"Looks like rain," said a facetious burgher, who stood with gaping mouth and face upturned. Carter did not answer, but hurried on; somehow he felt that he was dreaming. He had half expected to see the British fleet anchored off the Battery. There was not a sail in sight, so he made straight for the headquarters of George's regiment, praying that there they would have news of him. "No one's heard of Sergeant Frothingham since yester-morning," replied a number of George's squad. "He got leave for a day and hain't come back," the man added, grinning. This was the first intimation Carter had that he had been unconscious twenty-four hours. He felt sick at heart. His regiment was over on Long Island, his father was there also, and he knew few people in the town. George's commander was his own cousin, however, and getting the direction of Captain Clarkson's house, he started out. It was dark as a mine shaft in the street--hardly light enough to see the walk ahead. The young soldier plunged through the door of a public-house only a few steps further on. It had commenced to blow, and the wind roared furiously in the swaying elms outside. Occasionally the lightning made it bright as day. Carter sank into a big oak chair. "Ah, Lieutenant Hewes! Not over on the island?" said some one, clapping his hand on the lad's shoulder. "Where have you been?" "I do not know exactly," murmured Carter, faintly, looking up at the handsome face of Lieutenant Alexander Hamilton, whom he had met often on the drill-grounds. "That means there's a story to be told," went on the other. "Come, join me in my dining. Don't let the elements interfere with our natural appetites." Carter did not know that part of his faintness came from lack of food. But when a big bit of tender mutton was placed before him, he ate with every mouthful putting life into him. As he was about to begin to tell the tale of adventure of the previous day he felt something hard in the lining of the borrowed coat, and inserting his fingers, he drew forth a small note-book; he uttered an exclamation of surprise. "George Frothingham--his book, 1774," he read, and sat there too astonished to speak. "That was the year he left school--to go to Mr. Wyeth's," said Carter out loud. Again the anguish and fear shook him, for it recalled the last time he had seen George's face, and this book in the pocket of a strange coat. What meant it? Lieutenant Hamilton looked as if he feared that his friend's senses had left him suddenly. "Let us have the story, Comrade Hewes," he said. But it was never to be told. An interruption occurred just then that changed the current of every thought, and stirred the room to a pitch of action. The door was burst open, and a man dripping with rain came in; he carried a lantern, whose light had been extinguished. "Oh! but it's a frightful night for a body to be out," he said. "Three persons were killed by the thunder-bolts on Broadway. But have ye heard the cannon firing?"