“Of course! Gerry was pretending to be an American when we captured him. That’s why he was looking so shabby. You should see him in his captain’s uniform! He’s been kept in a tent in Cambridge--a tent made of old sailcloth that the rain came through, and guards all around him. But he was exchanged this afternoon. I went down to the dock and talked to him while the boats were putting off. He’s gone safe to his own regiment in Boston now. But he says he’ll come back to see me--another day.” “That’s nice,” said Kitty. “That’s very nice indeed.” She felt cross suddenly. It must be the heat, or because she had been working so hard, or because she had forgotten to eat any dinner. It might be the outrageous behavior of Sally Rose. There are many ways to explain such a thing. “And you know he said ...” Sally Rose rattled on. Suddenly there was a hoarse cry from the cellar stairs--a burst of strong language, then a deep groan of pain. The girls looked at each other. “Oh, it’s Timothy!” gasped Kit. “He was trying to bring up a brandy keg. He must have fallen.” The groans continued. She ran to the head of the cellar stairs and looked down. Sure enough, the old man lay on the dank earth that served for a flooring, the heavy keg on top of his right foot, his left leg bent beneath him. “We’re coming, Timothy,” she called. “We’ll help you.” She gazed desperately around the taproom, but it was empty. The last customer had gone. Again she and Sally Rose stood looking at each other. “He’ll need a doctor,” murmured Kitty. “He’s sure to need a doctor. Whether there’s one left in town or not, I don’t know.” Suddenly her cousin’s face lighted. “Of course there’s one in town,” she cried. “Timothy himself pointed one out. That kind-looking man who rode in the phaeton with Old Put. Dr. Warren of Boston.” “Oh--of course I remember. But he’ll be dining with the British officers. He’s an important official, I think, like a minister or a judge. He was wearing a fine coat, Sally Rose. He won’t want to leave his wine and go down in a dirty cellar to tend a poor old man.” “You can’t tell,” said Sally Rose. “You can’t tell at all. He looked kind. I’m going to try to find him.” She ran through the doorway. Kitty stepped gingerly down the cellar stairs to see if she could help the old man. He could only moan and grunt and utter inarticulate sounds when she tried to talk to him, but she managed to roll the heavy cask off his foot and drag him into a sitting position against the roots of the massive chimney. It seemed hours before she heard footsteps on the floor overhead, but later she realized it could not have been very long. A moment later the fair-haired doctor in his neat coat and breeches stepped nimbly down the stairway. Four of the blue-coated Connecticut lads swarmed after.