The Young Continentals at Lexington

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!”