“There’ll be little time for burying,” said the man addressed, “when Washington and his ten thousand men make for Dorchester Heights.
“Fourteen thousand,” broke in the first speaker, “yes: there’ll be hot fighting. I wish every reb was as stiff as this one, and that we were back in England. What was that?” The two men started nervously as a stone rattled down the embankment. Robert, in his excitement at what he had heard, had made a misstep and dislodged it.
The listeners could take no chances, however. “Speak or I’ll fire!” called the older man whose name was Norton. Shirtliffe leaned over and showed himself deeming it the safer action. The men saw him and in the waning light took him, as Robert desperately hoped they might, for Morley.
“Hello!” cried the man called Harding, “what are you doing there, Morley, hurt? you’re as white as a sheet.”
The strange resemblance was to serve him well, now, if only the Englishmen were not too intimate with the real man, and the darkness and his keen talent for mimicry would help him out. He must chance it at any rate; so slowly descending he made his way toward the men.
“By jove!” laughed Harding, “he’s in Continental dress, his officers say he’s always up to some deviltry, what are you doing now, Morley?”
“On the King’s business!” answered the boy clinging to the shadow of the hill.
“While you have been riding for days to find out Washington’s movements, I’ve gleaned information nearer home.”
Norton looked searchingly at him. He had heard of the daredevil boy Morley from others in camp, this was his first encounter. “You could hardly get your news from yon dead Britisher,” he said, “perhaps you will be kind enough to explain yourself and your new uniform.”
“Oh! the uniform is all right.” Robert gave a dry laugh, “it got me inside the American lines, As for him”—the boy gave an agonized glance at the dead man, “he is no Britisher. Look under his coat and see what uniform he wears.”