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“Who is that man that is so much at the Wheelocks’ just now?” asked young Walter Stanton of his friend Philip Morgan.

“Some Tory friend, I suppose. I don’t like him; see the sneer upon his face as he looks at the members upon the steps of the State House.”

It was about noon on a day late in September in the year 1777. A group of young men and boys were lounging upon some benches in the shade of two big buttonwoods directly across from the quaint old State House at Philadelphia. The sun hung almost over the tower whose bell had boomed freedom to a nation only a little more than a year before; upon the stone steps of the building stood a number of grave-faced, earnest gentlemen, members of the first Continental Congress, talking of the weighty matters that were to be discussed in the approaching session.

The man who had attracted Walter Stanton’s attention was a person of striking appearance. He had thick, coal-black hair, a pale, keen face and a frame that showed strength and endurance. A boy of about nineteen stood at his side, and they were both talking in low tones and watching the patriot-legislators as they slowly assembled. Philip Morgan was right when he said that the stranger wore a sneer upon his face. That cold look of pitying contempt and the curl of the man’s lip could mean nothing else. A stir went through the crowd of lads as an erect, care-worn man passed slowly along, with bent head and an air of great abstraction, every hat came off with a sweep of respect.

“Who is that man?” asked the stranger of Walter.

“That,” answered the boy, “is Mr. Hancock, president of Congress.”

The stranger’s teeth gleamed in a mocking smile.

“Ah, yes, I have heard of him,” he said. “It was he that caused this war with England.”

Walter and Philip looked at each other; the boy at the man’s side nudged him in a manner that said as plainly as words: “Be careful of what you say.”

“It’s news to me,” spoke Walter Stanton, “to hear that Mr. John Hancock was the cause of the war.”

“We had always fancied that it was begun by that old madman, King George,” said Philip Morgan, who was a blunt spoken lad at best; and the man’s manner irritated him. The stranger bent his brows and a glint of anger came into his sharp, black eyes. He seemed upon the point of making a biting retort; but once more the boy at his side warned him to beware.

“Be careful, Danvers,” he whispered. “You’ll get into trouble. They are all Whigs here.”

Danvers hesitated a moment; then he turned to Philip with a cold smile that showed his strong white teeth.

“If it had not been for Major Pitcairn’s being called out that day with his men to seize this Mr. Hancock for treason to the crown, there would have been no fight at Lexington; and had that skirmish not taken place there would have been no rebellion.”

“Revolution is a better word, I think,” said Walter Stanton, quietly.

“Call it what you will,” answered the man sneeringly, “the fact remains the same.”

“And I don’t like your calling the fight at Lexington a skirmish,” spoke the blunt-tongued Philip, who had come to think of that first exchange of shots as a most glorious engagement. “It resulted in three hundred British troops being killed, and when Putnam and Arnold hurried up to take command of the minutemen, they walled General Gage up in Boston, for all his army and ships.”

“Putnam!” said the man in his mocking way. “What is he? An old farmer turned soldier; and Arnold is a swaggering, reckless ruffian.”

“Be quiet,” whispered Stephen Wheelock, as he dragged at the man’s sleeve, his face growing pale as he noted the resentful expressions of those about them. “Be quiet, I tell you!”

Danvers’ quick eye saw the effect of his words and he smiled coolly. It seemed as though he rather enjoyed the risk he ran in being so open in his words.

“Never fear,” said he, in a low tone to young Wheelock. “I only want to stir them up a bit. I’ll be careful not to go too far.”

“You’ll get my father into hot water, Danvers, if you don’t mind yourself,” warned Stephen, drawing the man aside. “The Whigs know that our family sympathize with the cause of the king; and it must not be known that we harbor agents of Lord North’s government.”

“Hush!” warned Danvers, in his turn. “They will know it soon enough, and you’ll have my neck in a halter, if you use such terms as that in this public place.”

“Give them no cause for suspicion, then,” said young Wheelock. “I’ve seen them aroused more than once, and it’s not a pleasant thing to look at, indeed.”

Philip Morgan’s ire was aroused by the words of Danvers, and he was talking loudly.

“Let the English say what they like,” cried he, “we have as good officers as they, and perhaps better. And we were faithful to the king, too, until he hired the Brunswickers and Hessians to come and fight against us. No free men could stand such a thing as that.”

“No, no,” chorused the boys upon the benches.

“That was the last straw,” said Walter Stanton. “If King George had not done that, the gentlemen across the way would never have written, passed and signed the Declaration of Independence, July a year ago.”

So interested were all the boys in the talk, which now became general, that they did not notice a horseman ride up, dismount and tie his nag to a post near at hand. He was a tall, spare, raw-boned man, with fiery red hair. He held himself with the rigid bearing of a man trained in the army; his face was resolute, indeed fierce looking; and an ugly sword slash had left a red scar across it that did not add to his appearance. He stood at his horse’s head listening, as Philip Morgan went on, addressing Danvers.

“You may sneer at Putnam if you like, sir, but he is a bold and able officer, and so is General Arnold. Why, Arnold’s invasion of Canada alone would stamp him as an uncommon man.”

“He had Richard Montgomery with him,” said Danvers, coldly, “and Montgomery got what little training he had as an officer in the British army. The best that one can say of him is that he was brave.”

At the name of the intrepid and lamented Montgomery, the fierce looking man with the scar upon his face had bent forward interestedly; but at the words of Danvers he stepped forward, his strong fingers twisting nervously.

“I knew General Montgomery,” said he to Danvers; “he was the cleverest officer I ever saw.”

Danvers turned and swept him with an insolent look.

“And, pray, sir, who are you?” he asked.

“Shamus O’Moore, once of the Inniskillens,” answered the newcomer, standing very erect and speaking in a harsh, high voice.

“Ah,” sneered Danvers, “an English dragoon.”

“No,” said the other with great promptness, “an Irish dragoon.”

“It is all the same,” spoke Danvers.

“Pardon me,” protested the other, still in the same tone, and never budging an inch in his ramrod like attitude. “There is no sameness about it at all. Faith, ye could never make an Englishman out of an Irishman in the world. They are like oil and water, and they won’t mix.”

“It’s the man they call Longsword,” whispered Walter Stanton to his chum, Philip Morgan.

“I know,” answered the latter. “I’ve seen him at Ethan Carlyle’s several times.”

“General Montgomery,” said the soldier-like O’Moore, “were an Irishman like meself and proud he were of it. He gave up his life for this struggling nation, sir, in the storming of Quebec; and it was no common life, I’ll have ye know. There was in him the makings of a general officer that would have astonished the world.”

“Oh, you fancy yourself a judge, I see,” said Danvers, icily.

“Man and boy, I’ve soldiered for thirty years,” said the other, “and I’ve had lots of time to pick up stray bits of knowledge by the wayside.”

As Danvers turned away to give his attention to young Wheelock, who was again plucking warningly at his sleeve, O’Moore noticed Walter Stanton and favored him instantly with a stiff, formal salute.

“Hello, O’Moore,” said Walter. “Where is Ethan?”

“Master Ethan will be here in a few moments,” returned O’Moore. “There he is beyant, speaking with Mr. Jefferson.”

The lads turned their eyes in the direction indicated, and saw a gentleman garbed in sober black standing in the footway some little distance off conversing excitedly with a clean built, handsome boy of seventeen, who was seated astride a powerful bay horse.

“Did you know that Ethan was secretary to Mr. Jefferson, now?” asked Walter, as they watched the two with interest.

“Yes,” answered Philip. “His father and Mr. Jefferson were great friends, O’Moore, were they not?”

“Indeed, yes, sir,” said the ex-dragoon. “And Mr. Jefferson visited him at New Orleans before the war came on.”

“They seem greatly interested in their talk,” observed Walter, still gazing toward the lad on the bay horse and the black clad statesman. “I never saw Mr. Jefferson so excited, and I’ve seen him many times and listened to his speeches.”

“And it’s no wonder, Master Stanton, that he do be excited now,” said Shamus. “Sure he’s listening to better news then he’s heard in many a long day. While taking a gallop on the north roads this morning, Master Ethan and meself came upon a courier from New York whose horse had stumbled, thrown him and broken his leg. We carried him to an inn where he’d be taken care of; and when he found out who Master Ethan were he handed over his despatches and bid us ride to the city wid them and give them to Mr. Hancock, the president of the Congress.”

“There is news from the north, then?” cried Walter, his eyes opening wider in expectation.

“Good news, too, you said, O’Moore,” said Philip Morgan. “Come, now, tell us what it is.”

The other boys had risen from their seats upon the benches, and all crowded eagerly about the grim looking dragoon.

“What’s the news?” they clamored. “Tell us the news.”

“Ye’ll hear it in another moment,” said O’Moore, a smile flickering on his lips. “Here comes Master Ethan now.”

The sober looking gentleman in black, had just waved the boy upon the horse delightedly away; the lad touched his mount with the spur and dashed down the street toward the state house. Mr. Hancock stood upon the low stone steps in the midst of a group of members engaged in earnest talk, when the bay was pulled up sharply, and the boy upon his back called in a voice that trembled with excitement:

“Mr. Hancock.”

That gentleman raised his brows in some little surprise at this; then his face wrinkled in a smile and he nodded his recognition.

“News from the north!” cried the boy as he swung a bulky saddle packet over his head.

The expression of every man present changed instantly; every voice was hushed, every face was strained and anxious. For weeks they had been swayed, pendulum-like, between hope and fear; and now the result was to be known.

“Burgoyne,” shouted the boy, as he swung himself exultantly from his horse, “has surrendered to General Gates at Saratoga.”

Then, amidst the clapping of hands and the shouts of the crowd that had gathered like magic, he strode across the walk, his spurs jingling on the flags, and handed the despatches to the president of the Continental Congress.