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قراءة كتاب Harper's Round Table, November 26, 1895
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
and wise counsels prevail in England, at some future time, when everything was once more tranquil, he could confess all. England even at this late moment could have recalled the colonies to her standard.
In the mean time, no one, not even Mr. Wyeth or his fellow clerks, knew that George was attached to a secret society, whose members were pledged to give their lives to "opposing tyranny."
George was not the only lad whose smooth face was innocent of a razor, but whose strong young frame and true heart were both at the service of his country.
Through the window-panes of Mr. Wyeth's office, on the second floor, could be seen the dripping streets and the rain pouring down from the gables of the houses.
George paused, with his finger marking the place in a column of figures, and looked out. He saw Mr. Wyeth coming towards the office, and as soon as he had entered, the merchant came through the large store-room and approached George's desk.
"Master Frothingham," he said, "will you come to my house to-morrow morning? I am desirous of having people in my employ meet some gentlemen who will be there present."
George accepted the invitation gravely, and the events of the next day were to have a tremendous influence on his life.
The morrow dawned clear and bright. It was Sunday, the twenty-second of the month. Clouds, however, were banking all around, and shortly after the breakfast hour it was portending rain.
George walked to his employer's house. Several of his fellow clerks waited in the hall. Mr. Wyeth was in consultation in his library with one or two influential men of well-known royalist principles. One of them was Rivington the Tory, printer to his Majesty, and another was Mr. Anderson, George's former schoolmaster, now secretary to the hated Governor Tryon.
The bells had commenced ringing for church, and people could be seen walking along the streets with their prayer-books under one arm and unwieldy umbrellas under the other.
"We are going to receive a lecture on loyalty to the crown," whispered one of the clerks.
"I do not think we are in need of it, Master Frothingham," said another. "Trust us for that."
The speaker was a loose-jointed youth, with pale fishy eyes, whom George disliked extremely. So he did not reply, but walked to the doorway and gazed out through the little strip of lozenge-shaped windows. It had commenced to rain, and the big drops were hopping up from the doorstep.
The street joined the Bowery Lane; the ground sloped slightly, and at the top of the incline the lad saw a crowd was gathering. Some people bareheaded, others with umbrellas, were swarming out from the houses and thronging at the corner. The church-going crowds had halted.
There was a man on horseback there, who waved his hand excitedly as he talked. News had evidently come from Boston, and all ran to the window. What could it mean? Just then some one laughed. Flying down the hill came Abel Norton, the chief clerk. He was plashing the mud to right and left, and holding his hat on with both hands as he ran along, heading direct for Mr. Wyeth's.
"Abel's got the news," said some one. "There's no use going out; we'll hear it all." They laughed again.
The old man burst breathlessly through the door, and at that moment a cheer came from the crowd outside. The people did not seem to mind the rain in the least. Hats were thrown into the air, then the gathering dispersed in different directions, and the corner was deserted.
Abel stood leaning against the tall clock in the hallway, trying to catch his breath.
"Where's Mr. Wyeth?" he said.
The latter, hearing the disturbance, had pushed himself out of the great leather chair in his library, and had stepped to the door.
"Did any one call my name?" he asked; then catching sight of Abel's dripping figure, "Well, sir," he said, "what means this, prithee?"
"It means," said Abel, "that there has been a battle near Boston. It means that war is on."
"Another Tea Party, I presume," said Mr. Wyeth, taking a pinch of snuff calmly, and dusting his shirt frill with a stroke of his fingers.
"No, sir," exclaimed the chief clerk. "His Majesty's troops have been defeated, and driven, with great slaughter, back from Concord and Lexington to the protection of the city. The rebels are organized, well drilled and armed."
"Hurrah!" said a voice quite audibly.
Everybody started back in consternation; Mr. Wyeth dropped his snuff-box with a jingle.
"Who said that?" he asked, his face turning a shade redder.
George stepped forward. He was pale, and his hands were gripped strongly together behind his back.