The small Randolphs were convulsed in a hysteria of giggles but young Francis kept a grave face.
“On the fourth of July, 1776,” he said, “and I know the names of those other men too, Grandfather.”
“So do I!” piped up a cousin. “One was John Adams and one was Benjamin Franklin—”
“And Roger Sherman of Connecticut and Robert Livingston of New York,” finished Francis, “and Thomas Jefferson of Virginia. But you should have been the first man to sign it, Grandfather. Why did you let John Hancock beat you?”
“He was the president of the Congress, my son. It was his right to put his name first. Have you read the Declaration, any of you?”
“Ha!” shouted some older ones. “We know it by heart.” And straightway there began a chanting recitation, the big ones trying to drown out the smaller ones.
Jefferson jumped up, waving his hands for silence. “Enough! Enough! You know it. I concede that you know it. Better than your grandfather no doubt, for I have to think hard at times to remember parts of it.”
It was Ann, the oldest Randolph daughter, who broke up the conclave around the fire.
“Grandfather, the wagons have come!” she announced from the door. “Do you want all those boxes brought in here?”
“All of them.” He jumped up and was quickly at the door. Now he would open and arrange all his papers at his leisure. Slaves tramped in and out through the outer library, endlessly piling up heavy parcels.