"Easily done, lad. There's paper and pencil. Get your letter ready. I'll send it by the first mail to a friend in a certain house-top in Boston, who will see that it is delivered before sunrise." "Oh, that is great!" commented Andy. When Phil had written his letter, he gave it to Silas. The latter folded the sheet, wrote some directions on its back, enclosed it in a thin piece of oilskin, did the same with his own letter, and attached one under the wing of one of the doves, the other under the wing of its companion. Then, the doves fluttering affectionately on his shoulder, he went to the window, opened it, spoke some pet words, and the trained doves took flight into the darkness on their route to Boston. "I must thank you greatly for that service, Mr. Berks," said Phil. "It takes a great load off my mind to know that my folks will learn where I am, and my plans. I've sent a message to my company too." "The Musket Boys of Boston?" spoke Andy. "Yes, I've told them to expect me among them, and to be sure to keep up their drilling, for they soon will be needed." "That's right," nodded old Silas sagely. "The ball has opened, and America will soon need the help of every loyal lad who can handle a musket." The old man bustled around getting his pets comfortable. Andy suggested that it was about time for them to leave for home. "Yes, we're due in town," observed Phil. "We'll go by Bram's house. I've a good deal of curiosity to know if they have left the place." Phil recited in detail the conversation he had overheard between the Brams, father and son, about burying a dog. "Why, that was queer," commented Andy. "There's something under that talk hard to understand, Phil. It looks as if Greg Bram was sort of hinting at some secret he knew about. And it certainly refers to your father and Burt Noble." "What's that about Bram and the dog?" piped up old Silas curiously. Phil repeated his story for the benefit of their inquisitive host. "Buried a dog, did they?" said the old man, when Phil's narrative was concluded. "Why, they never owned a dog. Old Jasper is too stingy to feed one." "That makes it more puzzling than ever," said Phil. "Why, Mr. Berks, what are you doing?" The old man with quite a thoughtful air had taken up a piece of chalk from a shelf, and had written on the wall just under the shelf the words: "_Bram buried dog._" "Oh, that's my memorandy book," chuckled Silas, his shrewd eyes twinkling busily. "I have lots of time on my hands. You're interested, and I'm keeping that memorandy as a reminder. Shouldn't wonder," and the veteran Indian fighter squinted enigmatically, "if I started out some day to find out where Bram buried that dog--that never existed, mind you--and why he did it. When I do, Warrington," and he placed his hand impressively on Phil's shoulder, "expect a message from me by my carrier pigeon route to Boston." "Hurrah for liberty!" screamed the parrot. CHAPTER XXVII