“But where could they go?” “You know very well that I can’t answer the question; but it seems certain to me they would have gone, an’ if he comes back with word of havin’ seen them, you an’ I’ll make the venture as soon as may be.” What could I say after that promise, save at the expense of proving myself even a greater simple than I was willing to admit? We had rebelled against the king, and must take whatever it was in his power to deal out to us. That we ourselves were not prisoners was fortunate, and crying over what couldn’t be cured wouldn’t mend matters. We laid at anchor all day, making no attempt to go ashore, and hearing nothing in the way of news that was particularly cheerful. Now and then one man or another would pass nearby, either on shore or by water, and we soon came to understand that it was generally believed General Howe could come into New York whenever he felt so disposed. Our troops were yet in town, apparently bent on holding it; but if the ships of the British fleet once opened fire upon them, they could do little or nothing save die at their posts. During the afternoon Jethro Dyker pulled up the river in search of a skiff that had been lost the night before, and came aboard for a chat, telling us much that we already knew, and very little in the way of real news. “Father is makin’ ready to get out of town when the army leaves,” he announced. “He says General Washington couldn’t hold New York if he had twice as many men, an’ once the Britishers are here we Whigs will have a hot time of it. What are you lads countin’ on doin’?” That was exactly what we couldn’t tell him, and, receiving no answer, he mapped out our plans as if believing we had been waiting for him to say what we ought to do: “You’ll take mighty good care to leave when the troops first begin to move, that is, if there’s wind enough to fill your sails, an’ if there ain’t, you’ll abandon the sloop, of course.” “We’ll take a good many chances before doin’ that,” Abraham said curtly, irritated because Jethro had taken it upon himself to tell us what we should do. “We’ll hold on to the sloop quite a spell waitin’ for a wind, rather than give her up without a struggle.” “Then you’ll show yourselves to be a crew of fools!” Jethro cried as he went over the rail into his skiff. “What good will she do you while you’re in prison, for that’s where all hands will be as soon as the Tories can give information about you?” “We’ll take some chances before showin’ the white feather,” Sam cried, and Jethro rowed away in silence, as if leaving us to our fate in punishment for being pig-headed. We did not feel any more comfortable in mind after young Dyker had gone, although never one of us would have allowed the others to fancy he was at all disturbed, and, speaking now only for myself, it was with a decided sense of relief that I saw the shadows of night begin to lengthen.