“No, sir, I thank you; but I could not accept money from anyone. What I did was very little, and what my boy did was still less. I am glad, though, we were able to do that little.”
The captain felt disappointed when he put his money back in his breast pocket, but he was too much the gentleman to insist on these humble people receiving what they felt themselves above taking.
“At all events,” he said, looking toward Dicky’s round, bright face, “I might be able to do something for your boy.”
“I am afraid not,” answered the widow with a faint smile. “We are patriots—my boy and I; my husband was killed only six months ago in the Continental Army, and there is nothing that a British officer could do for him, no matter how kindly meant.”
“What do you mean to do with him at present?” asked Captain Forrester.
The widow shook her head.
“I have just got him back after he ran away. I have not had time to think; but there is always work hereabouts for a good strong boy like Dicky.”
“Provided he does not run away again,” said Captain Forrester.
Dicky turned a rosy red at finding himself the subject of conversation and astonished his mother by stuttering out,—
“P-p-please, sir, don’t the British ever give folks their parole? I—I mean, let ’em—go—if they promise they won’t do so any more?”