“Good,” said he, “I’m not to be denied my right after all. See there at the window,” pointing to a small, earnest group. “They are the two Rutledges and Christopher Gadsden of South Carolina.”
A venerable man, with snowy hair, and a tall, grave-faced gentleman stood near the front door.
“The eldest is Mr. Hopkins of Rhode Island, and the other is Roger Sherman of Connecticut. And that man farther on, with the fine high-bred face, is John Jay of New York; with him are my two patrons, the brothers Adams.”
“Which is which?” asked Ben, eagerly, for the fame of the great Bostonians made them persons to be asked after.
“Can you not tell that by simply looking at them?” asked Ezra with a laugh. “John is the shorter and the plumper of the two. He’s the great debater and brilliant lawyer. But Samuel is the grimmest fighter; look at his stern, deeply-lined face and sombre manner. He has not the ready flood of eloquence of John, though he can speak straight to the point when need be. But it is his nature to be of the silent and relentless kind—and I think in the long run he’s the most to be dreaded by the British ministers.”
They talked for some time about the eminent persons who were gathered around the inn in small parties, preparing for the event which was to prove so important for the nation. At length Ezra, who had every now and then stolen an odd, questioning look at Nat Brewster, said to him:
“Have you known the members from Virginia for any length of time?”
“No,” replied Nat, briefly.
Ben was too much interested in looking about him to pay any attention to what his companions were saying. There was a short pause, and Ezra, with an assumption of carelessness that did not escape Nat, said:
“You’ve been something of a traveler then?”