CHAPTER IV. AND NOW WE COME TO MOLLY. Footsore, weary, and hungry, a boy beating upon a drum, entered the headquarters of the bedraggled army entrenched on Prospect Hill. “What do you want?” asked a man on duty. “I wish to join the army and fight the foe. I can drum.” “I hear that you can. Stop the clatter, wait until your accomplishment is needed.” The boy put the drum gladly down. “What’s your name?” “Robert Shirtliffe, sir.” “Age?” “I’ll be eighteen soon.” “You look much younger. Where do you come from?” “Plymouth.” “You come with your family’s consent?” “No one had an objection to offer, sir, we are all patriots.” “You wish to enter the service as a drummer?” “With your permission, sir.” “Well, I will enter your name, and make further inquiries later. You’ll probably be ordered to New York, Washington needs more troops. You look strong.” The boy drew himself up painfully. “I am strong,” he murmured, “and I’m not afraid of work.” No further investigation was made. The country too sorely needed men, and so Robert Shirtliffe became a drummer in the American army, an enemy to his King, a traitor to the old order of things. When he first went among the soldiers, he shrank from the unusual scene. “Hello! Molly,” called one, noticing his hesitation, “where’s your mother?” Robert shrank back as if he had received a blow, the others roared with laughter. “Oh! don’t flare up, boy,” said the speaker, “the army’s full of Mollys or Betsys, when your beard comes we’ll call you John.” Robert breathed again, and took his place among the men. But the name clung to him. His beard came not, and he could only hope that by some brave deed he might efface the title. Not long after he had enlisted he was sitting, with some others, around a camp fire trying to forget, in the grateful glow, how hungry and cold he was, when suddenly a bit of conversation riveted his attention. “Any one heard of old Mason yet?” asked one. “I heard that General Lee had tried to trace him to thank him for his bravery.” Shirtliffe drew nearer: “I used to know all old fellow by the name of Mason down Plymouth way,” he said, “a poor drunken old chap.” The words came slowly, and with an effort. “They say this old fellow drank like a fish before he enlisted; something has sobered him up since.” “What did he do that was so brave?” Shirtliffe asked the question as he bent nearer the fire. “Why you see it was this way; when the folks ’round Boston made up their minds that the King did not mean to grant their petition, they hustled their stores and ammunition to Concord. Old Gage got wind of it and sent eight hundred men to stop them, and bring everything back, Samuel Adams and John Hancock into the bargain. But the King’s men were too late; Adams and Hancock were out in the country raising a devil of a row and stirring folks up.