The two men who rode in the phaeton behind the drummer were in odd contrast to each other, and yet there was the same air of dignity and purpose enveloping both of them. One was old--not so old as Timothy, but not young any more. He was broad-shouldered and sturdy and had a round, good-natured face and a shock of tousled gray hair. He wore a blue uniform. His companion was younger, fair-haired and blue-eyed, with a ruddy face and a fresh, scrubbed look about him. He was not a soldier, apparently, for his coat was fawn-colored with a white-fringed waistcoat underneath. “That’s Old Put,” said Timothy proudly, for he and Gran had come to stand just behind them. “See! In the blue coat there! General Putnam. His wife must ha’ sent him his uniform.” “Why would she have to do that?” asked Gran tartly. “Wouldn’t go off to war without it, would he?” Timothy chuckled. “That’s just what he done! When he heard about Concord Fight, he was building a stone wall on his farm away down in Connecticut. But he come just as he was, in leather breeches and apron. Got here at next day’s sunrise, they say.” “I guess there was others got here just as quick as he did,” answered Gran. “Yourself for one.” She peered over Kitty’s shoulder. “Who be that by his side?” “That’s Dr. Warren. Best damn man, I say, that ever come out o’ Boston. Don’t know how General Ward would run Cambridge Camp without him. Figures out how to get supplies, and men, and money, and all. He’s got book learning and can talk to anybody. More’n that, he’s a good doctor.” “Where are the prisoners, I wonder?” asked Sally Rose. Kitty nudged her, and she subsided. After the phaeton came two British officers, splendid in white and scarlet, and riding sleek horses; then another officer in a chaise; then a handful of officers on foot. They were escorted by a blue-uniformed guard that Timothy said looked to him like Connecticut men. By now the drummer had turned into Ferry Street, heading for the wharves at the waterside. Here and there stood a little cluster of men, here and there a woman’s head appeared at a gable window, but the spectators were few. At the very end of the procession a farm cart rattled along, drawn by two plow horses. A group of men sprawled on the floor of it, men in tattered British uniforms, pale and unshaven, unable to walk, apparently, because of wounds or illness. They looked so forlorn and miserable that Kitty felt tears start to her eyes. “Oh,” she whispered to Sally Rose, “I’m sorry for the poor lads. I don’t care if they are British.” “If they hadn’t come out shooting at us, they wouldn’t be in this pickle now,” growled Timothy. “Wonder where is our boys we’re supposed to get back in the exchange.” “Mr. Bassett says they’re aboard the _Lively_,” said Sally Rose. “Oh--oh--Kitty--” She clapped her hand over her mouth.