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“It’s all very well for you to talk, Zeb Jarvis,” growled Zeke. “You haven’t been here very long yet; and you stayed at home when others started out to fight. Now that you’ve found that digging and not fighting is the order of the day, you’re just suited. It’s the line of soldiering you are cut out for. When fighting men and not ditch-diggers are wanted, you’ll find me—“

“All right, Watkins,” said the voice of Captain Dean from without the circle of light. “According to your own story you are just the kind of man needed to-night–no ditch-digging on hand, but dangerous service. I detail you, for you’ve had rest compared with the other men. I ask for volunteers from those who’ve been at work all day.”

Zeb Jarvis was on his feet instantly, and old Ezra Stokes also began to rise with difficulty. “No, Stokes,” resumed the officer, “you can’t go. I know you’ve suffered with the rheumatism all day, and have worked well in spite of it. For to-night’s work I want young fellows with good legs and your spirit. How is it you’re here anyhow Stokes? Your time’s up.”

“We ain’t into Boston yet,” was the quiet reply.

“So you want to stay?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you shall cook for the men till you’re better. I won’t keep so good a soldier, though, at such work any longer than I can help. Your good example and that of the gallant Watkins has brought out the whole squad. I think I’ll put Jarvis in command, though; Zeke might be rash, and attempt the capture of Boston before morning;” and the facetious captain, who had once been a neighbor, concluded, “Jarvis, see that every man’s piece is primed and ready for use. Be at my hut in fifteen minutes.” Then he passed on to the other camp-fires.

In a few minutes Ezra Stokes was alone by the fire, almost roasting his lame leg, and grumbling from pain and the necessity of enforced inaction. He was a taciturn, middle-age man, and had been the only bachelor of mature years in Opinquake. Although he rarely said much, he had been a great listener, and no one had been better versed in neighborhood affairs. In brief, he had been the village cobbler, and had not only taken the measure of Susie Rolliffe’s little foot, but also of her spirit. Like herself he had been misled at first by the forwardness of Zeke Watkins and the apparent backwardness of Jarvis. Actual service had changed his views very decidedly. When Zeb appeared he had watched the course of this bashful suitor with interest which had rapidly ripened into warm but undemonstrative goodwill. The young fellow had taken pains to relieve the older man, had carried his tools for him, and more than once with his strong hands had almost rubbed the rheumatism out of the indomitable cobbler’s leg. He had received but slight thanks, and had acted as if he didn’t care for any. Stokes was not a man to return favors in words; be brooded over his gratitude as if it were a grudge. “I’ll get even with that young Jarvis yet,” he muttered, as he nursed his leg over the fire. “I know he worships the ground that little Rolliffe girl treads on, though she don’t tread on much at a time. She never trod on me nuther, though I’ve had her foot in my hand more’n once. She looked at the man that made her shoes as if she would like to make him happier. When a little tot, she used to say I could come and live with her when I got too old to take care of myself. Lame as I be, I’d walk to Opinquake to give her a hint in her choosin’. Guess Hi Woodbridge is right, and she wouldn’t be long in making up her mind betwixt a soger and a cook–a mighty poor one at that. Somehow or nuther I must let her know before Zeke Watkins sneaks home and parades around as a soldier ‘bove ditch-digging. I’ve taken his measure.