At sunrise, the next morning after the conversation with Washington, Roderick Barclugh started with his passport signed by Colonel Hamilton. He took up his journey on the road that leads south through the highlands on the east side of the Hudson to New York.

From Fishkill the road is hemmed in on both sides by steep hills. Glimpses of the river are obtained occasionally as a traveller reaches some vantage-point. An hour’s ride brought Barclugh to a view of a broad stretch of the Hudson, and there lay before him the object of all his travels and labors,—West Point in full view.

He leaped off his horse eagerly, and fastened him to a sapling. Then with spying-glass in hand, he found a seat which, in a commanding position on a high cliff, overlooked the scene like an amphitheatre below him.

Proceeding to sketch the redoubts, approaches and armament of West Point, Barclugh admired the location as a military stronghold and thought as he critically surveyed the situation:

“If that palladium of liberty can be assaulted and won with gold, General Washington may then admit that gold is mightier than either the sword or pen.”

However, he stood in thrilling admiration of this wonderful work of engineering skill which had been built by a nation that the English King had been wont to call barbarous. Here, frowning with cannon, were works that had risen out of a desert in less than two years, and which would have cost the English government five hundred thousand pounds sterling, but they had been built by Americans who did not expect pay.

Immediately above West Point the Hudson flows through two precipitous headlands almost face to face,—one upon the east and the other upon the west bank. After passing these two promontories the river makes a quick turn to the eastward, and then to the southward, thus forming a short bend and then stretching out into a straight reach of several miles.

On the point of land thus projecting into the bend of the river, six redoubts were bristling with cannon. They were located in the form of an amphitheatre, beginning at the lowest ground and extending to the highest summits. As the river here is surrounded by mountains, the construction was planned so that one redoubt commanded the next lower and also the river both up and down stream. A chain was stretched across the channel to stop ships of war. Two lofty heights opposite West Point protected the eastern bank with frowning cannon that overlooked the whole valley. One hundred and fifty cannon were counted by Barclugh in these strongholds, and a goodly part of them were the spoils of the American victory over Burgoyne.

“Was he to succeed in his plans to cause the downfall of such a military position?” recurred to his mind as he sought his horse and nervously turned his steps to the highway. There were now only fifty miles of a journey to King’s Bridge, the first British outpost.

His plans seemed to be working admirably, and he was thanking his luck that he had travelled thus far and no mishaps to block his game had occurred. As his horse galloped nearer the British position his hopes mounted higher, and he saw visions of the future, where he would be emulated for his part in the subjugation of the rebellious Colonists. Surely they would be better off under the protection of the powerful mother country than to pursue the mad career of independence. His reverie was suddenly brought to a termination when he came to a fork in the road where the question as to the wisest course to follow had to be determined.

The roads fork below West Point, and form two parallel routes to New York,—one following close to the Hudson, and the other, five miles back, taking the same direction. Barclugh had to rely on his chart and on his own judgment,—he thought the back road would be less frequented and consequently more to his liking,—so he chose the back road.

Everything went along serenely this day with Barclugh. He passed the last American outpost by simply presenting his passport from Colonel Hamilton and entered the neutral territory infested by roving bands of “cow-boys,” and “skinners,” as they were termed.

Arriving at the Croton River near sundown, Barclugh stopped at an inn kept by a Connecticut dame, whose husband, it was learned afterward, had gone to war to escape death at home from the length of his wife’s tongue.

When Barclugh arrived in sight of the inn he had visions of a square meal; for his ride since sunrise had aroused the demands of nature. But as he dismounted, somewhat of a surprise awaited him at the doorsteps in the person of a smallish woman, having a weazened face, a short, whittled-off nose, little, steel-blue eyes and a large mouth. The lips were thin, colorless and compressed in such a manner that no man dared to dispute her ability to bear down and insist upon her own, sweet way.

Without any preliminaries the woman commenced at Barclugh as soon as she saw him approach:

“I don’t b’leeve I can care for any strangers. Are you from the eastward? All my rooms are full. If I keep you at all I shall have to give up my own bed. Dunno what to do. Have you ready money or orders? If you have ready money I might take you, but I would have to charge you more. Are you a stranger in these parts? The next inn? Oh, that is thirteen miles beyond. You couldn’t reach it to-night. If you did, you would not like it anyway. The people there haven’t any family tree. Have I anything to eat? Oh, yes, but I wasn’t brought up to do this kind of work. Since Joshua went to the war I have had to wash the dishes and I am spoiling my hands. You are from Paris, eh? I always did like to entertain real gentlemen. I like Frenchmen, too; they are so polite—I suppose you are hungry. It’s La Fitte? Why that’s real aristocratic. My maiden name was Hopper. I was born in Haddam, old Haddam in Connecticut. My father was selectman in that town for forty years, and he was deacon nigh on to the same. ’Pears to me I used to know some French people. Yes, their name was, lemme see—oh, yes, they could not have been any kin of yours. Their name was La,—La Porte. If I had only known that I was going to have a real gentleman to-night from Paris, I might had a nice chicken and some ham and eggs.—You are a financier, eh? Oh, that’s real nice. I s’pose you’re married? No? Well, how delighted I am that you have come this way; come right in. You know I haven’t heard from Joshua for nigh on to two years—the poor man may be dead. Have I any children? Oh, no, Joshua and I always thought we ought to have had one and we were going to call him little Eli,” was the introduction Barclugh had to the Red Squirrel Inn presided over by Mrs. Charity Puffer.

Being put on his guard by the first onslaught, but concluding that she was harmless, Barclugh determined to learn more of the American phenomenon before his departure.

Mrs. Puffer led her guest to the sitting-room, flew up stairs, told her cook that a gentleman of quality was there for supper, put on a clean dress, spread a clean table-cloth, flew out to have a chicken killed, brought out a couple of pieces of silver that used to be in Deacon Hopper’s family and then came in and sat down before her guest.Every moment of talk that was wasted in getting supper ready seemed an irretrievable loss to her existence,—especially when she had some one on whom to ply her vocation.

“Don’t you think that I would make a smart wife for a nice rich man?” she began again. “This life in the country nearly kills me. You know I never had to live this way before I married Mr. Puffer. He brought me out here and I have had to work my fingernails off. Don’t you see how poor I am? I was a beautiful young woman and he couldn’t furnish me any servants. I worked and worked, for I was so industrious. What was he doing all this time? Poor man, he was laid up with a disorder like a fever, and I had to nurse him and care for him. Then he got discouraged. Well, I couldn’t teach him anything. He was so obstinate.—He wouldn’t dress himself up like I wanted and I had the hardest time to get him to take me to meeting.—He didn’t want to wear gloves, so I used to say to him: ‘Father, you must try and look nice,’ and he would say: ‘Jest so, Charity.’ He would hold his hands and arms straight down by his sides and his fingers out stiff when I put gloves on him. Well, I used to get so provoked, because he knew better than that. When I used to say: ‘Father, you must let your hands hang kind o’ natural,’ he would say: ‘Jest so, Charity.’ Well, I want to tell you, when the war broke out I just made up my mind that father had to go to war or I would go myself. So he went one day, when I hit him with the boot-jack, and I haven’t seen him since.

“Oh, yes, supper will be ready in a very short time. It takes so long for supper to cook when the fire don’t burn. Did I ever have any beaux? Yes, I was forgetting to tell you about a beau I once had, when I was a gay and young woman. His name was Nehemiah, and he used to come around before I knew Joshua. Well, Nehemiah came one evening to see me and I was not in good humor at all. After the old folks had left us to spark a little, I moved over to one end of the settle, and when Nehemiah moved toward me, I sat up as stiff as a stake and I turned my back on him and never spoke once to him that whole evening. Well, at last when I wouldn’t speak or stir, he got skeered and I haven’t seen his face from that day to this. Well, I must tell you, Mr. La,—LaFeet, I don’t like men anyway.”

“Oh, yes, I perceive you don’t, nor anything to eat either,” chuckled Barclugh.

“Oh, yes, you see it is such a pleasure for me to converse with a gentleman that understands my better qualities and can appreciate the fact that he comes into the environment of a refined and well-bred lady. You know that there are so many inn-keepers who are vulgar. They haven’t any china that has been in the family for two generations,—no plate, nor manners. My sakes! I have been forgetting all about supper with my stories,—”

“About yourself,” interjected Barclugh.

“Jest so, Mr. Feet. I’ll go out and see if Betty has the supper on the table.”

As soon as Mrs. Puffer disappeared, Barclugh drew a long breath and exclaimed:

“Whew! whew! I’ll have a time to get something to eat here!”

“Why! what do you think, Mr. Feet? Supper has been ready a long time. My Betty can cook a chicken, boil a ham and make tea quicker than anybody I ever knew. Come right along this way.

“I’ll sit down with you and I know you will enjoy your supper. Will you be seated right there? Here is some chicken. I never eat any meat for supper, myself, before going to bed. I drink my cup of tea. Oh, can’t you cut the chicken? Oh, that’s too bad. Just sharpen the knife a little. That’s it. Just put a little muscle into it.—Well, I declare, Betty just half boiled that chicken. If you can wait a little I shall take it out and boil it a little more.”

“No, thank you, Mrs. Puffer,” said Barclugh, as he sat down out of breath, after he had stood up to carve the fowl.

“Here’s some bread and butter, Mr. Feet. I do enjoy Betty’s bread and butter. It’s about all I care to take for my supper.”

“Madam, is that some ham, on the other side of the table?” queried Barclugh, as he saw that he would have to take matters into his own hands, if he were to have any supper.

For the first time, Mrs. Puffer looked embarrassed, as she replied:

“Yes, that is one of those celebrated hams that are cured in Connecticut. It came from old Haddam, and it is well seasoned. Yes, my father used to cure those hams fifty years ago.”

“Not that one, I hope, Mrs. Puffer?” helplessly queried Barclugh.

“Oh, no, not that one, Mr. Feet, but he used to cure them just like that.—Will you have some more tea? There’s plenty of tea. Oh, yes, I knew you would. Just one drop of milk and I wonder if Betty put on enough sugar? Well, you can excuse the sugar this time. There, I told Betty to cook you some eggs, but she has forgotten. I know that you wouldn’t care for any ham if you didn’t have eggs to eat with it. You will have some more bread and butter, I know you will.”

“Yes, madam, if you please, I will take some of that ham also, and make myself a sandwich,” insisted Barclugh, for matters were desperate for his stomach’s sake.

“Very well, Mr. Feet. I will take it over to the sideboard, and prepare you one, myself,” was the offer of Mrs. Puffer, expecting her guest to say: “No, thank you, it will be too much bother.”

But not that way for Barclugh. He arose from the table and said:

“Allow me to assist you. I will take it over to the sideboard for you,” wishing to be agreeable.

“No! No! you mustn’t do that! I couldn’t allow you! I will do that myself,” interposed Mrs. Puffer, as she jumped up hastily and grabbed the platter to take the ham off the table, when the so-called ham rolled to the floor and bounced up like a rubber ball, for it was as hollow as a fiddle, and made of wood.

Barclugh simply sat back and laughed till he was tired out.

Mrs. Puffer picked up the wayward morsel and placed it on the sideboard.