CHAPTER VI

A GREAT MAN’S COUNSEL

Officers stood about in the hall of the house, as they did outside, and many spoke to Colonel Cadwalader as he led his protégé in; but he answered them but briefly. Evidently his pride had been touched by the incident of the moment before, and he was struggling to keep his temper in check. He was kindness itself to Hadley Morris, however.

“Have no fear of your reception by General Washington,” he whispered. “The dispatches you bear will be sufficient introduction.”

But Hadley was afraid. Not, perhaps, that he feared any unkind treatment; but in kind with most youth of his bringing up and station in life, he looked in actual awe upon such a great man as the Commander-in-Chief of the American forces. Nor did his fear lessen as they entered the room.

Washington sat at a little deal table, which evidently at the moment served him as a desk. In those days his headquarters were scarcely the same twenty-four hours at a time. When he glanced up, seeing Colonel Cadwalader, he arose to greet him, coming forward a pace to do this with much cordiality.

“We have great need of you, Mr. Cadwalader,” the General said, waving Hadley’s new friend to a seat near the little table. “You come from the river?”

“Aye, General. But I can give you little news of a satisfactory character, I fear. However, here is a young lad who bears something which may prove of moment.”

Washington glanced swiftly at Hadley, who stood, plainly ill at ease, and wringing his old cap in his hand. The brilliant, if travel-stained, uniforms of the officers who surrounded the general contrasted oddly with the patched and soiled garments the boy wore. He had ridden away from the Three Oaks Inn in his stable dress, and he felt the incongruity of his presence now more keenly than before.

“What does the young man bring?” asked Washington.

“Come forward, my lad,” Cadwalader Urged. “Give the General your packet.”

With trembling fingers Hadley unbuttoned his coat and drew forth the sealed papers. He knew all the time that those keen eyes were looking him over. They seemed to penetrate even the wrapper of the packet.

“Where are you from, boy?” asked Washington.

“From--from the Three Oaks Inn,” stammered Hadley. In his own ears his voice sounded from a long way off.

“And who gave them to you?” was the next query.

Hadley stammered worse than ever in trying to tell this, and John Cadwalader took pity upon him. “So many strangers confuse the lad, General. But he’s by no means a youngster without resources. From his own story I reckon him a youth of action rather than of words,” the colonel said, smiling.

“Egad!” exclaimed one of the amused officers, under his breath, “it’s boys like him we want, then.”

Rapidly Cadwalader related the story of the injury to the dispatch bearer at the Three Oaks Inn, of Hadley’s escape from the dragoons with the papers, and of his adventures on the road; just as the boy had told it to him in the carriage. Meanwhile General Washington had slit the wrapper of the packet and unfolded the papers it contained. He nodded now and then as Cadwalader’s story progressed, but at the same time he glanced hastily over the papers.

“Ha! the boy has done us all a service,” the Commander said at length. “These matters are most important. The papers come direct from New York, gentlemen, and we have here at last a sure outline, I believe, of His Lordship Howe’s intentions. It is well, my lad,” he said, glancing again at Hadley, “that you let not the packet fall into the hands of the enemy. Our work would have been put back some days,--perhaps crippled. I must see more of you. You seem heartily in sympathy with our country’s cause. Why have you not enlisted?”

“Egad, General!” exclaimed the same subordinate who had before spoken, “I’ll set him to drilling myself if he’ll enlist. He’s a man’s stature now, if not a man’s age.”

The boy flushed and paled by turns as he listened to this. “Come, speak up, Master Morris!” exclaimed Cadwalader, encouragingly.

“I--I cannot enlist, if it please your honors,” the boy said. “My uncle will not let me.”

“And who is this precious uncle of yours who’d keep a well-set-up lad like you out of the army?” demanded the second officer.

“Ephraim Morris is his name, sir. We live hard by the Three Oaks, across the river. I work for Jonas Benson, who keeps the inn.”

“We have record of this Ephraim Morris,” said a dark-faced man in the corner, looking from under lowering brows at the boy. “As rank a Tory as there is in all Jersey. I’d not put too much trust in what the boy brings, gentlemen, if he’s Miser Morris’s nephew.”

The words stung Hadley to the quick. Unconsciously he squared his shoulders, and his eyes flashed as he looked in the direction of the last speaker. “My uncle refuses me permission to join the army, it is true,” he said, chokingly; “but he has no power to change my opinions.”

For an instant there was silence. Washington flashed a glance at Colonel Cadwalader.

“Master Morris,” Washington said, “we doubt not that you have good reasons for not enlisting. But I believe you are in sympathy with us and heed your country’s peril. You live in a community where you may be of great benefit to us in the future. You have mentioned a man named Holdness. You know him well?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then deliver this note to him when next he passes the Three Oaks Inn. He will return on the morrow or next day, I hear. Meanwhile be always ready to serve the cause as you did last night, and, despite your uncle’s prohibition against your joining the army, we shall count you among our most useful servants. What say you, Mr. Cadwalader?”

The colonel bowed. “My mind exactly, General,” he said.

“This will pass you through the outposts,” the Commander said, handing the two papers he had written to Hadley. “The colonel tells me you have a horse not many miles from here. I wish you a safe return.”

Too disturbed to scarce know what he replied, young Morris got out of the room, and not until he reached the open highway did he take a free breath. And all the way back to the farmhouse where Molly had been left, he grew hot and cold by turns as he thought of the awkward figure he must have cut in the presence of the leader of the American cause. It was mid-afternoon ere he recovered his horse and started for the river. Molly had been refreshed and carried him swiftly over the road to the regular ferry, where he had been unable to cross the night before.

He met with no difficulty in passing the outposts and such scouting parties of the American army as he met. There was no sign of British soldiery upon this side of the river. He crossed the ferry at dark, and three hours later rode quietly into the inn yard from the rear and put Black Molly into her stall. Then he approached the house, wondering what reception he should meet if Colonel Knowles and his daughter were still sheltered there.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

THE FRESHMAN BANQUET

BY HARRIET WHEELER

The bell was tolling for the vesper service. The students trooped out of the various buildings and wended their way, more or less hastily, towards the chapel. The last stroke had just ceased to vibrate as two girls slipped into opposite ends of a rear seat and dropped down side by side. As soon as it was safe, one of them pulled a note from her pocket and stealthily tucked it into the hand of the other.

“Read it and hand it over to Nellie Gaines,” she whispered.

Edith Latta spread the note open on her lap and read:--

“Girls:--The Sophs have got news of our banquet, so we have changed from the Watson House to the Goodwin. Everybody go down to Fanny Berginrose’s right after chapel. The fish have come.”

Within ten minutes every member of the Freshman class had read the note, and it is to be feared that during the next half-hour their minds were less occupied with the services than with curiosity and the thought of planked white fish.

Immediately after chapel the Freshman girls separated.

A party of Sophomore boys gathered behind the chapel and eyed the retreating Freshmen suspiciously.

“There’s something up, fellows, sure,” said Bert Loranger. “We’d better shadow the Freshies.”

“You and George go, Bert,” said Theodore Lathrop. “They’ll smell a mouse if a crowd follows. We’ll go up to Chapin Hall and you can ’phone us the news.”

The party separated, and George and Bert strolled down the path leading through the campus toward town. The girls were in sight as they crossed Pleasant Street and turned up Public Avenue. Bert slipped behind the Parsonage and watched them cat-a-cornered through its bay window.

“They’re going to Fanny Berginrose’s!” he exclaimed.

“And there come two more Juniors, with another crowd of girls, down the hill.”

“That’s all right,” declared George Nelson. “Come on down to Blake’s. We’ll ’phone the fellows from there.”

The boys hastened over to the livery stable. “Hello, there, Ted! We’ve tracked the girls to Fanny Berginrose’s. You know the scheme. Hurry down.”

Ten minutes later a dozen Sophomores entered Blake’s, hot and breathless.

“Everything’s moving,” said Bert Loranger. “We’ve ordered two ’buses. We’ll go down to Fanny’s in a body and politely offer to escort the Fresh-Ladies. Once in, we’ll drive them over to Rockton and across to Freeville, and keep them going till midnight.”

As soon as the ’buses were ready the boys sprang in and started for the Berginrose mansion. As they drew up in imposing array along the curb, they stood up and, swinging their hats, gave the Freshman yell: “Siss, bang! Boom-a-lang! Roar! Vive-la, Belmont! 1904!”

Long before that all the girls were watching them from the window.

“The Sophomores! What shall we do? Don’t let them in!” cried they in a chorus.

Fanny stuck her head out the window and asked, “What’s wanted?”

“We’ve come to offer our services as escorts to the hotel,” said Ted, bowing as gracefully as possible to a second-story window.

“They’re up to some trick,” whispered Edith Latta. “Anyhow, they still think we’re going to the Watson House. That’s good.”

“Declined with thanks,” responded Fanny, slowly withdrawing her head and closing the window.

The boys began to get out of the ’bus, and very deliberately surrounded the house.

“I do believe they’re going to try to break in,” cried one of the younger girls. “Call up the police.”

Fanny considered for a moment, but the sounds below dispelled her doubt. Going to the ’phone, she called up the city marshal.

His laugh could be heard through the ’phone. “All right,” he shouted; “I’ll be up with force big enough to quell all disturbances.”

In a few moments the officials appeared, followed by three Juniors. Fanny let them in and bolted the door behind them.

“What shall we do, Mr. Appleton?” said the girls, surrounding the marshal.

“Do! Jump into the ’buses and we’ll see that the drivers carry you all to wherever you want to go. And at their expense, too,” he said, chuckling at the thought. “Here, you boys,” to the Juniors, “no time for coats.”

The girls put on their wraps. The marshal threw the doors open and shouted, “The girls accept your offer. Clear the way!”

The girls followed the marshal into the ’buses. The Sophomores surrounded them and attempted to climb over the wheels. But the policemen, by some well-directed rib-poking with their clubs, were enabled to free the ’bus. The three Juniors mounted to the drivers’ seats, and then, leaving a crowd of chagrined and disgusted Sophomores on the sidewalk, the ’buses rattled down the street.

At the hotel the Freshmen boys greeted the new arrivals from the steps and escorted them to the parlors.

“How in the world did you boys get over here?” asked Edith.

“Sneaked,” responded Addison Meyers, briefly. “Three or four of the boys are putting themselves a good deal in evidence over at the Watson House, just to keep up appearances. They’ll come later.”

Then the party proceeded to take sole possession of the second floor of the hotel. There was a cozy little dining-room on that floor, just large enough for their use. Their rather sudden descent upon his establishment had evidently taken the landlord by surprise, and, red of face and short of breath, he was now doing his best to catch up.

“I’m actually faint,” declared Belle Shephard, twenty minutes later. “I hope the spread ’ll be ready on time. This terrible excitement makes me hungry.”

Kauffman responded gallantly. “What, ho, landlord!” he said, rapping vigorously on the door of the dining-room. Immediately a shuffling step was heard within, and the door was opened but a few inches.

“Mein Herr, these ladies are ravenous. They demand planked white fish or your life. How soon--”

“Planked white fish?” interrupted the landlord, in indignant astonishment. “I give you not one white fish. I promised them not. For so little money, it is not--” But Kauffman had suddenly shut the door upon his protesting countenance, and turned to the group behind him.

“How’s this, His Excellency denies the white fish?”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!” exclaimed Edith Latta, tragically grasping the two girls within her reach, and drawing all eyes in her direction. “We forgot to have them sent down. We were scared out of our wits and we forgot everything.”

Jack Kauffman, who seemed to thrive on bad luck, made straightway for the ’phone, his first resort in all such cases. He rang up Klumpf, the baker.

“What about those fish? Are they done?”

A silence.

“How’s that? I couldn’t quite hear.”

“Taken? Who-- Say! what was he like? Tall, light hair, wore a spotted vest and patent leathers. Well, I--”

Kauffman hung up the receiver with an impatient twang.

“I say, fellows and gentlemen, we’re done for. The Sophs have hooked our fish. Jim Wilmore and that crowd--”

“Hello!” The door flew open suddenly, and Bill Winters, one of the Juniors, burst in.

“Here’s something for you fellows. The Sophs sent it over to the Watson House, thinking you were there.” As he spoke he handed what looked like a letter to Jack Kauffman. “Looks as if they have taken your coats,” he added.

“Coats!” exclaimed Crawford, in sudden surprise. “Why, I left mine in the ’bus.”

“So did I, and I!” exclaimed several voices at once.

Kauffman read the letter.

“Ye green and verdant Freshmen are cordially invited to attend an auction sale of coats, to be held in the lower hall of the Goodwin immediately after the Sophomores partake of their white fish supper. We would state privately that in the pockets of these garments will be found many rare and valuable relics, such as autograph letters, signed by your own classmates, unpaid laundry bills, etc. These will be sold to the lowest bidder.”

Embarrassment and indignation were plainly visible on the faces of the Freshmen, and both feelings were reflected in no small degree in the countenances of the girls.

“White fish!” exclaimed Crawford, who was the first to recover from the general consternation. “That explains it.”

“Why! How!” exclaimed the girls, who could not fully take in the situation. Kauffman looked up with a grim smile that was not entirely mirthful. “In other words,” he began, and his teeth seemed to cut each syllable, “they have scooped our coats and obtained our planked white fish under false pretenses. Now they propose to eat the fish under our very noses and sell the coats at public auction. Can such things be?” He looked about him upon the comical dismay of the group. Then a storm of indignant protests filled the air.

“See here, Jack.” Crawford plucked Kauffman by the elbow and led him to one side. There was a hurried consultation between the two and a sudden decision. When it was reached Crawford slipped from the room and left the hotel by the little street in the rear. Presently those nearest the front windows became aware of some unusual commotion at the entrance to the hotel, and, when somebody cautiously raised the window and reclosed the inside blinds, the sound of Crawford’s voice was distinctly heard.

“Blame you fellows,” he was saying; “give me my coat. I left something valuable in the pocket. It’s a mean trick, anyway.”

“What was it, Freshie?” came from a lower window in a taunting voice. “Handkerchief?”

A laugh and a chorus of derisive responses sounded at once, some of the latter expressing deep sympathy, others suggesting more or less practical substitutes for the supposedly missing handkerchief.

The Freshmen above could see that Crawford was the centre of a rapidly increasing crowd of Sophomores, to whom he continued earnestly to appeal for his missing coat. There was a whine in his voice that none of his classmates ever remembered to have heard before, and which stirred the Sophomores to wonderful flights of sarcasm.

“What does he mean?” whispered Fanny Berginrose, in genuine perplexity, to the girls about her. “He must know that that kind of talk will never do any good. Catch me begging them for anything. John Kauffman, what’s this all about. Why--where is John?”

Nobody knew. He had slipped away unobserved. So, also, had Addison Meyers and Harry Bartlett. While the girls were still expressing their wonder, sounds of cautious footsteps were heard upon the narrow back stairs which connected the second floor with the kitchen. The door was pushed open, and Kauffman appeared, bearing a great covered platter, which was just all he could handle. But he was grinning. Behind him were Meyers and Bartlett, ears deep in heaping armloads of coats.

Jack passed into the little private dining-room in which the spread was now ready. For a few minutes there came sounds of protest and explanation, and then Jack and the landlord came in together. Suddenly, as if he had forgotten something, the latter went to the window and gave a low whistle.

In a minute, Crawford, bubbling over with laughter, came up the stairs two steps at a time.

“How was that, fellows, for an indignant Freshie?”

MR. NOBODY

There is a funny little man, As quiet as a mouse, Who does the mischief that is done In everybody’s house. There’s no one ever sees his face, And yet we all agree That every plate and cup was cracked By Mr. Nobody.

’Tis he who always tears our books, Who leaves our doors ajar; He pulls the buttons from our shirts, And scatters pins afar. That squeaking door will always squeak For, prithee, don’t you see, We leave the oiling to be done By Mr. Nobody.

The finger marks upon the doors By none of us are made; We never leave the blinds unclosed, To let the curtains fade; The ink we never spill; the boots That lying round you see Are not our boots--they all belong To Mr. Nobody.

A DAUGHTER OF THE FOREST

By Evelyn Raymond