"

"There's no one within hearing," said Betty, as she finished her twelfth
wreath and laid it carefully on the floor beside her cricket. "Get the
other big branch outside the door, and sit down here close by me while
you pull the twigs off; then you can tell me safely, for Clarissa is
sleeping, and she will call me when she wakes. Of course I never heard
of the man you mention."

Peter threw back his howl in a prolonged chuckle, as he followed Betty's
instructions and edged his cricket close to her elbow.

"Man!--well, he's more like a monkey than anything. He only comes to my
shoulder, and yet he's old enough to be my father."

"A dwarf, do you mean?"

"No, not precisely; the boys call him a manikin, for he's not deformed;
only very, very small; not above four feet high. He is Dutch and has
been a drummer, it's whispered, in General Washington's army. They say
he was in the battle of Harlem Lane, and beat the rally for our troops
when Knowlton fell. The Vly boys are great friends with him."

"But, I thought you were at daggers drawn with the boys of the Vly
Market, Peter? Surely, you told me blood-curdling tales of the fights
between them and you Broadway boys?"

"Oh, aye, but that's for right of way" and don't mean much except when
we are actually punching each other's heads. Billy can tell great yarns;
how his eyes flash when he speaks of the prison ships, though I only
heard him once, when Jan Steen was talking foolish Tory stuff."

"Do you think 'Billy the fiddler,' as you call him, is one of the Sons
of Liberty?"

"H-u-s-h!" and Peter looked fearfully around. "I don't dare say, but I'm
sure he's true and steady. Betty, I wish I was a little taller; if I
were I'd run away some fine morning and go for a drummer boy with
General Washington."

Betty looked up with affectionate eyes at the sturdy urchin. "I know how
you feel, Peter; but wait a bit. It's sad and disheartening enough now,
God knows, but perhaps better days may dawn for the patriots. My father
says we must keep up our hearts as best we can, and trust in God and the
Continental Congress. Did I tell you how we moulded the bullets last
summer? We kept the tally, and over forty-two thousand cartridges were
made from the statue of King George, so the women of Litchfield have
contributed their aid to the cause in good practical fashion."'

"Aye, that was fine! It must have been jolly fun, too."

"It was very hot," said Betty, laughing; "we tried