An old man was chopping wood in the back yard of the fifth house. Although it was cold, he was in his shirt sleeves, and the blows of his axe were sharp and lusty.
George, coming along the fence, observed him for some time before he spoke. Then he cleared the rails with a left-handed vault, and approached closer. The old man had stopped his chopping, and George saw that he had but one leg.
"Good-morning!" George said, quietly. "God save our country!"
"Amen!" was the answer.
It was the patriot greeting.
"Will you help me?" went on George. "I have escaped from prison in New York."
"You are blunt in the telling of it," said the kindly voice—there was a twinkle in the sharp black eyes—"and I will be blunt in my answer. I will. But come into the house. The door-yard is no place for the discussion of state secrets."
When the door had closed behind them, the old man had looked at George's clothes with interest.
"Were you in the hulks?" he asked. "I should judge not."
"No," returned George; "I was in the sugar-house prison, on Vine Street, and was treated fairly well."