smell of a man-of-war.

"I must be right among them," he murmured.

All at once, so close to him that he could almost reach it with an oar, loomed a great black shape, and over his head extended the muzzles of a line of guns, and above them another, and still above, a third.

"A seventy-four!" said George, crouching down in the bottom of the boat beneath the sail.

Slowly he drifted past; he could see the white streaks on her sides, and hear snatches of songs and the hum of voices. At last he was directly beneath the bulging quarter galleries, and a voice called out,

"What's that below?"

"A boat, sir, adrift," some one answered, in gruff sailor tones.

"Any one in her, Quartermaster?" inquired the first again.

"Can't see, sir," was the reply.

"Tumble into the cutter, then, and take after her," came the order.

The shrilling of a boatswain's pipe followed, and the hoarse bawl, "All first cutters away," started George to action.

"Now for another swim," he said, as he passed the battle-ship's mighty stern. "The shore of Staten Island must be off there to the left."

He hove both coats into the water, and, taking Mr. Hewes's epistle in his teeth, lowered himself after them. He hated to sacrifice the spy-glass, but overboard it went with the rest.

He had taken but a few dozen strokes when the thrumming of oars sounded plainly, and he rolled over on his back to listen—the oars stopped.

"Cutter there!" came from the deck of the seventy-four. "Have you found that boat?"

"Ay, ay, sir," the cutter hailed in return. "There's nothing in it but a hat."

George smiled and struck out again. "That shore's a long ways off," he thought, after he had swum for some time steadily, and as he made this remark to himself his knee struck something hard; he dropped his feet to sound, and found that the water scarcely reached his waist.

Tired and faint, he waded up to a shelving beach and fell forward in the sand. But he could not stay there long, for he knew that Staten Island was overrun with English soldiers. He must find some place to hide.

The fog had lessened, but it was growing dark. A ship's bell struck the hour, and the sound was taken up by a hundred others in a chorus of clanging and ding-donging out in the mist.

George walked up the beach. The water's edge was littered with débris from the fleet—baskets and empty boxes, crates, and drift-wood of all sorts. Something caught his eye, and he stooped and picked up a stout-handled boat-hook.

"Some poor fellow got the rope's end for losing this," he said. "It may come in handy for me." He shouldered it and walked quickly away. A few rods further on he came across a narrow pier or causeway that ran from the bank above the beach to a boat-landing some distance out.

There was just room for a man to crawl underneath. George stooped on his hands and knees and worked his way in as far as he could with comfort. Then he half buried himself in the dry sand. Tired with his two long swims and with the excitement of the last few hours, he went to sleep. But it was not for long. Suddenly he awoke—a great fear was on him. Why had he not thought of it before? Had Carter reached the shore? George had heard no sound from him after he had turned to speak of leaving the paper in the boat.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BREAKING STORM.

The reason that Carter did not hail, as tacitly agreed upon, is simply told. He could not have raised his voice if the fate of the country depended on his doing it, for he never remembered reaching land at all.

When George had left him, Carter had kept straight ahead, but made the great mistake of trying to fight against the swiftly running tide.

It buffeted him hither and thither, until he became utterly exhausted, and could just keep himself afloat and no more by weakly treading water. The direction of the shore he lost completely for some minutes, when all at once he heard the rippling sound again. Desperately he struck out, and then, oh joy! he heard the sound of voices.

Carter tried to shout, but a sturdy wave catching him fair in the face muffled the cry and almost foundered him. He remembered taking two or three strokes after that; then all went black.

"I'm certain I heard a cry out here," said a voice in the fog. High-pitched and distinct, the tones were very different from those that answered.

"You have ears like a rabbit's, then," growled a deep bass. "For I heard nothing. Come, as I was saying—"

"Pardon me. Just hearken for a minute. It may sound again," interrupted the first speaker.

Two figures leaned out over the Battery wall.

The owner of the deep voice was a large man who sloped off in all directions. A huge scratch-wig was pulled over his forehead. The other would have attracted attention anywhere. Above a tightly buttoned snuff-colored coat appeared a thin pinched face, whose little eyes looked out above prominent cheek bones, and whose chin was thrust forward from a voluminous neckcloth. His movements were quick and active as a weasel's. As he peered through the mist he pointed with his finger as if he were following something of whose constantly changing position he were not exactly sure.

"Yes; there it is," he said at last. "Gadzooks, it's a man's body! Here goes for it."

The little man vaulted to the top of the wall, and made a beautiful clean-cut dive out into the water. The counter-current set up by the ebb tide swirled softly against the sea-wall. It was easier swimming than a few rods further out.

"Hulloa!" called a voice at last.

"Hulloa! This way," answered the large man, who was deftly casting loose a stout rope made fast to a ring-bolt in one of the stone posts. "Here. This way."

"I have him," said the one in the water, panting slightly. "But whether alive or dead I know not. It's the body of a lad," he added, as he caught the rope the big man hurled to him.

Quickly he tied the end under Carter's armpits, and finding room for his fingers and toes in clefts in the masonry, he climbed unassisted to the Battery wall.

Together both men pulled the apparently drowned boy to the top.

"Jabez, you are one of the greatest I know of," said the big man, as he helped to carry the senseless figure to a grass-plot.

"Tush!" was the answer. "I'm a good swimmer, mayhap, for my light weight and growing years, that's all." Indeed, this had been proved, for the small one had not even paused to remove his coat. "The lad's alive," he went on, speaking with his ear pressed close to Carter's chest. "Bear a hand quickly, we must get him in-doors."

"Ay, but where?" rejoined the larger.

"To our friend the widow's. 'Tis but a step."

Again they picked up their burden and disappeared in the mist.

When Carter Hewes came to his senses he found himself in a little room that was nearly filled by the big four-poster bed in which he lay. His head throbbed, and he felt faint and weary. But the feeling of being safe and warm was so comforting that he did not at once worry as to his whereabouts.

Some persons were talking close to him; he could hear the words they said, but at first he could not raise himself. At last he got up, however, on his elbow. The voices came from behind the closed door at the head of his bed.

"I am sick of hiding here like a fat badger in a strange hole that, by-the-way, is much too small for comfort," grumbled a deep voice.

"Take heart. It's for a righteous cause," answered a high-pitched one.

"Why not declare ourselves, and have it done with?" returned the first.

"The time's not ripe. We will be able to accomplish much more—and to play the rôle will require no dissembling."

"That's well enough, but I'm tired of it all," came the grumble. "Suppose the British do not take the city."

"Tush! New York cannot be held.