at the same time. You're only one man, an' I'm
not afraid of you, an' if ye are a Britisher I wouldn't starve you to
death. There's little enough, the good Lord knows, but you're welcome to
the half of it. Make yourself comfortable there on the bench."

I did as he suggested, impressed by the rugged directness of the fellow,
convinced he already half believed my brief explanation. He stepped
outside into the sunlight searching the road that led away across the
flat distance; returning he indulged in a single glance into the deserted
shop where I had passed the night. Apparently satisfied that I was indeed
alone, he threw open a cupboard in one corner, and brought forth a
variety of food, placing this upon a wide shelf near at hand.
Occasionally our eyes met, and I knew he was slowly making up his mind
regarding me. This silent scrutiny could not have been altogether
unsatisfactory, for, when he finally drew up an empty box and sat down,
he was prepared to talk.

"Help yourself," he began gravely. "It is rough camp fare, but doubtless
you are used to that. Do you know me?"

I scanned his face again intently, surprised by the question, yet
recognized no familiar features.

"No," I replied, with some hesitation. "Have we ever met before?"

"Not to my remembrance," and the man's language and accent evidenced
education above his apparent station. "But I have won some repute in this
part of the Jerseys, an' thought my name might be known to you. You would
recognize the signature of George Washington?"

"I have seen it often."

He drew a flat leather case from a pocket inside his shirt, extracting
therefrom a folded paper, which he opened, and extended to me across the
table. With a glance I mastered the few lines written thereon,
recognizing its genuineness.

"Hamilton penned that," I said in quick surprise, "and it is signed by
Washington's own hand."

The deep-set eyes twinkled.

"Right," he said shortly, "that bit of paper may save me from hangin'
some day. There are those who would like well to see me swing if they
only laid hands on me at the right time and place. You know what the
paper is?"

"A commission as Captain," and I bent over it again, "issued to Daniel
Farrell, giving him independent command of scouts--by heavens! are you
'Bull' Farrell?"

He was eating quietly, but found time to answer.

"There are those who call me by that nickname; others give me even a
worse handle. 'Tis my nature to make