He stood for some time at the window thoughtfully, looking across the fields and woods toward Cliveden. In his mind he drew up a résumé of the entire matter where it concerned Ben’s New England friend.
“First Ben tells me that he has such a friend,” thought Nat. “Then I learn he’s strong for the rights of the colonies and against the king’s ministers. Third, we find that he’s unexpectedly arrived at Philadelphia with Samuel and John Adams.” There was a break in the marshaling of the facts at this point. “All these I hear through Ben,” proceeded Nat. “But now let me come to the things that I got from other sources. First, I heard Royce and Dimisdale say that the idea of the proposed kidnapping had been given them by a youth named Prentiss, and I was struck by the similarity of the names. However, that was slight cause for suspicion, for there must be many persons of that name. Then I hear the same men say that the youth is from New England, and that he has ridden on ahead of the gentlemen who were coming to attend the Congress, that he might have them taken. Third, I hear of the plot against the Virginians, and see the youth himself, though in the shadow. Then I meet him at the ferry landing in the night; and afterward the cobbler tells me that he’s engaged a barge which I knew was to carry the prisoners to some English ship.”
Again and again the lad went over this ground; but the result was always the same.
“It looks like positive evidence against him,” he thought. “But it all could be cleared up at one stroke if he had met Ben in the city last night. His failure to do that, and the fact that he had been gone all day, seems to clinch the matter, so far as I can see. Also, there is the circumstance of his mysteriously leaving his employers upon the road to Philadelphia. It seems to me that no amount of reasoning can get beyond that.”
After making up his mind to this, Nat Brewster descended to the floor.
He ate his supper in silence. At different times his uncle or Ben addressed remarks to him, but his answers were brief. Even his aunt noticed it.
“Are you not well?” she asked, solicitously, of him.
“Oh, yes,” said Nat; “there is nothing wrong with me, aunt, thank you.”
“The dampness of the night air is apt to be bad for growing boys,” said the good lady, wisely; and her husband laughed.
“If Nat is still growing,” said he, surveying his nephew’s breadth of shoulder, “I don’t know what he’ll look like by the time he’s done. We’ll have a giant on our hands, perhaps.”