The Boy Patriot | Page 3

to know the cause of the meeting; but he, like many an older
speaker, was willing to attribute to his eloquence what might have had
even a humbler cause.
"Our rights invaded; a man's ship no longer his castle; the free
American forced to forsake his stars and stripes! The foot of the Briton
pollutes our decks. His tyrannical arm takes captive our fathers, and
dooms them to a servitude of which the world knows no equal. Shall
we submit? We will not submit. We have protested. We have declared

war to the death. Has Fairport a voice in this matter? Where are those
whom we love best? Where but upon the wide sea, a prey to our
remorseless enemy. Where is your father, and yours, and yours, and
mine?" said Blair, making his appeal personal as he pointed to the
sailors' sons. "This insolence must be checked. We must rebuke the
proud Briton on the very scene of his abominations. We must triumph
over him on the tossing ocean, and teach him that America, not
Britannia, rules the waves. Would that we all stood on some staunch
ship, to do battle with our young right-arms. Then should Englishmen
cringe before us; then would we doom to sudden destruction their
boasted admirals and flimsy fleets. Down with the English! down with
the English!"
Blair stamped emphatically on his hollow throne, until it rang again.
"Down with the English!" echoed the crowd in a burst of enthusiasm.
At this moment a short, stout lad came round a neighboring corner. On
his arm he carried a large basket of clean linen, with which he now
tried to elbow his way through the crowd.
"An English boy! Shame that he should show his face among us," said
Blair in his excitement.
"We'll give him a taste of salt water," said two or three of the oldest
boys as they seized the stranger roughly by the shoulders. "We'll teach
him to mend his manners."
"Stop, stop, boys. Give him fair play," shouted Blair; but Blair was no
longer the object of attention.
The English boy, in spite of his struggles, was hurried to the edge of the
wharf, and pushed relentlessly over the brink.
A thorough ducking to him, and the scattering of his precious basket of
clothes, was all that the young rascals intended. To their horror, the
stranger sank like a heavy load--rose, and then sank again.

"He can't swim; he can't swim. He'll be drowned!" burst from the lips
of the spectators. All were paralyzed with fear.
Blair had forced his way through the crowd, and reached the edge of
the wharf in time to see the pale, agonized face of the English boy, as
he for the second time rose to the surface. In another moment Blair was
diving where, far in the deep water, the pale face had vanished from
sight.
There was a moment of breathless silence, then a deafening cheer, as
Blair reappeared with the drowning boy in his arms.
There were hands enough outstretched to aid him in laying his burden
on the shore. "Help me carry him, boys, straight to our house. Mother
will know what to do for him," said Blair, speaking very quickly.
It was but a few steps down a neighboring street to Joe Robertson's
pleasant home.
Blair did not fear to take in the dripping boy and lay him on his
mother's best bed. He knew that mother's joy was to minister to the
distressed and succor the unfortunate.
The water was soon pouring from the mouth, nose, and ears of the
unconscious lad. Then he was rubbed and wrapped round with hot
flannels, while Mrs. Robertson's own hands forced his lungs to work,
until they again took their natural movement.
Not a word was asked as to how the accident had happened, until, out
of danger, the rescued boy was in a sweet sleep.
The eager crowd who had followed Blair and his charge had vanished,
and the mother sat alone with her son. Blair's dripping garments had
been exchanged for another suit, but in the midst of the late confusion
his mother's eye had silently and gratefully marked upon him the signs
that to him the English boy owed his life.
"You saved him, my son. God be thanked. I may well be proud of my

boy," said the mother earnestly and fondly.
A sudden flush of shame crimsoned the cheeks of Blair Robertson. "Oh,
mother, it was all my fault," he exclaimed. "If he had died--Oh, if he
had died, that pale struggling face would have haunted me to my grave.
I had been making one of my speeches to the boys, and it pleased me to
see how I could rouse them. I had just shouted 'Down with the English!'