A FRUITLESS CHASE
Phil Warrington looked over the landscape to trace the source of the
echoing shout that had reached his ears. It was getting late in the
afternoon, there was no sunlight, but the snow that showed here and
there in patches and drifts dazzled his eyes somewhat.
"That's Andy's voice," declared Phil. "Ah, I see him, and the
mysterious boy, too! He's coming this way! None too soon, and he surely
did not see me."
Phil had made out Andy at quite a distance. He was pursuing the boy
who wore the muskrat skin cap. As the young Bostonian had appeared
in sight, Andy had seen and instantly recognized Phil. Not so the
fugitive. His head had been turned to ascertain if he was gaining on
his pursuer. By the time he looked in front of him again, Phil had
jumped aside to shelter himself behind a tree stump.
There was only one clear course for the fugitive to take. This lay
across the crest of the hill right up to where Phil had secreted
himself. There a shallow ravine, all choked up with bushes, cut the
landscape. The fugitive might here run down the slant which Phil had
just ascended, or he might continue along the plateau, and, passing
near to the Bram farmhouse, come out on the regularly-used country road.
Phil posed so as to be ready for prompt and decisive action the instant
the fugitive neared him. The latter was a splendid runner, and he
easily outdistanced Andy. For all that, however, he did not let up on
his rapid rate of speed. He came on, panting heavily, and as he neared
the tree stump made a movement that showed to Phil that he was going
to cut to the left. As he did so, he cast a quick glance backwards
to ascertain the nearness of his pursuer. That was Phil's chance. He
arose erect as if on springs and with a swift glide ran right into the
path of the fugitive. The latter, turning his head forward again, did
not have time to dodge aside. He ran squarely into Phil's outstretched
arms, and the Boston boy grappled with him.
"Got you!" said Phil. "Look here--"
Thump!
The force of the collision sent both of the boys flat to the hard,
frozen ground. At first Phil was under. Then a brief roll direct to
the edge of the ravine brought him uppermost. He threw the arms of his
captive outspread, holding them firmly pinioned in that position, and
stared keenly into his face.
"Let me go," panted the fugitive. "You have no right--"
"Why," fairly shouted Phil. For the first time at Concord this close to
the mysterious youth, memory and recognition flashed vividly amongst
his varied thoughts. "I know you now. I remember you perfectly."
The boy under him uttered a desperate cry. He was like some hunted,
trapped animal.
"Let me loose," he cried, "let me loose, I say!"
"You're the fellow we snow-balled for carrying water into the British
camp," declared Phil, in an excited tone. "You're the Tory boy of
Boston Common!"
"Suppose I am?" fairly shouted the boy, quivering all over with
emotion. "You're not my master. Let me go--I'm no Tory. Let go, I
say! That other fellow is coming. I'm as good a patriot as you. It's
dangerous for me to be around here. I won't be held down this way!"
"No you don't!" said Phil, tightening his grip as his fugitive
writhed, uttering incoherent words and gasps.
"Yes I do!"
"Whew!" cried Phil "you've done it, I declare. The mischief!"
His captive had speedily turned the tables. Massing all his strength,
which Phil suddenly learned was of no mean quality, the fugitive had
wriggled hard, twisting his arm with a maneuver that made Phil's wrists
fairly crack. Then, slipping from under, as Phil from sheer pain
relaxed his grip, the boy gave him a push and sent him over the ravine
headlong.
Phil did not fall far, for the chasm was not deep. He rather slipped
over the tops of some snow-crested bushes, his head hit a strong
branch, which made him see stars for an instant, and then he came to a
halt, nestled in the centre of intermingled bushes and vines.
All sight of the upper world was now shut out, and the mysterious boy
was blotted from view. Phil tried to right himself instantly.
"Ouch!" he cried, as he seized a vine pendant from above. "Ouch! ouch!"
he repeated, as he rustled about. Then he raised his voice loudly:
"Andy! Andy! Help! Help!"
"Halloa!" came ringing back to him. "Halloa!" nearer the responsive
challenge echoed.
Phil was content to sit still and await the arrival of help. He was in
no pleasant position. The network of vines and bushes enclosing him
seemed set everywhere with spiky thorns, so that to try to pull himself
out of the pit would be to lacerate his hands and riddle his clothing.
Finally there was the sound of violent breathing, and Andy Sabine
leaned over the edge of the ravine and peered down.
"So there you are!" remarked Andy grimly.
"Yes, here I am," responded Phil, "and in no pleasant fix, I can tell
you. Say, Andy, what of the boy?"
"Oh, he's slipped us for good," announced Andy. "Last I saw of him he
was running like a whitehead. He's got beyond the grove and out of
sight, and shouldn't wonder if he was going yet. I thought I saw old
Jasper Bram running after him through a break in the trees, but maybe I
was mistaken. Anyhow, we won't catch him this time. Why don't you climb
out?"
Phil with a wry grimace explained why he did not climb out of the
ravine. Andy went hunting for a long tree branch, lowered it, and Phil
with a few scratches and rips in his clothing finally gained solid
ground again.
"Well, what are we going to do now?" he asked, with a sigh of relief.
"Go after our guns and get back home, I reckon," replied Andy.
Phil straightened out his disarranged clothing and picked some thorn
points from his wrists. Then they started away from the spot together.
"I say, Andy," observed Phil, after a thoughtful spell, "coming face to
face with that fellow we chased, I find I know him."
"Aha!" nodded Andy, looking curious, "is that so?"
"Yes, it's been bothering me ever since the night he appeared at your
barn. I got close to him just now."
"Should say you did," smiled Andy.
"And I recognized him all in a flash."
"Who is he anyway?"
"A Tory."
"Well! well! Sure of it?"
"I ought to be," asserted Phil, "no mistake about that breed of cats in
old Boston town. There's mighty few Tory boys in Boston, for even when
parents lean that way the young fellows side with us. So, when we found
a boy a turncoat to the colonies, we just marked him."
"As how, now?" inquired Andy.
"Well, if it was at school, we made life miserable for him. On the
streets it was generally a crowd fight, for the corners flocked
together and the best side won. This boy we just chased I remember
perfectly now. He used to carry drinking water around to the British
soldiers when they were fixing up their barracks."
"For pay, of course? Maybe he had to take the first job he could lay
his hands to, so he might keep flesh on his bones. He's starved-looking
enough," said Andy.
"A job from the Tories!" cried Phil with indignation. "Why, we'd tar
and feather one of our crowd if he so much as carried a message for
those impudent, roystering redcoats."
"Well don't get mad about it," said the easy-going Andy. "This boy was
one of the Tory crowd. Why isn't he with them now, I wonder?"
"That's it--that's just it," commented Phil excitedly. "What is he
doing here at Concord, and acting like some mysterious spy, too? I
suppose you'll admit that these are times when a good lot of trickery
is going on, as you well know, Andy Sabine. What's more, look at that
funny freak of his with the paper of gunpowder. Signals? Experiments?
Gunpowder!" pronounced Phil very seriously. "It's in the air everywhere
just now, and the word means mischief."
"What would the boy be spying on here?" inquired Andy.
"That's what we ought to try and find out," answered Phil forcibly.
"Here we find him, too, right on the land of old Jasper Bram, a Tory
himself. Oh, say, this all means something, you just bet, Andy Sabine."
"Hello!" was Andy's vociferous answer and interruption at that same
time, and he stood stock still, staring down at the ground.
They had reached the spot where they had hidden behind the bushes to
watch the boy that had sent aloft that puzzling puff of gunpowder
smoke. A disturbing discovery confronted them.
Here they had left their hunting traps, and now muskets and game-bags
had disappeared.