shington has ridden away to his home at Number One
in the Broadway; the brigade has moved on, and even Blue-Eyed Boy is
hastening after General Washington, intent on taking a farewell
glance, from the rampart of Fort George, at the far-away English
ships.

To-morrow he will begin his homeward journey through the Jerseys. His
pass is in his pocket, and as he quickens his steps, he sees groups
gathering here and there, and knows that some excitement is astir in
the public mind, but thinks it is all about the great Declaration.

He reaches Wall street, and the sun is at its going down. Up from the
East river come the sounds of orderly drummers drumming, of
regimental fifers fifing. He stays his steps, and stands listening: he
sees a brigade marching the "grand parade" at sunset.

Up it comes from Wall street to Smith street; (I am sure I do not know
what Smith street is lost into now, but the orderly-book of Major
Phineas Porter of Waterbury, one hundred years old to-morrow morning,
has it "Smith street"); from the upper end of Smith street back to
Wall street, and the young Philadelphian follows it, marching to sound
of fife and drum.

As it turns towards the East river, he remembers whither he was bound
and starts off with speed for the Grand Battery.

As he goes, glancing backward, he sees that all the town is at his
heels.

He begins to run. All the town begins to run. He runs faster: the
crowd runs faster. It is shouting now. He tries to listen; but his
feet are flying, his head is bobbing, his hat is falling, and this is
what he thinks he hears in the midst of all: "Down with him! Down with
the Tory!" It is "tyrant" that they cry, but he hears it as "tory,"
and he knows full well how Governor Franklin of New Jersey and Mayor
Matthews of New York have just been sent off to Connecticut for safer
keeping, and he does not care to go into New England just now, so he
flies faster than ever, fully believing that the crowd pursues him, as
a Royalist.

Just before him opens the Bowling Green. Into it he darts, hoping to
find covert, but there is none at hand.

Right in the midst of the enclosure stands an equestrian statue of
King George the Third.

It is high; it looks safe. Blue-Eyed Boy makes for it, utterly
ignorant of what it is.

The crowd surges on. It is now at the gate. The young martyr makes a
spring at the leg and tail of the horse; he swings himself aloft, he
catches and clutches and climbs, and in t