One was a tall man with long leather leggings, and the other a boy of fourteen on a small brown pony. As they passed Mr. Wyeth both gravely acknowledged his salute.
"Who are they?" asked Mr. Daniel Frothingham. He had not spoken for some time, and had been listening to his niece's description of the adventure up the brook.
"Dat's Mr. Mason Hewes and his son Carter," answered the old negro before Mr. Wyeth could reply. "I reckin you's heard 'bout de boundary-line trubbles, sah."
"Oh yes," replied Mr. Wyeth, and he smiled significantly; "that was the man of whom I spoke to you," he went on, addressing Mr. Frothingham. "He is the most advanced rebel in this colony. I have heard utterances attributed to him that ought to—if true bespoke them—place a halter round his neck. It is said that he has proposed resisting the impost taxes with the force of arms. He is a leader of the so-called Sons of Liberty." Mr. Wyeth said the last words with a sneer.
"An arrant scoundrel. I know of him. He should be clapped in prison," rejoined Daniel Frothingham in a voice so like Uncle Nathan's that little Grace looked up in fright. The pleasant expression had vanished from the old man's face.
"This is not England," remarked Mr. Wyeth, sententiously.
"No; I would it were," answered the other. "There's law for such a one as this. A 'Whig' he calls himself? He's a rebel, and naught else."
By this time they had turned into the lane, and could see two figures waiting by the great white pillars. One was a large man in a red coat, and the other was a tall gray-haired lady, who stood very straight and prim beside him.
The twins had prudently fallen behind, and one observed to the other, as they watched the greetings from a distance:
"Did you see Carter Hewes? He made faces at us."