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 hastened toward them, escorted across the shining waxed floor by a young man in a Hessian uniform.

Mehitable, glancing up at him, could scarcely repress an exclamation. Save that he had yellow hair, lightly powdered, and wore not the buff and blue, he might have been the young aide-de-camp who had stopped that day weeks ago to beg hospitality for his Chief, General Washington.

"Mehitable," said Cousin Eliza formally, "may I present Lieutenant von Garten?"

The young Hessian officer clicked his polished boots together and, bowing low in a rather foreign fashion, lifted Mehitable's little brown hand to his lips.

"Mistress Mehitable!" he smiled amiably, with not the slightest hint of recognition. And the girl, chiding herself for her too-powerful imagination, curtseyed in return. Then Charity was introduced and the young officer escorted the three ladies into the parlors.

But in spite of the brilliant gathering of Hessian officers and a few of their stout German wives and many American belles, the girls were too weary from their journey to enjoy the festivities and soon asked permission of their cousin to retire.

Then how the days flew by! The invaders of Trenton were a pleasure-loving crew who planned parties, drives, and calls galore, who filled every waking moment with some sort of good time. Mehitable, being older and really fond of every sort of outdoor sport, was in great demand. Charity, more retiring and quiet, was left more to the company of her cousin who, like many of the ladies of that time, did not relish the hardy

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 sports of hunting and tramping that the Germans loved.

Upon the whole, despite Cousin Eliza's natural resentment, the enemy, beyond their excessive eating and drinking, were not unkind to the townspeople of Trenton. And the time passed all too quickly for Mehitable, who much preferred this present life to the quiet, work-filled one upon her father's farm, no matter how much better the latter was for her. It was Charity who sighed often in secret for her mother and father and her beloved kitten, and who would go up, unnoticed, to her little attic room and there weep a few homesick tears in private.

But Christmas afternoon found even Charity's face sparkling with smiles as she stood behind her sister, staring into the little mirror hung over the white-draped dressing table.

"Oh, Cherry, aren't we beautiful!" sighed Mehitable at last.

"You are, Hitty," murmured Charity, gazing at her sister in honest admiration.

"And you are, too!" cried Mehitable, whirling around. "Oh, wasn't it wonderful of Cousin Eliz' to give us these dresses for our Christmas gifts!"

Mehitable was truly splendid in a white satin gown with crimson satin overskirt. She looked like a gorgeous autumn leaf as she stood there playing with the big fan of crimson ostrich plumes, gazing down at her tiny crimson satin slippers. For Cousin Eliza's foot was the same size and her gifts of two dresses from her own fine wardrobe made over for the girls by her maid

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 had been indeed complete. Charity looked like a demure garden pink in a similar costume of pink and white satin, while the aforementioned maid had dressed their hair high in the prevailing mode, lightly powdering the dark and yellow curls until they both looked alike.

"It was indeed good of Cousin Eliza to give us these dresses," returned Charity, answering her sister's excited exclamation. "But think you, Hitty, she expects us to take them home with us?"

"Of course, silly one," said Mehitable carelessly, holding her fan this way and that as she gazed at herself in the mirror. "Dost think that people take back their Christmas gifts after once bestowing them?"

"No," hesitated Charity. "But these were Cousin Eliza'a own dresses."

"But she wanted us to have them, she said, since she could buy us nothing of value for Christmas," answered Mehitable briskly. "And she had Felice cut them down to fit us, which ruins them for her wearing again, Cherry."

"But wherever shall we be able to wear them again, Hitty?" persisted Charity seriously. "To meeting?" She paused to giggle. "Imagine Parson Chapman's face an we were to walk into meeting attired thus some Sunday."

Mehitable laughed, then turned to rebuke the other. "It is not seemly, Charity, to mock our good parson when he is away in danger with the American Army!"

"I know!" Tender-hearted Charity looked self-reproachful once. "It is because I am nervous

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RINTING-TYPES are made from an alloy of melted lead, tin, antimony, and sometimes copper, that fills the mould exactly and shrinks but little in cooling. The utility of typography depends upon the accuracy of each type, and the consequent squareness of a thousand or hundred thousand types any combination. This accuracy is most certainly secured by founding each type singly in a mould. Experiments in cutting or swaging them from cold metal have hitherto been unsuccessful. Nor is there any practical substitute for type-metal: brass and copper melt at a great heat that soon wears out the mould; lead and tin are too soft for the service required; glass is too brittle, and will 2


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 that I jest, forsooth," she confided apologetically. "You are used to parties, of course, having visited Cousin Eliza before, Hitty; but this is my first real ball, you know."

"H'm, yes," said Mehitable doubtfully. She did not think it necessary to mention the fact that her knowledge of previous balls at Cousin Eliza's had been gleaned from what she could see through the banisters, her hostess having sensibly considered her, four years before, entirely too young to be allowed to join the holiday revels.

But the two pretty figures which hesitated at the foot of the stairs that gay Christmas afternoon seemed alike in self-consciousness a little later. The young Hessian lieutenant. Von Garten, soon spied them and led them to seats in the parlor, where they were surrounded in a little while by an admiring group, and Cousin Eliza, in her corner, looked well pleased at the happiness her gifts had bestowed upon her little relatives. When the music began each girl was led out for the stately minuet.

How quaint and lovely that group would look to us, now, with their slow steps and stately curtseys and bowings. But to the two young country girls it was the height of gayety and fun, that minuet, and their eyes sparkled with pleasure.

Although it was not long after the midday Christmas feast, with broad daylight shut out of the rooms by the heavy shutters to aid the softer, more festive candlelight, numbers of Hessian officers were already gathered around the steaming punch bowl toasting themselves

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 and their own success in their guttural language. Only the younger, more sprightly of them were dancing.

At last the music stopped, the fiddler laying down his instrument and the musician at the spinet rising with him to partake of the egg-nogg a servant was offering them. And before they had resumed playing, Mehitable had been led away by young Von Garten and Charity had been solicited for the minuet by a fat, fussy old officer who proved to be exceptionally light upon his feet.

Fortunately for them, both girls had been painstakingly and carefully taught the minuet and some of the quadrilles popular at that time by their brother John, who had learned this fol-de-rol, as his father called it, in New York. But dancing among these gay revelers with real music was far different from dancing out in the big empty hayloft with the only music supplied breathlessly by John's whistling.

"Why, how easy it is!" gasped Mehitable. She glanced up at Von Garten as he held her hand in the air for her to circle around him.

He smiled down at her. "You speak as though surprised. Why?" he asked idly.

But Mehitable, a sudden quick memory of the little girl in homespun frock hopping up and down in the big barn, of John's sharp "Don't bob when you curtsey! Go down slowly to the floor—so! And now up again slowly—so! Slowly! Slowly!" overwhelming her, merely shook her head and smiled with aching throat. Oh, to see John again! To hear once more his brief brotherly praise, "Well done, little Hitty!"

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 The dance ended, they moved over to the single window which had been left uncovered. This window commanded a view of the driveway and of the gate and an oblique view of the Delaware River. Christmas morning had found the ground white, to everyone's pleasure, and now the rays of the setting sun slanted across the dazzling expanse of white and sent gleaming ripples dancing and scurrying across the river between the masses of floating ice.

Von Garten began the conversation.

"They say the American Army is becoming more ragged and hungry every day," he commenced, glancing slyly at her.

Mehitable did not answer.

Tis too bad they do not know when they are beaten," went on the young man teasingly. "What a lot of time and trouble 'twould save them an their general surrendered to Lord Cornwallis, who is waiting at New Brunswick so kindly and patiently for them to do so."

Mehitable tossed her head. "An General Washington wished, I doubt not he could turn the tables even now and capture all these Hessian boobies," she answered tartly.

A quick gleam appeared in Von Garten's eyes. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but before he could do so the girl had leaned forward and was studying two horsemen approaching through the open gate. The last flitting beams of the sun shone full in her eyes, however, and it was not until the riders were passing directly beneath the window she was staring through

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 that she caught a good look at them. Then, in acute anazement, she stumbled back.

"Why, 'tis Squire Briggs!" she ejaculated. "And that man Hawtree!"

"You know them?" asked Von Garten curiously.

"Squire Briggs is a neighbor of ours," answered Mehitable. "And Hawtree came up in the coach from Millburn with us. I did not like him."

Von Garten studied her flushed young face.

"I wonder," murmured Mehitable absently, "I wonder what Squire Briggs is doing up here?"

Somehow the spare, furtive, rather sneaking face of her father's neighbor boded no good, she felt.

"You do not like him, either?" asked Von Garten softly.

But Mehitable glanced up suddenly, keenly. This, she all at once remembered, was an enemy to her country, and as such, no matter how frank and attractive she found him to be personally, she must be upon her guard against. So she relapsed into a silence she would not break, watching over her shoulder, uneasily, the door by which the two unpleasant visitors must enter.

At last she saw them, saw the thin, stoop-shouldered figure of Squire Briggs bend awkwardly over Cousin Eliza's hand as the man Hawtree briefly introduced him, saw them immediately look her way and, with a heart that suddenly throbbed, realized that with then hostess they were turning toward her.

"Oh," she said, under her breath, "isn't there some place I can hide?hide?" [sic]

But Von Garten laughed, thinking her joking, and

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 when the two men had reached her and were introduced to her by Cousin Eliza, he bowed and left her alone with the other men, for their hostess had been called away at that moment.

"And now, Mehitable," said Squire Briggs, smiling unpleasantly, "we wish very much to see you alone." He paused and then added softly, "On business."

But Mehitable parried this. "I do not know of any business you could have with me. Squire Briggs," she answered coolly.

"No?" asked Squire Briggs, while Hawtree muttered impatiently. "I suppose you are not interested in that rascal brother o' yours, either?"

Mehitable's cheeks flamed, but her voice, when she answered, was steady.

"John a rascal. Squire Briggs?" she returned proudly. "Had you not better look closer to home, sir?"

A pale red now burned in the Squire's sallow cheeks. "Then I take it you are not interested in you brother's welfare?" he snarled.

The girl hesitated. This, she felt, was a plot. What its object was she could not tell, save that the two men seemed anxious to see her alone. But on the other hand, John might be in real danger and these two men sent to parley with her. Suddenly, impetuously, she made up her mind.

"There is under the stair landing a little room. We shall be alone there, an you wish."

It so happened, as they left the room, that no one noticed their departure. The hall, too, was momentarily deserted.

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 "And now, sirs," said Mehitable, facing the two men in the cold Httle room she had designated, "what do you wish?"

But instead of speaking at once the man named Hawtree did a strange thing. Fixing his eyes upon her—and she shuddered at those sinister eyes—he slowly drew from his pocket two long leather thongs. Then he stepped to the door and, suddenly snapping it shut, turned the key in the lock and pocketed the key, while over in the corner by the cheerless fireplace sounded Squire Briggs's cackle of laughter, taunting, unbehevably cruel.

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UT Mehitable faced the two men undaunted. There was no doubt whatever in her mind now that their intentions were unfair. But she meant, before crying for help, to attempt to find out what, if anything, they knew concerning her brother John.

"I suppose you are afraid that I will run away, gentlemen," she said, with scornful accent upon the last word, alluding to the locked door.

"Nay, but we take no chances," growled Squire Briggs, from whom all pretense at friendliness had dropped. He faced her scowlingly across the little table which separated them. "Sit down!"

"I had rather stand!" returned Mehitable stubbornly.

"Sit down!" roared Hawtree. And surrendering proudly, Mehitable walked to a big chair beside the fireplace and seated herself.

The two men pulled chairs forward and seated themselves directly opposite the girl.

"Now, Mehitable," began Squire Briggs, rubbing his hands together and glancing covertly at her from beneath bent brows, "we want to know why, on a certain night best known to you, in early December,

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 you made your way to the top of the mountain above your house and there kindled a signal fire?"

"Why, how did you know?" blurted out Mehitable. Then she stopped and bit her lip angrily, while the Squire gave a low cackle of satisfaction.

"Never mind how he knew," interrupted Hawtree roughly.

"I'll tell ye! I'll tell ye!" gloated Squire Briggs. "I watched ye!"

"Then you were home that day!" accused Mehitable instantly. "You were home and you did not come to help us get Charity out of your cistern!"

The Squire reddened at her indignant accusation. "I had other fish to fry," he muttered sullenly. "You should not have trespassed upon my land!"

But he did not forget to the end of his days the long, contemptuous look Mehitable gave him. He knew she had read his mean little soul aright! And liked her accordingly!

"Come, come, that's neither here nor there," growled Hawtree. "Answer the question, mistress, or 'twill be the worse for you!"

"I do not know the reason for the signal fire; but if I did, I would not tell you," answered Mehitable instantly.

The two men stared at her threateningly, and Hawtree made a movement toward the leather thongs upon the table top. But Squire Briggs raised his hand.

"Give her but another chance," he said, scowling again. "I am sure she will remember in a moment, sir."

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 But Mehitable shook her head obstinately. At the end of a brief pause the man Hawtree jumped to his feet, and before Mehitable realized what he was doing, he had whipped out his kerchief and had gagged her. Next, in a business-like manner, he tied her two hands behind her and her ankles together. Then he stepped back to survey his work.

"Now, Mehitable," said Squire Briggs, moving toward the door, "perhaps a long, cold wait in here will loosen your tongue so that you will be willing to tell us what you know about the signals set that night."

"Wait a moment," muttered Hawtree. And the other paused while he moved a leather screen between the door and Mehitable's chair so that she would be hidden from any one entering there. At last the two men left the room and Mehitable could hear the key turned in the lock. She was left alone to her own upbraidings.

Well she knew that it was her own impulsiveness which had placed her in her position. But that was small comfort, now. At first she merely suffered mentally, reproaching herself for having become such an easy victim to the two unscrupulous villains. But soon the piercing cold of the little room entered her, for she was clad but thinly in her satin party gown and the empty fireplace seemed merely to taunt her. She looked desperately around her. Only two narrow windows set high in the thick walls lighted the room, which was beautifully wainscoted in oak. And the heavy door remained closed. No sound of revelry in the other part of the house reached her, and she knew,

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 even though she were not gagged, she would call in vain for help.

It grew darker and darker. Long shadows crept from table to chair, from fireplace to table. And at last she was in total darkness. But her eyes became accustomed to the dense gloom because it came so gradually, and she found that she could see despite the shadows.

Now her arms began to ache, strained back as they were in their unnatural position, and her ankles felt as though fiery flames were commencing to gnaw at them instead of the leather thong binding them. She lost all track of time. A daze of misery enveloped her.

Then the sound of the key turning in its lock roused her and she turned her head eagerly as the door swung a little open and a strip of yellow light shot across the floor.

"There, you ridiculous child, canst see the room is empty, as Mr. Hawtree said?" she heard her Cousin Eliza remark lightly, as a group of people, judging from the shadows cast, paused in the doorsvay.

"I but wanted to make sure," said Charity's voice timidly. Tis so unlike Hitty to disappear thus!"

"Of course!" said the villain Hawtree suavely. "I wanted Mistress Charity to know that she was mistaken in having thought we had come in here!"

"La, Charity," continued Cousin Eliza, in a careless tone, "I am sure you will find Hitty upstaits in her room, primping for to-night!"

And then, to the imprisoned girl's bitter disappointment, the door again swung shut and she was left alone

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 once more. She noticed dully that the key was not turned in its lock this time, Hawtree, not daring to do so in the presence of the mistress of the house, and evidently planning to return later.

So another long period of waiting passed. One by one Mehitable's fingers and toes seemed to die, which was more bearable, though, than the intense pain which preceded the numbness. She sat perfectly motionless, for it did no good to struggle.

Then the faint sound of an opening door came to her, and she felt a cold draught of air; but to her surprise there was no sign of light as there had been before. Silence reigned, which also was queer. At first she wondered vaguely if she had imagined that sound of a door opening, that faint click. But as she sat there, she became aware of someone's presence in the room in that indefinable way which utter stillness sometimes conveys. And she turned her head.

In vain, however, for she could not see far behind her—only a portion of the fireplace on one side and the table and screen on the other, while directly in front of her was the wall with its two high windows, now long since curtained by night.

She struggled against her gag and strove to call. No murmur of sound came from her swollen lips. A chill, vague fear took possession of her. Whoever had entered, if any one had, was evidently most unwilling to be seen, and the girl wondered how he had gained admittance since the door from the hall had not been opened. Then she started nervously as an icy hand brushed against her cheeks from behind her chair. But

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 a moment later she gave a great sob of joy, for the gag slipped from her mouth.

And now the same hand was working at that leather thong which bound her wrists, which soon came loose. At last her ankles were unbound, too, and Mehitable twisted in her chair to see her liberator. But whoever it was remained crouched behind the tall back of the chair, so that she respected his wishes and strove, instead, to stand. But at that she uttered a cry of pain and sank back upon her chair again, for her weight brought almost unbearable agony to her feet, while the blood surging back into her wrists made them ache, too.

She sat there rubbing her ankles, then she tried to walk again and this time she succeeded in reaching the door. She clutched at it with futile fingers, then her hand curled around the latch and with a little sob of suspense she lifted it and the door opened.

But e'er she stepped through to freedom she sent a little fugitive glance over her shoulder. Was it an Indian face shrinking back into the darkness of that little room? She did not know. She only knew, as she reeled into the wide hall outside, that she was free and safe once more!

For a long moment she stood clutching the wall beside her. It seemed strangely silent there, and beyond, all the parlors were deserted, too. Then she realized, from the sounds coming from the dining room, that the jovial enemy were still celebrating Christmas and that all the Hessian officers were once more gathered around the well-laden board of their reluctant hostess.

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 Mehitable limped to a chair that was pushed against the wall near her. And there Charity, who was coming anxiously down the stairs, saw her. Charity gave a little shriek of joy and, running the rest of the way, threw herself upon her knees beside her sister.

"Oh, Hitty, wherever have you been? How worried I have felt!" she half sobbed.

Quickly, in a low voice, Mehitable told her what had happened, and the younger girl's sweet face flushed with anger.

"Why, how did Squire Briggs dare!" she exclaimed, with flashing eyes.

"Hush!" answered Mehitable faintly. Tis war, Cherry!" She leaned back with closed eyes.

The little sister stood studying her anxiously.

"I know, Hitty," she said at last, brightening. "An you could walk as far as the kitchen you could get warm, and Aunt Tivvy will give you some supper."

Mehitable stumbled to her feet and with Charity's help entered the great kitchen, which was in a rear wing. There a scene of utmost activity was taking place. Before the fire three spits, on which were roasting turkeys, were being turned and watched by a grinning Negro lad. Other servants were coming and going in the direction of the dining room, while Aunt Tivvy, a fat, smiling-faced old negress, kept watchful eyes upon the heavily laden trays which were being constantly carried to the company within.

"Ki, honey, what's de mattah?" exclaimed Aunt Tivvy in concern, as she caught sight of Mehitable's pale face. Charity explained in a few swift words and,

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 muttering angrily, the old woman soon had a cup of warm broth for the victim. Afterward she set to work slicing with reckless knife juicy bits from a turkey's breast, so that the two sisters, at the end of the kitchen table, fared quite as well as the most honored guest in the dining room.

It was at the end of her meal, which soon restored her customary vigor, that Mehitable looked up.

"Dost know what time it is. Aunt Tivvy?" she asked. "I lost all count as I sat 'prisoned."

Bout one o'clock—I know 'twas midnight quite awhile ago," answered the old cook respectfully.

"One o'clock! I was indeed in there a long time! It was but dusk when I entered that little room, Aunt Tivvy. By the way, dost know aught of any little secret door into that little room."

"Dat little room undah de staiahs?"

Eagerly both girls nodded.

"Laws, yes'm, honey!" answered Aunt Tivvy promptly. She lowered her voice. "I spects no one knows 'bout it 'cept jes' me—I was dustin' dat wainscotin' one day and my hand struck a spring an' bing! a li'l' door flew open. I shut it quick and didn't say nuffin'!"

"Well, where does the door lead to, Aunt Tivvy?" asked Mehitable breathlessly.

"Outside," said the old negress. "It's a li'l' door jes' outside by the chimney whar no one'd never notice it!"

"Outside?" repeated Mehitable. The mystery was still a mystery!

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 The girls soon finished their meal, and warmly thanking the old cook, with whom they were prime favorites, they left the kitchen to find the company streaming back into the parlors again, although many of the officers were still at the table, especially the older and portlier ones.

By the kitchen door Charity suddenly clutched her sister's arm and shrank back.

"What will you do an that terrible man, Hawtree, sees you?"

"I am not afraid," said Mehitable sturdily. "I will not be so trapped again. Charity, rest assured of that. And you see to it you are not!"

But the man Hawtree had not yet come from the dining room, and before the two girls could move from their position at the rear of the broad hall, facing the front door, it was flung wide open.

"What" began Hitty. Then she stopped amazement. For a file of American soldiers were advancing into the house and at their head was Von Garten, shorn of his yellow wig and clad in the buff and blue of the American Army.

The gay company stood as though paralyzed. Not a man moved to oppose the entry of the Americans.

"Gentlemen," said Von Garten in a cold, metallic voice and his eyes were like steel. "Gentlemen, you are our prisoners!"

The Hessians acted as though they were stunned, as though this were some terrible nightmare from which presently they must awaken to find everything as serenely safe and secure as before, when they had had

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 this amazing enemy baffled and fuming across the Delaware River.

Now they gave up their swords meekly and wordlessly and went to stand in a forlorn company at one end of the parlors, as Von Garten directed, with the Americans forming guard upon each side of them.

Some of the fat German fraus wept, but silently, as though they realized that they had been definitely outwitted. It was only when Hawtree appeared on the dining-room threshold and stared in amazement that any commotion was created. He caught one glimpse of the grim-faced young commander and pointed a shaking finger at him.

"You traitor!" he hissed. "You traitor, Von Garten!"

The other looked at him contemptuously.

"I never pleaded allegiance to your flag," he answered coolly. "And I never—tortured an innocent girl!"

Mehitable started as much as Hawtree who, when his eyes fell upon her, uttered an exclamation.

"You!" he cried hoarsely.

But Von Garten strode toward him and pushed him into the line of prisoners. "Enough!" he ordered. And Hawtree relapsed into fuming, furious silence, though Mehitable shuddered at the terrible looks he cast at her and the young man.

As the guard and their prisoners were moving toward the doorway there was a sound of a loud crash from the dining room. Presently a soldier came dragging in a limp, miserable figure and threw it down with a thud before Von Garten.

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 "Poor boobie didn't know as how the house was surrounded," explained the soldier laconically. "He tried to 'scape through the window."

Mehitable recognized the spare, mean figure and started forward. A swift memory of the hot tears in her friend's eyes, of her words, "Well, you can just trust me, for I am a patriot, too," came to her mind. And at that moment Von Garten raised his eyes to meet her pleading glance.

"He shall be your prisoner, Mistress Mehitable," he said promptly.

"Oh, please, let him go!" she murmured. And at once Von Garten bent and lifted the cowardly little jman to his feet, speeding him upon his way, however, out through the front door by the toe of his boot. Then he fell back and saluted, for up the steps strode a tall, commanding figure, followed by a company of officers in American uniform.

"How now, Lieutenant Freeman?"

"I beg leave to report, Your Excellency, that all the enemy has been captured," began the erstwhile Von Garten, saluting again. When suddenly he was interrupted by a loud cry of "John!" and two flying figures passed him to throw themselves into the arms of a tall young man directly behind the Commander-in-Chief. General Washington looked around with a frown. Then his face cleared and he gazed kindly at the embarrassed young man, who, though joyfully returning two frantic hugs tried to look dignified and cool.

"Nay, let them embrace you, my lad! 'Tis long

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 since they had opportunity, I'm sure," said His Excellency.

He turned to Mehitable who, her first joyful transports over, now stood blushing.

"Why 'tis my little friend who would be called Angeline!" he said softly. And bowing in the most courtly fashion he kissed her hand before turning upon his heel and preparing to leave the house with his staff.

"Oh, John, must you go?" Charity half sobbed it, but the keen ears of the great general catching the words, he turned back momentarily.

"Why, stay, lad. 'Tis a bloodless victory and no work for you to-night."

So John Condit was drawn in before Cousin Eliza's fire, there to sit with Charity upon his knee and Mehitable unashamedly hanging on to his hand.

"And now tell us everything, John," said the latter, with a long sigh.

"Nay, 'twould take months. And I would rather hear about our mother and father."

"They are well," returned Mehitable hastily. "But oh, John, you must explain some things! The meaning of the signal fire? And did you truly send your silver shoe buckle and"

"Stay!" cried John laughing and holding up his hand in mock supplication. "Give me time to breathe, at least, Hitty! I did, indeed send the silver shoe buckle, as we had agreed, you remember. And well you answered my appeal for help, little sisters!" And here the big brother's face grew very tender as he glanced

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 at the little maids. "Probably your signal fire paved the very way to this night's victory!"

Cousin Eliza clapped her hands triumphantly. Tis the women who are ever behind the victories!" she cried mischievously.

"Even so," nodded John. "But, Hitty, why do you not tell me of the queer old lady of your stagecoach trip?" he asked, looking down quizzically into Mehitable's happy face.

Both girls stared at him with open mouths.

"Why, John, how didst know about her?" exclaimed Charity.

"Because"—and here John Condit stopped to chuckle—"why, because, little sister, I was the old lady!"

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EHITABLE was worried. Early that morning Mistress Condit, reluctantly, for the girls had been home from Trenton only a week, had gone to the farm of Matthias Dodd, whither she had been called to take care of Mistress Dodd, who had fallen and injured herself. Mehitable, left in charge, had been appealed to by Charity and by Young Cy, who had come for that purpose, for permission for the former to accompany the latter to the Town by the River. Against her better judgment, the older sister had yielded, though as soon as the other two started off gaily she regretted it. Now it was dusk and though Young Cy had promised to have his little charge back in the early afternoon, there was no sign of them upon the cart road before the Condit farmhouse.

"If only my father were home instead of off to Millburn!" sighed Mehitable to herself anxiously. "Or Mother! Indeed, I fear what they will say to me for letting Charity go with Young Cy! And perhaps I was foolish, though Charity did beg so! And Young Cy, too!"

At last, just as she thought she could bear being alone no longer, Amos, one of the men-of-all-work, entered the kitchen abruptly. He wore a grave face.

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 "The master not back, yet?" he asked.

"Nay. Be there anything the matter?"

"Nothing serious," he answered slowly. Tis this—three o' our horses be sick; methinks they act like they've been poisoned, and indeed, I would not put it above the Tories!—and Judd and I will have to work o'er them this night. Mayhap ye will give me a bit o' bread and cheese so that we can sup in the barn, Mistress Hitty?"

Agreeing, Mehitable told him of her anxiety concerning Charity, adding that she would take one of the well horses and ride as far as the Joneses'.

Amos protested; but Mehitable was perverse and less than half an hour later she was pounding at the Joneses' front door. Jemima, Young Cy's sister, appeared, but seeing Mehitable she burst into tears, and the latter, her heart sinking, discovered that Jemima's parents had also, like good neighbors, hastened to the Dodd farm, that the young girl and her old grandmother and a little brother were alone and greatly worried by Young Cy's inexplicable tarrying.

"Nay, keep thy courage," murmured Mehitable, her own lips trembling. "I will ride toward Newark to meet them. Doubtless they are delayed."

So saying, she rode off once more. When she reached the meeting house she was surprised to see a number of horses tethered to posts before it and still more surprised to hear a loud voice issuing in tirade from within it.

"I tell ye, gentlemen," said the voice grimly, "these Whig sentiments be stamped out. Disloyalty

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 to our king must be punished—aye, even by death! And"

A tumult of conversation interrupted the speaker for a moment; then he continued.

"There are certain men in ye Newark mountains neighborhood who not only have gi'en their sons to the rebel army, but have otherwise supported this pernicious cause. These men should be driven forth. Among them are Jones, Dodd, Baldwin, Aaron Harrison, Samuel Condit"

Here Mehitable drew a sharp breath as she now realized what it was she was overhearing. A Tory meeting in patriotic Parson Chapman's own meeting house! It was the essence of irony!

She looked indignantly around her. Night had fallen, with bright moonlight to soften its murk. If only she could warn those men who were so calmly being sentenced to death or exile by their erstwhile neighbors. She had recognized the speaker as being one Josiah Felton, a bitter partisan of the king and long a person to be avoided. But only silence, with the occasional stamping of horses' hoofs, answered her until—a strange feeling made her glance at the meetinghouse door. There, staring at her vindictively, was the man she had thought safe in some patriot prison camp—Hawtree! And as she gazed in horror another figure joined him. It was Squire Briggs!

A sharp cut of her whip sent her horse flying down the road; but her brave little attempt at escape ended in sorry failure. Her steed stumbled and fell to his

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 knees and before she could resume her flight upon foot the two men were beside her.

"How now, mistress?" sneered Hawtree. "Art caught again?"

"Let me go!" commanded the girl furiously, as his fingers caught her wrist in a rough grasp. But paying no attention to her, the rascal dragged her to one side of the road, where he consulted with his shifty-eyed companion.

"I know of a cabin," Mehitable heard Squire Briggs say. Twill do until"

His voice sank. Mehitable, standing hopeless now, felt her heart contract. Until—what? she asked herself. Her mind refused to believe the conclusion to that question, despite what she had overheard in in front of the meeting house. Then the Tories turned toward her and, each grasping an arm, they half led, half carried her into the swamp bordering the road.

Afterward she reproached herself for not fighting bitterly every step of the way, making her captors pay in the way of scratches and bites from her sharp teeth. Dazed, however by her sudden misfortune, she stumbled along meekly enough until Hawtree, noticing her head turning frantically in an effort to see the path they were following into the depths of the swamp, laughed tauntingly.

"Ye know now how I felt Christmas morn when that jackanapes traitor, Von Garten, took me prisoner for the while," he mocked.

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 "He was no traitor, sir!" burst out Mehitable, forgetful of her sorry plight.

"He wore the Hessian uniform. He was a spy and traitor, mistress!" repeated Hawtree angrily.

"Spy, perhaps, for his country; but no traitor to your miserable king!" cried Mehitable. And scarce had spoken the words when she staggered beneath the other's cowardly blow. She would have fallen but for Squire Briggs's grasp. He stopped and faced the other with snarling lips.

"Fool!" was all he said, however.

At last, after long tramping, during which Mehitable's heart and head ached alike, they reached a tiny hut. Desolate and alone it stood, surrounded by black, partly frozen water and accessible only by one path leading to the door in its front.

But once across the threshold Mehitable stopped in sheer amazement. The interior of the cabin, in contrast to its wild and lonely surroundings, was comfortable, even luxurious for those days. A fire burned cozily upon the hearth, skins of various animals lay here and there upon the hard dirt floor, and a bunk built into one corner was piled high with blankets, with even a pillow for its occupant's head. Chairs and a table completed the room's furnishings save for some shelves with a scanty array of pewter dishes upon them. Except that stout bars across each of the two windows were visible, it might have been the home of some young Colonial farmer and his bride.

Thrusting her into a chair, the two men again consulted together. Her weary ears caught such scraps

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 of conversation as "not safe—she must have overheard," "knows too much," and again that ominous "until." She could have wept from terror and the pain in her head.

At last Squire Briggs turned toward her. "An ye try not to escape, Mehitable," he said briefly, careful not to meet her eyes, "we will let ye have the freedom o' this cabin. If not"

He paused significantly and Hawtree finished his sentence with an evil laugh.

"If not—ye had a taste before, mistress," he said nastily.

Mehitable looking at them silently, they took it for assent and withdrew, when she staggered wearily over to the bunk and fell asleep, with the knowledge that Charity and her parents were in danger and she could not warn them!

Morning, like an ancient hag, showed a worn and gray face as it crept past the wooden bars. Squire Briggs was early with her plain, cold breakfast and, somewhat to the girl's surprise, allowed her to go outside to make her toilet. As she stooped to dash the icy water over her hands and face, Mehitable thought of making a wild attempt to escape; but one glance around her showed how hopeless would be that attempt. The swamp seemed impenetrable, even in the daylight.

That day passed and the next. There had been a plentiful supply of logs upon the hearth. But now it was the last log! And already the piercing cold of a freezing night was beginning to creep in at every chink.

Finally the log was consumed. And poor Mehitable

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 had to walk up and down the narrow space of the cabin, swinging her arms to keep warm. She curled up in the bunk after a while and pulled the blankets around her. Her relief was enormous when the door opened and Squire Briggs appeared with her supper and a fresh supply of logs.

Casting them down upon the hearth, he kindled the fire once more and spoke into the shadows.

"I know not why ye cannot be a good girl like my 'Randy, 'stead o' traipsing around the country hearing things ye should not!" he burst out irritably.

Mehitable had to laugh at this and, offended, the Squire slammed down the trenchers he held upon the hearth and stalked from the cabin.

The girl waited until the fire blazed high, then jumped from the bunk and approached the trenchers which held her supper. But hungry as she was, she snatched back her hand without touching them and sprang to her feet. Retreating to the opposite wall she stood staring, rigid with horror. For there beside the trencher she had almost touched, with head erect, with tongue darting like a flame, with tail moving, was a large rattlesnake!

Mehitable could scarcely believe her eyes. Real country girl that she was she knew that all species of snakes retire to their holes the first cold night to sleep for months, not to waken from their torpor until the bright spring sunshine brings them forth. Yet here was this snake, not only alive but ready to attack, on one of the coldest nights of the year, with the thermometer at zero!

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 At last as she stood perfectly motionless, the facts of the case flashed over her. The snake must have crawled into the cabin, and the door subsequently having been closed, finding itself caught, it had found a hole in the fireplaces and had gone to sleep for the winter. The furious heat of Mehitable's fire had roused it and forth it had come in search of food. Finding the trencher, there, it had naturally resented Mehitable's unexpected appearance, and now it was ready to give battle.

She edged cautiously along the wall to the door, which she tried with trembling fingers. It held firm, though she had hoped against hope it might not, and for the first time she cried out. The utter horror of it struck her. She was alone and locked in with a rattlesnake!

But the snake did not move from its place before the fire. Gradually, it dawned upon Mehitable that as long as she remained quiet, the snake would, too.

The fire blazed up merrily. After a while the food, reheated by the leaping flames, began to send forth tantalizing odors. Mehitable looked hungrily and desperately around for a pole or something similar to try to draw the trencher toward her; but at her first movement the snake lifted its head and rattled its warning so spitefully that the girl, terrified, desisted.

Once she thought of attempting to reach her bunk which, raised from the floor, would offer her protection; but this thought was instantly followed by the memory of what her father had once told her—that snakes travel in pairs and that after killing one deadly snake,

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 it is always wise to hunt for the mate. Her face blanched as she realized that even now that mate might be lying hidden in the blankets of the bunk.

"I shall have to stand here all night!" she thought despairingly.

Stand there with her back to the door she did, hour after weary hour. Once or twice her head nodded in acute fatigue and she virtually went to sleep upon her feet; but each time her danger forced her awake again. The fire not being attended to, died down, and when even the embers smoldered and went out, poor Mehitable had the added horror of not being able to see her enemy.

Dawn came lagging at last. There was just the suggestion of light when the exhausted girl caught? slight sound outside the cabin, a rustling of swamp grass. She uttered a low cry of relief. Any one would have been welcome at that moment, even Hawtree!

It was not Hawtree, however, who a moment later tried the door. As the door swung slowly open, Mehitable moved so that she stood shielded behind it. But the newcomer entered so swiftly and so silently that he was bending over the hearth with his load of logs before she could utter a warning.

Her cry came too late! There was a terrible rattle, the flash of a brown body, the downward onslaught of a heavy piece of wood and then Mehitable found herself staring at an old acquaintance—the Indian! He, in turn, was staring down at the dead snake that still wriggled convulsively at his feet.

"But the snake! I—I—saw it leap at you!" panted

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 Mehitable, feeling suddenly very sick and queer and commencing weakly to cry.

The Indian turned at the sound of her voice and regarded her stoically.

"Ugh," he agreed. "It bite! I die!"

And to prove it he turned and displayed his shoulder, for his blanket had dropped to the floor. Already upon his smooth brown skin the fatal result of the snake bite was revealing itself!

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HARITY, after her first convulsive grasp around Young Cy's waist, held on merrily as they trotted away from Squire Condit's gatepost, although she twisted around to wave a last good-bye to Mehitable.

"You little know how near I was to staying home!" she laughed. "My mother was not there and Mehitable, forsooth, had a sudden spell o' being mistress!"

Young Cy laughed in carefree enjoyment. A good horse beneath him, the brisk, cold invigoration of a bright January day, the pleasant companionship of one of his favorite friends—what more could a lad desire! So they cantered and walked by turns until they had veered away from the Second Road and, turning into the First Road, had passed Scotland Lane and the meeting house and were headed now directly for Newark.

"See that?" nodded Young Cy mysteriously, as they passed the meeting house.

"See what" inquired Charity mischievously. "Methinks the building, if that is what you mean, looks not out of the ordinary. What about it?"

Young Cy laughed. It was so easy that happy

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 morning to laugh! But he sobered as he looked back over his shoulder.

"I have word that the Tories intend to hold a meeting there to-night," he said in a grim tone. "Think of it. Cherry! Holding one of their treasonable gatherings right there in the Parson's own building!"

"But Parson Chapman has, despite his own patriotism, a great many Tories among his congregation," answered Charity reasonably. "I suppose they think 'tis their right to use the meeting house an they choose."

"Well, 'tisn't," denied Young Cy vigorously. "That meeting house was built to worship God in and it isn't worshipping God to hold a Tory meeting there and—and" He faltered and groped for words to finish his meaning.

"And worship the devil!" finished Charity with unexpected daring. "Oh, la, Young Cy!" she laughed. "Let us discuss more pleasurable things this lovely morn than Tory meetings."

As they neared the fields and meadows outlying the farms on the west of Newark an hour or so later the two young travelers gazed in pity at the meager herds of cattle and flocks of sheep grazing there. The planters who, like Squire Condit, lived back in the Newark mountains, had been more beyond the reach of the raiders who had swooped across into New Jersey—the seizures of stock and supplies had been less frequent there.

"Why, that be Matthew Crane's meadow. Young Cy," observed Charity, pointing. "I remember the enormous herd of cattle he used to have there!"

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 "Aye," nodded the boy soberly. "Newark has been recently occupied by ye enemy, besides. What the raiders did not take, the regulars did!"

They trotted along in silence until they began to ascend the western slope of the ridge across the summit of which were certain paths used by the young people of Newark for summer strollings and called, therefore, lovers' lanes. Below, halfway down the hill, was a lane called High Street upon which had been built one or two dwellings. This was the western boundary of the Town by the River.

"Ye know, Cherry, ye must be prepared to see desolation hereabouts," warned Young Cy. "Father said 'twas scandalous what ye enemy did after the Battle o' Trenton—they destroyed so much. The homes of Samuel Pennington and Josiah Beach were robbed o' everything, even clothes. Though the joke of it was, ye town Tories fared no better than the Whigs, for the Hessians did not spare them either."

"Those Hessians!" flashed Charity. "To think they are in this war for the money they make!"

Young Cy nodded grimly. "I have a good notion to tell ye something, Cherry," he began, glancing around him cautiously.

"I can keep a secret!" cried Charity eagerly.

Tis this, then. I have joined the 'Jersey Blues,' Cherry!"

"The 'Jersey Blues'?" repeated Charity, puzzled.

"Hush, not so loud!" Young Cy looked around at her frowningly. "Ye 'Jersey Blues, he went on softly, "are secret organization formed of mostly

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 the farmers and planters hereabouts, to punish, so far as we be able, the British and Hessians for outrages committed by them. They are under the command of a wonderful man, Captain Littell, and they wear home-made blue uniforms made by the wives and the mothers of the members. Already Captain Littell has made the enemy dance to his tune!"

Tis wonderful." Charity's eyes shone.

"The enemy call us 'those rebel devils, pursued the boy. "They hate us more than the regular AmercanAmerican [sic] troops, for we have scored so many silent victories. The day Newark was abandoned by the British, when they marched to Elizabeth Town—the day after our Trenton victory—a detachment o' them was sent to Connecticut Farms. We knew they were bent upon mischief, so Captain Littell followed hastily—I was not along, but I have this from Hiram Taylor—and ambushed some o' his men, then appeared in front o' ye enemy with the rest o' them. The enemy, turning, found that they were being fired upon from the rear, also, and surrendered without firing a shot themselves, only to be chagrined by discovering the small numbers of their captors. The British commander ordered out a body o' Hessians to avenge the insult; but Captain Littell drove them into a swamp and forced them, too, to surrender to his inferior numbers. A troop of horse was then sent to annihilate the 'rebel devils,' but they had to seek safety in flight. I tell you, Cherry, we plain farmers, when roused and fighting for our homes, are more than a match for troops fighting for hire!"

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 "Oh," breathed Charity enviously, "I would I were a man!"

Young Cy laughed, then he pointed to the pretty village nestling at their feet as they paused upon the slope of the hill. Newark, at that time, consisted of about one hundred and fifty houses, a few taverns, and some little shops. Beyond the small farms which skirted its eastern boundary was the Passaic River, and still beyond that, across the swamps, was another river, the Hackensack. The Hudson River was hidden from their eyes by the heights which lay between them and Paulus Hook, as Jersey City was then called, while the shore lines of New York and Staten Island were also invisible for that same reason.

Tis pretty, isn't it!" said Young Cy simply, before picking up the horse's bridle he had allowed to slacken upon the beast's neck. "Get along, Tab! Father told me to go to ye tavern for dinner. Cherry, and we'd best hurry, for 'tis past noon."

Descending to the village. Young Cy rode through it. Charity gazed with interest at the town pump, placed at the intersection of what are now Broad and Market streets. This public pump, put for some reason ten or twelve feet below the street level, was always surrounded by mud in warm weather and by ice in winter, yet it was one of the centers and gathering places for the townspeople. Now one or two buxom maids were chatting there. But Young Cy hurried past to the tavern on the northeast corner of Broad and Market streets, where he dismounted stiffly and helped Charity down from her pillion.

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 "Go in, Cherry," he said. "I will follow as soon as I see about the nag's dinner. Ho, hostler!"

Not exactly relishing the idea of entering the tavern alone, the bitter wind soon sent Charity scurrying to cover as her escort disappeared around the corner of the house. Inside the entrance, she stood breathless a moment, her hood slipped back to reveal her soft curls, and her long cape making her appear older than she really was.

Several men lounging before the great fireplace looked at her curiously as she paused there, and one of them, a big, hulking fellow with somehow an air of the sea about him, kept his eyes fastened boldly upon her flushed cheeks. It seemed to the embarrassed little girl that she stood there a long, long time before a door at the rear of the room opened and mine host, a tray of smoking dishes held high above his head, entered from the kitchen. He caught sight of her at once and, placing his tray upon a table, came toward her.

In a voice trembling half from fright, half from anger, Charity asked him about dinner for two, carefully avoiding as she did so the unpleasant stare of the man by the fireplace.

"Aye, dinner!" nodded the host. "Well, wouldn't ye like to wait in the kitchen with my mistress? 'Tis more pleasant than here, methinks!" And he sent a keen glance in the direction of his other guests, all of whom looked away at the implied rebuke except the brazen-eyed man.

In the inn kitchen a vast hubbub of boiling pots, steaming kettles, and broiling meats was going on; but through the blue haze of smoke and steam Charity

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 saw a large, fair-faced woman directing several wenches. As the little girl paused again, shyly, Mistress Gifford, wife of the host, approached her.

"There—there were some men in there by the fire," murmured Charity in answer to her question as to what she wished.

"Ah, I understand!" And Mistress Gifford's sweet face flushed. Tis doubtless Captain Jaffray stirring up trouble! Well, we shall return to the proper room for our guests."

So saying, Mistress Gifford flung the kitchen door open and entered the taproom with sturdy tread.

"How now, sir! May I ask why you send a guest into ye kitchen?" she demanded in a high, audible voice.

"My dear," returned the tavern keeper deprecatingly, "I but did it for her own peace o' mind."

"Enough!" answered his wife sternly. "Let it be understood, forsooth, that this room is for all of our guests and that any one not behaving in a gentlemanly manner is free to leave!"

This time, before her angry glance, Captain Jaffray's eyes sought his plate and, victorious, Mistress Gifford turned away, to beckon Charity to a table in a cozy inglenook. A moment later the door opened and Young Cy entered hastily.

To Charity's surprise, however, he did not come to where she was waiting, but hurried over to the fireplace where, a moment later, to her great displeasure, she heard him greeting the man Jaffray in a loud, cordial manner. There was a laughing exchange of

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Page:The practice of typography - a treatise on the processes of type-making, the point system, the names, sizes, styles and prices of plain printing types by De Vinne, Theodore Low, 1828-1914.djvu/16

10 not entirely fill the matrix; gutta-percha and celluloid cost more and have disadvantages that outweigh their merits. Large types for posting-bills are made from close-grained wood like made from that of the box, maple, or pear tree: for hard woods this branch of printing, types of wood are preferred, as lighter and cheaper than those made from metal. Types of wood are seldom smaller as to height of face than one inch. They can be made smaller, but small pieces of wood warp after heat or swell after moisture and are unfit for practical work.

As now practised, type-making has six distinct departments: (1) Punch-cutting, or the art of designing and engraving the model characters from which types are made; (2) Fitting-up, or the art of adjusting the matrices to the moulds; (8) Electrotyping, or the art of making matrices by electrolysis; (4) Mould-making, or the art of constructing the moulds in which types are cast, and the exact tools by which ' their accuracy is tested; (5) Type-casting, or the art of founding types in moulds; (6) Type-dressing, or the art of finishing the incomplete work of the type-caster. The breaking-off of surplus metal from the cast types, the rubbing-down of the feather edge made in casting, the kerning or adjusting of overhanging letters, and the final inspection of each finished type are additional operations. Every large foundry has a few workmen


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 words, and then Young Cy was standing beside her with Jaffray.

"Charity," said the boy awkwardly, "I wish you to meet Captain Jaffray of New York. He will share our table."

Trembling with anger. Charity scarcely looked up as she murmured her acknowledgment of the unwelcome introduction. But in no wise dismayed, Jaffray seated himself and motioned to the tow-headed servant, whom the girl instantly disliked for smiling broadly at her predicament, to bring his dinner to him.

Captain Jaffray addressed all of his conversation to Young Cy who, looking pleased and excited, responded rather boastfully, it seemed to Charity. She herself sat silent, scarcely eating. Then, when the others had finished, Jaffray, who had been speaking of his sloop, proposed that Young Cy go down to inspect itit. [sic]

"Aye, let us do so!" agreed Young Cy enthusiastically. It could be seen that he entertained the greatest respect and admiration for the other.

"But, Young Cy, I do not think my mother would like it an I went 'way over to ye river!" protested Charity, in genuine amazement.

Young Cy drew down his brows in a quick frown; buth is face cleared as Jaffray intervened smoothly.

"Would she mind, think you, when you are so well escorted by Master Jones here?" he suggested. "Besides," he turned to the boy, "I have that spyglass—the one I promised ye—on board."

"Aye, truly?" Young Cy's eyes sparkled. "Ah, we must down ye sloop, Charity," explained

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 importantly. "Captain Jaffray has there a gift for me."

"Perhaps I could wait here," began Charity timidly. But Young Cy caught up her cape laughingly.

"Nonsense!" he exclaimed. "What harm can befall! Best not to get separated, though, Cherry! Why, we shall be back here within the hour!"

Once within Captain Jaffray's trim, neat cabin on board his sloop. Charity wondered why she had been so timid. Only when he entered from a stateroom adjoining, whither he had repaired to fetch the spyglass, did her heart misgive her. Could an honest man's face wear such a sinister look as the one he cast upon Young Cy's back? Then, as he advanced, as his expression changed to one of simple cordiality, she reproached herself for being overly suspicious.

"There, sir," he said, as the boy turned eagerly toward him, placing the spyglass before him upon the table.

"Oh, 'tis a beauty!" breathed Young Cy. "But, sir"—he paused—"I cannot accept this as a gift; 'tis far too costly."

Replacing the glass sorrowfully upon the table he stepped back. There was a moment's silence. All were engrossed. No one glanced toward the portholes which lighted the cabin. Had they done so, two of the occupants of that cabin might have discovered a most interesting fact.

"Nay, sir," repeated Young Cy, and now there was downright renunciation in his voice, so that Charity felt sorry for him, tis too fine a gift to take unless I

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 had some way o' paying ye for it. And I—I—fear I have no way o' doing that!"

Jaffray looked at him calculatingly for a moment. "Jones," he said at last, in a pseudo-frank tone, "there is a way o' paying me for the trifle an ye wish."

"Truly!" Young Cy's glance, which had dropped despairingly, flashed upward in sudden hope. "I would pay anyway I might—service or grain—I have half a crop which my father let me have last fall! Speak quickly, sir!"

Again Jaffray studied him coolly. Then he seated himself and drew the boy into another chair beside him while Charity watched in surprise.

"Jones," he began quietly, "in this war with England, there are many for her, many against her. I told you a falsehood last week when I met you in Newark. I let you think me a patriot. On the contrary, I am a Loyalist."

Young Cy stiffened in his chair. "But you told—told me" he stammered.

Jaffray nodded, his face all kindly concern.

"Let every man have his own beliefs, I say," he went on reasonably. "What matters it what I believe or what you do? The thing that matters is this spyglass which ye say ye desire. There is a small way you can pay me for it—a slight bit of information"—he shot a look at the boy's amazed expression—"information which will not hurt any one to give or me to receive. If I asked you to tell me about—the 'Jersey Blues'—what would you say, young sir?"

As Captain Jaffray's suave voice died away in the

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 appalled silence there was, for a tiny space of time, not a sound, not one movement. Then with a crash of his overturned chair. Young Cy sprang to his feet, his e'es blazing like angry flames in his white face.

"I'd say no, sir—a thousand times, no!"

Again absolute silence drifted over the cabin. Then the boy pointed with shaking hand at the spyglass.

"Were you trying to bribe me with that, sir?" he asked, hot scorn in his voice.

Captain Jaffray smiled and now both his young guests saw, with terror, the cruelty underlying that smile.

"Putting it crudely—perhaps," he said. Charity, shrinking back, caught his eye. Like a panther, Jaffray turned upon her. "Perhaps you," he snarled, all suavity gone forever from his voice, "perhaps you know something o' the 'Jersey Blues.

But Young Cy interposed bravely.

"She knows naught," he said curtly. And Jaffray, convinced, for Charity's youth and frightened face spoke more than Young Cy's words, turned toward the hatchway. But before he had paced forward more than a foot or two. Charity, whose gaze had, by chance, come to rest upon one of the portholes, uttered a horrified shriek.

"Young Cy, the boat is moving! See, we are being carried away! I can no longer see the dock nor the shore! He is taking us away from Newark!"

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HE words, "It bite! I die!" seemed to sound through the little cabin like the echoes of a death knell. There was such terrible, significant acceptance in the Indian's voice that for an instant Mehitable had the distinct vision of him lying twisted in mortal agony at her feet. Then her natural courage reasserted itself and she started forward impetuously.

"Nay, no use to talk of dying!" she said, vigorous opposition in her voice. "There are ways of curing snake bites an they be followed at once!"

But the Indian, who had been staring somberly before him into space, lifted heavy eyes to hers and shook his head.

"I die!" he repeated simply, stubbornly.

"What dost mean?" demanded Mehitable, upon whom the reason for the certainty of his statement was dawning. "You are not able to reach the place upon your shoulder where the snake struck. And so you will die because of that."

The Indian nodded.

"Well," but here Mehitable shuddered in spite of herself, "I can reach it! I will do—what you say!"

For the first time since he had bent over the fire to place the wood upon the hearth, hope sprang into the

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 red man's face. He took an eager step toward the girl.

"You cut it?" he asked in a voice not quite steady with its unexpected revulsion of feeling. "My knife—you cut it."

"Aye," nodded the mountain girl in turn. Her round cheeks paled in anticipation of what she had to do. "I will cut it! Where is you knife?"

Without another word the Indian handed her his hunting knife and silently seated himself upon a stool, presenting his bare shoulder to the girl.

And now Mehitable had to take a firm grip upon herself indeed. With steady fingers she cut away the flesh around the snake bite upon the red man's shoulder. When she had finished, the Indian, who had not once flinched during the operation, spoke in a firm tone.

"Burn!"

Mehitable started.

"You mean—burn the wound?" she faltered.

The Indian nodded.

"Oh!" The girl's eyes dilated. "I cannot! I cannot!"

Her voice rose in a sudden wail and, dropping the knife, she clasped her hands and began to cry hysterically. Her hard night's vigil and the recent strain of the operation told upon her nerves. But the Indian, sitting passive, was indomitable. He waited until her sobs had lessened and spoke again.

"Burn!"

So Mehitable stooped and, picking up the knife, went to the fire and placed its blade directly in the hottest

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 part of the flames. Red man and white girl watched silently until the metal was crackling white, when the Indian nodded sharply. Mehitable tore a corner from a blanket and wrapping it around the handle of the hunting knife, carried it from the fire and laid it directly on his bleeding flesh. There was a sizzling noise, an odor of burned flesh, and Mehitable dropped the knife with another cry.

"I cannot! I cannot!" She swayed dizzily.

"All right!" said the Indian stoically, who had been perfectly motionless during this trying ordeal. Indeed, he seemed far less affected than the girl.

But just as weeks ago she had bound the Indian's wound when he had come through the snow to the Condits' farmhouse and she and Charity had been alone in the house, so now Mehitable's hardy spirit soon revived and she once more picked up the hunting knife to reheat it.

Twice, then, she carried it from hearth fire to the mutilated shoulder of the red man—twice, quite steadily, with no hint of swooning in her steps.

When the Indian held up his hand and murmured, "Enough!" Mehitable was able to tear a linen scrip from her petticoat and bind his shoulder with quick, deft fingers. Then he rested awhile and the girl, too, sinking down upon a chair, relaxed.

It was fully dawn before the Indian stumbled to his feet and muttered, "Come!" Then Mehitable for the first time realized that the door had been ajar all this time, that escape was possible.

Without one look around her hateful prison, where she

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 had spent one of the most trying nights of her youthful life, she followed her guide out through the door.

Free! That is what every blade of dried, brown grass said to her, what every rattling leaf on well-nigh barren tree limbs proclaimed. Free! Her own eager footsteps, treading almost on the Indian's moccasined heels in her joy of escape, shouted the tidings to the silent swamp world.

The Indian did not choose a northerly path through the swamp, though Mehitable was almost sure that had been the direction whence she had been led by Hawtree and Squire Briggs and that toward the north lay the only real way out. Instead, however, her guide, this time skirting the more obvious bogs and great standing pools of skim ice, and seeming to exhibit an almost miraculous sense of direction and judgment in choosing the harder ground, led her toward the west straight through the swamp.

Once or twice a rabbit scuttled across before them, and once the girl saw the flash of some silvery-gray animal—probably a fox—as it disappeared into the grass. But no human offered resistance to their advance, and another hour saw Mehitable scrambling up the bank from the swamp into the serene safety of the Second Road.

There the Indian paused. Mehitable, above him on the road, turned in time to see his brown hand gesture a brief farewell to her before he vanished back into the gloom of the marsh. And with his vanishing, the swamp became once more as remote, as inaccessible, as dreamlike as ever. And she began to run toward home.

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 It seemed to her, then, that the road lengthened magically into an endless one, as if, no matter how swiftly she ran, she would never reach her destination. But at last she arrived at her father's gate and that without meeting any one. She had been terrified for fear that she would encounter Hawtree or Squire Briggs, although she had hastily formed a plan to elude them should she do so, by dropping at the side of the road into the edge of the swamp and hiding there until they had passed. Her relief was proportionate, however, when she found herself actually upon her own doorstep.

The kitchen, when she pushed open the door with eager hand, was empty.

"Mother! Father!" She called them each impatiently. But no answer came. Complete silence only answered her cries, and save for the fact that a fire was burning upon the hearth with early breakfast preparations in evidence, she would have turned and left the house again. Never before had the homely odor of frying salt pork been quite so welcome to her nostrils as that which greeted her this morning, telling her as it did that somewhere near must be her mother.

Mehitable was just hanging her cape upon its peg when a familiar step sounded outside the door through which she had entered a moment before. It opened, and her mother entered slowly.

The girl stared aghast at her. Was this sad, old-looking woman her robust, cheerful mother? A few days of dreadful anxiety had indeed changed her. But how her face became transfigured with joy when

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 she looked up and saw her daughter standing unexpectedly before her!

"Hitty!

"Hitty!"

"Oh, Mother!"

The two cries mingled even as Mehitable flew to her mother's arms and was pressed tenderly, hungrily, to that faithful heart. It was some moments before either could speak coherently, and then each looked at the other through fast-falling tears of joy.

"Your father has been searching for you day and night," said Mistress Condit tremulously, "as have been all our friends! And for Charity, too! Oh, Hitty, is not Charity with you?"

A hard tale it was that Mehitable had to relate to her mother; but at last it was finished, and Mistress Condit sat plaiting the folds of her cape with nervous fingers, while her lips trembled and her eyes overflowed with tears. But a sudden thought struck her, and the righteous anger she felt soon dried her tears.

"That man!" she cried, referring to Squire Briggs. "He shall pay for this, Hitty—have no fear!"

At that instant Squire Condit, who had been out feeding his stock, entered the kitchen, and the joyful yet sad and anxious greetings were once more exchanged. And again Mehitable had to relate her experiences of the past two days and nights. Her father's eyes flashed more than once as he learned of his old neighbor's perfidy and treachery. When the girl stood silent, he buried his face in his hands, as he sat by the fire and groaned aloud.

"War! War! This terrible war!"

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 Mistress Condit rose and went to him.

"You will feel better, Samuel, for some breakfast," she said softly. "Indeed, we all will!"

Mehitable flew to help her mother with the breakfast preparations, wondering how she could have ever grumbled at household tasks. How inexpressibly dear seemed every detail of home life, of her home itself!

Soon the breakfast was upon the table, and for all their anxiety they ate hungrily. It was when they had finished that Mehitable asked about Mistress Dodd.

"She is dead, Hitty," returned her mother soberly. "Five motherless children left there because of the accident. I know not what poor Mr. Dodd will do!"

"We go to the funeral early this afternoon, Hitty," broke in Squire Condit. "From there Master Jones and I shall go on to Newark to search for Charity and Young Cy."

"Oh, my little girl!" moaned Mistress Condit. She clasped her hands, while the tears rained down her cheeks. "Where are you?"

Mehitable started up from her seat with flashing eyes. "Let me go to Newark with you, Father," she begged. "I can track down the scoundrel who 'ticed Cherry away!"

Her parents glanced at each other and Mistress Condit dried her tears, a faint smile glimmering upon her sad face. Yet in the end Mehitable won her point. After the sad services were performed and poor Mistress Dodd was laid away in the Burying Ground, Mistress Condit turned back toward home escorted only by Amos

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 and Judd, while Mehitable trotted off beside her father and Master Jones.

As she rode along, Mehitable was surprised and shocked to see the slow tears course down Master Jones's furrowed cheeks. She whispered her question to her father.

"Had ye not heard?" asked the Squire in surprise. "But no, I forgot ye were not home. Mistress Jones was shot down by some Tory scoundrel, laid low by the bullet aimed doubtless at her husband as she rode home behind him on a pillion from the Dodd farm yesterday. We have not yet found the assailant. She be very ill, poor woman!"

"This dreadful war!" ejaculated Mehitable, directing a pitying look at her father's friend.

Squire Condit, who had been to Newark since the enemy's evacuation, pointed out the damage wrought there, as they approached it over the hill. Master Jones, his attention but apathetic in spite of the Squire's brisk remarks, stared listlessly, but Mehitable was all vigorous denunciation.

"Those Tory beasts!" she kept crying, as they passed one blackened ruin after another, ruins which had once been happy homes.

"I doubt if Newark recovers from this invasion for years to come. All business has been almost paralyzed," remarked Squire Condit, shaking his head. "We had best go to ye Eagle Tavern, had we not, sir?" he pursued, as they trotted through the village streets.

"Nay. Did I not tell ye that I bade Young Cy get his

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 dinner at the Hunters and the Hounds?" exclaimed Master Jones.

But when they reached the tavern at the corner of Market and Broad streets they met disappointment. Master Gifford and his mistress were visiting in Cranetown, now known as Montclair, and would not be back until late that night. Meanwhile, the tow-headed inn servant who answered their questions at the taproom door appeared strangely stupid and forgetful. No, he did not remember two young folk dining at the inn on the day in question. He shot a slant-eyed glance behind him as he spoke; then, finding the room empty, became louder in his protestations of ignorance. Entirely too loud! thought Mehitable, eying him sharply from behind her father's back.

As they turned away disconsolately Master Jones spoke hurriedly.

"I shall visit ye other taverns, neighbor, and will meet ye later at this place."

Squire Condit agreeing, they parted, and Mehitable and her father strolled down Broad Street. It was growing dusk, but through the shadows the swinging signs over the shop doors seemed to lure the passers-by. Many people of that day could not read or write, and so the signs, instead of advertising in printed letters the wares for sale within, had ornate paintings upon them of those same wares. The proprieter of a tool shop would have a scythe or a pitchfork upon his sign, the owner of a meat and vegetable store would have a juicy beefsteak or a pumpkin—yellower than ever nature made it—upon his sign. These shops, then,

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 were not called "Smith's Store" or "Brown's Market" but "At the Sign of the Scythe" or "At the Sign of the Steak."

When they came back at last to the Hunters and the Hounds inn, the Squire gave one glance into the noisy, overcrowded taproom he was about to enter and drew back.

"Ye cannot go in there, lass!" he exclaimed. Tis no place for you!"

He retraced his steps as far as the town pump and there paused to ponder the situation. Already, Mehitable could see, he was regretting having brought her. Partly to distract him, partly to reassure herself, she uttered an exclamation as a lady, followed at a short distance by a Negro slave, passed by.

"Father, I vow 'tis Mistress Martha Hicks!"

The lady turned involuntarily at hearing her name; but she would have hurried on had not Squire Condit started forward with outstretched hand which, in all politeness, she could not ignore. Her hand, however, fell limply away from his.

"Mistress Hicks!" exclaimed the Squire, in obvious relief. "Why, perhaps ye can help me solve my problem!"

"How may that be?" And the lady smiled rather wryly in the concealing darkness.

"I am beshrift for a temporary lodge for Hitty, here," explained the Squire, glancing at her with anxious eyes. "I would crave your hospitality for a while. The taverns are not fit places for a girl at this hour."

"Well, Squire Condit," returned Mistress Hicks,

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 reluctantly, after a hesitating moment, "I should be glad to offer your daughter hospitality; but"

"That will help me truly!" answered the Squire quickly, cutting off the lady's almost-refusal. He turned to Mehitable who, after her first curtsey to Mistress Hicks, had stood silent beside him. "Go ye with Mistress Hicks, Daughter. I will call for you as soon as I see Master Gifford. Madam, I thank you!" And sweeping off his hat the Squire strode off hastily in search of Master Jones and supper.

Now Mehitable was not at all pleased at this summary way of foisting her upon such a hesitant hostess. She stood staring crossly after her father until Mistress Hicks made an impatient gesturegesture. [sic]

"Come, child, let us not tarry longer!" She looked at the girl with thinly veiled ill will. "I should have been home long ere this!"

They formed an odd little procession, the lady first, Mehitable next, and the slave, carrying a basket, bringing up the rear as they hurried through the dark, narrow lanes. Mistress Hicks soon turned off from Market Street and wended her way south, turning in, at last, before a large, handsome house, now rather forlorn and neglected-looking, more so than the season warranted.

They went around to the rear and entered directly into the large kitchen where, before the fire, sat a very old lady in a great armchair that seemed to swallow her by its size. She looked up as the newcomers approached the fire.

Tis the fairy queen!" she cried, peering at them with bright eyes.

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 Mistress Hicks shrugged her shoulders. "Pay no attention to her," she said shortly to Mehitable, who was gazing at the old lady in amazement. "She be daft since this war came upon us!"

"Nay, Daughter, thou art the one daft," returned her old mother with unexpected clearness, "serving ye King 'stead o' Liberty!"

"Oh, hush thee!" cried Mistress Hicks rudely. "If you could but hold your tongue as successfully as you concealed our wealth, 'twould be well." She turned to Mehitable. "My mother hid all of our silver and jewelry and much o' our best clothing when she knew the British were coming to Newark, although I tried to keep her from doing so. She was all right at that time; but since the invasion she has been queer-like, and what is worse, she has completely forgotten what she did with everything!"

"Everything!" echoed the poor old lady, nodding her head wisely. "The British nor them that serve them shall get it," she added significantly, laughing at her daughter's sullen face.

Mehitable, who, although she did not know these friends of her mother well, yet remembered Mistress Hicks as a bright, happy bride and the old mother as an alert, wealthy old lady, could not help staring at them in surprise and pity. The war had indeed entered here and wrought havoc!

"Well, sit ye down," snapped Mistress Hicks at last. With the help of a Negro woman she had been arranging a few viands upon a table drawn up to the fire. She seated herself unceremoniously and did not offer to help

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 when, with difficulty, the Negress persuaded the old lady to rise and come to the table. Mehitable shyly found her place and supper was served.

Only once did the taciturn hostess break her silence, and that was to inquire uninterestedly for the girl's mother. At last, when the words of the old lady had penetrated, the truth burst upon Mehitable. Mistress Hicks and her absent husband must be Tories!

At this thought the girl pushed her stool from the table and stared at Mistress Hicks. That lady piled her knife and spoon steadily and did not deign to notice her.

"Art not a patriot?" asked Mehitable, swept away from all tact.

Mistress Hicks looked up sourly. Then, at sight of the girl's expression she burst into a mirthless laugh.

"What dost mean by the word, patriot?" asked she at last, coolly.

"I mean, art a Tory?" inquired Mehitable steadily.

For a moment their two glances fenced, the girl's perfectly honest, the woman's inscrutable. But honesty prevailed.

"Aye," Mistress Hicks acknowledged sullenly. "I be a Tory. My husband is with 'Skinner's Greens' on Staten Island. But," she raised her head angrily, "no one asked ye here to insult us, young mistress!"

There was a crash as Mehitable leaped from her stool. The scene was the more uncanny for the fact that the little old lady kept on eating placidly.

"Oh," choked Mehitable, "I ate your food—your Tory food!"

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 She stood there a moment, clasping and unclasping her hands. Then with a gesture of repulsion, she snatched up her cape, which had fallen to the floor, and darted to the door. She slipped out into the night, leaving the candle to sputter in the sudden draught of the open door and Mistress Hicks staring down stonily at her plate, while the little old lady threw back her head and laughed and laughed.

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OR a paralyzing moment Young Cy stared at Captain Jaffray. Then he started forward with flashing eyes and wild words.

"Ye—ye—would d-dare to do this!" he stammered, almost beside himself with horror and rage. "Ye would dare to—to—kidnap us, to carry us away, sir!"

"Softly!" returned Captain Jaffray. He moved back a step in spite of himself, however, for the boy, tall and strong for his age, was not an unimpressive figure in his wrath. Then, his gaze fixed upon Young Cy's face, the older man called:

"Myles! Daniel!"

As though they had been expecting the summons and were in waiting, the two men appeared promptly from the deck. One was the oarsman who had rowed them out to the sloop, while the other was a great hairy fellow whose long arms and short legs gave him a grotesque, gorilla-like appearance. Charity could not help an exclamation at sight of them. They grinned.

"Bind him!" said Captain Jaffray laconically.

There was a brief, furious struggle as Young Cy threw himself upon Daniel in a futile attempt at escape; but superior numbers counted, and it was not many minutes before the boy, panting and crimson-faced from

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 exertion and anger, lay bound hand and foot upon the cabin floor.

To Charity the whole episode began to seem like a terrible nightmare. She wanted to scream and found that her voice was gone. She wanted to go to Young Cy's help, although she really could have been of no assistance to him, and it seemed as though her limbs had turned to stone. She could only stand there uttering little anguished cries that dwindled into stifled sobs.

Then Captain Jaffray made a curt gesture and the men disappeared obediently, stumbling up the hatch. The captain seated himself calmly.

"Now, young Master Jones," he said, a cruel twist to his lips, "perhaps ye will listen to reason a trifle more patiently than before!"

"Oh, sir!" began Charity, starting forward. But Captain Jaffray turned so ferociously upon her that she cowered back into silence.

"Now, Master Jones," continued Captain Jaffray, as though he had not been interrupted, "ye can take your choice! Either ye can tell me all ye know concerning the 'Jersey Blues' or" he paused significantly and even innocent Charity shuddered. Faint but terrible rumors of the English prisons in New York, worse of the English prison ships where the patriots were treated and killed off like so many cattle, had reached Newark and the mountain settlement. One member of the mountain colony had already lost his life aboard one of the prison ships anchored in the East River, while another had escaped home, only to

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 die later. Young Cy now cast an utterly hopeless glance at Charity, appalled at the punishment he had brought upon himself and her by his rashness.

"I" he commenced. the captain bent forward to listen with an air of triumph.

But suprisinglysurprisingly [sic], Charity stepped toward him imperatively.

Tis no use, Young Cy, to reveal aught of the 'Jersey Blues, she said quietly. "Do ye not realize this man wishes to try and find out all ye know and then treat ye as he pleases? Nay, tell him nothing!"

Captain Jaffray sprang from his chair and strode toward the little girl with uplifted hand. She had, indeed, read his purpose. She met his angry eyes, however, with such steady ones that involuntarily his hand dropped to his side and he turned sullenly away.

She went over to look wistfully out of the cabin windows. When she turned back she found that she was alone with Young Cy and flew across to kneel beside him.

"Let me untie the knots while he is gone. Young Cy!" she implored feverishly.

"Nay, Charity, 'twould do no good!" answered the boy hopelessly. "I am but one against their three and they soon would have me trussed again! Besides, I doubt an ye could untie them an ye would, these knots! That villain Daniel knows his job right well! Oh, Charity," he looked up at her with sorrowful eyes, "can ye ever forgive me for dragging ye into this terrible trap? You were wise and I the dunce, indeed!"

And the boy groaned aloud, writhing and striving

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 to break the rope that bound him until the veins started out on his forehead from the strain. Charity was back at the table searching vainly for a knife when heavy feet descending from the deck sent her to the cabin windows once more.

Captain Jaffray came down into the cabin. He looked at each suspiciously; but finding Young Cy still lying bound where he had left him on the floor and Charity gazing silently out at the low, marshy river banks they were passing, he said nothing, merely glowering darkly as he passed through into his stateroom and closed the door.

As though to taunt them the spyglass rolled to and fro with the motion of the boat—thumpity-thump, thumpity-thump—striking a box at one end and a pewter candlestick holder at the other end of the table. Charity seated herself upon the floor beside Young Cy, her thoughts running desperately, like a mill race, trying to think of some plan of escape. Young Cy, too, was silent, cudgeling his brain as to means toward that end. But their plight seemed absolutely hopeless. They could do nothing—at any rate, nothing until they had reached the end of this dreadful journey, for, though Young Cy could swim, had there been a chance to jump overboard and so escape from the ship that way, Charity could not swim. Besides, the river was widening into the rougher waters of Newark Bay, and even Young Cy's stout heart might quail at thought of dropping into the icy water there and fighting his way through the waves to shore.

And now, as though to make matters more dismal, the afternoon sunshine began to wane. Once the sun

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 commenced to drop toward the west it descended with a terrible swiftness. Soon the shadows left the corners of the cabin and came out boldly to the center. Lemoncolored dusk turned river and sky into one pale wash of that shade. And then, with the wintry abruptness of January, it was night.

When it was quite dark and he could no longer see her, Young Cy called to his silent companion.

"Charity!"

The little girl stumbled to her feet from her chair beside the table and went over to him.

"Yes, Young Cy?" she answered whisperingly.

"I think we be almost at the end of our voyage, Cherry, now. And I have been trying to plan an escape."

"I too, Young Cy!"

"Didst look upon the table for a knife or some implement whereby ye could cut this rope, Charity? I vow, I cannot bear to think of dying like a trussed fowl!"

"Aye, Young Cy, I looked for a knife; but there was none. I will feel again, however, an ye desire!"

Charity turned and groped her way back to the table in the center of the cabin. As she had said, though, there was no knife there. Her eager fingers slid along the table's smooth surface, encountering only the spyglass and the candlestick holder until she aimlessly took hold of the box. This she picked up, remembering that it was a pretty carved box of teak wood.

As she felt of it in her hands, suddenly her fingers encountered a little hidden spring and the carved lid

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 flew open. Of course, her curiosity caused her to explore the interior of the box. All at once, she uttered a sharp cry and almost dropped the box.

Young Cy tried to pierce the darkness with his eyes; but all he could make out was the dark smudge of Charity's figure against the lighter spot of the cabin window.

"What is it, Charity?" he asked anxiously. "What made ye cry out?"

"Something bit me," answered the girl. "Why, my finger is wet," she went on wonderingly. Then her tone changed into that of fright: "Oh, Young Cy, 'tis blood! I have cut myself!"

"Cut yourself?" The boy's voice was unbelieving.

"Aye!" Charity, feeling her bleeding finger, gained assurance. "Aye," she reiterated positively. "I have cut myself. But it does not hurt now!"

This time, more carefully, she investigated the inside of the box and at last drew forth a tiny Chinese dagger. Instantly, she was across the cabin and before Young Cy could realize what she was doing she had cut the ropes tying his hands and feet. But to her surprise, he did not move.

"Why, Young Cy," she whispered in great disappointment, "you are free! You can move!"

"Nay," he answered breathlessly. "I have just thought of a plan whereby ye can escape, I think. I must not move. Listen, now, to my plan. When the men come to fetch us off the ship, I doubt an they bind you. Charity. I feel sure that I can fool them by holding my hands and feet together as though they

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 were still bound. Then, when we are on deck, I can give battle and do ye run, Cherry, for the rowboat and escape in that!"

"But what about you. Young Cy?"

"I care not for myself," answered the boy impatiently. "I will always fall upon my feet like a cat, no matter how or where I am thrown. Do not worry about me. Charity. I am sure I can make an escape later. But do ye as I bid! Promise me!"

"Aye, Young Cy, I promise," faltered Charity, only half satisfied by this plan which permitted only her flight.

They relapsed into silence. Charity had at once replaced the little box, with the dagger inside, upon the table, exactly where she had found it. And now the thumpity thump of the spyglass did not sound so triumphant, so taunting, at least to Charity's imaginative ears.

It was evident that Captain Jaffray was most contemptuous concerning their attempting an escape. He did not trouble himself to watch them at all. He had, as a matter of fact, at once fallen asleep upon throwing himself upon his bunk and did not reappear until the end of their voyage.

Young Cy prayed that the captain would not light the candle lest he discover that his hands and feet were no longer tied. But he was disappointed. The first thing Captain Jaffray did upon his reappearance in the cabin was to stride to the table and there, striking flint against steel, light the candle and turn to survey them trifle sleepily its yellow, flickering light.

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 Fortunately, however, Young Cy was in the shadow of the table where he lay upon the floor, and his captor noticed nothing amiss in his attitude, especially as the boy held the rope in such a clever manner that it seemed to be still binding his wrists. It was obvious, too, that the captain had forgotten the contents of that little innocent-looking carved teak-wood box.

"Well," he said, grinning sardonically, though his prisoners knew at once that he was the better-natured for his nap, "I am here to give ye one more chance to tell me what ye know of the 'Jersey Blues,' Master Jones. I have been sent to discover what I can of them, especially of their captain, whose name we have, never fear, and whose neck shall soon feel the rope! Best tell me, for ye will be sorry an I have to deliver ye to headquarters! There, I warn ye, they do not wrap ye in lamb's wool."

Young Cy remained silent a moment after Captain Jaffray had ceased speaking. Then he said sullenly:

"I have nothing to tell ye of the 'Jersey Blues.

The captain shrugged his shoulders. "Very well," he said, "so be it. Master Jones. May ye not regret it!" He called aloud. "Myles! Daniel!"

As before, they appeared promptly, falling noisily down the hatch. It was plain to be seen that they held their captain in fear.

"Turn him out!" ordered Captain Jaffray briefly, pointing to Young Cy.

The two men stooped and lifted Young Cy to his feet, the latter holding them tightly together as though they were still tied.

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 "Can we not untie his feet till he reaches the deck?" pleaded Myles, not relishing the task of carrying the tall lad bodily up the steps.

But Captain Jaffray frowned.

"Do as I bid ye!" he ordered harshly. And with a groan and a sigh, the two men bent to their burden. Young Cy purposely and maliciously made himself as heavy and awkward as possible, falling first against one and then the other of his carriers. As long as they were in the cabin the men did not dare to retaliate; but as soon as they had reached the night air, Daniel gave the prisoner a pinch. This served but to give added force to the blow which Young Cy now delivered unexpectedly in return. Daniel, taken by surprise, fell headlong to the deck.

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HARITY had climbed silently up to the deck behind the others, followed lastly by Captain Jaffray. But now he paid for his negligence as the girl profited by it, for by the time peace was restored upon the sloop's deck and both Myles and his captain were nursing black eyes, she had vanished.

Young Cy, when he discovered such to be the case, suddenly ceased his frantic blows, delivered at random but seemingly none the less effective for that, and sat down to count his own bruises.

Charity, crouching in the rowboat into which she had dropped as it bobbed beneath the stern of the sloop fought long with the wet hemp of the towline. She could have screamed with the aggravation of that dreadful knot! She was almost certain, besides, that as soon as her flight was discovered, one of the men would be ordered into the water in pursuit. Although she could hear the noise of the fight and the groans afterward, she did not realize that if it was a short battle it was a furious one, so when she did get the towline untied she wasted no time in pulling for shore.

Captain Jaffray staggered at last to the ship's rail, but it was too late. Charity had disappeared into the darkness.

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