“Hello, Atwell, you Laughing Hyena,” he whispered. “It’s your old college chum, Harry Arnold,—don’t get scared now; here, look at me,” and he struck a match, holding it near his face. “You’re supposed to be gagged—see? There’s a great game on for to-night. We’re going to take the fort and have the laugh on Mr. Wade. I’m going to take this wad out of your mouth, but understand you’re supposed to be gagged—you mustn’t do or say a thing—understand?”
Atwell nodded, and the gag was removed. “You’re a wonder, Arnold,” said he. “My, but you had me scared for a minute!”
“Don’t tell me a thing,” interrupted Harry. “You’re gagged and you can’t talk. I’m going to tie this scarf round your neck, and that’ll mean you’re out of the game—you’re a gagged sentinel—see? Don’t spoil it now, will you?”
He felt sure that the gag about Atwell’s neck would be as effectual as one in his mouth, and he wasted no more time on that bitter enemy, for there was another sentinel to be looked after. This turned out to be none other than the redoubtable Frankie, who was easy game. Harry gagged him with his handkerchief, marched him down to Atwell, who was sitting on a rock, and left him to recover from his fright and to receive from his fellow-sentinel a more complete explanation.
“Remember, you’re out of the game, Frank,” whispered Harry, as he started down toward the shore. In half an hour he was back among his own troop with a canoe. There were other canoes, but he had managed to find only one paddle.
“One canoe’s all we want, anyway, Harry,” said Gordon, laughing gleefully over his report of the gagged sentinels; “because the day must be just breaking when we enter the fort and we must go in small boat-loads to stretch the time out.”
Between one and two o’clock in the morning, they began their desperate and hazardous move against King George’s proud minions, as Gordon called them.
“Say, Atwell’s an awful nice fellow for a redcoat,” said Harry, as the first three scouts, Vinton, Carpenter, and Brent, were pushed off with many reminders of the need of absolutely silent paddling.
“I have naught but contempt for him, and for that redcoat tyrant, Wade, as well,” said Gordon.
“Ay, let us think of the cruel Stamp Act to-night, and the Boston Massacre, and—and—a few other things,” said Red Deer. “Colonel Gordon Allen speaks what is in all our hearts!”