"If we can only hang out, we will certainly win the game," remarked Phil to Andy and some others in the big tent of the Musket Boys, one day. "We've got to hold out," retorted Andy. "The only thing I worry about is the fodder. I say, fellows, can't you pick out some rich and fat Tory farmer we can make a raid on? Fried chicken, fresh eggs, doughnuts, pies--anything to break in on the corn meal!" All hands laughed merrily. They had become true Spartans in the matter of appetite. Many a day, more than one of them had tightened his belt a hole to keep down the cravings of hunger. The country about them had been drawn on for food, until there was little left to gather up. Supplies sent from the interior were slow in arriving. Recently, the Tories had captured a wagon load of food sent from Concord. There were a good many pale, thin, starved-looking volunteers about the camp, and there were some desertions on this account. Phil knew that the commanding officers were very anxious on this score. One day, with some "picked men" he went out foraging. They captured a pig, and managed to buy a keg of maple syrup, but this supply barely went the rounds of the volunteers in the hospital. One morning, Andy, in his tent, was aroused from a doze by the sounds of the approaching voices of Phil and Ralph. They were conversing animatedly with some one. As the latter was ushered into the tent, Andy recognized him as Peleg Patterson, a Concord lad. He knew the boy well, a good-natured, accommodating fellow, of weak intellect at times. Peleg was a great admirer of old Silas Berks, and when he was not wandering about the country, lived for weeks with the old Indian fighter. He had a drum and was a fairly good drummer. "Why, Peleg," said Andy, giving the poor fellow a hearty welcome. "What brings you here? Thinking of joining the army?" "You know better," said Peleg, with a grin. "I'm afraid to shoot. No, sir--I just came to find you." "What about?" demanded Andy curiously. "Why--humph, I forgot. You know that's my weakness--always forgetting things. Lemme see. Yes, I've got it. Your folks said--Your folks said--I've forgotten it," concluded Peleg, hopelessly and helplessly. "Did my folks send you?" pressed Andy. "No, they didn't. Some one else sent me." "Who was it, then?" "I forget--no, I don't. Oh, yes--Silas Berks sent me. Why, of course, I can't forget that," and Peleg looked almost triumphant. "What did he send you for?" asked Andy. "I'm stumped again," was the slow, confused reply. "I don't remember," and the speaker rubbed his head in a vacant, despairing way. Andy tried in every way he could to arouse the latent memory of the boy, but it was of no avail. Peleg could simply not remember. He made all kinds of grimaces, he stared, he gulped, and finally he burst out crying. "I always was a stupid--not much good I am in the world."