"HURRAH FOR LIBERTY!"
Phil and Andy were very much dismayed at the discovery of the
disappearance of their hunting traps. Every boy in Concord who owned a
gun was proud of the fact. Lately this sentiment had grown deeper than
usual, for the feeling of war in the air, the constant drilling of the
local militia, the target practice of the juvenile clubs, had brought
firearms to the front in a vivid way.
"Well, this is a nice fix, isn't it?" Andy was the first to remark.
"Some one has stolen our muskets, that is sure," said Phil.
"Perhaps some of our crowd are playing a trick on us."
"It doesn't look that way," replied Phil, who had glanced sharply in
every direction. "See here, Andy."
Phil pointed to a spot where the snow was much disturbed. Then he
started along a trail that showed red and plain on the snow-crusted
earth surface.
"Why!" exclaimed Andy. "It looks as if there had been a terrible
scrimmage right where we left the musket. And this--why, Phil, this is
blood!"
"Yes," nodded Phil, reflectively regarding the ground. "Some one has
been hurt or wounded, that is sure," and he started forward, guided
by occasional drops of blood in the snow. These soon ceased entirely.
The boys returned to the spot from which their hunting traps had
disappeared.
Phil took the situation seriously, trying to surmise what had occurred.
Andy was entirely nonplussed, but his comrade moved restlessly about,
studying the ground. Soon Phil made a new discovery.
"Some one with a cane or round-ended stick has been around here, Andy,"
he announced.
"What makes you think so, Phil?"
"See those round marks in the snow? Ah, they're a sure trail. They lead
that way. Come on, this is worth following up."
"Why, Phil," said Andy, his eyes suddenly brightening. "I guess who
made those marks. They're no tracks."
"What are they then?"
"Old Silas Berks' wooden leg. See, just a stride length apart, even and
regular. Yes, Silas has been here. What makes it sure, is that the
marks lead right over the hill in the direction of his house."
"Do you mean the queer old fellow who came up to the barn to see us
drill?" inquired Phil.
"Exactly, the old soldier who was in the French and Indian War. That's
where he lost his leg, you know."
"Why, he wouldn't be so unfriendly as to steal our guns."
"Certainly not, but I believe he knows all about their disappearance.
We'll go right to his cabin and inquire, anyway."
After crossing two rises in the landscape the boys came to the river,
and in sight of a hut near its banks. The rude log cabin was a novelty.
Cord wood piled quite high like a stockade surrounded the immediate
plot of ground upon which the structure stood. There was an open
space like a gateway, and the boys entered the little enclosure. Andy
hammered at the door of the cabin.
"Hurrah for liberty--zip! biff! boom!" shrieked a strident voice.
Phil was startled and astonished. Before he could question Andy,
however, a chorus of cackling, clucking, and an immense flutter as
of birds, mingled inside of the hut with the strange shout that had
greeted them at their arrival.
"Silas don't seem to be at home," decided Andy, as the door did not
open.
"Someone is in there," said Phil.
"No, that welcome was Silas' parrot. He is the greatest man you ever
met for having pets. He has some homing pigeons that are famous. Wonder
where he can be?"
"There's someone," said Phil, and just then a plodding but wiry figure
appeared through the gateway.
"Present arms!" cried old Silas Berks, giving a military salute to the
boys. "Glad to see you. Just been looking for you."
"I say, Mr. Berks," interrupted Andy eagerly, "have you seen anything
of our guns?"
"Certainly I have, lad," replied the veteran, with a pleased grin. "I
have them. That's why I was searching for you."
"How did you come to get them?"
"Shoulder arms!" explained Berks in triumphant tones. "That was Greg
Bram, the young villain. Aha, there he was as I came up, a musket and
a game bag on either arm. I'd seen you two in the distance, and knew
the trappings. 'Company halt,' says I, and young Bram snickers in my
face. 'Trespasser,' says he, 'it'll cost 'em something to redeem these
fixings.' 'Trespassers, nothing, you young thief, you've robbed my
traps and shot at my homing doves. You'll rob two honest lads, too,
will you?' I unstrapped my belt and larrupped him good and sound. He
got one wallop that bloodied his nose and went off snivelling as to
how he'd get even. Ready--fire!--Pop! If the young villain ever comes
nosing around here to make trouble, I'll turn old Tom loose on him, now
I will."
"Old Tom" was an old-fashioned cannon planted just outside of the door
of the cabin. There were other warlike tokens scattered about the one
living room of the hut. Phil noted these with interest. There were
several muskets, some swords, a couple of tomahawks and some smaller
weapons, mementoes of old Silas' warlike experience in the war with the
French and Indians.
"I brought your traps here," proceeded the veteran, "and went looking
for you, knowing you must be somewhere around. Thought I saw you in the
distance, over towards Bram's. I got to looking closer, though, and
the two I finally made out was old Bram and a boy. The old skeesicks
had the boy's arms strapped to his sides and was pulling him in the
direction of his house."
"Say," broke in Andy excitedly, "what kind of a boy was he?"
Silas described the lad the best he could from having seen him at a
distance.
Phil and Andy exchanged meaning glances. They took up their hunting
traps, and after thanking Silas for his trouble in their behalf started
from the hut.
"Seems to me I heard you come from Boston?" observed the old veteran to
Phil with an inquisitive look.
"That's right, Mr. Berks," answered Phil promptly.
"Going back soon?" pressed the old man, his bright restless eyes
sparkling with the interest and vim he put into everything he said or
did.
"I think in a day or two," said Phil.
"You're going back to lively times then, young man, lively times,"
repeated the old war veteran with a serious shake of the head. "Andy,
look here."
The old man made a whistling kind of noise with his lips, and from a
dove cote overheard some half a dozen pigeons came flocking down to
his feet. Berks reached into a grain measure standing on a bench and
scattered some feed to the friendly pigeons.
"Mates in Boston, Andy," said Silas, with a very solemn stare. "I'm an
old soldier, lads, and I can read the signs of the times. For instance,
I shouldn't wonder, no matter how soon one of those Boston carriers
came sailing down into the cote here. A dove with a message under its
wing, see? Keep on drilling your squad, Andy, lad, only when that
message comes--Attention, company! Sleep light, lad, and when a certain
thing happens, day or night, you'll know it by that old field piece of
mine."
Silas pointed to the rusty old cannon, and Andy looked startled and
impressed.
"As how, now, Mr. Berks?" he inquired in an eager tone.
"When old Tom barks," answered the veteran Indian fighter, "you may
know that something serious had broken loose in Boston."
"Yes, Mr. Berks, and then?" pressed Andy in an intense tone.
"Then," answered old Silas sententiously--"Shoulder arms!"
"Hurrah for liberty!" added the parrot, from inside the hut.