SHOWS HOW NAT BREWSTER MET WITH MR. WASHINGTON
The two had ridden no great distance from the river when, close to the
roadside, they came upon a small wooden house, from a window of which
a light was streaming. This in itself was rather unusual in such a
place at such an hour; but, more surprising still, they saw, through
the window, a man sitting upon a low bench hammering merrily away at a
piece of leather.
“A cobbler,” said Nat, surprised, “and at work so late in the night.”
“His customers must be in great haste,” laughed the Porcupine. “They
don’t give the poor man time enough to get his natural sleep.”
“I think,” answered Nat, who had brought the gray to a stand in the
road opposite the window, “that it might mean more than that. At any
rate, it will do no harm to exchange a word with this hard-pressed
mechanic.”
They rode close up under the cobbler’s window; he, roused by the
trampling hoofs, paused in his hammering and lifted his head.
“You work late, shoemaker,” saluted Nat, genially. “Business must be
over good.”
“You ride late, young sir,” replied the cobbler, shrewdly. “And how is
business with you?”
Nat laughed. The night was warm, and the small-paned sash was pushed up
as far as it would go, making easy conversation.
“My present business is a great deal of a puzzle,” replied the boy.
“And I think I had better see the end of it before I pass any sort of
judgment.”
The cobbler was a small, dried-out looking man of middle age. He had a
weazened face and cunning eyes; and yet there was something engaging
about him. He beat at the thick piece of leather upon his lap-stone for
a moment, then laid down the hammer and said:
“There is no one on this side of the Schuylkill that can outdo me in
puzzles this night, young man. And whatever your matter is, I’m quite
sure that it can’t compare with the situation that I find myself in.”
“Why,” said Nat, and the watchful Porcupine saw an eager look come into
his face, “I had not thought the making of boots so exciting a trade.”
“It has nothing to do with the making of boots,” replied the mechanic.
“If it had, I could understand it readily enough. It is something else,
and something most peculiar when a man comes to examine it from its
different sides.”
Nat said nothing to this. He saw that the cobbler had something upon
his mind and that he was most anxious to unburden himself of it, even
to a stranger who appeared at his window in the night.
“It’s best to let him take his own time,” reasoned the lad. “If I begin
to ask questions, he might take the notion not to speak--and somehow I
fancy that I should greatly benefit by what he has to say.”
The little shoemaker rubbed his stained and calloused hands together
reflectively; the thick candle that burned in a sconce over his head
threw a bright light about his work-room, with its array of farmers’
thick boots awaiting repair, and its clutter of leather and tools.
Finally he spoke, and with the air of a man who was asking advice.
“What would you think,” he inquired, bending forward, “if you were
sitting here upon this bench, pegging away at a sole and wondering what
sort of fall and winter we have coming upon us, when a very young chap
rode up, much like you have done, only it was by daylight, and says to
you:
“‘Is this Neighbor Parslow?’
“‘It is,’ says you.
“He tries to look careless like, but you see at once that he’s keen for
something; so you go on pegging and pegging and let him take his own
time about his own business. So after a while he says to you:
“‘As I was riding along the river I saw a rather smart looking barge.’
“‘Did you?’ says you.
“‘Yes,’ says he, ‘and as I was told it was your property, I’ve come to
see you about it.’
“‘It’s not for sale,’ says you.
“‘Oh, I don’t want to buy it,’ he says, quick enough. ‘I just want to
engage it.’
“‘Very well,’ says you. ‘That’s what I keep it for; my charge is four
shillings for the day.’
“‘And how much for the night?’ asks he. And with that you see he’s a
merry chap and has an honest face.
“‘It’s seldom or never,’ says you, ‘that any one hires the barge for
after dark, so I don’t know about that.’
“‘Have your boat ready at ten to-night,’ says he briskly, ‘and you’ll
earn a handful of Spanish dollars.’
“So at that you’re a little taken by surprise.
“‘Do you want it for a pleasure party?’ you ask him, and he laughs
again in a way that makes you like him more.
“‘I don’t know but what you might call it that,’ says he. ‘I and my
friends will take great pleasure in it; but I have a suspicion that
there are some others who will not like it so well.’
“He looks at you closely,” continued the cobbler to Nat, who was
listening with great attention, “and he sees that you’re not taking to
the idea very keenly. So with that he whips out a leathern purse and
counts out a sum of money upon the window sill such as you have not
seen in months.
“‘There,’ he says, ‘is your pay in advance. Have the barge at the ferry
landing across the river and await me and those who shall bear me
company.’”
The cobbler arose and came closer to the window, brushing the scraps of
leather from his apron. He peered up at Nat with his small eyes.
“Somehow,” he proceeded, “for all the lad has an honest look and a
merry laugh, you don’t care to do what he asks. There seems something
secret about it. But at the same time there is the money--all Spanish
gold--on the window sill, staring you out of countenance.” The speaker
paused a moment, then asked earnestly: “Now, if all these things
happened to you--and remember you are a poor man--what would you do?”
“I think,” replied Nat, “I would try to earn the money.”
The shoemaker nodded and seemed much relieved.
“There are some lads,” remarked he, “who have more wisdom than their
years give them. I think you are one of that stamp. That is the very
thing I did. Promptly at ten, for it was a still night and I could hear
the town bells strike the hour, I was at the landing upon the other
side.”
“Yes,” said Nat, so eagerly that the watching dwarf gave him a warning
prod with his knuckles. “And what then?”
“No one was there,” replied the cobbler. “And I wailed until eleven
struck; then until almost twelve. At length a great party of riders
came down the road. When a light was struck I could see that they were
all armed and wore looks that boded no good to somebody. This troubled
me more than ever; but I had scarcely a glimpse of them when the youth
who had engaged me told me to recross the river, tie the barge up and
hold myself in readiness here until they wanted me.”
“Is that the last you saw of them?”
“No; the entire party--or so it seemed to me, at any rate--crossed the
ferry and rode by here less than two hours ago.”
“I suppose,” said Nat, carelessly, “you had no idea as to where they
were heading?”
“Not the least,” replied the worried cobbler; then as a sort of
afterthought: “Have you?”
“How far is it to the nearest inn--on this road--riding as we are?” Nat
ignored the question, as he had no desire to confide his suspicions to
the talkative mechanic.
“A matter of some six miles. Perhaps a little more.”
“Perhaps your friends have stopped there; if so we might get a glimpse
of them.”
“And if you do and should see anything that would make you think
they’re trying to entangle me with the king’s laws, it would be a
friendly act for you to ride back and give me warning.”
“Take warning now,” said the dwarf, speaking for the first time. His
odd squeak startled the shoemaker, who had apparently not noticed him
before, and the man stood staring at the great head and small body in
something like wonder.
“If you want to avoid entanglements of every kind,” proceeded the
Porcupine, smoothing his stiff crest, “take warning now by what I’m
going to tell you. Go quickly now and hide your barge somewhere along
the bank; then return, close up your house, put out your light and go
quietly to bed. In that way you’ll be sure to do no wrong.”
The man seemed greatly struck by this advice and nodded his head as
though it pleased him. Nat gathered up his reins and was about to give
the word when a thought struck him.
“Did you by any chance,” asked he of the mechanic, “hear the name of
the boy who engaged your boat?”
“I did,” was the answer. “A large man was speaking in a loud tone of
voice as they rode up to the ferry landing and he called him Prentiss.”
“Thank you,” said Nat, and without further words the pair turned and
put their mounts at a hard gallop down the road.
“I think I could name what use is to be made of the barge,” said the
dwarf after a long pause.
“And I,” replied Nat. “If the Virginian members of Congress are taken,
they will be put into it, sculled down the river and placed upon the
British vessel which is, no doubt, at anchor there for the purpose.”
“And I hardly think she’d wait to take on any further cargo,” remarked
the Porcupine, wisely. “They’d up sail, and away for England, a quick
trial, a tall scaffold and a short rope.”
“You are pretty near the truth,” replied the young mountaineer, grimly.
“I’m afraid the British ministers would not give the prisoners much of
a chance for their lives.”
The gusts of warm wind had been growing heavier. And now the rain began
to fall in torrents. The two riders bent their heads, doggedly and in
silence. Before the storm began objects had been made out with the
utmost difficulty; now the darkness grew all but impenetrable; lakes
and rivulets formed in the road; the horses were given their heads, as
being the safer way, and stumbling, snorting and shaking the streaming
rain from their manes, they pressed onward.
Nat never knew how much time had elapsed or how far they had gone, when
suddenly he felt his companion tugging at his sleeve. Lifting his head,
he became conscious of a warm, yellow glow. Turning, he saw the bright
front of an inn, set back a little from the roadside.
“And look!” said the Porcupine, forced to lift his voice, that he might
be heard above the roar of the rain. As he spoke, he pointed to a long
open shed where a couple of wind-mad lights were dancing. Nat saw a
full dozen horses, saddled and bridled and looking as though they had
but lately been hard ridden.
The young mountaineer’s face expressed the satisfaction that filled him.
“The inn of which the cobbler spoke,” said he, “and Royce and his
companions are inside.”
In a few moments the gray and the chestnut were also beneath the shed;
a couple of stable hands took them in charge and began rubbing the rain
from their streaming coats.
“And now,” spoke Nat, when he saw that they were being well taken care
of, “let us go inside; there is sure to be a good fire in the kitchen
where we can dry our clothes.”
But the dwarf shook his big head.
“Go in yourself,” said he. “You may be needed. But I’ll stay here.”
“But you are wet to the skin,” protested Nat.
“I’m used to that, and it will do me no harm.” Nat was about to say
something more, but the Porcupine interrupted him. “There may be some
of Master Royce’s people who know me,” said he. “And that would bring
suspicion, or at least direct attention, upon you. So you see, it is
best for me to be outdoors. Another thing,” and a cunning look came
into the odd, round face of the speaker, “I’m used to prowling around.
I may be of more service out here than you think.”
Seeing that his new friend was determined to have his way in the
matter, Nat said nothing more upon the subject.
“But,” he cautioned, “keep your eyes and ears open.”
“Trust me for that,” grinned the Porcupine.
Nat pushed open the heavy door and found himself in a large, square,
low-ceilinged room with rafters and sanded floor. There were heavy
settees and chairs and tables standing about and many rain-soaked
coats hanging upon the wall. The rain and wind together had turned the
night rather chill; a good-sized fire was burning in a wide-mouthed
fireplace, and a number of men were standing about it, their bands
behind them and their backs to the blaze.
As the boy opened the door, the landlord, a small, meek-looking man in
a white apron, was speaking.
“But, gentlemen,” he said, “you are well acquainted with what is
required of an innkeeper. It is quite impossible for me to do what you
ask.”
The burly Tory, Royce, to whom these words were apparently addressed,
slashed his tall boots with his riding-whip and stalked up and down
angrily. His heavy tread sounded noisily upon the sanded floor; his
big, coarse-featured face was flushed.
“Now listen to me with attention, my good fellow,” spoke he,
wrathfully, and he pointed the heavy whip at the landlord
threateningly. “We know little of what you call the duties of an
innkeeper and care a great deal less. As for it being impossible for
you to do what ask--well, we’ll request you to reconsider that.”
“The gentlemen when they came begged the use of the room,” said the
other. “It was to be strictly private. And I could not now intrude
others upon them.”
The angry, flushed face of Royce now became fairly purple.
“Intrude!” stormed he. “Intrude! Do you call our presence in your
beggarly inn an intrusion?”
“No, sir, surely not,” the meek little innkeeper hastened to say,
lifting both his hands in a gesture of protest. “I am quite overjoyed
to have you, sir; and also your friends,” with a frightened little bow
to the others, who stood scowling at him menacingly.
Royce was about to reply to this when he for the first time noted
Nat, who still stood near the door listening to the conversation with
attention. For a moment the Tory scanned the boy; then he inquired
sharply:
“Well, sirrah, what do you want?”
Nat shook the rain from his hunting-shirt; then he removed his cap and
tossed the clinging drops with a flirt out upon the floor.
“I don’t think,” replied he, after a pause of some length, during which
he smilingly studied the growing fury in the big man’s face, “that is
any affair of yours.”
For a moment it seemed as though the Tory would leap upon him and
strike him down. But perhaps it was the stalwart, strongly-made figure
with its wide shoulders and arching chest that gave him second thought.
At any rate, he stood and glared; and Nat, as though he had not noticed
his anger, advanced quietly toward him.
“Gentlemen,” spoke he, courteously, to the men about the fireplace, “if
you could make room for me, I’d be extremely obliged to you.”
Whether it was the calm, indifferent manner of the lad, or something
that they expected of Royce that made them act as they did, it would
be difficult to say; at any rate, they drew silently away toward the
settees and chairs at the side, leaving the fireplace to Nat, while
Royce stood inspecting him, enraged, but mute.
Finally the man found his tongue once more; but instead of bursting
out in a blaze of wrath, as all no doubt expected him to do, he spoke
quietly enough.
“It seems to me,” he said, “that you are rather forward and plain
spoken for one of your age.”
There was a sneer in his voice and a look in his eye that were
infinitely more dangerous than his vented fury could be. Nevertheless,
Nat spread the dripping fringe of his hunting-shirt to the blaze and
answered him, smilingly:
“In my part of the country we grow rather quickly, as I suppose people
do in most wild places. So if you find me rather beyond my years, I beg
of you, sir, to lay it to that.”
In spite of Nat’s seeming carelessness, he was keenly watching all that
went on about him. For the first time he noticed the air and dress of
those who made up the Tory party; and for all the slim acquaintance
with the section, he knew at once that the men did not belong in or
about Philadelphia. Another thing: The queer face of the Porcupine was
pressed inquiringly against the streaming panes of a side window; and
beside and above it were those of a number of stable hands, who were
frowning belligerently at the unconscious loyalists. At the sight a
quick understanding of the situation came to Nat and he smiled once
more.
“I see,” thought he, “that the Porcupine was quite right when he said
that he was used to prowling about and might be of service outdoors.
Those fellows look hardy and courageous; and I’ll need them before
long, if I’m not mistaken in my reading of the face of Master Royce.”
“And where,” inquired the latter, who had been studying the young
mountaineer in silence after his last reply, “where might that
wonderful region be?”
“In the north,” answered Nat. And as he spoke the words, the saying
of old Stephen Comegies came to him like a flash. “In the north,” he
repeated, “where I think,” waving his hands toward the others, “most of
your friends are from.”
Watching, he saw Royce suddenly catch his breath; also there was a
quick stir among the other Tories; some of them even came to their feet.
“You are a lad of remarkable observation,” spoke Royce, after an
amazed pause. “But don’t you think it as well not to see too much?” a
different note creeping into his voice--a note that at once challenged
Nat’s attention.
“I don’t know,” replied the boy, with the same undisturbed air as
before. “A good outlook is not a bad thing to have; indeed, I’ve found
it of distinct advantage more than once.”
“Unless I am greatly mistaken,” said Royce, “this will not be one
of the times.” He advanced until he was within arm’s length of Nat,
then resumed: “I asked you, when you first came into this place, what
you wanted. The inquiry was made simply because your presence was
undesirable.”
“I think I understand,” replied the boy, easily enough. “Persons who
have particular and urgent business don’t like to be intruded upon.”
“I’m going to ask the same question now,” continued Royce, his jaw set
in a grim way, “and this time I want a plain, straightforward answer.”
“The night is wet,” said Nat. “I have ridden quite some distance. And
the lights of an inn are always particularly attractive at such a
time.”
With a snarling sound the man made a clutch at the boy’s throat; but
Nat, with a light, quick movement, evaded him. Then he in turn shot
out his hand and gripped the Tory by the wrist. Though not much over
seventeen, Nat was as large as most men and stronger than a great many,
as Royce at once discovered. The clutch upon the wrist was like iron,
and with a quick whirl, the young mountaineer spun the man around.
“It would be as well, sir,” said he, “not to lose your temper. It will
hardly do you any good, and may result in doing you considerable harm.”
In weight the Tory was greatly the young mountaineer’s superior. But
his bulk was soft, flabby, untrained and his breath scant. On the other
hand, Nat was hard, supple and swift, with wind and endurance that
would carry him far.
What a struggle between them would have resulted in was still to remain
in doubt; for a quick, forward movement of the followers of Royce
caused Nat to let go and step back, his hand going to the butt of Mr.
Chew’s pistol. However, there was no need of immediate alarm, for the
men, while their attitudes toward him lacked nothing in hostility,
seemed to have something else in mind. They whispered and argued with
Royce, holding his arms. He began by struggling and storming at them
and demanding that they set him free that he might chastise Nat for his
impudence in resisting. But in a few moments he calmed wonderfully.
“You are right,” said he, quietly enough. “We have more important
matters to carry out. Gentlemen, I beg your pardon. I’m afraid I have
not kept my temper very well, and have risked compromising our errand.”
He shook himself like a great dog; turning once more to Nat, he said:
“I’ll see to you in a few moments, my lad, if you’ve the courage to
remain.”
“I shall be at your service whenever you are disposed to take the
matter up,” replied the youth from the Wyoming.
Royce addressed the little innkeeper, who had remained a silent
spectator of all that had passed.
“Now,” said he, coldly, “let us have that door open,” indicating a door
that apparently led into another of the inn’s public rooms. “And let
there be no further delay about it.”
“But, my good sir,” protested the frightened little man, “this is a
much more comfortable room. It’s larger and more airy.”
Without more ado, Royce threw him aside, for the man stood between him
and the door.
“Stand out of the way,” growled he. “I’ll save you the trouble by
opening it myself.”
His hand was upon the knob and he was about to throw the door open,
when a clear voice cried:
“Wait!”
Royce and the others turned their heads, startled by the suddenness and
sharpness of the command. Nat Brewster stood upon the hearth facing
them, and plain in view of all was a long-barreled, shining pistol.
“Before you intrude yourselves upon those people within here,” said the
lad, firmly, “let us have another word together, Mr. Royce.”
At the sound of his name the man started, and he and his followers
exchanged looks of wonder.
“Yes,” went on Nat, “I know your name; and more than that, I know
why you are here to-night. Also, if it’s any pleasure for you to be
acquainted with the fact, I know why Mr. Dimisdale and some others hold
the ferry landing across the river; why a certain cobbler awaited you
in a barge and why a British ship is anchored near the mouth of the
Schuylkill.”
Open-eyed, the Tories gazed at the daring boy; while Nat laid the long
barrel of the heavy pistol in the hollow of his left arm and regarded
their amazement amusedly.
“And you’ve come here alone to tell us that?” asked Royce grimly.
“Not altogether,” replied Nat. “I have this,” and he held up his
weapon. “You may depend upon its being a serviceable arm, for it is
the property of Mr. Chew. Also,” with a laugh, “I have some small
reinforcement without.”
Almost as he spoke, the main door swung open and across the threshold,
bearing uncouth but effective looking weapons, trooped a half score of
stablemen and farm laborers. With them was the Porcupine, rain-soaked
and with his stiff crest bristling with excitement.
[Illustration: “_I ASK YOUR PARDON, MR. WASHINGTON_”]
“There they are!” squeaked the dwarf. “Stand to them, men!” And
pointing to the innkeeper, who was just rising from the floor, he
added, “Shall they do as they like? See how they have misused the
landlord.”
The newcomers gripped their blunderbusses, scythes and bludgeons
tightly and were preparing for a rush upon the Tories, when the door
which Royce had been about to open was thrown back and a tall, superbly
made man stepped into the room. For an instant his steady eyes swept
the apartment; the sight of drawn weapons seemed to occasion him no
surprise; he merely turned to the trembling landlord and said:
“Sir, you said your inn was a quiet one, and that we would not be
disturbed.”
“I ask your pardon, Mr. Washington,” said the frightened host. “Nothing
like this has ever taken place in my house before. I regret it
exceedingly, sir, indeed I do.”
As Mr. Washington once more directed his steady gaze at the Tories and
stablemen, Nat addressed him quietly.
“I think, sir,” said he, “that the disturbance is about over. This
gentleman,” and he bowed to Royce, who stood, a picture of baffled
fury, at one side, “has about discovered that he’s made a mistake.
At any rate, he and his friends will intrude no longer, as I think
the landlord objects to their presence.” He paused and waved his hand
toward the door leading to the road in a gesture that was both an
invitation and a command. “The rain, I see, has somewhat slackened, Mr.
Royce,” he proceeded, “and you will no doubt find your horses rested
and ready.”
There was a short silence. Then Royce, who had evidently no desire for
a struggle with the hardy workmen who faced him, made a sign to his
followers, and with never a word they strode out into the night, the
inn people close at their heels.
And while the sounds of mounting and the jeers of the onlookers came
from without, Nat Brewster stood upon the hearthstone before the
log fire and explained the situation to the grave, attentive Mr.
Washington.