Part 11 (1/2)

”Dat am de General!” he explained, shutting the heavy door after the limping figure.

There was no need of explanation. The eyes under the drooping frill grew joyous at the sight of the honored face. The heart under the coa.r.s.e cotton frock beat high with pride, and--yes, shame, for how was the boy to make himself known?

”Pray be seated,” the deep voice was saying. ”You are weary and you have taken chances of danger to reach me with your gift.”

Andy sank into the nearest chair.

”I appreciate your devotion and unselfishness, but I would advise no future attempts to pa.s.s the British lines for such a thing.”

”There were other reasons, sir,” said Andy. Was.h.i.+ngton came nearer.

”I fancied so,” he said, ”and they are?”

Andy drew the basket of eggs to him, and unwrapped several, handing the papers to Was.h.i.+ngton. The General took them, crossed to the window, and for a few moments pieced the bits together carefully. Then he read. Andy watched him, remembering that other face in the greenhouse on the never-to-be-forgotten night.

”Where did you get these?” he said suddenly. Andy stood up leaning upon his crutch.

”A messenger, in time of danger, must come as he may, sir,” he said, bravely. Then tearing off the bonnet he added:

”Andy McNeal, at your service, sir!” Was.h.i.+ngton's face never betrayed him, but a glad look came to the overweary eyes. He extended his hand, and grasped Andy's.

”I remember!” he said. ”You have been true to your trust. And now for the story.”

Sitting in the stately room of the mansion, opposite the great General, Andy McNeal told his story. Try as he might, his voice would break, but he thought no shame of his weakness, for the keen eyes looking into his own were often dim.

”I asked a great thing of Nathan Hale,” said the General at last, ”but he gave it willingly. Andy McNeal, you have been a faithful friend to as great a hero as the Revolution will ever know. Many offer their lives.

He offered his honor. Willing was he to die, and to die dishonored by the many. Some day his country will understand.”

”And, sir, do you know the British are bringing their s.h.i.+ps up the river?”

Was.h.i.+ngton's eyes gleamed. ”I have sent men to Frog's Point,” he smiled.

”They will meet a welcome when they land. Thank you. And now farewell.

Take heed as you return. You are safer without a guard.”

”Is there no work for me to do? Is there no place in the ranks for such as I?”

The tremendous question broke from Andy's lips. To go back into idleness was his one dread. He longed to follow; to be the humblest, but most patriotic, of the many. Was.h.i.+ngton understood.

”I must leave here directly,” he answered. ”Ere another week pa.s.ses I shall be gone. Where future battles are to be fought, remains to be seen, but always, my first object is to guard the Hudson. I need faithful hearts here. I shall not forget you, Andy McNeal, nor your service. If I can use you, be ready. I shall know where to find you. You are sure to be more useful here than elsewhere. You know your woods as few others do, and I know I can depend upon your courage and faithfulness. Again farewell.”

Andy arose, drew on the disguising headgear, not even thinking of it, so full was his heart, and so he departed to face whatever lay before.

The immediate thing that faced Andy McNeal was the meeting with his own father. It took all the courage he possessed to do this, and yet he knew that he could not begin to live again until the new complications had been grappled with and readjusted.

After dark of the same day upon which Andy had seen Was.h.i.+ngton, he reached his mother's little house. Hans and he had had several encounters with the British, but a thickheaded, deaf Dutchman, and a young, frightened lame girl, with a hideous bonnet, served only for a moment's idle sport for the king's gallant men. And after annoying delays they were allowed to pa.s.s with a warning to come soon with more food, or their houses would be burned over their heads.

Andy paused outside the cottage. He heard his mother moving about, and the indistinct voice of a man from the guest-room beyond.

”The vine again!” thought Andy. But the ascent in the gown was difficult. ”A maid's progress is bitter hard!” smiled he, and he thought tenderly of Ruth.