SHOWS HOW NAT MET ONE STRANGER AND HOW THE PORCUPINE MET ANOTHER
Bristol was a fair-sized village upon the west bank of the Delaware,
and one very well known to persons upon their way to and from New York.
Consequently there was a good inn and our wayfarers at once sought it
out.
“When I stopped here on my way south,” said Revere, seriously, to a
hostler who came forward to receive their mounts, “you did not give my
horse proper attention as I desired. It will not do to rub him down
with a wisp of straw and rush him in, still wet, to a sloppy supper of
bran mash.”
The hostler protested, but Revere waved his hand for silence.
“I want him brushed and combed, and rubbed with a cloth,” proceeded he,
severely. “And these others,” pointing to the steeds of the boys, “are
to be used likewise. Then they are to be blanketed until they are dry
and cool, when they should be fed--not with mash, but with grain.”
The groom promised faithfully to do as he was bidden; but it was not
until he had carefully repeated his instructions several times more
that Revere was satisfied and consented to enter the inn.
“The beasts can’t speak for themselves, or do for themselves,” said he.
“So it is our duty to see that right is done by them.”
The inn was a cheerful place, with many brass candlesticks and painted
china plates; and the landlady was a good-natured, rosy dame, who
bustled about making them comfortable.
“I shall get you a good supper,” she told them, “for I’m quite sure
that you’ll need it after being so many hours upon the road. And
there’s warm water and basins and towels and soap in the little room
close by the kitchen. So you can make yourselves clean and fresh while
you are waiting to be served.”
They thanked her for this and made good use of the articles named. Nat
was the first to finish, and as he stepped back into the inn parlor
he noticed that a newcomer had taken possession of a big chair at the
window overlooking the road, and was calmly reciting his desires to the
obliging hostess.
“I shall want some boiled mutton,” said he, “with a savory sauce. And
pay heed to the sauce, madam; let it not be the flavorless thing one
gets at so many inns. The meat served may be ever so good, but if the
sauce has a breath too much garlic it is all ruined.”
“Yes, sir; it shall be just as you like it, I assure you,” said the
landlady, dropping the stranger a curtsey. “And will there be anything
else, sir?”
“Some potatoes--baked in their jackets--a small loaf and some mead--if
you have any that’s fit for a gentleman to drink.”
“There’s none better, sir, in this section,” said the good dame, rather
nettled. “And I might even say that you’d hardly find better in your
own country.”
“My own country!” repeated the stranger, and he looked at her keenly.
“Yes, sir,--England. For you are an Englishman, unless your tongue
belies you.”
The man laughed and waved his hand.
“That will be all, I think,” said he. “So make haste and don’t stand
making hazards at the private affairs of your guests.”
Indignantly the hostess turned away.
“Such high and mighty ways,” she muttered to Nat. “It’ll be a blessing
if he has enough money in his purse to settle his score in the morning.”
And with this she went angrily into her kitchen, slamming the door,
leaving Nat to seat himself upon a settle along the wall and amuse
himself by studying the stranger.
The latter was a tall man with a high, prominent nose and a wide,
thin-lipped mouth. His hair was very long and worn in a queue, and
his black-stockinged legs were thrown carelessly over the arm of his
chair in an unsightly, lounging way that gave him the appearance of
great awkwardness. There was still considerable daylight, and he read
a newspaper which he took from his pocket as soon as the landlady had
departed.
“And the newspaper has something in it which amuses him greatly,”
thought Nat, as he watched the humorous twitching of the thin-lipped
mouth.
Wider and wider grew the smile and at last the man threw the news sheet
from him with a roar of glee.
“Now out upon them for a parcel of raving maniacs,” said he. “Did ever
any one hear of such folly before since the world began?”
As he laughed his eyes rested upon Nat, and, apparently for the first
time, he became aware of the boy’s presence. The eyes were light
colored, cold and keen, as the lad saw when they became steadfastly
fixed upon him; and that they were also cruel, he was firmly convinced.
“Young gentleman,” said the man, growing sober enough, “good-evening.”
“Good-evening, sir,” returned Nat, politely.
There was a long row of brass buttons down the front of the man’s
coat; he took the one at the top between a thumb and forefinger in a
speculative sort of way; then the touch dropped to the second button
and so on down the row until he reached the bottom. And all the time
the cold, light-colored eyes were fixed upon the lad from the north
country; and they were studying and weighing and estimating him
steadily. Finally, so it seemed, the stranger made up his mind. He
removed his legs from the chair arm and stretched them out before him;
the waning sunlight played upon the big brass buckles upon his shoes as
he turned his feet first one way and then the other, inspecting them
thoughtfully.
“It will be a fine evening,” ventured he, at last.
“So I’ve thought myself,” returned Nat.
“And following a fine day,” said the man.
Nat nodded. He was disappointed. Evidently the stranger was not nearly
so interesting as he looked.
“Travel far?” asked the man, after another pause, but not so long as
the first.
“Not a great way.”
The stranger pursed up his thin lips and looked at the boy carefully.
Seemingly he made up his mind that he might venture the question, for
he asked:
“From the city?”
“Yes,” was the brief answer.
That there might be no mistake the man persisted:
“Philadelphia?”
Nat nodded. Clearly the stranger was nothing short of a bore.
“I’ve just ridden from there myself,” said the lean stranger. “There is
much excitement there, eh?”
Nat nodded.
“I’ve seen places where there was a great deal more demonstration, so
to speak,” went on the man, “but for genuine interest, felt of the
heart, that city is ahead of them all.”
“I’ve thought that it seemed impressed with the importance of the
occasion,” said Nat. “But that is scarcely to be wondered at.”
“It is not, indeed,” agreed the man, readily. “It would, in fact, be
cause for great wonder if the town and its people were not impressed.”
He leaned toward the boy in a grave sort of way and continued: “Modern
history does not show anything that can compare with the events which
have happened of late in these colonies; and those which are on their
way to happen will be greater still. We shall show a stubborn and
narrow ministry that we are determined to be justly dealt by.”
Nat looked at the speaker with attention.
“Do you know,” said he, “I’m just a little surprised to hear you speak
after this fashion?”
“Why?” asked the stranger, and the cold, light-colored eyes peered
through their wrinkled lids.
“Because, as our landlady said a short while since, you are an
Englishman, or your accent greatly misrepresents you.”
A shade of annoyance crossed the stranger’s face; Nat, ever watchful,
saw his hands clinch upon the arm’s of his chair. But this only lasted
for a moment; the lean countenance cleared up, the hands relaxed their
grip and the man lay back in his chair, smiling amusedly.
“It is an odd thing,” spoke he, “that the fact of my being English has
been so noted of late. No sooner do I open my mouth than I am looked
at askance; if I utter a sentiment in favor of liberty, I am stared at
in amaze; if I condemn tyranny, as every honest man should, my hearers
regard me with wonder.”
He paused and watched Nat, the smile of amusement still wrinkling the
corners of his mouth. Then he leaned forward, as before, proceeding:
“But I can tell you the reason of this. It is because the country is
young. It is inexperienced. It is not yet mature enough to know that
a man may be a friend to freedom no matter where he was born. Don’t
forget, young gentleman, that true liberty began in England, and that
it still has its lovers and upholders there.”
“Why,” said Nat, “I have no doubt but that there is a great deal of
truth in what you say.”
“It is all truth,” stated the stranger positively. “The fact is
recognized by the leading spirits in this movement, at least. And if
the time ever comes, and I sincerely hope it shall not, that blows be
struck in this land, there shall be no lack of men of English birth in
the colonial army.”
The man then proceeded to enlarge upon his theme and to point out to
Nat that the great mass of the British population sympathized with the
colonists, that it was only certain merchants and ministers who, it
seemed, had combined to oppress them. He was still so engaged when the
landlady appeared in the kitchen door.
“Sir,” she announced, addressing the Englishman, “I would be much
beholden to you if you would step in here and look to your dishes
before they are made ready. I am not honored by so particular a person
every day, and would wish to be sure that my poor skill as a cook has
not led me wrong.”
With a laugh the stranger arose, and Nat saw that he was of remarkable
height and had wide, strong shoulders. And, while the young mountaineer
had had little opportunity to observe the habits of military men, he at
once put him down as a soldier.
“He has the bearing that I would think a trained officer would have,”
was the lad’s instant thought.
“You’ll pardon me, I know,” said the stranger. “The art of dining well
is a very important one, as you’ll learn by the time you reach my age:
so I must not miss this opportunity.”
After the speaker had followed the hostess into the kitchen, Nat sat
upon the bench and cogitated.
“There is something queer about him, for all he’s so well spoken,” was
the lad’s judgment. “I hardly think I should like to have much dealing
with him.”
He patiently awaited his three companions; but as they seemed in no
hurry to join him he bent over and picked up the newspaper which the
Englishman had so contemptuously thrown aside.
As it happened, it was folded just as the man had been reading it, and
Nat saw at once that it was a detailed account of the proceedings of
Congress that must have excited the reader’s derision. Nat put down the
sheet, and an expression of understanding crossed his face.
“Lucky I saw that,” said he. “The man’s quality is plain enough now,
and I’ll know how to use him from now on.”
A little later at the sound of high voices he went to a window
overlooking the inn yard. Paul Revere was there, as was also Ezra and
Ben, and the former was lecturing the grooms for some shortcoming in
their care of the horses. Nat looked and listened, greatly amused
at the earnestness of the man from Boston, and as he did so, he
indistinctly saw, out of the tail of his eye, a small figure under the
brick arch that opened into the yard. Swiftly turning his head in that
direction he was surprised and astonished to recognize the form of the
Porcupine.
That the dwarf saw Nat at the window was at once evident; for he lifted
one hand in a quick beckoning movement and gave a flirt of his hand
toward the front of the inn. Nat nodded; he turned, walked to the main
door and out upon the porch. Across the road was a tall elm tree; the
Porcupine now stood near this, but in such a position as not to be
readily seen by any one looking from the windows of the inn.
Nat crossed to the elm in a state of amazement.
“Porcupine,” began he at once, “you are the most astonishing little
animal I ever saw. How did you ever get so far from home?”
The dwarf grinned.
“Oh, this isn’t so far,” replied he. “I’ve often been here with Simon
Nichols, the kitchen gardener. You see, he has a sloop and takes it
to the city every second day, in the season, with fresh green things.
When I heard that you were going off to Boston, I knew you’d stop here
overnight; so I boarded Simon’s sloop yesterday in Dock Creek and got
here about noon to-day. He’s always glad to have me because I can help
work ship and do lots of things when he’s short handed, as he ’most
always is.”
Nat laughed heartily; and yet he was touched.
“And you put yourself to all this bother just to see me off, did you?”
he asked; and the other nodded. “Well, you’re a queer little fellow,
aren’t you?”
“So I’ve been told before,” grinned the Porcupine. “But,” more soberly,
“there are some just as queer, and at no great distance from here,
either.”
The tone in which these words were spoken attracted Nat’s attention
at once. He had known the dwarf but a short time, but he had come to
understand that when he spoke in a certain way he was very much in
earnest.
“Has anything happened?” asked the lad from the north.
The other shook his head dubiously.
“I don’t know,” answered he. “But I should say something is going to,
unless the signs are all wrong.”
Nat looked at the speaker attentively; but as usual he did not try to
hurry him.
“As this is the inn where I felt sure you’d stay for the night,”
proceeded the Porcupine, “I came here as soon as Simon had tied up the
sloop at his place about a mile above. The landlady is a good sort, for
when she saw me standing about the door, she gave me some bread and
cheese, and I came over here in the shade to eat it. And while I sat
here, a man came up--a strange-appearing man with gold rings in his
ears and the look of a gypsy.
“‘Good afternoon,’ he says as he gets sight of me.
“I, politely enough, bid him the time of day and fell to studying him
as he stood there looking up at the inn. He carried a heavy staff and
pack upon his back. As he came along, I had noticed that he limped
like one footsore from a long journey; but for all, he seemed cool and
clean. There was but little dust upon his shoes and none at all upon
his stockings.”
[Illustration: _“THERE IS SOMETHING WRONG, THEN”_]
“You have excellent observation, Porcupine,” praised Nat.
“It does not do to keep one’s eyes shut in such times as these,”
answered the dwarf, wisely. “And, again, I shouldn’t get any credit for
it, because I was just idling away the time until you rode up and had
no notion of anything being wrong.”
“Ah,” said Nat, with increased interest, “there is something wrong
then?”
“Again I must say that I don’t know,” and the speaker shook his head.
“It only seemed queer to me; and what followed looked a great deal more
so. But sit down here,” added the dwarf, indicating a place where some
bushes would screen Nat from the inn windows. “It would be just as
well, maybe, if you were not seen talking to me.”
Nat did as directed; then the speaker once more took up his story:
“After a few moments the gypsy-looking man walked over, threw off his
pack, sat down and began to fan himself with his hat. Then I saw that
he was tattooed upon the back of his hands, and looking carefully I saw
that on one was a ship and on the other the Union Jack.
“‘Do you belong hereabouts?’ says he.
“‘Not very far away,’ I answers him.
“‘I’ve come a long distance,’ says he, ‘to meet some friends. Has any
one gone into the inn lately?’
“‘The landlady,’ I told him.
“And with that,” continued the Porcupine, “I could see that he began to
think me a great deal of a fool. He was not so careful thereafter.
“‘If you’ll go into the inn yard and see what horses are there, freshly
come in, I’ll give you a shilling,’ he says.
“‘Very well,’ says I; and I was about to start across the road; but he
stopped me.
“‘Especially mark,’ says he, ‘if there is a fine looking bay horse, a
small mare, a wicked looking raw-boned black and a buckskin stallion.’”
“Our horses!” ejaculated Nat, “and described as well as I could
describe them myself.”
“I found that out afterward,” said the Porcupine, “though if I’d
thought, I’d have recognized your nag and Ben Cooper’s, even then. But
anyhow, I went into the yard and looked about, also into the barn; but
there was none but old work horses, and so I told the man with the
rings in his ears when I came out. He didn’t appear to relish it very
well and muttered and went on at a great rate. Then something seemed to
strike him.
“‘Is there another inn in Bristol?’ asked he.
“‘There is,’ I told him. And I was just giving him the directions when
we heard the clatter of hoofs, and along you came with your friends.
I stopped until you had all gone into the yard; and when I turned my
head once more, the man was running down the road in the direction from
which he had come.”
“But,” questioned Nat, “why did you not come in and tell me all this at
once?”
“Because I felt sure there was to be more come of it. And I was right.
The foreign-looking man had gone no great distance when a second one
rode into the path and stopped him short. They talked together for a
little while and then the first man disappeared in a thicket, while the
second came on quietly enough and entered the inn.”
Nat nodded.
“He was a tall man, lean and with a large, thin nose, was he not?” came
the question.
“I looked through the window and saw you talking to him a while ago,”
answered the dwarf. “I suppose, though,” with a grin, “he didn’t tell
you what he wanted.”
“Hardly,” said Nat, “for from what you have seen, it would scarcely
bear telling.”
They were silent for a moment, and then the boy from Wyoming resumed:
“The day has not been without its interest; and from the look of
things, the night is promising to keep pace with it.”