"Fellows," replied Andy smartly, his face working with a good deal of
excitement, "we were talking about being hungry a little while ago.
What would you say, if I told you that I think we have a chance to make
the biggest kind of a haul of all kinds of food, and lots of it?"
"We'd say," cried Ralph enthusiastically, "show us the chance!"
"Good! Read that letter, both of you. Then Phil, as you know our
commanding general best, if you see anything in the proposition, go to
him and arrange for the raid."
In turn Phil and Ralph perused the crabbed missive that the old Indian
fighter had sent. It was a strange message. Briefly, it informed
Andy that the writer knew of the needs of the Continental army. From
a friend who had been burned out and robbed by the Tories, Silas had
learned that something strange was going on in the neighborhood of
Berkston.
His friend had told Silas a strange story. The British had raided the
territory, burning houses, stealing cattle, and driving the colonists
away. Somewhere near Berkston Hills, they had a kind of a rendezvous,
Silas said. Here by spells they came frequently to gather up and carry