ON DUTY
"Well!" ejaculated Andy Sabine, as soon as they were out of hearing of
the queer old man who had returned to them their stolen hunting traps.
Both Andy and Phil were considerably stirred up by the happenings
of the last few minutes. If old Berks had dealt in hints, they were
certainly strong ones. His forcible remarks had increased their
patriotic fervor, already at high heat with his young friends. Andy
acted as excitedly as if the first gun had been fired and he was
anxious to start right off to meet the enemy.
"Tell you what," say Phil thoughtfully, "that wise old veteran ought to
know what he is talking about, and probably could tell a good deal more
if he wanted to. Of course, everybody thinks as he does,--if there is
going to be any trouble, it will begin at Boston. I want to be there
when it comes, Andy, if it is only to be near the folks, and I believe
I will start away from Concord sooner than I had planned."
"I wish I was going with you, Phil," said Andy in a longing tone. "Your
Musket Boys will smell the first powder. My! it would be exciting to be
right in the midst of so much bustle, not knowing how soon a company of
militia might come dashing down the street sweeping everything before
them. Hold on, what are you heading that way for? Aren't we going home?"
Phil had led the course across the hills in the direction of the road
running by the farmhouse of Jasper Bram. This meant quite a wide
detour from the direct route homeward. But Phil had a purpose in the
digression.
"I was thinking of the mysterious boy," he explained to his comrade,
"and I don't feel like leaving all of our guessing and running go for
nothing. He may be going back to Boston some time. There he was a Tory.
Why mayn't he be acting for them here in some secret way? I'd like to
know. Mr. Berks said he saw him a prisoner of Jasper Bram."
"Don't that look queer? Both Tories? I should think they would be
friends, he and old Bram, both being of the same stripe," observed Andy.
"Yes, it looks puzzling, so I am going to try and fathom the mystery,"
replied Phil seriously. "There's the Bram farmhouse. We'll skirt it as
near as we dare and see what's going on."
"Something is going on right now!" declared Andy suddenly. "What's up I
wonder?"
At a break in the hills they came within a few hundred yards of the
house where Jasper Bram lived. In front of it was a horse, and into its
saddle a boy had just climbed.
"That is Greg Bram," said Andy, peering attentively.
"And that's his father," added Phil.
The old man was gesticulating as if he were very much excited. He
pointed to a stone shed back of the house and then in the direction of
the town, and finally struck the horse that Greg rode a vigorous slap
on the flank that sent the animal forward like an arrow.
All the time the boys had been approaching nearer to the house. Their
glance was now transferred to the stone shed behind the house, and
fixed there. It was a low, strong structure with a heavy wooden door,
and had windows crossed with iron bars. At one of these could be seen
the figure of some one within, beating at the bars with a thick club
and then trying to pry them apart.
"That's our friend with the muskrat skin cap," said Andy. "He is a
prisoner in there and is trying to break out. He can't make it. He has
given it up."
"No, he hasn't," corrected Phil, a minute later, while they kept
advancing closer and closer to the scene. "He is putting shavings,
splinters and kindling wood in the embrasure."
"Aha!" cried Andy--"He has set the place on fire! See there, Phil, he
is trying to make his way to liberty by burning out the wooden window
sash."
Old Jasper Bram had gone into the house and Phil and Andy had ventured
to cross his domain from the road. They were less than a hundred feet
from the farmhouse when Bram came out of it. The old man was making for
the stone shed and had quite reached it, when he started back with a
wild yell of the most positive excitement and alarm.
Turning, he started a wild run--not into the house, nor near it, but
squarely away from it--his face ashen and working with fear. His arms
were thrown upwards in a sort of a desperate terror and his breath came
in quick gasps. Thus, running, he nearly collided with Phil and Andy.
He did not seem to recognize them, but shouted out.
"Run--run for your lives! It's doom, it's
death--blown--to--a--thousand pieces!"
The boys just caught the echo of his disjointed sentences. Bram never
halted nor looked to see if they were following him. He acted like a
person bereft of his reason. Over a rise in the landscape he dashed and
disappeared.
"Well, this is sensational enough," exclaimed Andy. "Now, what does it
all mean?"
"It means one thing we must see to," declared Phil, hurrying towards
the stone shed. "That boy in there has started quite a blaze. He must
be about choked with the smoke. We must get him out of there."
"To bolt again--to leave us in a more puzzling fix than ever?" demanded
Andy. "No sir-ree! Let him out if you like, but not until I am right
behind you, ready to grab the slippery fellow before he plays us
another jumping-jack trick."
"Hey!" shouted Phil, halting in front of the burning window frame.
A human face wavered for a moment in the wreaths of smoke clouding the
aperture.
"Let me out!" shouted a voice in muffled tones. "Let me out, quick!"
Phil went around to the single door of the shed. It was stoutly secured
by a hasp and padlock. Phil picked up a big stone and smashed the
padlock. Then he pulled open the door.
"Come out, quick!" he cried.
Andy had placed his gun against an old box. With his arms outspread
he posed to seize the refugee when he should appear. There was no
necessity for haste or violence, however, for with the opening of
the door a great cloud of smoke floated out, enveloping a form which
struggled past it--the mysterious boy. He was staggering and gasping
and rubbing his smoke-blinded eyes.
"Thanks," he said, rather faintly. "I'll never try that again--thanks."
The speaker tottered against the outside wall of the shed for support
and leaned there weakly, getting back his breath and his wits. Then
suddenly he straightened up and peered towards the house and all around
it in a scared sort of way.
"I--I must get away from here, and--thanks," he spoke for the third
time in a strained and embarrassed tone of voice.
"Hold on," ordered Andy, firmly planting himself in front the refugee
and seizing his arm.
The lad shrank and turned a white pallor. Phil, studying him, saw
the old hunted, desperate expression he had noted on two previous
occasions come back into the wan, starved-looking face.
"What do you want of me?" the unknown lad asked of Andy.
"What do we want?" repeated Andy, purposely blustering. "That's a fine
question to ask after all the bother and mystery you've made for us. We
want to know a lot, and you've got to tell it."
"Easy, Andy, gently now," directed Phil. Then, turning kindly and
courteously to the refugee, he said:
"We first want to give you a good meal--you look as if you needed it."
The boy's face, for a moment lightened by Phil's gracious words, grew
sad again and he spoke with a dry, choking little laugh.
"I'm hungry enough," he said, but casting the old scared glance all
about him added hastily: "I can't stay around here! Not a moment--not a
single moment! Don't stop me."
"You can't go!" shouted Andy, catching and imprisoning both of the
boy's arms from behind, and thus struggling with him. "You're up to
something mysterious. These are times when every loyal Concord boy must
watch out for fellows like you--a Tory."
At that the refugee ceased struggling. He allowed himself to remain
limply in Andy's grasp, but he fixed an earnest, pleading look on Phil.
"Do you believe that?" he inquired. "But of course you do, for you
called me a Tory yourself a little while ago."
"Don't I have reason to?" asked Phil bluntly. "I saw you in Boston
working for the British soldiers."
"Yes, you did," admitted the captive.
"Then, how can you explain?"
The boy cast his eyes down, but it was quite apparent, not in shame. He
seemed thinking. Then with an uneasy start he glanced all around the
place and acted as if he would run for it on the slightest provocation.
Thinking better of it, he faced Phil in a frank, manly fashion.
"See here," he said, "you are doing wrong in keeping me here--more
wrong than you dream of. You shouldn't make me tell you what you really
have no business to know, but, if you are true blue, and I know you
must be, I'll tell you something. Let go of my arms--I won't run. Now
then, if I prove to you that I am not a Tory, do I go free?"
"Yes," said Andy promptly, and Phil gave a nod of assent.
"All right," said the refugee, as Andy freed his arms. He groped
one hand inside of his jacket and beyond it. He drew out an oilskin
package, opened it, and took from it a folded sheet of paper.
"Read it," he said, almost solemnly, "and when you have read--forget."
Andy stared eagerly at the open sheet of paper displayed. Phil, more
puzzled and curious than ever, ran his eyes over the open page. It read:
Boston, March, 1775.
All loyal colonists will give this young man, my authorized
messenger, on duty, all the assistance possible.
"Great guns!" vociferated Andy, and Phil drew back, gazing at the
refugee now with a look of admiration and respect.
For the passport,--or whatever it might be called, but at all events
official and convincing,--bore a signature that was the watchword of
obedience and fidelity for every member of the Musket Boys of Old
Boston, wherever he might be.
The paper was signed:
"JOSEPH WARREN."