Cunningham, the marshal, stood at the foot of the flag-pole. “Come, you rebel cur,� he said to Mr. Day. “I give you two minutes to haul down that rag—two minutes, d’ye hear, or into the Provost you go. Your beggarly troops are not in possession here yet, and I’ll have no such striped rag as that flying in the faces of His Majesty’s forces!�
“There it is, and there it shall stay,� said Day, quietly but firmly.
Cunningham turned to his guard.
“Arrest that man,� he ordered. “And as for this thing here, I’ll haul it down myself,� and seizing the halyards, he began to lower the flag. The crowd broke out into fierce murmurs, uncertain what to do. But in the midst of the tumult the door of the tavern flew open, and forth sallied Mrs. Day, “fair, fat, and forty,� armed with her trusty broom.
“Hands off that flag, you villain, and drop my husband!� she cried, and before the astonished Cunningham could realize the situation, the broom came down thwack! thwack! upon his powdered wig. Old men still lived, not thirty years ago, who were boys in that excited crowd, and remembered how the powder flew from the stiff white wig and how, amidst jeers and laughter, the defeated provost-marshal withdrew from the unequal contest, and fled before the resistless sweep of Mrs. Day’s all-conquering broom. And the flag did not come down.
From the vantage-ground of a projecting “stoop� our young friends had indulged in irreverent laughter, and the marshal’s quick ears caught the sound.
Fuming with rage and seeking some one to vent his anger on, he rushed up the “stoop� and bade his guard drag down the culprits.
“What pestilent young rebels have we here?� he growled. “Who are you?� He started as they gave their names. “Livingston? Clinton? Duane?� he repeated. “Well, well—a rare lot this of the rebel brood! And who is yon young bantling in velvet and ruffles?�
“You must not stop us, sir,� said the boy, facing the angry marshal. “I am the little lord of the manor, and my grandfather is Colonel Phillipse. Sir Guy Carleton is waiting for me.�
“Well, well,� exclaimed the surprised marshal; “here’s a fine to-do! A Phillipse in this rebel lot! What does it mean? Have ye kidnapped the lad? Here may be some treachery. Bring them along!� and with as much importance as if he had captured a whole corps of Washington’s dragoons, instead of a few harmless children, the young prisoners were hurried off, followed by an indignant crowd. Dolly was considerably frightened, and dark visions of the stocks, the whipping-post, and the ducking-stool by the Collect pond rose before her eyes. But Cousin Ned whispered: “Don’t be afraid, Dolly—’twill all be right�; and Master Clinton even sought to argue with the marshal.