“With your permission, sir.”
“Well, I will enter your name, and make further inquiries later. You’ll probably be ordered to New York, Washington needs more troops. You look strong.”
The boy drew himself up painfully. “I am strong,” he murmured, “and I’m not afraid of work.”
No further investigation was made. The country too sorely needed men, and so Robert Shirtliffe became a drummer in the American army, an enemy to his King, a traitor to the old order of things. When he first went among the soldiers, he shrank from the unusual scene.
“Hello! Molly,” called one, noticing his hesitation, “where’s your mother?”
Robert shrank back as if he had received a blow, the others roared with laughter.
“Oh! don’t flare up, boy,” said the speaker, “the army’s full of Mollys or Betsys, when your beard comes we’ll call you John.”
Robert breathed again, and took his place among the men. But the name clung to him. His beard came not, and he could only hope that by some brave deed he might efface the title.
Not long after he had enlisted he was sitting, with some others, around a camp fire trying to forget, in the grateful glow, how hungry and cold he was, when suddenly a bit of conversation riveted his attention.
“Any one heard of old Mason yet?” asked one. “I heard that General Lee had tried to trace him to thank him for his bravery.” Shirtliffe drew nearer: “I used to know all old fellow by the name of Mason down Plymouth way,” he said, “a poor drunken old chap.” The words came slowly, and with an effort.