Sir Henry gave a short laugh. "That Hebrew shrewdness of your learned friend may have proved of equal value to several of the French and American lads who have lately escaped from our prison. No, do not remove him—just yet. Give the rogue a long enough rope and he may find it dangling around his own neck on the scaffold out yonder." He turned to the sheaf of papers before him, pushing back his fine lace ruffles. "Enough of Haym Salomon. He will be my care hereafter. Now go over these lists with me, Heister," and he began to turn the closely written sheets with his long, nervous fingers.
At that moment Jonas, the jailor, was talking in low, excited tones to a man he had stopped in one of the prison corridors, a grave-faced man with shrewd eyes and a tender mouth which smiled now at the other's earnestness.
"I can only warn you, Mr. Salomon," repeated the little jailor, "that Sir Henry is watching you as a chicken hawk watches a tender pullet. Many a time have I lost a choice fowl through the appetite of those accursed thieves," he added, half to himself, as his mind wandered back to his quiet farm. Then, pulling himself back to the present: "I know that many things go on in this prison which—which might not suit the pleasure of his majesty over seas, but," with a shrewd chuckle, "I cannot be every place and if a lad or two does escape—well, may the dear God be as gracious to my one boy should he fall into the hands of your George Washington and his rebels. But, Mr. Salomon," detaining the quiet man in the black coat who was about to pass on, "do not take too many risks just now. Do not allow your kind heart to lead you into danger. For if you are discovered being—ah—too kind to some of our prisoners, I cannot save you from Sir Henry. Promise me," laying one of his great, red hands on the other's arm, "promise me, you will attempt no more 'prison deliveries' until his suspicions are quieted."
Haym Salomon shook his head. "I am sorry to cause you anxiety, my friend," he answered, kindly, "for you have been a good friend to me. And I will try to be careful—if I can. But first there is a promise I must redeem. When that debt is paid, I will try to behave so discreetly that even Sir Henry Clinton will own his suspicions of me unfounded."
"A debt to be paid!" The jailor looked puzzled. "Why, you are one of the richest brokers in New York. If you owe any money, give me a word to your wife and I will see that the debt is discharged and your mind at rest."
Salomon shook his head, smilingly. "It is a debt money cannot pay," he answered. "I have pledged my word and that has never been broken, nor can I break it now." He passed on and the jailor looked after him, a look of mingled respect and affection on his fat, stupid face.
A place of horror even to a well man, the old Provost meant unspeakable tortures to a youth slowly recovering from prison fever. Young Louis di Vernon, lying upon the dirty wooden floor, faint from the fever and sick for home, turned longing eyes toward the grated door which had not swung open since Jonas had entered with his breakfast of bread and water for the prisoners. But Haym Salomon had promised to come later in the day and the boy waited confidently, for like many others he trusted the quiet man with the shrewd eyes and tender mouth.
At last the door opened and Jonas enter the room, wooden bowls of a sticky, floury substance he called "gruel" on his tray. He passed between the men, leaving his bowls besides them on the floor. When they complained of thirst, he stopped for a moment to ladle out a dipperful of water from the wooden pail he carried upon his left arm, while now and then he stopped to hear some complaint of a weary man, to promise aid or seek to jest away the prisoner's melancholy.
"The broth too salt?" he repeated, gravely. "How can that be when one of your rebel friends serves behind the soup kettle this month? Now if a poor Hessian or loyal Englishman like myself were cook, you might have reason to complain that he spitefully over-seasoned your victuals. Or is it that the cooking of your rebels is as evil as your politics?" And again: "Too crowded, eh? Well, some folks are never satisfied and you'd be among the growlers, my friend, if you slept on down and fine linen. Why among the well prisoners, 'tis so cramped for space that when their bones ache from the floor at night and they would turn, they find themselves wedged in so tight that not a man can budge till I give the order, 'Left, Right!' when they turn in a solid body and ease their weary sides. And you, who sleep in what they would consider a palace, poor souls, call yourself suffering for room."
He had reached Louis by this time and his quick eye noted how flushed the lad was, while his eager glance kept turning toward the grated door. With an impatient gesture the Frenchman pushed away the bowl the jailor set beside him. "I am sick of prison fare," he cried, hotly. "When I left France to follow Lafayette I never dreamed that I might die of prison fever in a hole like this. Take away your food; the sooner I starve, the sooner I am free."