“Thank you,” said Zeb.  “You stand as good a chance as I do; but don’t let’s bandy her name about in camp any more’n we would our mother’s.  The thing for us to do now is to show that the men from Connecticut have as much backbone as any other fellows in the army, North or South.  Zeke may laugh at Old Put’s digging, but you’ll soon find that he’ll pick his way to a point where he can give the Britishers a dig under the fifth rib.  We’ve got the best general in the army.  Washington, with all his Southern style, believes in him and relies on him.  Whether their time’s up or not, it’s a burning shame that so many of his troops are sneaking off home.”

“It’s all very well for you to talk, Zeb Jarvis,” growled Zeke.  “You haven’t been here very long yet; and you stayed at home when others started out to fight.  Now that you’ve found that digging and not fighting is the order of the day, you’re just suited.  It’s the line of soldiering you are cut out for.  When fighting men and not ditch-diggers are wanted, you’ll find me—–­”

“All right, Watkins,” said the voice of Captain Dean from without the circle of light.  “According to your own story you are just the kind of man needed to-night—­no ditch-digging on hand, but dangerous service.  I detail you, for you’ve had rest compared with the other men.  I ask for volunteers from those who’ve been at work all day.”

Zeb Jarvis was on his feet instantly, and old Ezra Stokes also began to rise with difficulty.  “No, Stokes,” resumed the officer, “you can’t go.  I know you’ve suffered with the rheumatism all day, and have worked well in spite of it.  For to-night’s work I want young fellows with good legs and your spirit.  How is it you’re here anyhow Stokes?  Your time’s up.”

“We ain’t into Boston yet,” was the quiet reply.

“So you want to stay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you shall cook for the men till you’re better.  I won’t keep so good a soldier, though, at such work any longer than I can help.  Your good example and that of the gallant Watkins has brought out the whole squad.  I think I’ll put Jarvis in command, though; Zeke might be rash, and attempt the capture of Boston before morning;” and the facetious captain, who had once been a neighbor, concluded, “Jarvis, see that every man’s piece is primed and ready for use.  Be at my hut in fifteen minutes.”  Then he passed on to the other camp-fires.

In a few minutes Ezra Stokes was alone by the fire, almost roasting his lame leg, and grumbling from pain and the necessity of enforced inaction.  He was a taciturn, middle-age man, and had been the only bachelor of mature years in Opinquake.  Although he rarely said much, he had been a great listener, and no one had been better versed in neighborhood affairs.  In brief, he had been the village cobbler, and had not only taken the measure of Susie Rolliffe’s little foot, but also of her spirit.  Like herself he had been misled at first by the forwardness of