CONCLUSION
Into the continental camp a lone juvenile figure had come speeding down
the river bank on a mettled steed. It was Burt Noble. He had slipped
out of Boston at daybreak. Once across the river, he had made for a
friendly farmhouse. Now he rushed up to headquarters, flushed and
panting.
The young patriot spy was not five minutes in confidential consultation
with the commanding general. As he emerged from his presence it was to
break into a run, after asking some quick questions from a sentry. He
burst into the main tent of the Musket Boys, aglow with delight and
excitement.
"Well, if here isn't Burt Noble!" shouted Ralph.
"Great news, grand news!" cried Burt, making for Phil to shake his hand
boisterously. "I've left Boston just in time, they had got suspicious."
"You said 'great news'?" intimated the curious Ralph.
"Yes, it's no secret, or won't be, soon. Ah, it's out now! Hear that?"
Outside, from the direction of headquarters, there echoed a wild,
glorious babble of human shouts, a chorus of trumpets.
"What is it, Burt?" asked Phil.
"Boston. The British are evacuating the city!"
"Hurrah!"
Such a shout went up from the throats of the assembled Musket Boys,
that it seemed to fairly lift the cover of the tent. They broke loose
then like mad schoolboys on a frolic. They lifted Phil on their
shoulders, and carried him outside in triumph. They took up Burt next,
and, bearing him to the tent of Andy's company, filled the air with
their fervid exultation.
Like wildfire the news spread through the camp. Then courier after
courier began to arrive from Boston, for the British ships were sailing
out into the bay, and the long blockade was ended.
Phil looked back in vivid memory over the weary months of waiting and
watching since Bunker Hill. There had been skirmishes, noble acts
of heroism where the volunteers had stolen a march on the enemy and
had secured supplies for the suffering, ill-fed soldiers of General
Washington. Ralph had been one of the party who had sailed a schooner
down the coast clear to New Jersey, and had captured a rival vessel
loaded with powder.
Then Dorchester Heights, other battles further from Boston, and then
Howe had superseded Gage, and now--victory! triumph! The royal fleet
was sailing for Halifax, leaving the gallant patriots masters once more
of their dear home city.
It was not until the next morning that a portion of the army,
consisting principally of volunteers from the city, entered Boston.
Their reception was a glad one in public. At homes everywhere supreme
joy reigned over the return of a father or a brother.
At the Warrington home the hours became a continual round of happiness.
It seemed, indeed, like old times, to have the house free and open, and
filled with kindly, affectionate friends. That first night in Boston
neither Phil, Andy nor Ralph slept a wink. Neighborhood boys, too young
to volunteer, stuck to them tightly, begging for story after story of
their army experiences. The Musket Boys were the heroes of the whole
town.
Two evenings later affairs were on a somewhat more rational basis.
Phil and his friends and his family were seated in the big sitting
room of the house, listening to an officer who had come from the
camp to explain that within a few days the New England army would
be reorganized to join Washington near New York, when there came a
tremendous thump at the front door.
Phil went to open it. There stood a man with a covered box in his hand,
dancing from foot to foot in an excited, jubilant sort of way, as he
piped out as cheerily as ever:
"It's only me, old Silas Berks, and his parrot. Andy, hooroar!
Attention, company! this is the gladdest hour of my life."
In the effulgence of his happy feelings old Silas set the box on the
step. It tumbled over, its cover came open, and out flopped Polly,
bobbing and eyeing the audience with the ringing sentiment for the
occasion:
"Hurrah for liberty!"
It took some time for affairs to settle down to normal. Andy had many
a question to ask about the friends at home. Mr. Warrington gave the
old French and Indian fighter such a warm welcome, that he grinned and
bobbed around in the best rocker in the house, feeling, indeed, that he
was a guest of honor.
"And now then," observed old Silas finally, his snappy little eyes
blinking mysteriously, "what brought me to Boston? Can anyone answer
that? What brought me to Boston?"
"You tell it," directed Andy.
"The dog that old Jasper Bram and his precious son Greg didn't bury!"
cried the old man.
"What?" exclaimed Phil, arising to his feet in some excitement. "You
haven't found out--?"
"Didn't I tell you I would?"
"Yes, but--"
"And I did," pursued the veteran complacently. "I used to look every
day after you boys went away at that old chalk memorandy of mine under
the shelf. It made me think of you, and then I felt less lonesome. I
puzzled and puzzled, but nothing came of it. Old Jasper came back and
Greg joined the Tory army, and time wore on, and nothing came of the
memorandy until last week."
"And then, Silas?" urged the impatient Andy eagerly.
"Then one night there comes to my house Bram's old hired man. He had
dared to ask that vicious old Tory for his wages, and Jasper had given
him a drubbing and turned him out to starve. Well, I took him in. He
is an innocent, stupid sort of a fellow, and he felt great gratitude
towards me. One day I happened to look at that chalk memorandy, and it
comes to me to ask the man if Bram ever had a dog. He said 'No'. Then I
asked him if Bram had ever buried a dog."
"Go ahead," urged Andy, as the narrator paused to take breath.
"Well, that hired man looked at me queer, and just laughed."
"What about?" inquired Phil.
"He said it was funny, but about the time war broke out he one day met
old Bram and his son carrying a bag and a spade. He asked them where
they were going. Greg Bram told him to bury a dog, and chuckled as if
he had made a smart joke. Well, the hired man watched them, and saw
them bury the bag in a thicket. He thought no more of it until the
day he was discharged by Bram. The old man asked him to get a certain
spade. It was broken by accident, and that was what Bram abused him
for. Bram got another spade. The hired man watched him. He dug up the
bag, and buried it in a new spot. I asked the man where."
"Did he tell you?" inquired Andy in rapt tones.
"He did, and I dug up that bag day before yesterday. Then I came here."
"Why?" spoke Phil.
"Because in it I found nearly five thousand pounds in notes and gold.
Now, I'm not stealing anybody's money, but I brought that bag right
with me. It's outside on the steps now. I'm taking it to the owners."
"Who are the owners, Mr. Berks?" inquired Ralph Post.
"Mr. Warrington, for one. In the bag were papers, and contracts and
deeds. They show that Jasper Bram owes John Warrington over four
thousand pounds."
"Yes," said Phil's father, considerably moved, "that is true, but he
stole the proofs of it from me."
"Then there is a document there about one Burt Noble," continued the
old veteran. "It shows that his father left a thousand pounds with
Jasper Bram years ago, to provide for his son. The father, it seems,
got into some trouble that made him flee from New England. In the bag
are recent letters in which the father begs of Bram to send him some
word of his son. They have no date and no signature, but they seem to
come from Mr. Noble, who has joined the continental army somewhere
in the south, but does not come to New England on account of his old
troubles."
"Then my father is alive!" said Burt Noble, arising to his feet in
fervid emotion. "Oh, this is what my heart longed for! It shall be the
aim of my life to find him!"
"And we will help you, Burt," declared Phil, as he placed a brotherly
arm across the shoulder of the brave young spy who had been to him so
loyal a friend.
The bag was brought in and investigated. Its contents were found to be
just as old Silas had described.
"I shall keep this money and these papers," said Mr. Warrington. "I
shall go about it in a legal way to prove that this money belongs
rightfully to me, except the share that is the property of Burt Noble."
"Oh, how happy everything has turned out," said Mrs. Warrington,
earnestly.
"Yes," added Phil, "but it is only an encouragement to go right on in
the path we have chosen."
"Exactly," nodded Andy. "The war has only just commenced."
"And we are volunteers until the last redcoat is driven back to
England!" declared Phil. "The next move is to join the reorganized army
of Gen. Washington."
And how the lads did join the reorganized army, and went forth to
fight valiantly, will be told in another volume, to be entitled, "The
Musket Boys Under Washington; Or, The Tories of Old New York." In that
book we shall see some fierce fighting on Long Island, and learn the
particulars of how the boys came to the rescue of a girl who was in the
power of a miserly Tory who wanted to send her to England against her
will.
With the money that had been restored to him, Mr. Warrington went into
business once more, and, although the times were very unsettled, he did
very well.
"And what will you do?" asked Andy of Burt Noble, when the two met one
day.
"I am off for General Washington's headquarters," answered the young
spy. "I guess we'll meet again." And the boys did meet,--not once but
many times.
"I rather imagine we've seen some hot fighting, Andy," said Phil.
"You are right,--but the future may hold hotter fighting still."
"This war has but begun," came from Ralph. "King George won't give up
yet. We'll have to whip his redcoats many more times ere he will be
willing to admit our independence."
"Never mind--we'll do it!" cried Andy, with flashing eyes. "From now on
our watchword must be Liberty forever!"
And the other Musket Boys echoed the sentiment.
THE END
[Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]