NAT BREWSTER FINDS MORE PROOF
The coffee-room was thronged; men sat and stood about as they did in
the other rooms; here and there at tables parties were at breakfast;
there was also a great comparing of papers and much secret conversing
in out-of-the-way corners.
No sooner had Ben and Nat entered than a merry voice called:
“Ben Cooper!”
Then a hand struck the owner of that name a most tremendous whack
upon the back; and turning, Ben found himself face to face with his
schoolmate from New England.
While the two were shaking hands in great delight, and laughing and
greeting each other, Nat Brewster’s keen eyes were traveling over
Ezra Prentiss for any distinctive qualities that would confirm his
suspicions.
“The height is about the same,” he told himself, “as near as I can
judge. However, the one was sitting a horse and this one is standing
upon his legs. The general build is also, I think, the same, though of
course I saw one in the shadow, or at best, the dim light of a candle,
and now see the other in the full flood of the morning. There is a good
chance that I may be mistaken in both these things. But in the laugh,”
and Nat’s eyes showed how sure he was, “I cannot be mistaken. It’s the
same. I could tell it anywhere and any time I heard it.”
The boy from the mountains was still deep in his reflections when Ben
turned to him quickly, saying:
“Pardon me, Nat, for forgetting you. But I don’t see old friends like
Ezra every day, you see.” Then addressing the latter he said: “This is
my cousin, Nat Brewster--Nat, this is the friend of whom you’ve heard
me talk so much about--Ezra Prentiss.”
Ezra’s eyes ran over Nat’s stalwart figure in great admiration as they
shook hands.
“I say,” said he to Ben, “here’s the chap we should have had at the
Academy. He could have put Bully Harvey’s shoulders upon the floor if
any one could.”
They sat down at a window opening upon the tavern yard. The two school
friends soon fell to rattling away about old experiences and friends;
Nat listened and studied the newcomer closely.
“The cobbler near the river said that the boy who engaged his boat had
an honest look and a merry laugh. So has this one,” as Ezra Prentiss’
laugh once more filled the coffee-room and an expression of boyish glee
crossed his face at something Ben was saying. “I never saw any one look
more honest or more worthy of confidence. And yet----”
Nat, try as he would, could not get beyond the facts as he saw them.
There was great cause to suspect the young New Englander; but, still,
there was also something about him that made such thoughts of him seem
unjust and ridiculous.
Frankness itself was in his eyes, and his face was thoughtful looking
even with its merry expression. He was rather taller than Ben Cooper
and a trifle slimmer; but his frame was well knit and strong. He
talked rapidly and with great spirit; his hands constantly gestured to
point his remarks, and his white teeth shone in an ever ready smile.
Nat joined in the talk readily enough when it touched upon subjects of
which he had any acquaintance.
“But,” said Ezra, at length, “it’s rather close here--don’t you think
so? Let’s go outside. There’ll not only be more air, but more to
interest us.”
With that they arose and made their way to the street.
“I never saw such throngs before,” said Ben, his wondering eyes taking
in the loitering people. “It must be that the entire town is out to
greet the strangers.”
“It’s the first time, I suppose, that so many have visited a colonial
city at one time,” said Ezra. “And the fact that they are from twelve
different provinces makes the occasion all the more remarkable.”
Just then two horsemen rode out of the inn yard; Ezra grasped Nat’s arm
eagerly.
“Look,” said he, pointing to the riders. “There is Patrick Henry, who
made that great speech before the Virginia Assembly, and Colonel
Washington, who saved Braddock’s army from destruction in the
wilderness.”
Ben Cooper gazed at those two famous colonists with the utmost
interest. In Mr. Henry he saw a tall man with bent shoulders and a
strong face; in Washington, the athletic figure and calm, powerful
personality that impressed every one who saw him. As the two rode by
the place where the boys were standing they noted Mr. Washington say
something to his companion in a quick undertone. The latter turned his
head with a look of interest and then both saluted Nat Brewster gravely.
As the statesmen proceeded down the street, Ezra Prentiss looked at the
young mountaineer in surprise.
“Why, they seem to know you,” exclaimed he.
Ben laughed at this; he was about to speak, when he felt Nat secretly
tug at the skirt of his coat. Discreetly he kept silent.
“Yes,” replied Nat quietly to Ezra. “I have a slight acquaintance with
the gentlemen.”
Ezra smiled at the tone used by his new acquaintance.
“I thought I was going to have the pleasure of pointing out all the
notables,” said he. “But I’m afraid now that I’m not.” Then with a
quick glance of interest, he added, “Do you know any of the other
members of the Congress?”
“Mr. Pendleton only,” replied Nat.
At this he saw Ezra start; he also caught a distinct change of
expression. But a moment later it was gone, and the youth from
Massachusetts Bay laughed gaily.
“Good,” said he, “I’m not to be denied my right after all. See there
at the window,” pointing to a small, earnest group. “They are the two
Rutledges and Christopher Gadsden of South Carolina.”
A venerable man, with snowy hair, and a tall, grave-faced gentleman
stood near the front door.
“The eldest is Mr. Hopkins of Rhode Island, and the other is Roger
Sherman of Connecticut. And that man farther on, with the fine
high-bred face, is John Jay of New York; with him are my two patrons,
the brothers Adams.”
“Which is which?” asked Ben, eagerly, for the fame of the great
Bostonians made them persons to be asked after.
“Can you not tell that by simply looking at them?” asked Ezra with a
laugh. “John is the shorter and the plumper of the two. He’s the great
debater and brilliant lawyer. But Samuel is the grimmest fighter; look
at his stern, deeply-lined face and sombre manner. He has not the ready
flood of eloquence of John, though he can speak straight to the point
when need be. But it is his nature to be of the silent and relentless
kind--and I think in the long run he’s the most to be dreaded by the
British ministers.”
They talked for some time about the eminent persons who were gathered
around the inn in small parties, preparing for the event which was to
prove so important for the nation. At length Ezra, who had every now
and then stolen an odd, questioning look at Nat Brewster, said to him:
“Have you known the members from Virginia for any length of time?”
“No,” replied Nat, briefly.
Ben was too much interested in looking about him to pay any attention
to what his companions were saying. There was a short pause, and Ezra,
with an assumption of carelessness that did not escape Nat, said:
“You’ve been something of a traveler then?”
But Nat shook his head.
“Except for one journey into York State, I’ve kept pretty close to the
Wyoming valley all my life,” he replied.
Ezra looked puzzled. That he would like to have asked a great many
questions was plain; but that there was something that kept him from
doing so, was equally evident.
“It seems to me,” and the boy from New England smiled as he said
it, “that your acquaintance with Mr. Washington and his comrades is
somewhat mysterious.”
“Oh, no,” replied Nat. “It happened that I was able to be of service to
them a night or two ago. That is how I came to make their acquaintance.”
For a moment Ezra gazed steadily into the speaker’s face.
“A few nights ago,” said he, an odd note in his voice.
“Yes,” returned Nat, calmly. “It was rather an urgently needed service;
and it just happened that I was at hand to render it.”
There was another pause, and then Ezra spoke again, this time very
quietly.
“Such things are sometimes long remembered,” said he.
Nat nodded.
“And some people,” went on Ezra Prentiss, in the same quiet way,
“remember them to advantage.” Seeing Nat’s questioning look he added:
“I mean that there are certain dispositions that take great pleasure in
rewarding a good deed--and others that take equal pleasure in repaying
an evil one.”
“I suppose there are,” replied Nat, his eyes never leaving the face of
the other. “But,” with a laugh, “the doer of good deeds can rest in
peace; and the other--well, he can only be watchful.”
As these last words were being spoken Ben Cooper turned. And now he
broke in upon them with a grin.
“I say,” spoke he, “what are you two mumbling away about? And you’re
staring at each other like a couple of owls.”
In an instant Ezra’s face took on its usual expression of good humor.
“Don’t criticise us,” said he laughingly. “You should see yourself.
Your eyes have grown so goggled through looking at so many great men
that it’s a wonder they don’t pop out on the ground.”
All through the day Nat Brewster watched Ezra Prentiss when he got the
opportunity; and deeper and deeper grew his impression that beneath the
merry laugh and ready good humor there was a hidden something that must
not see the light.
“It’s a fear,” thought the young mountaineer, as he and Ben mounted
their horses late in the afternoon and waved their hands to Ezra. “It’s
a fear. And, perhaps, a fear that he may be shown to be a traitor to
the cause of the colonies!”