Adventure Magazine Cover — page 37: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE PENNSYLVANIA LINE morning, and one would have been hard put to say with certainty whether they were soldiers or citizens. Allen came forward from the door, with an air of breeding that he did not wear when alone with his mates. “Vou are, sirs, the couriers from Con- gressP”’ The taller man fumbled with the clasp of his cloak as he answered. “Couriers, yes, but not from Congress. I carry a message to you from—”’ and the cloak slipped off to show the scarlet glory of the British uniform “your King!” With the last word, he removed his hat in reverence and salutation. For twenty seconds not a breath was drawn. Every man at the table was held rigid, as if by enchantment, while, curiously enough, when his eyes had cleared, the royal officer seemed as overcome as any present. Allen clawed feebly at the table edge, as to- gether he and the taller emissary gasped out— “Floyd Allen!” “Floyd Allen?” gaped the board in be- wilderment. “Floyd Allen?” drawled the officer’s com- panion, a stout, blond man in a captain’s uniform, who blinked white eyelashes stu- pidly at his coadjutor. ‘“‘Ay,” answered the first officer, recover- ing himself. ‘‘’Tis a scapegrace nephew and godson of my own, whom I have not seen for these four years past, —— take it!” And the look he cast upon his excited god- son was compound of affection, exaspera- tion, severity, and frank pleasure at the en- counter. There could be no reasonable doubt of the relationship between them. From the bold, delicate hawk-noses to their nervous heels, they were cast in the same mold. But the captain was gray at the temple, and pos- sessed of a tried and calm assurance that the sergeants’ president was even then in the process of acquiring. The latter now sat down in his appointed place, and mo- tioned the board to return to theirs. “Ehe” thought the stout Britisher la- boriously aloud. “Oh, now I smoke it! He’s been fighting here with the rebels under the name of Loyd Fallen. Clever, oh clever, egad!”’ “But you,” said Barstow to the man op- posite himself, “‘you called out, too.”’ ‘Naturally,’ answered the captain for 395 his godson, ‘‘since I, also, am known as Floyd Allen.” “Or more commonly,” said the sergeant- major, “as Tory Allen.” “But never as Loyd Fallen,” said the cap- tain, adding with mordant scorn, “I’ve never seen the need to change my name.” ‘““You’ve never been ashamed of it!’’ re- torted the rebel hotly. “True, true,” agreed the captain, with smooth and irritating calm, “I, alone of all my family, have held steadily loyal to my King, and may face without a blush every moment and act of my life. But I did not come here to reproach you with the insane opinions that you early imbibed from your guardians, my brothers, and for which you, yourself, can hardly be blamed. These are weightier matters on hand than a boy’s natural folly.”’ “Ay,” said the other Britisher heavily, “let’s get through with our business first, and then ye can bring the youngster to a sense of his duty at your leisure.” He wheeled directly on the board, and ad- dressed them collectively and in a kindly condescending tone. ‘Ye must under- stand, my men, that we’ve come to lay a few unsurmountable facts before ye. Yes, egad, facts that ye can’t get around, wriggle as ye may—”’ Determinedly Captain Allen took the floor away from him, for the expression with which the sergeants had received this speech would have daunted any man less stupid than Captain Nicholas Bulkley, of the Royal Forces. The sergeant-major alone seemed to enjoy the stout Englishman’s elo- quent lack of tact, and his pleasure in it was but too clearly malicious. ‘““Yes,’”’ said Captain Allen smoothly, “‘we have ridden out to ask you to consider the advantages of returning to your true alle- giance, His Gracious Majesty, King George of England.” He intoned the title as the other Floyd would have said ‘‘Vermont,” or Wayne, ‘‘Washington.” “Or of continuing a vain and hopeless struggle for an independence that you, your- selves, do not truly desire. For six years, now, you have been fighting against your King and destiny—and to what has it brought you? This day you stand deserted by your officers, without three days’ rations left in your knapsacks, while you anxiously await the sour frown of a Quaker-ridden COMmICcloo S CO