With that, the rest broke in. Mr. Paca declared Chase spoke for himself alone, and Mr. Hammond that he was anticipating trouble; but Sir Edward Parkington surveyed Chase with a tolerant smile, and waved the matter aside.
"Do not concern yourself to soften the views the gentleman has just expressed," he said. "They give me no offense. I am a loyal subject of his Majesty, but I think that the quicker we free America, the better for both America and England. You will leave us some day, as the child leaves the parent when it reaches maturity; the only question is, when that time comes. I take it, that Mr. Chase is not trying to be offensive, and, if no offense be intended, none is given." He arose. "If any of you are going in the direction of Reynolds' Tavern, I shall be glad for your company."
Mr. Paca and Mr. Worthington attended him as far as Saint Anne's, where they parted; the two former going to their homes, on Prince George Street, while Parkington continued around the Circle to the tavern.
"Send a mug of ale to my room," he said, to the man in the ordinary....
The fellow lighted the candles, put the drink on the table, and, after a moment's wait, withdrew.
Parkington unbuckled his long rapier and flung it on the bed. Then he seated himself and took a sip of the ale, stretched out his slender legs, and laughed.
"Verily, the game is easier than I thought!" he soliloquized. "The real Parkington could not have played it better; I think I shall enjoy my visit to Annapolis. 'You are an unmitigated scoundrel, sir,' said my esteemed father. 'I have paid your debts for the last time; I shall give you passage to America, and one hundred pounds. Never let me look upon your face again—and, if there be a shred of decency about you, you will change your name. The De Lysles are done with you forever; have the goodness to be done with them.'" He took another sip at the ale, and laughed again. "Behold! my name is changed. I am Sir Edward Parkington, now—and Baltimore himself vouches for me. It was a lucky storm that sent the crazy 'Sally' to the bottom, and every one to the devil, save only me; but it was a luckier fortune that washed the real Sir Edward Parkington and me on the beach together, with him dead and me alive—and the letters on his person. 'There is no one in the Colony who knows me,' he had said, that very day. So, presto! Behold Sir Edward Parkington risen, and me dead.... It would be devilish awkward, if there is some one in the Colony who knows me—but that is in the future." He drew out a copy of Lord Baltimore's letter to his Excellency. "'Bespeak your most courteous attention and regard. Extend him all the hospitality in your power.' I was shipwrecked; I lost everything but the clothes on my back, and the letters, which were wrapped in oilskin, in my pocket. Therefore, I think the Governor's hospitality will have to be pressed for a loan. What, with him and Mr. Dulany, and a certain natural ability of my own at the card-table, I should be able to live very comfortably, here, for a year, at least. This Annapolis is a neat enough town—I was astonished at it; and they seem to do things reasonably well. The Coffee-house is quite the equal of any we have in London, and the Governor's mansion and Mr. Dulany's, near-by, are excellent.... This suit of clothes, I got in Saint Mary's, will answer until Pinkney can replace my wardrobe—lost when the ship went down!" He chuckled, softly, to himself. "And the fellow is not half bad; his styles are six months behind the fashion, but that is a small matter, when every one is wearing them.... Altogether, I think Sir Edward Parkington will have a pleasant year—at least, he is going to enjoy it while it lasts. After that, the deluge."