When it was all done Richard sat down to write by the light of a pine knot one of those letters that Joscelyn hated.
“I am much grieved at the news of you in Betty’s last letter. She says you daily draw upon yourself the disapproval of the townsfolk by your public rejoicing over news of any British success. This is not wise in you, for the people are in no temper to be mocked; and I feel my hands grow cold at the thought that some danger may come near you, and I too far away to stand between you and it! Go often to see my mother, both because she loves you and because the friendship of so good a patriot will be a safeguard in the community. Betty hath writ me so queer a page about trying to love my enemies, and her hope that I will look carefully at every man toward whom my gun is pointed so that I shoot not a neighbour, that I am at a loss to understand her meaning—unless, indeed, she hath been tainted by your Toryism. What think you hath come to the little minx?”
She would not answer the epistle, of course—she never did; but it was such a relief to put his feelings into words. That she would be angry at some of his words he knew, but it made him laugh to think of the disdainful lips and flashing eyes.
He must have laughed aloud, for a man stretched upon the ground suddenly asked him what the joke was.
“Oh, just a passing thought,” Richard answered. “A man has to think funny things to keep alive in this state of inactivity into which we are called.”
“You would like a little excitement?”
“Indeed I should. ’Tis now six weeks since I came into camp, and only that one secret trip with you down the river has broken the monotony of drilling and mounting guard.”
The man, a Virginian named Dunn, one of the most daring and capable scouts of the army, smoked a moment in silence.
“How would you like to witness the festivities in honour of General Howe before he leaves Philadelphia?”
Richard’s eyes lit up. “Take me with you, Dunn!” he cried, with great eagerness.