Even Sir Guy’s gallant kiss could not rid Dolly of her fear of Cunningham’s frown; but as she scampered off she heard his final order, and, hot with indignation, told the news to Cousin Ned and Master Clinton, who were in waiting for her on the Bowling Green. The younger lad was for stirring up the people to instant action, but just then they heard the roll of drums, and, standing near the ruins of King George’s statue, watched the advance-guard of the Continental troops as they filed in to take possession of the fort. Beneath the high gateway and straight toward the north bastion marched the detachment--a troop of horse, a regiment of infantry, and a company of artillery. The batteries, the parapets, and the ramparts were thronged with cheering people, and Colonel Jackson, halting before the flag-staff, ordered up the stars and stripes. “The halyards are cut, Colonel,” reported the color-sergeant; “the cleats are gone, and the pole is slushed.” “A mean trick, indeed,” exclaimed the indignant Colonel. “Hallo there, lads, will you be outwitted by such a scurvy trick! Look where they wait in their boats to give us the laugh. Will you let tainted Tories and buttermilk Whigs thus shame us? A gold jacobus to him who will climb the staff and reeve the halyards for the stars and stripes.” Dolly’s quick ear caught the ringing words. “Oh, Cousin Ned,” she cried, “I saw Jacky Van Arsdale on the Bowling Green. Don’t you remember how he climbed the greased pole at Clermont, in the May merrying?” and with that she sped across the parade and through the gateway, returning soon with a stout sailor-boy of fifteen. “Now tell the Colonel you’ll try it, Jacky.” “Go it, Jack!” shouted Cousin Ned. “I’ll make the gold jacobus two if you but reeve the halyards.” “I want no money for the job, Master Livingston,” said the sailor-lad. “I’ll do it if I can for Mistress Dolly’s sake.” Jack was an expert climber, but if any of my boy readers think it a simple thing to “shin up” a greased pole, just let them try it once--and fail. Jack Van Arsdale tried it manfully once, twice, thrice, and each time came slipping down covered with slush and shame. And all the watchers in the boats off-shore joined in a chorus of laughs and jeers. Jack shook his fist at them angrily. “I’ll fix ’em yet,” he said. “If ye’ll but saw me up some cleats, and give me hammer and nails, I’ll run that flag to the top in spite of all the Tories from ’Sopus to Sandy Hook!” Ready hands and willing feet came to the assistance of the plucky lad. Some ran swiftly to Mr. Goelet’s, “the iron-monger’s” in Hanover Square, and brought quickly back “a hand-saw, hatchet, hammer, gimlets, and nails”; others drew a long board to the bastion, and while one sawed the board into lengths, another split the strips into cleats, others bored the nail-holes, and soon young Jack had material enough.