On the morrow Hadley climbed upon Black Molly and rode over to the Morris homestead. Most of the farmers in the neighborhood had harvested their grain by this time. The corn was shocked and the pumpkins gleamed in golden contrast to the brown earth and stubble. In some fields he saw women and children at work, the men being away with the army. The sight was an encouraging one. Despite the misfortunes and reverses of General Washington’s army, this showed that the common people were still faithful to the cause of liberty. News, too, of an encouraging nature had come from the north. The battle of Bennington and the first battle of Stillwater had been fought. The army of Burgoyne, which was supposed to be unconquerable, had been halted and, even with the aid of Indians and Tories, the British commander could not have got past General Gates. News traveled slowly in those days, but a pretty correct account had dribbled through the country sections; and there was still some hope of Washington striking a decisive blow himself before winter set in. The signs of plenty in the fields as he rode on encouraged Hadley Morris, who had seen, of late, so many things to discourage his hope in the ultimate success of the American arms. When he reached his uncle’s grain fields he found that they, too, had been reaped, and so clean that there was not a beggar’s gleaning left among the stubble. He rode on to the house, thinking how much good the store of grain Ephraim Morris had gathered might do the patriot troops, were Uncle Ephraim only of his way of thinking. As he approached the house the watch dog began barking violently, and not until he had laboriously dismounted before the stable door did the brute recognize him. Then it ran up to the boy whining and licked his hand; but as Uncle Ephraim appeared the dog backed off and began to bark again as though it were not, after all, quite sure whether to greet the boy as a friend or an enemy. Evidently the old farmer had been in like quandary, for he bore a long squirrel rifle in the hollow of his arm, and his brows met in a black scowl when his gaze rested on his nephew’s face. “Well, what want ye here?” he demanded. “Why, Uncle, I have come to see you--” “I’m no uncle of yours--ye runaway rebel!” exclaimed the old man, harshly. “What’s this I hear from Jonas Benson? He says ye are not at his inn and that he’ll no longer pay me the wages he promised. If that doesn’t make you out a runaway ’prentice, then what does it mean?” “Why, you know, Mistress Benson is very violent for the king just now--” “Ha!” exclaimed the farmer. “I didn’t know she had the sense to be. It’s too bad she doesn’t get a little of it into Jonas.” “Well, she doesn’t want me around. And Jonas can’t pay two of us.” “She wouldn’t have turned ye off if ye’d stayed where ye belonged, Hadley Morris. Oh, I know ye--and I know what ye’ve been doing of late,” cried the farmer. “Ha! lame air ye? What’s that from?” “I got a ball in my leg--”