But at last he revived, and turned vaguely about, a voice from the road fell on his ear. It was not Morley’s voice. “The fellow’s dead, I tell you. Shot through the breast. It looks like an American’s nasty trick. Morley was to watch this road to-day. I wonder where he is?” A second voice drawled out: “Morley’s too young to be given much rope, he needs watching. As for those rebels, my Lord Howe is too lenient with them. I’ll shoot everyone at sight from this day on. Are you rested Dick, by Gad! we must hurry on with the news, and bad news it is.” “I could go on,” replied the first speaker, “though every bone is aching, but look at the horses.” Shirtliffe peered over the ledge and saw a sorry pair of horses jaded and panting and near Mason’s body stood the riders, travel stained and weary. They were Britishers and had evidently ridden fast and far upon important business. “While we wait,” said the man called Dick, “let us carry this man behind the bushes since we cannot bury him. I wonder if there is anything on his body to identify him by. Here lend a hand Norton and search the old fellow.” Robert shuddered. “There’ll be little time for burying,” said the man addressed, “when Washington and his ten thousand men make for Dorchester Heights. “Fourteen thousand,” broke in the first speaker, “yes: there’ll be hot fighting. I wish every reb was as stiff as this one, and that we were back in England. What was that?” The two men started nervously as a stone rattled down the embankment. Robert, in his excitement at what he had heard, had made a misstep and dislodged it. The listeners could take no chances, however. “Speak or I’ll fire!” called the older man whose name was Norton. Shirtliffe leaned over and showed himself deeming it the safer action. The men saw him and in the waning light took him, as Robert desperately hoped they might, for Morley. “Hello!” cried the man called Harding, “what are you doing there, Morley, hurt? you’re as white as a sheet.” The strange resemblance was to serve him well, now, if only the Englishmen were not too intimate with the real man, and the darkness and his keen talent for mimicry would help him out. He must chance it at any rate; so slowly descending he made his way toward the men. “By jove!” laughed Harding, “he’s in Continental dress, his officers say he’s always up to some deviltry, what are you doing now, Morley?” “On the King’s business!” answered the boy clinging to the shadow of the hill. “While you have been riding for days to find out Washington’s movements, I’ve gleaned information nearer home.” Norton looked searchingly at him. He had heard of the daredevil boy Morley from others in camp, this was his first encounter. “You could hardly get your news from yon dead Britisher,” he said, “perhaps you will be kind enough to explain yourself and your new uniform.”