ers--loyal, at least, to her wit and
beauty, so then and there we proposed and drank the health of the Tory
maid, while Dick chimed in with the amendment, "May she never marry a
Britisher, but a patriot tried and true," at which our English Captain
good-naturedly protested; and while they drank the toast I made a vow
that ere a week was past I would be within that city.

Fortune came my way, for as I left the mess-room that night I ran
against Tom Jones of Cresap's old company of riflemen from the
mountains of the West, the most daring and desperate spy in all our
army. He was a man of powerful strength, as lithe and active as a
panther, while his face was as immovable as that of an Indian, with
never a sign thereon of the thoughts and passions of the man within.
He was clad for the moment in the dress of the riflemen, a full suit
of buckskin, leggings, hunting-shirt, and all, while carelessly thrown
across one arm was his rifle, and in his belt was sheathed the long
hunting-knife.

"Lieutenant," said he, "I expect to return through your lines
to-morrow night, so do not fire before you challenge."

"Come this way, Jones," said I, leading him aside from the others. "I
do not know which way you are going, but I want you to help me through
the lines into the city. Can you do so?"

"But, Lieutenant, they will be wanting to hang you if you are caught."

"I will take that risk. I must be in the city within a week."

Jones, like most great frontiersmen, was a man of quick decision and
few words.

"Meet me in an hour," said he, "at the Yellow Tavern."

An hour later found me at the tavern in full uniform, for it was the
only suit I possessed in which it would be possible to present myself
before a lady, so dilapidated, torn, and ragged was my wardrobe. But I
had a great storm-coat which hid the uniform and was an admirable
disguise.

The tavern was crowded. As I stood by the fire I did not at once
notice a quiet, unassuming traveller who had just entered, until he
brushed past my arm and whispered, "Follow me." I did so a few minutes
later, for it was Tom Jones, who looked for all the world as if he was
a quiet city merchant, born and bred within its limits. Yet you had
but to notice his walk, and you saw at once that he was a
mountaineer, for he threaded his way through the crowd as noiselessly
as he did among his native forests, where the crack of a dead twig
might mean his death by a hostile bullet.

I followed