your trouble, you attack this poor
fool who never saw King George and is not even one of his soldiers."
He leaned down and half pulled the rope from the Tory's neck. "He is
not worthy the honor of hanging. Use your good rope to haul down the
statue of his Gracious Majesty, King George III--which has cumbered
our city too long. And melt the lead into bullets which the soldiers
of General Washington will use against any Briton who dares to enter
our New York."

A roar of applause broke from the crowd. "Down with King George!" they
cried as a dozen eager hands pulled the rope from the frightened
Tory's neck and flung it about the statue. The Tory, only too glad to
make his escape, crept away unnoticed in the crowd, already intent
upon pulling the leaden effigy to the ground. They tugged as one man,
that howling, maddened mob until with a great crash the deposed statue
of the hated British king lay upon the ground. Then: "Bullets" was the
cry, "bullets for our soldiers," as, laughing and shouting, the
citizens of New York dragged the statue away to be melted into bullets
for colonial rifles.

Isaac Franks looked longingly after them. But he knew that it would
soon be time for "taps" and he dared not be late. With a little sigh,
he turned his face toward the camp, where, under General Washington,
he hoped to learn to become a good soldier of the Republic.

THE LAST SERVICE

_The Story of a Rabbi Who Lived in New York When it Was Captured
by the British in 1776._

A Sabbath hush brooded over the garden of the Rev. Mr. Gershom Mendes
Seixas, minister of New York's one synagogue, _Shearith Israel_. The
tall pink and white hollyhocks that bordered the prim paths nodded
languidly in the warm September breeze. From the trees came the
twitter of sparrows, now low and conversational, now high and shrill,
"just like people in the synagogue," thought little David Phillips, as
he strolled in his grandmother's garden on the other side of the
hedge. And if David had pulled aside the white curtains of the Rabbi's
study windows, he would have seen that the same Sabbath peace filled
the low-ceilinged room, the walls covered with books, most of them
rather forbidding in their musty, leather bindings. A peaceful,
restful room on the Jewish rest day; but, boy as he was, David would
have seen at a glance that Rabbi Seixas was not at peace with himself.
A keen-eyed, quick-moving young man of about thirty, he paced
restlessly up a