“I reckon there’ll be grand parade tonight,” he mused. “Well, there won’t be many turnin’ out fer it. No they won’t. An’ I bet they let the fire die again. As fer poor Will Cordes--the cussed Congress c’n take the blame fer that.”

The graying shadows came again, flecked by softly falling snow. Here and there, at wide intervals on the road, he passed farmhouses with lights gleaming through the windows and sparks showering from chimneys. He might have turned in and asked shelter, but a stubborn pride kept him away. He was not a straggler, nor could he stomach the thought of begging at doors. He trudged on, waiting for dark to come that he might crawl into a barn overnight.

His keen ears caught the sound of hoofs and he turned to find a solitary figure riding out of a side road and turning his way. Jukes resumed his march, stolidly indifferent. Nor did he cast another glance behind, although he heard the traveler coming nearer; instead, he took the side of the highway, prepared to let the other pass. The traveler came abreast and reined in, speaking courteously.

“A bad day to be afoot, sir.”

Jukes shifted his gun to the other shoulder and looked up to see a plump, benign face. The man was of a quality, a country squire, well dressed and bearing with him a pride of place. A pair of blue eyes beamed from beneath bushy brows, singularly penetrating eyes. Jukes felt the full weight of their scrutiny and was roused to sudden watchfulness.

“I’ve marched in worse times,” said he, noncommittally, still holding aside to let the man pass.

But the elderly gentleman was of a social nature.

“Doubtless you come from Valley Forge,” he suggested. “Going home, possibly, on leave.”

“Take it that way,” assented Jukes, not entirely pleased at the deception but considering it the better policy.

The elderly gentleman looked at the forbidding sky.

“It will snow heavily all night. You had better take shelter soon. There’s a tavern a mile down the road. You’ll find it agreeable.”

“Tavern,” grunted Jukes. “Where’d you figger I’d get money to spend in a tavern? I ain’t been paid in fourteen months.”

“But you most assuredly can’t sleep in the open,” protested the squire. “It’s devilish cold these nights.”

Jukes looked at the man’s fine clothes with sudden resentment.

“I’ve slept in worse. An’ there’s plenty o’ barns along the way.”

“Nonsense. Let it not be said of Pennsylvania that she neglected her soldiers. We’ll stop at the tavern and I shall have the fellow take care of you overnight. Consider yourself as my guest.”

“And who,” demanded Jukes, “might you be?”

“I, sir, am St. Louis Cotton, of Cotton Hall and member of the Pennsylvania Assembly.”

“A lawyer of the Congress?” demanded Jukes, flinging up his head.

“Not of the Continental Congress. I have not that honor. But of the Pennsylvania Assembly.”

The distinction was not fine enough to check Jukes’ animosity. Here was one of the gentry who debated and dallied and broke their promises and appointed futile committees while the army starved.

“---- your hospitality!” he cried. “I take nothin’ from shilly-shally lawyers. ’Tis your kind that makes misery fer the army. ’Tis you who eat well an’ sleep warm while the rest o’ us go without!”

St. Louis Cotton, esquire, sat bolt upright in the saddle and blew through his nose.

“That is cursed impertinence, sir. I offer you the gratitude of a State and you answer it like a wagon-master. I see you are another of those infested with disrespect for the people’s legislatures. There is some sinister influence at work amongst you.”

“Influence o’ an empty belly,” retorted Jukes. “An’ what do you fine gentlemen accomplish, I’d like to know? When we ask fer vittals an’ food we get smart promises. We starve an’ you tell us we eat too much meat anyway. You’re a pack o’ scoundrels an’ the country’d be better without you! ’Tis no credit due you General Washington wins his battles!”

The squire held his peace and Jukes, looking upward through the fast thickening dusk, could make out the ruddy face screwed to the point of apoplexy.

“Fire away, old man,” he added contemptuously. “Give us some o’ them pretty words you use so nice on committees.”

The squire spoke with a commendable restraint--

“I suppose members of the army could do better, were they elected to serve in the Congress?”

“There’d be no shilly-shally, I tell you.”

“When you grow older,” said the gentleman, “you will know better. If a body of angels came together they would fall to quarreling in these terrible times. It is not human nature to be forever agreeable, no matter how desperate the cause. You soldiers forget, too, that every State has its word in the councils of Congress, and seldom do all States agree. Each has its own interests to watch. Perhaps the Congress makes unfulfilled promises, perhaps it errs in judgment. It is a body without power, my friend. It can ask flour and beef of the States, but only conscience can make those States supply the need. Do you forget that?”

Jukes grunted, disquieted. The old gentleman handled words as he handled a gun. He could not oppose the argument because he had no knowledge. But of what use reason when the misery and misfortune of Valley Forge was there to confound all the fine talk of lawyers. If they wanted a free country why didn’t they find means of helping their soldiers?

“’Tis strange,” said he, “how you gentlemen draw pay an’ wear fine clothes no matter how you disagree. An’ it’s a cussed example you set the country by runnin’ off from Philadelphia every time a British gun sounds within fifty miles. A fine example!”

“I can plainly see,” snorted the old gentleman, “that you are a malcontent. You say you are on leave? Where is your paper to show it?”

“I’ll show no papers,” said Jukes, stoutly.

“Then you are a deserter. ----, sir, I’ve a notion to clap a pistol at your head and turn you around for the provost guards.”

Jukes slipped the musket from his shoulders.

“Mind your business, old fellow, or I’ll knock you off that perch.”

They came to a halt, facing each other as the dusk gave way to darkness and the snow fell about them in redoubled thickness. Jukes laughed grimly.

“Stick to your debatin’, old man. You c’n do better at it. Leave the guns to a fightin’ man. Le’s go, now. I ain’t got time to waste on a fat old turkey-cock like you.”

St. Louis Cotton swore softly, putting his horse in motion.

“You are a renegade--a desperate ruffian, better out of the army than in it.”

“Good enough to kill Englishmen though, ain’t I? Good enough to believe in your fine promises when everything looked mighty black. Now you an’ your blue-blood friends c’n fight fer your own necks. I’m through!”

They turned a curve of the road and had sight of a tavern hidden amongst trees, not a hundred yards away. Jukes bit his words in two and came to a halt. A door of the tavern stood wide open, with the yellow light making a lane in the snow. And up that lane filed a squad of men dressed in the uniform of British dragoons. The door closed behind them, leaving Jukes with dry lips and a question on his tongue.

“There a camp o’ those animals hereabouts, old feller?”

“My eyes, they’re ---- poor,” said the squire. “What did you see?”

“British dragoons,” muttered Jukes, peering through the darkness. “Saw six go inside. Wonder--”

The squire was swearing.

“That patrol again! Sweeps this part of the country frequently. No camp this side of Philadelphia. ----, I’d like to put a stop to it! If I had another man or two.”

“Hold on, old feller,” interrupted Jukes, surprized at the former’s warlike speech. “You ain’t the one to do any fightin’. If they’d ketch you usin’ a gun an’ wearin’ civilian clothes they’d hang you.”

“Tut,” said the squire. “I bear a colonel’s commission in the militia.”

“Milisher, huh? Well, anybody could be an officer in the milisher. It’s no-count.”

Jukes was on his knee, head thrust forward, as if trying to penetrate the darkness. The squire dismounted from his horse, muttering.

“If you weren’t such a rascally fellow and we had another one or two--”

“Old man,” broke in Jukes, “I’m goin’ to do a little scoutin’. Stand fast till I come back.”

He slipped his knapsack to the ground and swiftly advanced, the aggressive Scotch-Irish spirit rousing at the proximity of the enemy and a daring plan working through his canny head. Within ten yards of the place he stopped, hearing the champing of a bit. After some moments of intent observation he decided no guard had been left with the animals and moved around the corner of the tavern to a window. The light sparkled through the frosted panes. Jukes removed his hat, raised himself cautiously and commanded a clear view of the interior.

His count had been right. Six of them, headed by a sergeant, were seated around a table; six solid looking fellows with vests loosened to the heat of the room, saber points clanking on the floor. The tavern keeper moved across the boards with steaming cups and disappeared in the kitchen a moment, reappearing with a platter of meat. Jukes located the inner kitchen door and ducked down, grinning dourly.