Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

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26 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. He awoke with beads of perspiration upon his brow, awoke to see by the sun streaming in at his window that the morning was well along, and the tin box was still safe. “Thank Heaven, it was only a dream,” he murmured. “I must try again to open the box.” He took from his pocket a button hook, and after a little tiresome experi¬ menting opened the lock. He lifted the lid eagerly, and prepared to gaze upon the stolen bonds. But over his face came a startling change. An ashy look of disappointment followed the glowing, hopeful look. He grabbed at one of the folded, silver looking pieces of paper and opened it to find nothing but mere waste paper. Overwhelmed, he sank into a chair in a hopeless posture. John C. Lynch, Jr. THE WOODEN BRIDGE. The Major paced up and down the room, his hands tightly clasped behind him. “The lad’s so young,” he thought. “I wonder if I dare trust him. But then, if he had courage enough to volunteer to go down there and get the papers, I think he must be trustworthy. He seemed to want to prove to me that he could do it.” “Jameson,” he called as he stopped in the middle of the bare unfurnished room. A door opened, and a man dressed in the uniform of a Colonial Whig entered. “Yes, Sir,” he said saluting. “Go and get Daniel Webb.” The door closed softly as Jameson left. The Major continued his pacing until a tall young lad appeared on the threshold. “Yes, sir,” he asked, his keen brown eyes flashing and his face illuminated with the spirit of adventure. The Major motioned to him to be seated at the only table in the room, and drawing a map from his pocket, he placed it before them. “I hope you understand fully the danger and seriousness of this errand which you plan to undertake. To-night at half past eleven you are to be at this wooden bridge which crosses the river about here.” He placed his finger on the map. “Here you will find a messenger waiting for you and you will be given these papers which are so very important to us. Take every precaution that is necessary, for you are going on a dangerous errand. The pass word is ‘son of liberty.’ ” He rose and Webb turned to go. “Good luck to you,” he said as they parted, “and may the Lord be with you!” The figure of Jameson crouched back into the shadows of the dark passage as Webb passed down the hall. He laughed triumphantly, “The Lord be with you! Humph, I guess He’ll need to be with you, and the sign is ‘son of liberty,’ ” he mused. “Ha-ha, Major Wayne,” he whisperd with a sneer, “you didn’t know that your dear Jameson was a British spy!” At eleven o’clock that night a lone rider was galloping swiftly along the river road in the cold and heavy rain. But soon another rider appeared quite a distance behind him. The first figure turned with a start in the saddle. A shot

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 25 with a heavy loss—an unwise investment in the West—and I wanted time to think it over and decide how to act.” “I see,” answered the clerk, respectfully, for Stark’s word led him to think that his guest was a man of wealth. “Do you think it would pay me to go West?” he added “I do, if you know some one out there.” “But I don’t know anyone.” “You know me,” said Stark. “Do you think you could help me to a place, Mr. Stark?” “I think I could. A month from now write to me, Col. Philip Stark, at Denver, Colorado, and 1 will see if I can find an opening for you.” “You are very kind, Mr.—I mean Col. Stark,” said the clerk, gratefully. “By the way, I am sorry that I shall probably have to leave you to-mor¬ row.” “So soon?” “Yes. It’s this tiresome business. I shouldn’t wonder if I might lose ten thousand dollars through the folly of my agent. I shall probably have to go out to right things.” “Lord, I couldn’t afford to lose so great a sum of money,” said the young man, regarding the capitalist before him with astonishment. “No, I expect not. At your age I wasn’t worth ten thousand cents. But that’s neither here nor there. Give me a light, please, and I shall go up to bed. The young man had noticed with some curiosity the rather oddly shaped bundle which Stark carried under his arm but forebore to ask any questions about it. It seemed queer that Stark should have it with him walking. He remembered seeing him go out in the early evening, and he was quite confident that at the time he had no bundle with him. Plowever, he was influenced only by a spirit of idle curiosity. He had no idea that the bundle was of any im¬ portance or value. Phil Stark went up to his room, and setting the lamp on the bureau, first carefully locked the door, and then removed the paper from the tin box. He looked at it lovingly, and tried one by one the keys he had in his pocket, but none fitted. As he was experimenting, he thought with a smile of the night clerk from whom he had just parted. He took out his wallet, and counted seven dollars and thirty-eight cents. “That can hardly be said to compose wealth,” he thought, “but it is all I have over and above the contents of this box. That makes all the difference. Gib¬ bon is of the opinion that there are four or five thousand dollars in bonds, and he expects me to give him half. He must think I am crazy. I 11 give him fifteen hundred and keep the rest for myself. To-morrow I must clear out from Mil¬ ford, and give it a wide berth in the future. I suppose there will be a great hue and cry about the robbery of the safe.” Phil Stark, or Col. Stark had a large supply of keys, but none of them seemed to fit the tin box. The evening had been rather an exciting one, but the excitement was a pleasurable one, for he had succeeded in the plan which he and the book¬ keeper had so ingeniously formed and carried out, and here within reach was a rich reward for which they had struggled. In a short time Staik fell asleep and slept until morning. It seemed to him that he awoke rather suddenly from his slumber, and saw Gibbon leaving the room with the tin box under his arm. What a dreadful thing to have happened!

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THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 27 rang out in the stillness and was echoed by a dull thud as the forward man dropped to the ground. Hastily Jameson put his pistol back in the holster and jumped from his horse. He exchanged uniforms with the lad who lay so still on the cold ground. Quietly he mounted again. “The wooden bridge—important papers—‘son of liberty’! ” he muttered over and over as he rode on. Awaiting him on the bridge was the messenger, James Hancock, a strong, sturdy patriot lad, who carried with him the precious papers. He paced up and down, pulling his coat collar higher as he shivered. His horse neighed impa¬ tiently. Hancock, too, was getting quite impatient. “I wonder why in the devil he doesn’t come; it’s after twelve now.” Then footsteps sounded. “Who goes?” came a sharp law command from Hancock, as he raised his pistol. The figure stopped. “A friend, ‘son of liberty’ ” he answered. Hancock’s fire arm came down with a jerk. “Glad you’ve come. You’re Webb, aren’t you?” he asked as he drew from his pocket a small package securely bound. He handed it to the spy. Jameson grasped it and thrust it inside his coat. “Cold, isn’t it?” Hancock asked jovially, lighter of heart, having exe¬ cuted his part of the affair. “Yes,” replied the spy, turning to go. “Have a hard time coming down?” “No.” The spy backed farther away. “Well, goodbye, and good luck to you.” But by this time Jameson was running down the road. Hancock turned to his horse. He stopped suddenly. “Hancock.” He heard his name called softly. Was his imagination play¬ ing with him or— “Hancock.” This time the voice was a little nearer. He ran across the bridge. A man stood there swaying back and forth, then fell against the railing. He gasped. “Get him,” he whispered, pointing a shaking finger in the direction of the fleeing Webb. “He’s—he’s a spy. “I’m—I’m the messenger—‘a son of lib¬ erty’—he tried to kill-” His voice trailed off into silence, and he fell with a shudder to the ground. Hancock stood too stunned to move. He didn’t understand. Then like a flash it came to him. He jumped on his horse, and rode like mad down the road after the fleeing figure who carried the precious papers. Thoughts raced through his mind keeping pace with the horse’s hoofs. A spy—the papers—he thought he killed Webb—Webb had come to the bridge after all. He must get the papers; he had to get the papers. He grasped his pistol till his knuckles were white. He urged his horse onward. The horse spurted forward with more speed. Hancock was gaining on the spy. Less and less, the distance came between them. He was gaining; he would be able to get the papers back. He urged his horse on more and more, still more. He stood in the stirrups and fired, but the fleeing horse did not lessen its speed. He reached for his other gun. It was his last chance, his only chance. He must shoot and kill. “Heaven help me,” he breathed. He fired again. The horse in advance reared on his hind legs, and th spy slowly slid to the ground. Elizabeth Sherburne, ’2