“Dr. Warren,” he inquired, “how long have you known Ezra Prentiss?”
The patriot hesitated, then turned to Revere.
“How long has it been since you first brought him here?”
“Some two years, I should say,” returned Revere. “He’d but lately joined the Sons of Liberty, and seemed so warm for the work that I thought we could find things out of the ordinary for him to do.”
“And some of the tasks we set him to perform were very much out of the ordinary,” praised Dr. Warren, warmly. “And I never expect to see anything more enthusiastically done.”
“But,” insisted Nat, “do you know nothing more of him than this?”
There was something in the boy’s voice that made the two men look at him questioningly.
“I know,” answered Revere, “that he is a native of Boston; but that’s all. However, we don’t ask for pedigrees in these days. For proof of that witness your own case. Deeds are what count with us and nothing else.”
There was a pause. Dr. Warren laid his knife and fork crosswise upon his plate, sat well back in his chair and looked at Nat intently.
“I think,” said he, at last, “there is something back of what you’ve said.”