WHAT THE PORCUPINE SAW AT CHEW HOUSE
During the days that followed, Nat Brewster saw a great deal of Ezra
Prentiss. One day the latter would ride to Germantown. On the next,
perhaps, the cousins would go into the city.
On September 5th, the Congress met for the first time, at Carpenter’s
Hall, with Peyton Randolph, of Virginia, as its president and with
representatives present from every colony except Georgia.
On the very next day, the famous Suffolk resolves were passed at
Milton, Massachusetts; on the 17th a rider arrived in Philadelphia
bearing a copy of this document to the Congress, and when a hint of the
radical nature of the resolutions became known, the city was in a state
of feverish suspense.
It happened that Ezra Prentiss had spent the preceding night at the
Cooper place; and that day Ben and Nat rode in company with him into
the city. As they dismounted in the yard of the City Tavern, Ezra
noticed a well-made, good-natured looking man of middle age rubbing
away at a powerful bay horse.
“What!” exclaimed the young New Englander. “Is it possible that it is
Mr. Revere?”
The man paused in his rubbing and looked up. As he caught sight of
Ezra, a cheery smile overspread his face.
“Why bless my heart and body!” cried he, “it’s young Ezra Prentiss, as
large as life!”
Ezra hastened forward to shake hands with the speaker. A hostler who
took Nat’s mount said in a low tone, in which there was considerable
respect:
“It’s the rider of the Suffolk Convention. He’s made the trip from
Boston in six days.”
“I don’t wonder at it,” put in another one of the inn’s people who
stood idly by, chewing at a long straw. “That’s a remarkable animal
he’s got there.”
“And he’s sure that it will get proper attention,” grinned the first
speaker, “for he won’t let any one put a hand upon it but himself.”
Here Ezra called to his companions and introduced them to the despatch
bearer.
“I’m glad to make your acquaintance, young gentlemen,” said he in a
bluff, sincere way. “If you’re friends of Ezra, I know you’re friends
of the colonies; and I want all such to be friends of mine.” He paused
a moment and surveyed them carefully. “Are you Sons of Liberty?” he
inquired.
“I am,” replied Ben promptly, “and so is my father.”
“The society has not yet reached the back settlements,” smiled Nat. “So
I am not yet a member. But I hope to be before long.”
“Good,” said Paul Revere, clapping him upon the back. “Every true
American should be one of us. We are united in hating tyranny and
defying our oppressors.”
After the speaker had seen his steed properly cared for and given
particular instructions as to how he should be fed, he went with the
boys into the inn.
“I gave my papers to Samuel Adams,” said he to Ezra; “and even now
the Congress is reading them. And when their contents get out,”
rubbing his strong hands together and laughing gleefully, “there will
be some excitement, I can tell you, young gentlemen; for Dr. Warren,
who offered the resolves to the Suffolk delegates, does not mince his
words.”
They sat in the coffee-room talking to Revere while he awaited the
return of Samuel Adams from Carpenter’s Hall. He seemed deep in the
movement that was then convulsing the colonies; every turn was familiar
to him; every New Englander who figured conspicuously he could call
readily by name.
“But,” said he at length, “let me show you some little things that have
been thought to hit off the situation.”
He produced as he spoke a number of prints from his saddle-bag, which
he had carried into the coffee-room, and with honest pride, began to
point out their qualities.
“There is nothing like putting a thing before the people in a way
they’ll understand,” said he. “And that is the intention of all my
work.”
“You are an artist then, Mr. Revere?” said Nat, inquiringly.
The man smiled and waved his hand.
“Not much of a one, as the pictures themselves will tell you,” answered
he. “I’m merely an engraver of copper plates. This one,” indicating
a particular print, “shows the bloody massacre which took place in
King Street, Boston, four years ago. You’ve heard how a party of the
Twenty-ninth Regiment shot down a number of honest people, I feel sure.
This one,” showing still another print, “of the Dragon, met with quite
a little success at Boston and other cities.”
One by one he displayed the quaint pictures and proudly read the
pompous verses which were printed on the margin of each.
“The poems I wrote myself,” stated he, “and while they may not be of
the best, still I take credit for them because I am no great scholar.
I had to give up school over soon to go into my father’s shop to learn
the trade of gold and silversmith.”
“Then you were not brought up an engraver,” said Ben.
“No. But, though I do say it myself, I soon showed some art in
fashioning ewers, tankards, brasiers and mugs; and it is no great step
from that to the copper plate. However,” and Revere smiled, “I have
not kept myself altogether to such work. When trade was dull I took up
other matters that would be of service to the public, and incidentally,
to myself.”
“I’ve heard tell that you once were a dentist,” spoke Ezra.
“A sort of one,” replied the man. “At least as much as John Baker, the
surgeon dentist, could make of me in a short time. When I had my shop
at the head of Dr. Clark’s wharf,” to the other two, “I made very good
teeth for those persons who were so unfortunate as to lose their own.
Sometimes the best in the city resorted to me. Once I set a molar for
Dr. Warren himself, and he has ever since declared it even better than
the natural one.”
They were still engaged with this versatile craftsman when a porter
came into the coffee-room and approached them. Addressing Revere, he
said:
“Mr. Adams has returned and is inquiring for you, sir.”
Revere arose with alacrity.
“Where is he?” asked he.
But at that moment Samuel Adams, an exultant light in his stern eyes,
entered the apartment.
“Ah, Revere,” said he, “I was this moment seeking you.”
“Something has been done!” cried Revere. “I can see it in your face.”
“The resolutions of the citizens of the county of Suffolk have been
read to Congress,” replied Mr. Adams, “and have been received with the
utmost approval. Even now an answering paper is being drawn up and will
be passed upon at our earliest opportunity.”
“And you will commission me to carry it back to Boston!” cried Revere,
eagerly.
“To be sure. There is no one I would trust farther--unless, indeed, it
were Ezra,” and he laid his hand upon the lad’s shoulder.
“Well,” laughed Revere, “I’ll not be jealous of him, for I know that
he’s served both the cause and yourself well. He’s only a lad, but
many men might well be proud of the work he’s done for the colonies!”
“I think,” here spoke Ezra, “that you are both inclined to overestimate
anything that I have done. Every one has his opportunities, and it is
only his duty that he should accept them as they come to him.”
They were still talking in this strain, and Nat Brewster was listening
wonderingly, when the porter, who was lingering in the room, touched
him upon the arm.
“Are you Mr. Brewster?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Nat.
“There is a boy been asking for you--rather an odd sort. He’s outside.
Shall I call him in?”
The porter’s words at once suggested the Porcupine to Nat.
“But what in the world is he doing here?” he thought. Then to the man
he said: “I’ll go out to him.”
As he turned away from the group in the coffee-room he noted that
the hand of Samuel Adams still rested upon Ezra Prentiss’ shoulder.
The whole attitude of the statesman and that of Paul Revere were of
perfect trust and confidence in the boy; apparently they would not
hesitate to place their most cherished projects in his keeping.
“I can’t understand it,” thought Nat. “I can’t, no matter how I try.
Samuel Adams is not a trustful man; he is more apt to suspect than not.
And Mr. Revere is not without shrewdness. Both have known Ezra for a
long time, so it seems. They speak of him as having rendered great
services to the cause. And, surely, they must know! It is not possible
that he can have hoodwinked them and the many others in Boston who must
have watched his actions.” He paused in the middle of the outer room,
his mind filled with these reflections. “I have known him but a short
time,” he went on, “and yet I have convinced myself that he is----”
But here he paused and shook his head. “No,” he said aloud, “I’m not
convinced. If I were I would not be arguing with myself in this way.”
When he reached the door of the inn he found that the person inquiring
for him was the Porcupine, as he had fancied. The dwarf was seated upon
one of the heavy benches, whittling a stick and whistling. At sight of
Nat he grinned widely and nodded his huge head.
“What brings you here?” asked the young mountaineer, as he shook him
warmly by the hand.
He had seen the boy once or twice since their joint adventure, and had
praised him so highly to the family that in recognition of his bravery
Mr. Cooper had offered to employ him upon the place. But the dwarf had
shaken his head.
“I don’t want to work for nobody--steady,” he had replied. “I’d rather
live around--just as the squirrels do.”
Now he looked up at Nat and rubbed his knife blade on the palm of his
hand.
“I came to see you,” he said. “Went over to Coopers’ this morning and
asked for you. But they said you’d come into town. And as my business
is important,” with a renewal of the grin, “I started in after you.”
“You didn’t walk!” exclaimed Nat.
“Not on legs as short as these,” returned the dwarf. “It would take too
long. I caught the carrier as he came by, and as he’s a decent fellow,
he let me ride on top of the load.”
Nat sat down beside him on the bench.
“Well,” inquired he, “why did you wish to see me?”
At once the face of the Porcupine lost its grin. He resumed his
whittling of the stick and was silent for some little time. At length
he spoke.
“You’ve only known me for a little while,” he said. “Haven’t you?”
“Not very long,” admitted Nat.
“And of course when people don’t know other people for any length of
time--well, they don’t put overmuch faith in them.”
Nat looked at him inquiringly. But the dwarf kept his eyes upon the
stick and trimmed it delicately with his knife point.
“Go on,” said Nat.
“It’s not very easy to go on,” said the Porcupine. “Sometimes there are
things that are hard to say.”
There was another pause. Nat felt that it was best to make no remarks.
Apparently the lad had something to tell him--something that he
thought would stretch his hearer’s credulity--and he was diffident in
beginning.
“But,” proceeded the Porcupine, at length, “it’s got to be said and I’m
going to say it. Only, I want you to promise to believe me.”
“Is it going to be as hard as all that?” said Nat, smiling.
“Maybe it will be the hardest you ever heard. I wouldn’t have believed
it myself if anybody had just told me. But I saw it. And when you see a
thing, you must believe it.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Nat.
The dwarf here threw down the stick and placed his knife carefully
in his pocket. Then he drew his short legs under him much after the
posture of a Turk seated upon a rug.
“It was four nights ago,” he said, “that this thing happened.”
“What thing?” asked the other.
“I’ll come to that in a minute,” answered the Porcupine quietly. “You
see I’d been in to town here because I wanted to see the people that
were being so talked about; and when I got back to Germantown it was
late and seemed about to come on rain. There ain’t a great many places
where I’m allowed to sleep now, but I felt sure that Mr. Cooper
wouldn’t take it ill if I crowded into the hay-mow in his barn for the
night.”
“Why didn’t you come to the house?” said Nat. “You know they’d have
found a bed for you.”
“Oh, I don’t like to be a trouble to people. And, then, as I said, it
was late. But anyway,” proceeded the dwarf, “I was on the main road
near Mr. Cooper’s; so I just crawled through the fence, walked across
the back lot, and there I was behind the barn. There’s always places
where you can get into barns, if you know how,” grinned the boy, “and
I was just hunting around for a door or window that had been left open
when I heard a dog bark.
“There are very few dogs ’round about Germantown that ain’t acquainted
with me, and there’s no occasion for me to be afraid of any of them,
for dogs never make any mistakes. But, anyhow, I stopped and listened
because I thought there might be some one stirring.”
“And there was?”
“Yes, and in a very little while I knew that he was coming in my
direction.”
“Go on,” said Nat.
“I couldn’t see who it was,” continued the Porcupine, “but I knew it
was only one person by the footsteps. I heard him stop at the barn door
and fumble with the catch for a moment. Then I heard him say:
“‘Locked!’
“Now this was kind of curious, so I crept quietly around the building
on my toes. Just as I reached the corner and peeked I heard a
tinder-box snapping, then there was a light flared up, and I saw that
the person at the barn door was the boy who has been visiting at
Coopers’ of late.”
“Ezra Prentiss!” almost cried Nat, with a start.
“Yes, that’s his name,” said the dwarf. “The hired man told it to me
the first day I saw him around the place; and I’ve remembered it,
because it’s not a name,” meaningly, “that I’m likely to forget.”
“I see,” said Nat. Then he added quickly, “But you haven’t spoken to
any one about his name being the same as that other?”
“No,” replied the other, promptly. “I never do things like that until
I’m sure of them.”
“That’s right!” approved the young mountaineer. “And now, go on.”
“The light only lasted a moment,” said the Porcupine, proceeding with
his story. “And as it went out, I heard him say:
“‘Well, I can’t open that. So I suppose I’ll have to walk.’ He was
still for a little and then he went on: ‘But it’s not very far off. I
can cut across the fields, and it will take me no time, if I don’t lose
my way in the dark.’
“And with that he started off,” said the Porcupine, “and, because of
the sameness of his name with that other one, I followed him.”
Nat had a feeling that somehow this was not altogether right. He
detested spying and anything like it; but for all that, his interest
was stimulated, as the story seemed to bear directly along the line of
his own suspicions.
“Well,” said he, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice and only
succeeding indifferently well, “where did he go?”
“Across the fields to Cliveden!”
Nat felt something like a shiver run through him. His feelings were
that no other proof of Ezra Prentiss’ guilt was wanting. But his reason
and sense of justice told him that he must not condemn, even yet.
“As I said,” proceeded the dwarf, “I followed him. But in the trees
upon this side of Master Chew’s house I lost him.”
Nat drew something like a breath of relief.
“And that is all?” he asked.
“No.” The dwarf drew his little legs under him more tightly and laid
his large strong-fingered hands upon his knees. “You know after you
lose a thing, you sometimes find it again. So thinking of that I
waited around in the dark, near the stone wall where you heard Master
Dimisdale and Master Royce talk on the night that we rode below the
ferry. But the boy didn’t show himself, and as there was a lighted
window at one side of the house--the side where I knew Master Chew’s
office to be, I worked my way over to it without any noise. The window
was pretty high for me, but there was a rain barrel almost under it,
and I climbed up that until I stood upon the chime.”
“But,” questioned Nat, “what did you expect to see?”
“I don’t know,” said the Porcupine. “The light was in the window, and
it was late at night. That wasn’t usual, so I thought I’d better not
miss anything.”
“Well,” said Nat, and once more the cold feeling of dread crept over
him, “what did you see?”
“I saw,” replied the Porcupine, calmly, “Master Chew, with the bandage
about his head which he’s been wearing since the night you struck him
with the butt of his own pistol. I also saw Master Dimisdale, a pair
of glasses perched upon his nose, going over some papers. Both sat at
one side of the big table in the center of the office. And across from
them, as cool as you please, and chatting bravely away with Master
Chew, was the lad I’d been following!”