partly from those motives of policy to which he ever showed an almost niggling adherence, but more because he could not spare his most useful aide.  Hamilton, who was bursting for action of any sort, retired to his detested little office in angry disappointment.  But he was a philosopher.  He adjusted himself to the Inevitable, and dismissed the matter from his mind, after registering a vow that he would take advantage of the first excuse which might offer to resign his position.

The Schuylers returned to Albany.  The French fleet arrived, and hovered well beyond the range of British guns, having no desire to risk an engagement until reinforced.  Its Admiral, Count Rochambeau, having a grievance, Hamilton advised a personal conference.

“We might suggest that he meet us halfway—­say at Wethersfield, near Hartford,” he added.  “That would save us something in travelling expenses.”

Washington sighed heavily.  “We are worse off than you think,” he said.  “I might scrape together money enough for half the journey, but no more.  Lafayette and his aide must go with us—­to say nothing of the escort.  Think of the innkeepers’ bills, for ourselves and horses.  What to do I confess I do not know, for I should confer with this Frenchman at once.”

“Go we must, sir,” said Hamilton, decidedly, “if we have to take up a collection—­why not?  If an object cannot be accomplished one way, try another.”  He stood up and emptied the contents of his pockets on the table.  “Only five hundred beggarly continentals,” he said ruefully.  “However, who knows what treasures may line more careful pockets than mine?  I know they will come forth as spontaneously.  Have I your permission to try, sir?”

Washington nodded, and Hamilton ran downstairs, pressed Meade into service, and together they made the round of the officers’ quarters.  He returned at the end of an hour and threw a huge bundle of paper on the table.  “Only eight thousand dollars, sir,” he said.  “It’s the best that any man could do.  But I think it may carry us through.”

“It will have to,” said Washington.  “Remind me, my dear boy, if you see me eating too much.  I have such an appetite!”

They set out on their journey a week later, having communicated with Rochambeau, who agreed to meet them at Wethersfield.  All went well, for the wretched inns were not exorbitant, until they reached Hartford.  They arrived late in the afternoon, weary and ravenous.  After a bath and a glimpse of luxurious beds, they marched to the dining room and sat down to a sumptuous repast, whose like had greeted neither nostril nor palate for many a day.  The wines were mellow, the tobacco green, the conversation gay until midnight.  Hamilton sang “The Drum,” and many another song rang among the rafters.  Washington retired first, bidding the youngsters enjoy themselves.  The young men arose at their accustomed hour next morning, with appetites renewed, but waited in vain