HOW NAT BREWSTER MET THE PORCUPINE
Bewildered, and a trifle frightened by the nature of the proceedings,
Nat Brewster stood by the low wall and listened to the hoof beats as
they died away in a muffled rumble. But when the silence of the August
night closed in upon him--when he noted the many lights of Chew House
being extinguished one by one, and heard the doors and windows closing
sharply, he suddenly came out of his trance, and his naturally alert
brain began to work once more.
“Something must be done,” he said, aloud. “And so it seems to have been
left for me to do, I suppose I must do it.”
Almost in an instant a plan of action was drawn up.
“I must reach the lower ferry at the foot of Gray’s Road before the
Tories,” he told himself, still speaking aloud. “But to do it I must
have a swift horse and one that can stand a long run without breaking
down.”
That there was none such in the stable at Coopers’ he well knew; and
instantly his mind went to that of the Chews’.
“They are wealthy people and ride to the hounds in season,” reasoned
Nat, calling to mind some gossip of Ben’s. “And so, naturally, they
have some good mounts in their barn.”
He faced toward the great stone house as he spoke, and in the darkness
a smile came upon his face.
“I don’t suppose they’d be willing to lend if I went there and candidly
explained what I meant to do,” he proceeded. “So the best thing I can
do is to borrow first and take the risk of explaining afterward--that
is, if I can find the barn in the dark.”
He sprang upon the wall and then down on the other side. As he made his
way cautiously around the house he saw that all the lights, save one at
the front, were out.
“There’s not much chance of my being seen--by humans, anyway,” he
muttered. “But if they have any dogs about, they’ll be more likely to
scent me than not.”
The words had scarcely left his lips when there came a tremendous
barking and the swift rush of a heavy body toward him. Luckily the
brute was of a light color and the boy caught a vague glimpse of it as
it bounded at him. Swinging the cudgel over his head, he brought it
down with a free, double-handed sweep; there was a moaning yelp and the
dog lay motionless at his feet.
“A lucky blow,” said the young mountaineer, as he jeered down at the
stricken beast. “But unlucky for you, old fellow,” with a sudden qualm,
“for I suppose you were only doing what it was your nature to do, after
all.”
But he had little time for remorse. The great door of Cliveden opened;
a servant appeared upon the threshold holding a light above his head; a
tall, aristocratic man stood beside him.
“Are you quite sure it was the dog, Henry?” asked the latter.
“Quite,” replied the servant.
There was a pause; then both bent their heads as though listening: then
the first speaker remarked:
“It was some passing noise, I fancy. He seems quiet enough now.”
“Yes, sir,” said the servant, who was a stout, resolute looking fellow.
“But had I not better take a look about?”
“There is no need,” said the master carelessly.
“Very well, sir.”
Both withdrew, the servant casting suspicious glances into the deep
shadows about the house. Nat drew a breath of relief.
“That was rather a narrow escape,” he murmured. “From the way that
fellow looked, I felt sure he’d be out here poking around with his
light whether or no.”
Once more he cautiously made his way around the mansion. Some little
distance away he caught the dense bulk of the barn; and the same
instant he noted that a dim light was filtering through a small window
at one side.
“A watchman, perhaps,” thought the boy, in keen disappointment. “If it
is, that’s the end of my plan.”
However, he carefully advanced and peered through the window. A lantern
hung upon a wooden peg; there were some half dozen horses in the
stalls, but, as far as he could see, no humans.
“In the loft, I suppose,” muttered Nat. “More than likely a stable
hand, sent to look after the stock.”
He waited and watched for some time; once the sound of a door opening
caught his ear; he turned and saw a barb of light flash along the
ground; then the door closed and the light vanished.
“The servant, I suppose,” smiled Nat. “He was not satisfied and took
another short look to assure himself.”
He waited for some time after this again, but as there was no sound
within the barn save for the occasional stamp of the horses, he finally
walked quietly around to the door and entered. A swift glance showed
him some horse equipment hanging at one side. He took down a bridle and
gave an appraising look at the mounts.
“This one looks the best,” said he, softly; and with that he slipped
into the stall of a powerful looking gray and bitted him with calm
expertness. He had backed the animal out and was adjusting a saddle,
when a queer, squeaking voice, from directly over his head, sounded in
his ears.
“I thought you’d get the right one, master! He’s a rare goer, he is!”
Nat started. His eyes went swiftly in the direction of the voice. First
he caught sight of a comical little pair of legs astride one of the
rafters, then of a huge head, topped with a shock of stiff, upstanding
hair.
“There ain’t a nag in these parts that’ll get you to the lower ferry
quicker than that one will,” continued the queer voice, assuringly.
“Always trust a flea-bitten gray to have courage and bottom.”
Nat continued to hold the horse by the bridle with one hand; with the
other he shaded his eyes from the light and examined the speaker with
interest. He saw a big, moon-like face--a large mouth that grinned down
at him good-naturedly, showing two rows of strong, white teeth. The
creature’s head was that of a man, but the body was no larger than that
of a ten-year-old boy.
The sudden discovery of this unusual creature was in itself enough to
startle a person with weak nerves. But Nat Brewster was not troubled
with anything of the sort. It was the words alone that troubled him;
the odd-looking imp on the rafter seemed able to read his secret
purpose.
“Who are you?” inquired the mountain boy, quietly, after a pause.
The dwarf grinned more widely than ever.
“Don’t you know?” asked he. “Have you been at the Cooper place for two
weeks and not heard of me?”
Nat shook his head. The dwarf blinked his small round eyes as though
marveling at this lack of information. With one hand he smoothed back
his upstanding shock of hair; but it sprang stiffly erect once more.
“I’m the Porcupine,” announced he. “Everybody knows me. I live in the
woods when I want to; but I mostly like barns and such like, after the
hay is in.”
Nat regarded him closely.
“What made you think I was going to the lower ferry?” demanded he.
The Porcupine grinned; his large teeth gleamed like polished ivory in
the lantern light.
“Folks don’t calculate I know much,” said he. “But sometimes I fool
’em. You didn’t see me down there by the wall, did you? Well, I
was there, not more than a couple of yards from you all the time.”
The squeaky voice pitched higher, as the dwarf shook with gleeful
recollection. “And I heard what Master Dimisdale said to Master Royce;
also I heard what Master Royce said to Master Dimisdale.” He leaned
down from his perch upon the rafter and shook his huge head with
increased enjoyment. “And right away I knew what you were going to do.”
“How?” asked Nat, in wonder.
“When the party rode away and you stood watching them, I heard what you
said,” replied the Porcupine. “That’s why I came here. I wanted to see
that you got a good horse. And now that you have,” pointing to a rangy
looking chestnut that stood in a stall almost beneath, “I want you to
put a saddle and bridle on that one for me.”
“For you!” said the astonished Nat.
“Of course, for me,” replied the dwarf, coolly. “You’re a stranger
here. How’ll you find the lower ferry unless I show you?”
At this Nat burst into a laugh.
“Right!” said he, cheerily. “How would I, to be sure? So get down and
hold the gray and I’ll saddle the chestnut for you in a moment.”
The Porcupine slid himself along the rafter dexterously until he
reached the wall where there was a ladder leading to the loft. Down
this he swung easily; and Nat watching him for the first time noted the
great length of his arms and the size of his hands.
In a space the chestnut was beside the other horse, champing its bit
in a dissatisfied sort of way. The dwarf, who scarcely came to the
shoulder of the tall gray, held it by the rein and watched Nat’s
accustomed fingers approvingly as they flew from buckle to buckle.
“So,” said the young mountaineer, as he worked, “you are for Congress
and against the king, are you?”
“No,” replied the Porcupine, “I’m only against Neighbor Dimisdale.”
“And why against him?” asked Nat.
“Once there was a great robbing of hen-roosts; they could not find
out who was doing it, so Master Dimisdale settled upon me and wanted
me sent to the workhouse. He said I was a vagrant and a danger to the
town.”
“You don’t look very dangerous,” spoke Nat.
The dwarf grinned impishly.
“You don’t know me yet,” he replied. “But,” returning to his grievance,
“Master Dimisdale is a hard man. Even after I had caught the real
thief, he did his best against me.”
“And who was the real thief?” asked Nat, surprisedly.
“A clever old mink,” grinned the Porcupine. “I told them so from the
first--but no one would listen to me but Ben Collins. He loaned me a
trap and gave me a chance to prove what I said.”
Nat put his hand upon the dwarf’s shoulder and looked thoughtfully down
into his face.
“Do you understand the nature of the errand upon which those men rode
away a while ago?” asked he.
The big head nodded; a shrewd look came into the small, round eyes.
“Yes,” said the Porcupine.
“And you will help me prevent their carrying it out?”
“I’m against anything that Neighbor Dimisdale is for,” answered the
Porcupine promptly.
Without another word Nat led the two horses out of the barn.
“Quick, now!” he said, in a low voice.
With a single heave he tossed the small body lightly into the saddle.
The Porcupine clutched the chestnut with his short legs and grasped the
reins with a practiced hand.
“Good,” said Nat, to himself. “He knows what he’s about at all events.”
His own foot was in the stirrup when a light suddenly flared in his
face.
“Now then, my friend,” said a cold voice, “give an account of yourself.”
For a moment Nat’s eyes were dazzled; then he made out the countenance
of the speaker and that of the person who had so suddenly unmasked the
lantern. They were the two who had come to the door of Chew House but
a short time before, attracted by the barking of the dog. There was a
superior smile on the face of the master and a derisive grin upon that
of the man, as they noted the boy’s astonishment.
“Your suspicions were correct, Henry,” said the former, and Nat saw
that he held a large pistol ready in his hand. “And I thank you for
insisting, so to speak, upon a search.”
Nat recalled the sound of the door opening and closing while he gazed
through the window of the barn, and realized that it was then that they
had emerged. Seeing that he was caught he resolved to put a bold face
upon the matter and watch for any opportunity that might present itself.
“I’m sincerely sorry to have disturbed you, sir,” said he, politely.
“I can see that,” returned the other. “And you were so anxious not to
do so that you were upon the point of borrowing my horses to carry you
out of ear-shot.”
Nat smiled at the quiet mockery of this. He was about to speak, but the
man servant was before him.
“The lower ferry would be well out of ear-shot,” remarked he with a
laugh.
“Hold your lantern up, Henry,” commanded the master; the man complied
and the rays fell upon Nat’s face once more. “You hold your countenance
well, my lad,” continued the speaker, after a pause. “But it will not
serve you. We overheard your conversation with this little villain,”
nodding smilingly toward the Porcupine, who had during all this time
remained silently perched upon his tall steed. “And I think I’m safe in
saying that you’ll carry no warning to the rebels to-night.”
Nat made no reply. Through his mind ran thoughts of a dark, lonely
road, of a quiet party riding forward toward the city, of a swift rush
and capture, of a staggering blow dealt the cause of the protesting
colonies.
For a moment the man with the pistol watched Nat’s face, then he turned
with a careless laugh.
“Now the rope, Henry,” said he. “I’ll hold the light while you truss
them up comfortably.”
But that moment of carelessness cost him the success of his plan. The
instant he turned, Nat sprang upon him, wrested the pistol from his
clutch and felled him with its heavy butt. With a squeal of excitement
the Porcupine drove his heels into the chestnut and rode down the man
servant, the lantern being extinguished in his fall. Like a flash Nat
was upon the back of the gray, which was snorting with fright, then
with the dwarf at his side he went leaping away into the darkness, the
horses’ heads pointed toward the dim glow that overhung the city.