Out of the window I could see something of the town and it seemed changed; the Court House deserted; the jail walled in by a new palisade; fewer people on the street, and little traffic. Nor did I perceive any red-coats ruffling it as of old; the Highlanders who passed wore no side-arms,—excepting the officers. And I thought every Scot looked glum as a stray dog in a new village, where every tyke moves stiffly as he passes and follows his course with evil eyes.
We had silver in our bullet pouches. We visited every shop, but purchased nothing useful; for Nick bought sweets and a mouse-trap and some alley-taws for his brother John—who wished to go to war! Oh, Lord!—and for his mother he found skeins of brightly-coloured wool; and for his father a Barlow jack-knife.
I bought some suekets and fish-hooks and a fiddle,—God knows why, for I can not play on it, nor desire to!—and I further purchased two books, "Lives of Great Philosophers," by Rudd, and a witty poem by Peter Pindar, called "The Lousiad"—a bold and mirthful lampoon on the British King.
These packets we stowed in our saddle-bags, and after that we knew not what to do save to seek another tavern.
But Nick was no toss-pot, nor was I. And having no malt-thirst, we remained standing in the street beside our horses, debating whether to go home or no.
"Shall you pay respects at the Hall?" he asked seriously.
But I saw no reason to go, owing no duty; and the visit certain to prove awkward, if, indeed, it aroused in Sir John no more violent emotion than pain at sight of me.
With our bridles over our arms, still debating, we walked along the street until we came to the Johnson Arms Tavern,—a Tory rendezvous not now frequented by friends of liberty.
It was so dull in Johnstown that we tied our horses and went into the Johnson Arms, hoping, I fear, to stir up a mischief inside.
Their brew was poor; and the spirits of the dozen odd Tories who sat over chess or draughts, or whispered behind soiled gazettes, was poorer still.