Of course, Dr. King's saying that he might be of service to him was a well-intentioned politeness; but there were times—and Anthony had seen more than one of them—when a politeness had been turned to a very practical account.
IV
That afternoon Anthony had his chest and other baggage transferred to the Half Moon, which was in Chestnut Street, opposite the state-house. Toward evening he began to dress for his visit to Dr. King; through the window of his room, and, again, through the high-shouldered arches at each side of the old building across the way, he caught specks of green among the flags; stout, gray Quakers paced slowly by, on their ways from their places of business at the waterside to the green open spaces, in the neighborhood of Eighth Street.
Anthony had a taste for dress, and on this occasion was exceedingly careful. His tall, long-napped beaver was brushed and "laid"; his neck-cloth, stiff with starch,—a new mode among the young men of the time,—caught him tightly under the ears. His square-skirted, high-collared coat of Lincoln green had gilt buttons on the breast and sleeves; his waistcoat was of silk and fitted snugly; his pantaloons—an article of wear flung before the world by the French Revolution—were strapped tightly down under his varnished boots. Older men were still holding to knee shorts, worsted stockings, and buckled shoes; some continued to powder their hair; but progressive youth had been caught up by the rush of the revolution, and their thoughts seemed set not only against old forms in government but in dress as well.
There was a public room at the Half Moon, and when Anthony descended he turned into it. The floor was sanded, and there were settles and chairs arranged comfortably about; a fire of chestnut knots crackled in a wide fireplace; upon pegs in the wall hung traveling-coats, saddle-bags, and whips; people lounged about and drowsed, or talked in little groups, or read the scant journals by the light of whale-oil lamps. The young man stood in the doorway and searched the room for those whom he hoped to see; but he was disappointed. Then he walked its length, slowly, examining every one present. No, the old Frenchman, and—was it his daughter?—of the New York packet, were not there. He then went into the room on the opposite side of the passage, where the tables were laid for the tavern's hearty supper; but it was too early; none among the guests had yet considered food.
There was a short man with a jolly red face seated upon a bench in the passage; he wore a waterproof hat and held a whip between his knees. Anthony nodded to him, and the round face at once took on the look of a rosy moon.
"The inn seems very well filled," said Anthony.
"It always is," the red-faced man replied. And then, "Are you a stranger in the city, sir?"
"Practically so," said Anthony.