The very day that Washington had moved upon Trenton an interesting dinner (the happenings of which have great bearing upon this story) was in progress thousands of miles away.
It was one of the oldest inns of the old town of London. The grill-room of the "Cheshire Cheese" was filled with the aroma of steaming plum-pudding and the appetizing fumes of roast beef. Even the mulled ale lent its accent to the general flavor. The waiters shuffled across the sanded floor, and from the compartments floated up clouds of smoke from the long church-warden pipes. The talk on all sides was upon the one absorbing subject—the rebellious Colonies and the progress of the war in America.
It all looked one way to most of the Londoners—New York had been taken, the Americans routed; in a few weeks all would be over. This was the general sentiment.
The gathering was mixed. Tradesmen, country squires, well-to-do haberdashers and drapers, poets and political writers, barristers, and a sprinkling of soldiers composed it mostly. Here and there might be seen a gay young noble-man, all frills and lace, who had strayed from his inner circle to enjoy the delights of this old time-honored meeting-place.
The busy London street outside was crowded with merrymakers.
In a corner of the grill-room was sitting a group that would at once hold our attention.
A tall florid individual with heavy hands was gesticulating with his thick blunt fingers, and an officer in un-dress uniform sitting opposite was listening, and making rings with the bottom of his wineglass on the elbow-polished table. His white wig decorated the post at a corner of the seat. In this same corner had sat Oliver Goldsmith, and it was Dr. Johnson's head that had made that dark spot on the wainscoting; in fact, the ponderous old gentleman still drifted in occasionally. And David Garrick had held forth here not many years before this very day.
But it is the figure now sitting silently in the corner that most interests us. The high forehead and clear-cut features have changed somewhat, and the strong slender hands and muscular young legs sprawled under the table have grown and lengthened, but if you would take our young American patriot and do his hair in that neat London fashion, dress him in that embroidered waistcoat and fine glass-buttoned coat, there he would be for all the world. As George had changed, William had changed also in the same proportion and ratio. The younger, on this very night shivering in the cold of a New Jersey winter, was browner of skin and ruddier of cheek, but features, glance, and the quick graceful movement of the head are all the same.
William was listening listlessly to the conversation. By constant practice he had become accustomed to the flow of Uncle Daniel's eloquence, and could stand to one side and allow it to pass on without disturbing him. Strange to say, at this very moment he was thinking sadly of the brother who was thinking more sadly still of him.