“The British are coming!”
The cry rose and fell and echoed through the mountains and valleys of Vermont.
At last they reached Montpelier where they were to rest the night at the Farmer’s Inn, where Morgan used to live. But he was so tired he could not revive memories of his youth, and lay down on the clean straw to rest, almost at once.
He did not know how long he had been sleeping when his keen ears were penetrated by the whisper of men outside the stable door. He sprang to his four feet, suspiciously.
“’Tis the fleetest horse in the state,” said one voice. “Have him out and you will signal General Prevost from the Upper Lake to-morrow night!”
“Prevost! a Red-Coat General!” thought Morgan. “They must be spies!”
The door was opened softly a moment later, and a man crept in.
On the instant a rush of air from without swept into Morgan’s nostrils the unforgotten odor of the Tory Boy whose dog had killed Black Baby, the lamb. No longer a boy, he no doubt deserved the kick in accordance with his increased age and wickedness.
Here surely was the opportunity Allah had been preparing all these years.
Morgan had been standing with his face to the door, but, on recognizing the intruder, he wheeled suddenly, and with a cry, almost human, he delivered the kick of a lifetime!