"You are a brave young fellow, Warrington, and a loyal son. I wish we could help you. You are welcome to the leave, and take as many of your comrades as you need. We wished to get some important information to friends in Boston, and if you decide to attempt to get through the lines report to me and I will give you a letter. I hope you will be able to deliver it at a certain address in the city." "Thank you," said Phil, and retired to find Andy waiting for him impatiently in the main tent of the Musket Boys. "Andy, I'm going to Boston," announced the boy impulsively. "Of course you are," nodded Andy, without betraying any surprise whatever, "and I'm going with you. I've been thinking it over all night long, and planning for it all morning." "Oh, you have," murmured Phil. "Think I'd leave you in the lurch? Think for a moment we're going to leave your father in trouble? No, sir! Before midnight you and I will be in Boston. I've arranged it all. I've got a scheme that will get us across the Charles river as easy as rolling off a log." CHAPTER XXVIII BOSTON AT LAST "Go slow, Phil." "We couldn't go much slower if we tried." "That's so," returned Andy Sabine. "I meant in the way of caution. Now then, anchor your side of the old raft with your pole, and I'll do the same on my side. We've arrived. What's the lookout?" "Dismal enough," answered Phil, peering ahead in the semi-darkness of twilight through a maze of reeds. "I see a big scow loaded with hay. I hear voices, but they are at the other end of the old craft." "That scow is our destination, Phil," said Andy smartly. "Oh, is that so?" "It is. The voices you hear are Johnny redcoats, and we are simply to get to the scow unobserved, smuggle down serenely in the hay, and heave yo! for Boston." "Good," nodded Phil cheerily. "So far, very good. It's quite a little stretch from here to the scow, though." "About fifty feet," calculated Andy. "I think we can wade most of the way. If we have to swim, a little ducking won't hurt us." "All right, when you say the word. I'm ready," reported Phil. "I say it right now," responded Andy. "Make straight for the center stern. No noise, now--here we go." Andy stepped over the edge of the rude log raft which they had been two hours poling through the mazes of a swampy river stretch. Phil followed him promptly. They found the water up to their knees, and, where the weeds were sparse, up to their waists. At length they had covered all of the odd fifty feet between the raft and the yawl except about five yards of clear water space. Here they had to swim for it. "Made it," breathed Andy softly, as, dripping but exultant, they both clambered aboard the scow and snuggled in among the hay, burrowing into it a few feet. "I don't think anyone saw us," remarked Phil. "Then we're safe for a free passage across the river," declared Andy.