CHAPTER IV.

AN IMPORTANT ERRAND.

Visitors were few at the widow’s cottage, but the very night after Jacob Dyer had been there another knock at the door ushered in a very different visitor. The widow had just trimmed the fire, swept the hearth, and drawn up the settle, and was waiting for Jack and Dicky to come in and get their supper of milk and porridge and potatoes, when a thundering rat-tat-tat came at the door. When she opened it, there stood an elderly gentleman in a cocked hat and handsome knee buckles and a gold-headed cane. The widow knew him in a moment. He was Squire Stavers, one of the richest citizens of Newport and a staunch patriot. The widow was rather flustered by the importance of her caller, but invited him in politely.

“I understand, madam,” began Squire Stavers, “that you have an uncommonly reliable boy—a little fellow who goes about singing for his living.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the widow, all in a flutter. “It mayn’t seem such a steady business for a boy, but the times are so hard I can’t find anything else for him to do, and he makes a very good living and brings all his money to me.”

“His employment will answer very well for the present,” replied the squire, “and when times become more settled no doubt you can find honorable work for him. What I came to see you about to-night was in connection with him. Is there any danger of being overheard?”

For answer the widow rose and bolted the door of the cottage and—rare luxury!—lighted two tallow candles. Then the squire continued:

“I know, madam, that you are the widow of a Continental soldier and may be depended upon to help your country.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the widow quite promptly.

“This, then, is what I wish to say. The patriots of Newport desire to communicate with the Continental forces at Providence Plantations, and if they can get a trusty messenger as far as Tiverton, there will be no difficulty the rest of the way. We dare not employ a man on this service as we are closely watched. But a boy would never be suspected, and our communication would be in the form of a letter that would reveal nothing in case it was found. Mr. James Barton, who has a gallant son in the Continental Army, and myself are old friends, and we are supposed to be corresponding for pleasure and profit. Mr. Barton, for example, has beeves to sell, and writes me asking the price in the market. His younger son has lately visited my house, and in my letter I speak of him. Yet there is a hidden meaning in all this, and it would be of substantial help to the cause if we could carry information in that manner.”

“If you will wait a few moments, sir, I will ask Mr. Bell’s opinion. He’s a steady, sensible man, and although I’m perfectly willing to let my boy do all he can, I’d rather consult Mr. Bell.”

At that moment they both heard Dicky and Jack Bell fumbling at the latch. The widow rose and let them in, then bolted the door again.

Jack Bell knew well enough who Squire Stavers was, and when Dicky heard that he, Dicky Stubbs, was actually wanted for an important service, he could scarcely forbear hurrahing and cutting the pigeon wing in his delight.

“Now let me read you the letter I wish the lad to carry,” said the Squire, putting on his great gold spectacles, and taking a letter from his pocket. “Suppose your boy is stopped. Let him at once produce this letter, and if the British can find out anything from it, they are cleverer than I take it.”

_My dear Sir_,—

Your letter, enquiring what price beeves will fetch, is received, and I made a note of the contents. No one can understand who has not been here lately, the extremely low price that animal produce has fallen to. But let me know in regard to the beeves, stating whether you wish to sell them on the hoof or not, which is important. The lad who takes this can bring a verbal message straight enough, but it would be safest to write, as boys are but heedless creatures, and of their own memory, they are overconfident. However, the bearer of this, may be your son, as I am expecting him to return this way, and I may keep it for him. The town is closely patrolled, and although the force here is large, it is remarkably well disciplined. Your son was very popular among the young ladies, who seemed determined to surround and capture him. The place is not what it was in times of peace, as it is very dull, the military being obliged to see an extremely strict watch kept, and it would not be difficult in consideration of the unsettled state of affairs to believe that we are in a state of siege, which is a serious matter. There is but an indifferent interest taken in welfare of the town, except by General Prescott commanding the land forces. He is an able officer, and his loss would be very great should he be transferred. I am thinking of taking up my residence at the Eagle Tavern, or at the Overing House, on the outskirts of the town.

I should let my house to a staff officer of my acquaintance who wants it for six months. General Prescott has taken up his quarters as if he meant to stay, and it leads me to think that no change of commanders is impending.

I am, Your Friend and Obedient Servant, WENTWORTH STAVERS.

Jack Bell listened with great solemnity to the reading of this letter, and when the Squire finished reading and lay back in the chair with a triumphant smile, Jack remarked with emphasis:—

“There ain’t nothin’ to hurt a babby in that ’ere letter. It’s all plain sailin’, as fur as I can see.”

The Widow Stubbs agreed with him, and Dicky thought privately it was one of the stupidest letters he had ever read.

“Well, now,” cried the Squire with a victorious air, “suppose you read every third line, beginning at the third from the bottom. Here you are.

“General Prescott has taken up his quarters at the Overing House on the outskirts of the town. He is an able officer and his loss would be a serious matter. There is but an indifferent watch kept, and it would not be difficult to surround and capture him. The place is not closely patrolled, and, although the force here is large, they are overconfident. The bearer of this can bring a verbal message straight enough. But let me know in regard to the beeves; the contents no one can understand.

“Now, what do you say to that?” inquired the Squire as he finished the interpretation of the letter.

Jack Bell’s jaw dropped and Dicky almost rolled on the floor in his surprise, while his mother took the letter and, counting the lines, saw how the information conveyed in it was so different from what appeared on the surface. Presently Jack Bell recovered himself enough to bring his hand down on the table with a thwack that made the candles jump and everybody in the room jump, too.

The Squire enjoyed the sensation he had given his simple audience and looked around with an air of much satisfaction.

“Now,” said he, “I want this letter taken to Tiverton, ten miles up. If the boy takes it, I will lend him a horse,”—here Dicky could not forbear thrusting his tongue into his cheek and wagging his head with rapture,—“and if he is stopped on the way, let him hand out the letter. They will probably read it and pass him on. And one thing may be of use to you—I will give you two shillings if you bring me an answer back; so, if you are stopped, tell your captors that and they will probably let you go.”

The Squire then rose to leave and, standing with his hand on his gold-headed cane, spoke impressively:—

“I have confided in all of you to-night, and if one word from any of you gives rise to suspicion, there will be deep and serious trouble for all of us.”

“I can answer for me and my boy,” said the widow, while Jack Bell made reply:—

“I can answer, sir, for Jack Bell, as who is a uneddicated man, but ain’t a fool, nor yet a rascal.”

“I believe you, and good-by to all of you. The boy must be at my house at sunrise to-morrow morning. He ought to be back by the early afternoon, and if he is not, I myself will go and look for him.”

The Squire then went out and the widow and Jack Bell and Dicky sat and looked at each other, the widow unmindful of the extravagance of burning two candles when there was no distinguished company.

“Well,” said she after a pause, “the boy can’t come to harm just riding between here and Tiverton—do you think so, Mr. Bell?”

Instead of the hearty assurance that the widow expected, Jack looked quite solemn and seemed to avoid an answer. But the widow’s pleading eyes forced a reply out of him.

“’Tain’t the distance, ma’am—that’s neither here nor there—and the boy could leg it easy enough. But horses is ornnateral sort o’ beasts and they’ve got a special spite ag’in sailor men and sailor boys too. I never see a sailor man git on a horse that I didn’t see the four-legged scoundrel kinder look around with a devilish grin, as much as to say: ‘Aha, I’ve got you now! You ain’t a-ridin’ the spanker boom, nor yet the topsail yard, and I’ll bounce you off or bust’—and they most in gin’ally don’t bust. I can’t help feelin’ oneasy about trustin’ him a horseback, ma’am.”

The widow laughed at this and Dicky cried out indignantly:—

“Why, Mr. Bell, I’d just as lief ride anything from an elephant to a goat. ’Tain’t any harder to stick on a horse than it is to hold on to the topsail yard.”

“Yes, it is, boy,” answered Jack with much severity, “and a sight more dangersome. Horses, I tell you, has a spite ag’in sailor men—and they’re mighty cunnin’ in carryin’ out their ill-will. I wish you was goin’ to leg it. That’s all.”