“No soigns av any wan yit,” reported the man who had been in the kitchen, whom Brinton judged to be an Irishman. “Be’s ye going to wait till six?” “Yes,” answered the corporal. “But no longer.” Then they began talking about the British fleet that was cruising in Long Island Sound, and about the ship on which they were temporarily quartered until they could join the main body of the army, and how a neighbor of Brinton’s father’s and mother’s had been down at the store when a ship’s boat had put in for water, and how he had told the officer in charge that Major Hall, Brinton’s father, was expected home for a few hours that day, and what a fine opportunity it would be to make an important capture. The clock struck half-past five. “H’m!” grunted the corporal. “It doesn’t seem that late; but, you know, you can’t tell anythink about anythink in this blarsted country.” Brinton now began to be very much afraid that his father would come before the soldiers left. He wanted to move the pendulum faster and faster, but after what the corporal had said he did not dare to. Then, when the men lapsed into silence, it suddenly came over Brinton how dreadfully weary he was, how all his bones ached, and how much, how very much, he wanted to cry. But he felt that his father’s only chance of safety lay in his keeping the pendulum swinging to and fro, to and fro. At last, however, came the welcome sound of the corporal’s voice bidding the men get ready to start. Whang--whang--whang--whang--whang--whang! “Fall in!” ordered the corporal. “Forward, march!” As the sound of their footsteps died away, Brinton, all of a tremble, opened the door of the clock and stumbled out. He knelt at the window and watched the retreating forms of the redcoats. As they disappeared down the road he heard a noise behind him, and jumped up with a start. There stood his father! The next instant Brinton was sobbing in his arms. Brinton’s mother came into the room. “Dear me!” she said; “what ever can be the matter with the clock? It’s half an hour fast.” GENERAL GAGE AND THE BOSTON BOYS[R] By SAMUEL ADAMS DRAKE A very short story, showing a British general’s admiration for American boys who were not afraid to stand up for their rights. Perhaps you have heard that even in these old times the Boston boys were in the habit of coasting on the Common. They would build hills of snow and slide swiftly down to the Frog Pond. Well, the English soldiers had their camps on the Common, and from mere love of mischief would, when the boys had gone to school, destroy their coasting-ground. Incensed at having their sport thus meanly prevented, a delegation of boys went to General Gage about it. When shown into his presence he asked, with surprise, why so many children had come to see him. “We come, sir,” said the young spokesman, with a flushed face, “to ask a redress of our grievances.”