A moment after the runaway boys had heard the sound of horses in the snow, a dozen troopers of the Continental army were around them and a young officer rode up, while Harry whimpered and said, “Now we’ll be killed.” “Great George!” cried the officer, “but here’s a queer capture. Who the deuce are you?” “I am Tom Markham, sir. My father is Colonel Markham, and these are my brothers.” When Allan McLane saw the two-headed bear he rocked with laughter as he sat in his saddle. “And how did you get here?” “We ran away with the horses of Colonel Grimstone and Captain Verney, and, sir, this was why we ran away.” As he spoke he pulled out Montresor’s map and the sketch. McLane opened the paper. “By George, it’s Montresor’s own map. How did you get it?” “They left it in the sleigh while they went to look at something this side of Chestnut Hill. Is it any use, sir?” added Tom anxiously. “Any use, man! If General Washington doesn’t make you a Colonel for this there is no use in man or boy trying to serve an ungrateful country.” Then the twins, feeling neglected, said, “We helped, too.” “I licked the horses,” cried Bill “Aren’t you cold, boys?” “Yes, sir, but we never told Tom.” “By George, but you are a plucky lad. Take this two-headed animal, Sergeant. Mount one of them, coat and all, in front of you, and be quick, or we shall have them frozen.” “The other may have my coat,” said Tom. “Good,” said the Captain. “You shall wear my own cloak, my lad.” Seeing Harry’s look of fright and the ready tears, he said: “It’s all right, youngsters. Don’t you be afraid. We are all your friends and I know your father well.” Turning to Tom, he said: “This way, my lad. Now, then, give him a knee, Sergeant; so, a foot in my stirrup and up you go behind me. Now, then, right about by twos, march.” He went off at a sharp trot with Tom’s arms around his waist. “Hold on to the belt,” he said. “May I some day have a boy like you! I enlist you in my troop. You are one of Allan McLane’s rangers. Hold hard. The road is better. I am going to gallop.” If ever there was a proud boy it was Tom Markham, for who did not know Allan McLane, the terror of outlying pickets, the hero of a dozen gallant adventures? “How are you, Gemini?” cried Tom, looking back. “Oh, we’re fine!” roared Bill, his teeth chattering with cold. At the river they were stopped a minute. McLane gave the password, “Washington,” and at dusk they tramped over the bridge and were at once among General Varney’s brigades. Bill had ceased to ask questions. Harry, again uneasy at the sight of soldiers, wept unseen, and even Tom felt a certain awe at thus facing the unknown. He was more at ease as he saw hundreds of ill-clad men making merry in a wild snowball fight, shouting and laughing. They rode in the gloom through dimly seen rows of log huts, and at one of them McLane dismounted.