which appeared to require both courage and self-assurance.
"She is a pretty lass," one was saying, his voice full of thick laughter and his eyes sparkling with fervour. "And she has promised you her hand if you but gain her father's consent. I must warn you, friend Andrew; his nose is as long and as cold as an icicle. And, when he scents a suitor, he is like a mad bull."
"Ho! Ho!" another laughed. "One year ago I approached him, and for a fortnight afterward the imprint of his boot was blue upon my buttocks!"
"Still," said a third, "he is purse proud. Andrew is no penniless suitor; unlike ourselves he has worked hard and saved his money. I think, Andrew, that if you show him the gold and tell him that once you have gained his consent you will use it to the purchase of a third interest in Ebenezer Phelps' grist mill, he will grant you his daughter."
For the first time Andrew Bennett spoke.
"I hope so, gentlemen; I hope so, indeed," he exclaimed eagerly. He touched a leathern pouch at his waist. "I have the money here, that Judge Hackaday may see for himself whether or not I am a suitor of merit. And now, friends, I must be gone. It is nigh twilight, and I have yet to cover seven miles of pike."
"Shall we go with you, an escort of forlorn suitors?" one shouted. Smiling, Andrew Bennett shook his head.
"It will be scarce dark ere I arrive, and the roads are quiet. And, too, I have a pistol. Wait here; I will return before eleven to take a nightcap with you."
Black Jem, with seeming unconcern, signalled to the little tavern maid for another rum and water.
But, fifteen minutes later, when the revelry had reached a new height, he slipped from the inn. Standing in the stableyard, he summoned the ostler.
"My roan mare," he said bruskly, letting his pack slide with a jingle to the ground.
"You beant stayin' the night, tinker?" the stableboy asked, incredulously.
"No," Black Jem said sourly. "The roads are safe, and it is far to Boston. I ride on to Hooker's Crossing tonight. . . ."
The September New England twilight had deepened into night. A storm was making, and more frequently than not the pallid, three-quarters moon was shrouded behind scudding ribbons of black cloud. The road, in the interval between twilight and darkness, had become abruptly deserted. It was not a pleasant night to be out, with the chill, easterly wind rising. . . .
But Black Jem rode in high good humour, urging his saddlebowed mare against the wind at what most men would call a fool's pace. The fewer people on the pike, the better for him. . . .
Thrice he passed men upon the road, men who were homeward bound or who were seeking the nearest inn, and thrice he pulled up his mare and stared into their faces before, cursing, he rode on. And now ahead, once again, he heard the steady clatter of a horse's hoofs.
"Ho there, friend!" Black Jem shouted, as he drew up beside a night-concealed figure riding at a steady, ground-covering pace toward Hooker's crossing. "How many miles to an inn, this night?"
The clouds lay black across the moon. Although the man riding beside him was no more than a moving
