold to be standing in the open. November nights are not like
those of August.” He stumped away a short distance, then turned and
placed his hand to his mouth that his voice might carry only in the
direction he desired. “Remember, there is to be a green light showing
over the door; and you are to ask for Master Bleekwood.”
Again he waved the lantern, and again he turned and went his way, the
iron tip of the wooden leg ringing against the frozen ground.
In a few moments Ben had reached his horse and mounted; and in a few
more he had imparted to Paddy what had passed. He had already informed
the Irish lad concerning his conversation with Johnson Quinsey, and at
this new cropping up of the name of Seaforth, Paddy was surprised.
“It’s queer enough,” he said, as they rode along, “to have one so
quickly follow upon the heels of the other. ‘Beware of a man named
Seaforth,’ says one man; and ‘Your name is Seaforth,’ says the other,
for all the world as though he were expecting this same person.”
“Which he was, in point of fact,” said Ben. “He said he was sent to
signal him, to say to him, privately, that he was to stop at a house
which showed a green light above the door.”
For an hour they rode steadily, discussing with interest this queer new
turn of events.
“Green is an excellent color for a light,” quoth Paddy, sagely, “but in
this case, faith, it’s little enough I like it. It’s better for you if
you take warning by what Master Quinsey said.”
“He said nothing about green lights,” smiled Ben.
“He would if he had thought of it,” maintained Paddy.
And at his last word he noted Ben draw up close beside him and felt his
grip upon his arm.
“Look--directly ahead,” said Ben. “What do you see?”
“An inn,” said Paddy.
“There is a light above the door,” and Ben’s grip tightened. “What
color is it?”
“Green!” answered Paddy Burk, and he sat straight up in his saddle.