But George shook his head.
“Merchant Camp I know something of,” said he, “but Mr. Dana I never laid eyes upon before.”
Lexington had been fought and the sneering British column driven back upon Boston. Then that city had been besieged by an army of farmers and mechanics; and Breed’s Hill had witnessed its desperate defeat, though we commonly now speak of the fight as the battle of Bunker Hill. And, finally, the British had run from Boston to their ships under the pitiless cannonading of Washington’s batteries.
New York was trembling and expectant. Any day might witness the arrival of a British fleet; and in the meantime the colonists were preparing its defenses. George Prentiss was thinking of these things, his eyes once more fixed upon the frigates afar off. The skipper having coiled the line to his satisfaction came toward him.
“When you first came aboard me at New London,” he said, “I judged by the trim of your yards that you were from the army up Boston way.”
George nodded, and the skipper, twisting a strand of rope between his tarry fingers, proceeded:
“I’ve seen a good many of them of late, and have come to know them at sight.” He bent nearer to his passenger. “Maybe you’ve come to New York on special business.”
“Perhaps,” said George.
“And maybe,” suggested the shallop’s master, “you have particular documents stowed away under hatches.” George did not reply to this, and the sailor proceeded: “Don’t think me prying, Master Prentiss, for I’m not. I don’t poke about meddling in other people’s affairs. But I couldn’t help hearing most of what old Merchant Dana said to you a few moments ago; and if you’ll take my word for it, you’ll have nothing to do with his instructions.”
George looked into the candid face of the speaker inquiringly.