itically to the powder in the
beveled touch-hole of his old cannon. He and Helm were facing the
enemy, with their backs to the main area of the stockade, when a well
known voice attracted their attention to the rear.

"Any room for a feller o' my size in this here crowded place?" it
demanded in a cracked but cheerful tenor. "I'm kind o' outen breath a
runnin' to git here."

They turned about. It was Oncle Jazon with his long rifle on his
shoulder and wearing a very important air. He spoke in English, using
the backwoods lingo with the ease of long practice.

"As I's a comin' in f'om a huntin' I tuck notice 'at somepin' was up. I
see a lot o' boats on the river an' some fellers wi' guns a scootin'
around, so I jes' slipped by 'em all an' come in the back way. They's
plenty of 'em, I tell you what! I can't shoot much, but I tuck one
chance at a buck Indian out yander and jes' happened to hit 'im in the
lef' eye. He was one of the gang 'at scalped me down yander in
Kaintuck."

The greasy old sinner looked as if he had not been washed since he was
born. He glanced about with furtive, shifty eyes, grimaced and winked,
after the manner of an animal just waking from a lazy nap.

"Where's the rest o' the fighters?" he demanded quizzically, lolling
out his tongue and peeping past Helm so as to get a glimpse of the
English line. "Where's yer garrison? Have they all gone to breakfas'?"

The last question set Helm off again cursing and swearing in the most
melodramatic rage.

Oncle Jazon turned to Beverley and said in rapid French: "Surely the
man's not going to fight those fellows yonder?"

Beverley nodded rather gloomily.

"Well," added the old man, fingering his rifle's stock and taking
another glance through the gate, "I can't shoot wo'th a cent, bein'
sort o' nervous like; but I'll stan' by ye awhile, jes' for luck. I
might accidentally hit one of 'em."

When a man is truly brave himself there is nothing that touches him
like an exhibition of absolutely unselfish gameness in another. A rush
of admiration for Oncle Jazon made Beverley feel like hugging him.

Meantime the young British officer showed a flag of truce, and, with a
file of men, separated himself from the line, now stationary, and
approached the stockade. At a hundred yards he halted the file and came
on alone, waving the white clout. He boldly advanced to within easy
speaking distance and shouted:

"I demand the surrender of this fort."

"Well, you