Dicky was sent to bed early that night, so he could have a good sleep before his journey. But he was so excited over the prospect of his coming adventures that he scarcely closed his eyes. He was up and dressed by daybreak, and his mother had hard work holding him until sunrise before starting off.
As it was, he arrived at the Squire’s fine house in the town, before the Squire was up. When the horse was led out for him to mount, Dicky made a rush at him and scrambled up, beaming with delight. It was quite a sober old cart horse, named Blackberry—but had he been the finest thoroughbred in the world he could not have given Dicky more pleasure.
The Squire gave him the letter before several of the servants, without any extraordinary charges of carefulness, merely telling him to deliver it with his own hands to Mr. Josiah Barton, of Tiverton, and to return as soon as possible, when he would receive two shillings—and not to ride Blackberry too hard.
Dicky listened very respectfully, put the letter in the bosom of his jacket and pinned it, and started off. He rode very slowly as long as he was in sight of the Squire’s house, but it must be admitted that as soon as he turned the first corner he gave old Blackberry a cut that started him on a sharp trot. Blackberry, however, like the Squire himself, was well fed, his load was light, the day was pleasant, and he was quite willing to play the colt for a while, so he and Dicky got on beautifully.
The morning was deliciously fresh, and Dicky, who had never been ten miles from Newport in his life, except when he had run away on the Betsey, was as happy as a bird and felt himself quite as much of a man as Jack Bell. He was so happy that when he had gone two or three miles he could not forbear breaking into song—and as galloping and singing are somewhat incongruous he brought Blackberry down to a leisurely walk. Then with his knee crossed on the saddle he began to sing some of his favorite songs.
Unluckily though, he chose one of his rebel songs as they were called, and he was trolling it out in his sweetest voice when presently looking up, he found himself almost riding over a squad of redcoats marching along the road with a sergeant at their head.
“Look out, you young rebel!” called out the sergeant, catching Blackberry’s bridle; “what are you up to?”
“Nothing wrong,” answered Dicky boldly although he felt a slight tremor at heart—but he knew the necessity of keeping a cool exterior. “I am on my way to Tiverton on an errand for Squire Stavers.”
“And do you know this is the King’s highway, and you were singing a song about,
‘At Bunker Hill, that glorious day,