“Hurrah!” rang lustily from the ranks of the militia. “That they will!” “Let them show so much as their noses in the town limits again and we’ll send them back to Cornwallis as soundly beaten as ever a pack of prowling curs were yet.” The speaker was a brawny, sooty man, in a blacksmith’s apron; he carried a great sledge over his shoulder instead of a musket, and seemed in every way capable of doing his part in carrying out the promise. His words were greeted by much laughter and cheers by his comrades, and under cover of this Tom was drawn aside by the stout burgess. “They are rare good lads, all of them,” spoke the burgess. “They will fight for their rights and their firesides to the last, but they have no one to lead them in whom they have confidence; it is a great pity, but it is so.” [Illustration: _“THEY ARE RARE GOOD LADS, ALL OF THEM,” SPOKE THE BURGESS_] He shook his head despondently as he said this, and as his eyes traveled along the not very trim ranks of the volunteers, he shook his gray head sadly. “Is there no man of experience among them?” asked Tom. “Not one, not one,” answered the burgess, “and it’s a great pity, for they are a fine body of men.” He shook his head once more and sighed regretfully. Then turning to Tom he continued: “I sent a messenger to Governor Rutledge asking him to select a leader for this company.” “What was his answer?” “He said that there was but one man in the entire South whom he would name as an ideal leader of irregular troops.” “And that man was----?” “One Francis Marion.” Tom started in surprise and then laughed with pleasure. “Well,” said he to the stout old burgess, “why do you not secure him?” “He is not to be found. The governor has no idea if he be living or dead. Men die suddenly in these times, you know.” “But suppose,” said the boy, “that I could tell you where to find him?” The old man grasped him eagerly by the arm. “You are not jesting?” “Not in the least. I am of Major Marion’s command. He is now in the camp of General Gates.” The burgess was overjoyed at this intelligence; he wrung Tom’s hand warmly. “Good news,” he cackled, hardly able to restrain himself. “I will go to him in the morning--I will offer him the command.” Then he paused suddenly and continued in a more sober tone. “Do you think, my lad, that he will be inclined to accept?” Tom thought of his commander’s cold reception at the hands of General Gates, and answered promptly: “I rather think he will, sir.” “Good--good!” The old fellow went off, at this point, into a rapture of chuckling. “Come, you will lodge with me to-night; I will not accept a refusal. Wait until I give word to dismiss the company for the day; then you shall have as fine a supper and as soft a bed as you have ever had in your life.”