“Mmm!” grunted Susan. “Twist them up and toss them in the woodbox there with the kindlings--it’s in plain sight and won’t be thought of. Now we’ve got to hurry--hurry--hurry, if we’re going to save that neck of yours; and, land, what a poor pair we are for hurrying!” Laughing fiercely, and gripping the arms of her seat, Susan had risen painfully as she talked, and now, supporting herself on her staff, stood up and shoved the great chair a little to one side. A trap-door showed in the floor where it had stood, and she explained quickly that the kitchen had been a later addition to the house; that the main cellar did not extend beneath it, but that there was below a small, square pit for storage, large enough to conceal a man at need. Then, crying to Othniel to catch, she tossed him her crutch-stick, and leaning heavily upon it, he crossed the room to her side. Directing him to lean on the chair, she resumed her staff, and, reversing it, hooked open the trap-door with the crutch end, and signed to him to descend. He hesitated. “They’ll find it,” he said; “it’s in plain sight as soon as your chair is moved. If I must be caught, I’d rather be caught above ground than hauled out of a hole, like a woodchuck.” “You go down,” said Susan grimly, “I’m going to put that chair back and sit in it; and move it they don’t neither, not if they’re the whole British army!” He lowered himself to the edge and slipped down, wincing and biting his lips as he curled up in the little square space, adjusting his injured ankle in his hand. For a moment his clear eyes looked up to Susan’s with gratitude and appeal; then the lid closed. He heard shoving and shuffling and the settling of a heavy weight in place overhead, and after that the swift and steady click of knitting-needles. A young English officer, accompanied by a sergeant and four soldiers, coming briskly up the garden-path not ten minutes later, found Susan Tongs knitting as usual, just within her doorway. She scarcely glanced up while the officer, a youngster hardly older than Othniel, briefly stated his errand and demanded admittance; but when he had concluded, she shot him an indignant look. “Search my house!” she cried. “Do you suppose I want your soldiers’ dirty fingers poking in my linen-chest and overhauling my gowns and petticoats, all to find a good-for-nothing lad that’s been forbid the place this two years? Ask any of the neighbors what were the last words I had with Othniel Purdie, and whether he’s likely to be hiding here or not--ask ’em! I don’t believe you even think he’s here. I believe it’s an excuse to steal my property and drink my cider. How should he be here? Last folks heard, he was off to General Washington--God bless him----”