BROUGHT TO BOOK
"Something wrong, Andy!" said Phil Warrington seriously.
"Hello, is that so? Glad to see you back with the company, Phil."
The two speakers stood in the lower part of the Sabine barn, dimly
outlined by a lantern hung from a beam. Overhead, active, rapid
footsteps crossed the floor. There was the sound of serious,
business-like voices, although they were juvenile in expression. It was
easy to surmise that the boys marching club was in session, or rather
at practice, for the orders spoken were quite martial and there was the
jingle and clank of firearms.
Andy had a patch of sticking plaster on one side of his head. Secretly
he was very proud of the grazed skin underneath, which a British bullet
at Lexington had furrowed. With his mates he was a grand hero, and many
a comrade envied him the honor of being the first boy wounded in the
Revolutionary War.
That had been a strenuous morning for Phil, Andy and Ralph. On their
horses that had safely rounded the British marchers, they had reached
Concord to find that town prepared to meet the enemy, but glad to
receive the latest intelligence of the movements of the British.
All the night every boy and man in Concord had been doing double duty.
Earthworks had been thrown up, some of their military stores conveyed
into hiding, various points selected where strong resistance to the
invading foe might prove effective, and now all that was to be done was
to wait for the climax of the impending conflict.
The Minute Men from Lincoln had come in and were soon followed by the
patriots from Acton. Then the British were seen advancing.
"They are too strong for us," said one of the old veterans of the
French and Indian Wars. "Better lay back until more men come in." And
this was done. Soon the Minute Men from Bedford, Westford, Carlisle,
and other points appeared, until, all told, the ready-to-fight
colonists numbered about four hundred and fifty. They massed themselves
on a hill on the opposite side of the Charles river, overlooking
Concord.
Andy's family and friends had given Phil and Ralph a royal welcome. Now
since dusk the club had been drilling in the barn loft. Phil and Ralph
had been gone about an hour, when the former returned to report.
"There may be no attack for some hours yet," he said to Andy. "The
Britishers are moving cautiously. What I have found out is that some
one here in the village is in league with them."
"And that some one?" asked Andy.
"Is old Jasper Bram. I have been watching his house. You know old Silas
Berks advised it. Mysterious persons have come and gone away in the
direction of the British troops. Bram is doing something to help them.
I am going straight back there on the watch as soon as I get a morsel
to eat. We may find out something important, see?"
"Yes, I see," said Andy, "only, don't you miss being here with the
company when the trouble begins."
"I shall not, Andy."
Phil went into the house. Andy stood alone in the barn, halting
reflectively. He had spoken of "the company," and he felt quite the
leader and captain. Andy had won a war record. His loyal fellows had
enthusiastically resolved to do and die under his direction, and Andy
intended to do his share when the actual fighting began.
"Hello, Andy," spoke an interrupting voice and Ralph Post entered the
barn. "S--st!" he added, raising his linger warningly to his lips.
"Talk low. No movement of the British as yet. That's the news your
father sends from headquarters. Say, Andy," continued Ralph in a low
whisper, "there's a spy outside."
"Eh? what? who?" demanded Andy, with a start.
"Don't know. He's on the plank running across the two rain casks--head
nearly on a level with the second story of the barn, and he tip-toes
when he wants to look in through the window of the loft."
"Come with me," cried Andy instantly. "A spy, eh? I can't imagine--aha!
I see."
Ralph it seemed had entered the barn without being seen by the spy in
question. Andy, quite as fortunate, now glanced around a corner of the
structure. At its other end he made out the lurking form Ralph had
described. Dodging back, he whispered hurriedly to his companion, and
Ralph ran around the barn. Andy himself waited a minute or two, edged
around the corner again, noticed the lurker on tip-toe, calculated his
chances, and with a sudden movement seized the end of the plank and
gave it a swift pull.
There was a dancing figure over the water cask for a second or two, a
wild clutching at space, and then, as Ralph came abruptly into view,
the lurker missed his hold and disappeared with a yell and a splash
into the cask, full to the brim.
"Duck him again," ordered Andy, rushing to the centre of attraction.
"Greg Bram! I thought so. Up there, hey? Company to the rescue!"
Once, twice, a dozen times the would-be spy went under the surface. The
crowd came downstairs and direct to the scene of commotion. It was only
when Greg Bram's plaintive bellowings became weak, showing that he was
nearly exhausted, that the boys let up on him. A dripping, dilapidated
specimen of humanity he staggered from the spot amid the jeers and
hootings of the patriotic boys.
Phil, after a hurried meal, coming out of the house, saw the end of the
episode. Greg became his guide, for it was to Jasper Bram's that Phil
was bound. The son amid his chagrin and misery made straight for the
parental roof.
Phil trailed Greg clear up to the door of his home, and then glided
around to the side of the building, posting himself just beyond an open
window looking into the room, up and down which old Bram was pacing,
some rare excitement and a look of satisfaction expressed on his
weazened, avaricious face. As Greg burst into the room, wild with rage
and uncomfortable to the last extreme, the old man stared at him in
amazement and then in wrath.
"Nice plight you're in!" he cried. "Now, what does this mean?"
"It means that I want to join the British army and sweep this old town
off the face of the earth!" snarled Greg venomously. "Oh, if I had the
burning of this burg! Oh, if I could massacre the whole crowd of them!"
"Did you learn anything about where they have moved the ammunition?"
demanded his father.
"No, I didn't," retorted Greg, "seeing that I didn't have the chance, I
was fool enough to try and find out what Andy Sabine and his crowd were
doing. They caught me. Dad, you show me how to get revenge, and you
needn't pay me a dollar for all those messages to the Britishers this
afternoon."
"Do you think any of the town people suspect what is really going on?"
were the next words that fell on the ears of the eagerly-listening
Phil, in Jasper Bram's rasping tone of voice.
"No, I don't think so," replied Greg,--"how could they?"
"You don't seem to know anything that's important," snarled old Bram.
"This is no time for thinking, or guessing. I'm in for a big reward if
my information to the British enables them to come into the town as
they wish, by the north road. You haven't helped much, Greg, and that's
a fact."
"Helped!" cried Greg. "I've done nothing but help. You're talking that
way so you won't have to give me anything for all my work. Who found
out all about the plans of the Sons of Liberty but me, and--aha! didn't
I help you bury our dog, yes, our poor old dog, ha! ha!"
There was a vicious twinkle in Greg's eye and a sneering expression
on his lips. It was evident that he had hit the old man hard at a
sensitive point. There was some deep undercurrent to the remark, for,
like a tiger aroused, old Jasper Bram, with clenched fists and flashing
eyes, sprang at his son as if he would strike him down where he stood.
"You'll bring that up, will you?" he shouted. "After all I've told you,
you'll threaten me, will you?"
"Well," retorted Greg, backing away, "I just wanted to show you that
I've helped you out whenever I could. Who else would do it--and keep
his mouth shut? That's the point--wouldn't blab. Why, if the father
of Phil Warrington, drat him! or that young Burt Noble, knew about
burying that dog--"
"Stop! Stop, I tell you!" roared the old man, "or I'll thrash the life
out of you. Even so much as hint at this thing again, and I'll turn you
out of house and home."
In his rage old Bram tore about the apartment in a frenzied manner. He
kicked over a chair, he slammed a door, he jammed down the window at
which Phil had been peering and listening. But Phil did not mind this.
He was ready to hasten back to Concord now, for he believed that he had
secured some information of the most vital importance to his patriotic
friends.
"I see their plan--that of the British," he murmured. "They intend to
enter Concord from the north, where they are not expected, where no
preparations have been made to repel them."
Phil started on a keen run in the direction of Concord. He was figuring
out how the enemy could make a detour and accomplish a good deal by
getting right upon the boundary of the town without being discovered.
"One good piece of information, that," he soliloquized. "And about
the dog they buried? What made old Bram so wrathy when his son, Greg,
alluded to that? He meant something, I feel sure. He meant something
of interest to my father and Burt Noble, I believe. That dog business
hides some mystery. I'll make a mental note of it, and I'll think it
over and act on it when we have given the British a double dose of what
we gave them at Lexington."
Phil halted. Way to the north he caught a sudden alarming sound. It was
vague, distant--the echo of a volley of musketry. His worst fears were
confirmed. The British soldiers had made the detour of the town. He
dashed on with renewed speed. Would he be too late to save Concord?