o you
mark me? Oh, Cade, yonder pretty maid who laughs and shows her teeth is
welcome to the show and naught to pay--unless she likes. Tim, I can
dance no more! Elerson, bring the watchman!"

The Weasel trotted up, rattling the coins so unwillingly contributed by
the economical; the runner addressed as Elerson tucked his arm
affectionately into the arm of the distracted watchman and strolled up,
followed by Tim Murphy, the most redoubtably notorious shot in North
America.

Laughing, disputing, shouting, they came surging toward the Half-Moon
Tavern, dragging the watchman, on whom they lavished many endearments.
The crowd parted with alacrity as Mount, thumbs in his armpits,
silver-moleskin cap pushed back on his clustering curls, swaggered
ahead, bowing right and left as though an applauding throng heralded
the progress of an emperor and his suite.

Here and there a woman laughed at the handsome, graceless fellows; here
and there a burgher managed to pull a grin, spite of the toll exacted.

"Now that our means permit us, we are going to drink your healths, good
people," said Mount affably, shaking the tin cup; "and the health of
that pretty maid who showed her teeth at me. Ladies of Albany, if you
but knew the wealth of harmless frolic caged in the heart that beats
beneath a humble rifle-frock! Eh, Tim? Off with thy coonskin, and sweep
the populace with thy courtly bow!"

Murphy lifted his coonskin cap, flourishing it till the ringed fur-tail
became a blur. Elerson, in a spasm of courtesy, removed the watchman's
tricorn as well as his own; the little Weasel backed off, bowing step
by step, until he backed past me into the tap-room, followed by the
buckskinned crew.

"Now, watchman, have at thee!" roared Mount, as the sloppy pewters were
brought.

And the watchman, resigned, pulled away at his mug, furtive eyes on the
landlord, who, with true delicacy, looked the other way. At that moment
Mount espied me and rose, pewter in hand, with a shout that brought all
to their feet.

"Death to the Iroquois!" he thundered, "and a health to Captain Renault
of the Rangers!"

Every eye was on me; the pewters were lifted, reversed, and emptied.
The next instant I was in the midst of a trampling, buckskinned mob;
they put me up on their shoulders and marched around the tap-room,
singing "Morgan's Men"; they set me on their table amid the pools of
spilled ale, and, joining hands, danced round and round, singing "The
New Yor