The Loyalist. James Francis Barrett

be of such assistance to him, to him, first, and then to the country? And then, why should she feel so responsive, so ready to spend herself, her energy, her whole being at the mere suggestion of this young man, whom until last evening, she had never thought to exist. She felt that she was as wax in the hands of this soldier; she knew it and enjoyed it and only awaited the moment when his seal would come down upon her and stamp her more to his liking. She was slightly younger than he, and happily his contrary in nearly all respects. He was fair, she was dark; his eyes were blue, hers brown; he was lusty and showed promise of broadness, she was slender.

      Twice she opened her mouth as if to speak to him, and each time she dropped again her head in reflective silence. She did not talk to this young man as she might to any number of her more intimate acquaintances. Even the very silence was magnetic. Further utterance would dispel the charm. That she would enlist in his service she knew as well as she knew her own existence, but that he should arouse so keen an interest in her, so buoyant an attitude, so secure an assurance, amazed her and filled her with awe. She had never before experienced quite the same sensation that now dismayed her nor had any one ever brought home to her her worth as did this young soldier. Yes she would help him, but in what way?

      And so they sat and considered and talked. They soon forgot to talk about His Excellency, or the Army, or the Shippens. Neither did they resolve the doubts that might have been entertained concerning the manner of men who frequented the home of Peggy and her sisters; nor the Alliance which had just been established, nor the vital signification of the event. They just talked over a field of affairs none of which bore any special relation to any one save their own selves. At length the old clock felt constrained to speak up and frown at them for their unusual delay and their profligate waste of tallow and dips.

      Stephen rose at once. Marjorie saw him to the door, where she gave him her hand in parting.

      "We have indeed been honored this day, Captain, and I trust that the near future will see a return of the same. I am entirely at your service," whispered Marjorie, wondering why the words did not come to her more readily.

      "On the contrary, Miss Allison, it is I who have been privileged. My humble respects to your parents. Adieu!"

      He bowed gracefully, wheeled, and went out the door.

CHAPTER V

       Table of Contents

I

       Table of Contents

      The Corner of Market and Front Streets was brisk with life and activity at twelve, the change hour, every day. Here assembled the merchants of the city, members of the upper class who cared enough about the rest of the world to make an inquiry into its progress; men of leisure about town whose vocation in life was to do nothing and who had the entire day in which to do it. All conditions, all varieties of character joined the ranks. Soldiers, restless from the monotony of army life and desirous of the license usually associated with leave of absence; civilians eager in the pursuit of truth or of scandal; patriots impatient with the yoke of foreign rule; Tories exasperated with the turn of the war and its accompanying privations;—all gathered together at the Old London Coffee House day after day.

      It stood, an imposing three-storied, square structure, with a great wing extending far in the rear. Its huge roof, fashioned for all the world after a truncated pyramid with immense gables projecting from its sides, gave every indication of having sheltered many a guest from the snows and rains of winter. A great chimney ran up the side and continually belched forth smoke and sparks, volumes of them, during the days and nights of the cold winter season. A portico of no particular style of architecture ran around two sides of the ancient building and afforded a meeting place for the majority of the guests. It was furnished with many chairs, faithfully tenanted when the season was propitious.

      Thither Stephen and Mr. Allison were directing their steps more than a week after they had last met at the home of the latter. It was by the merest chance they encountered. Stephen was seeking a healthful reaction from a vigorous walk through the less-frequented part of the city; Mr. Allison was making his daily visit to the Coffee House. Stephen had often heard of the tavern, but had never been there. Still he was resolved to seek an introduction to its clientèle at the first propitious moment. That moment had now come.

      Upon entering, their attention was at once arrested by the animated discussion in progress at a table in the nearest corner of the room. An officer of the Governor's Guard, in full regimentals, booted and spurred, in company with a gentleman, finely dressed, was talking loudly to Jim Cadwalader, who was seated before them holding a half-opened newspaper in his hand. It was plain to be seen that the soldier was somewhat under the influence of liquor, yet one could not call him intoxicated.

      "Gi' me that an' I'll show y'," exclaimed the soldier as he grabbed the paper from Cadwalader's hand.

      "Y' were told," he went on to read from it, "that it was t' avoid the 'stabl'shment 'r count'nancin'," he half mumbled the words, "of Pop'ry; an that Pop'ry was 'stabl'shed in Canada (where 't was only tol'rated). And is not Pop'ry now as much 'stabl'shed by law in your state 's any other rel'gion?" "Just what I was sayin'," he interpolated. "So that your Gov'nor and all your rulers may be Papists, and you may have a Mass-House in ev'ry corner o' your country (as some places already 'xper'ence)."

      "There!" he snarled as he threw back the paper. "Isn't that what I wuz tryin' t' tell y'."

      "You can't tell me nothin', Forrest," retorted Jim.

      "Course I can't. Nobody kin. Y' know 't all."

      "I can mind my own bus'ness."

      "There y' are agin," shouted Forrest, "y' know 't all, ye do."

      "Don't say that again," Jim flared back at him. "I'll—I'll—I'll——. Don't say it again, that's all."

      "'Cause y' know 'ts true."

      "It's a lie," Jim interrupted him. "Ye know it's a lie. But I don't 'spect much of ye, 'r of the Gov'nor either. None of ye 'll ever be Papists."

      "Now you're talkin' sens'ble; first sens'ble thing you've said t'day. No Papists here if we kin help it."

      Stephen and Mr. Allison, keenly interested in this remark, moved nearer to the table. Cadwalader was well known to Mr. Allison. The others were total strangers.

      "What's he goin' t' do about the help from France? Refuse it 'cause it's from a Catholic country?" asked Jim.

      "He don't like it and never did."

      "Is he fool 'nough t' think we can win this war without help?"

      "He won it once."

      "When?"

      "Saratoga."

      "That's his story. We didn't have it won and it won't be won without troops and with somethin' besides shin-plasters." He turned sideways, crossed one leg over the other and began to drum upon the table.

      "We must hev help," he went on. "We must hev it and it must come from France 'r Spain."

      "They y' are agin," repeated Forrest, "as if one wuzn't as much under th' Pope as th' other."

      "Forrest!" he turned toward him and shook his finger at him in a menacing sort of way. "Don't say that agin. Mind what I tell ye. Don't say it again—that's all. When I'm mad, I'm not myself."

      "Is that so? I s'pose I'm wrong agin, an' you're right. Tell me this. What did yer fool leg'slature in Vi'ginya do th' other day?"

      "I don't know," murmured Jim. "What did they do?"

      "There y' are agin. I thought y' knew it all. Think y' know ev'rythin' an' y' know nothin'. Passed a resolution fur a Papist priest, didn't they?"

      "And why?" pronounced Jim, flushed with