“As things are, sir,” said he, quietly, “it would have puzzled me to make my way into Boston any sooner.”
A burning hatred flashed in Seth Prentiss’ eyes. One hand gestured his fury, the other was pointed at his grandson.
“Are you mocking me?” he asked in a voice made low by the storm of feeling that seemed to possess him. “Are you deriding us all because we are pent up here, like rats, and never a blow struck by the King’s troops to set the matter right!”
“As you should know, sir,” said Ezra, in the same respectful tone, “I would not——”
But the stern old man silenced him with a gesture.
“I know nothing as to what you would or would not do,” he said. “You have always been half-hearted in the cause of King George. From the beginning I’ve noticed a bent in you toward those rascals over there,” and his furious arm-sweep took in the whole region from Dorchester to Charlestown. “You were always talking of what they had to bear with; seldom indeed have I heard you speak of what we suffered.”
“The patriots——” began Ezra once more, but again he was interrupted.
“Patriots! Fiddlesticks, sir! Rebels is the name for them! Rebels to a good King, and skulkers who destroy the prosperity of their countrymen. My ships rot in their docks; my trade is going from me bit by bit, after my years of struggle to build it up.”
“It is the fortune of war, sir,” said Gilbert Scarlett, soothingly.
“War!” The gray brows drew themselves lower and the grim old face turned upon the speaker. “Do you call this war? It is not! It is an infamy that will recoil upon them, sir!”