“Should you ever cross the Jerseys, lad,” old Camp had said, “don’t fail to hunt us out. The Elms, we call the place, and it’s less than a dozen miles out of the town of Trenton.”
A dozen miles! It must, then, be in the very heart of the section where all was pillaging and burning and hanging.
George had kept his brother Ezra acquainted with all the happenings that bore upon the Camps; and in many things Ezra had advised wisely. But just now he was detailed upon service at Philadelphia under Putnam, and his absence was badly felt.
Nat Brewster and Ben Cooper began to notice the eagerness with which George sought news from across the river.
“It is something more than common,” said young Cooper. “Every chance he gets, he’s riding along the shore; at night nothing seems so attractive to him as the firelights on the Jersey side. He watches them by the hour.”
“He says nothing, though,” replied Nat Brewster, “and I have the impression that whatever it is that’s on his mind it’s something he wants to keep to himself. So I’ve never asked him any questions.”
One afternoon, only a few days after the above words were spoken, Brewster, grave-faced and quiet, opened the door of the hut which the three had erected for shelter.
“There’s work to do,” he stated, as he sat down before the fire.
George, watching his friend’s face closely, saw that something important was under way.
“What is it?” he asked.