“We haven’t them,” he declared loudly. “We haven’t them. And, more than that, we cannot get them.”
“Don’t be too sure of that,” said a quiet voice from a bench in a corner. “Don’t be too sure of that, Mr. Trivitt. There are guns a-plenty to be had, if they will but be sought after.”
The portly Mr. Trivitt glanced toward the corner, and scorn filled his red face.
“Huh!” he grunted. “Because you served in the militia, Harry Knox, and because you went tearing about on horseback at the Bunker Hill fight, don’t think that you can teach me understanding. I was a man before you were born, and I have the sense to see what is open to my eyes.”
Harry Knox, as Mr. Trivitt called him, was a medium-sized young man, well built and with a strong, intelligent face. He laughed at the other’s words, and replied:
“But it is possible, Mr. Trivitt, that all things do not come beneath your eyes.”
To one so self-important as the portly man this was little less than an insult.
“It is a pity that you were forced by the war to give up the selling of books,” said he to Knox. “I have heard, though I’ve never read a book in my life, that you were clever in your trade. But in the trade of a soldier you promise to be less excellent.” He arose to his feet with great dignity. “However,” he continued, “I never discuss matters of importance with youths. It is a waste of time and breath.”
And with that the indignant Mr. Trivitt stuck his three-cornered hat upon his head and stumped out of “The Honest Farmer” much affronted.
Ezra caught the eye of Henry Knox and nodded to him. Young Prentiss had inherited his father’s love of books, and had many times purchased volumes from the youthful bookseller at his shop in Boston; indeed, in the discussions that accompanied these transactions, quite an intimacy had sprung up between them.