A BURST OF FLAME.
It was a rainy April day in New York. Three years had passed since the events of the last chapter. Promises of spring were to be seen on every hand. A few warm days had already started the leaf buds along the Bowery Lane; even a few blossoms had begun to show in the shrubbery in Ranleigh Gardens.
But the feeling of uneasiness in the colonies, due to the continued oppressions of Great Britain, was soon to be broken by a burst of flame.
New York was yet the most loyal city that the King held in America, but much indignation had been shown at the actions of the crown that were directed against Boston, and the latter city was on the verge of rebellion. Except for the excitement of the days when the long-expected tea was attempted to be landed in New York in April, when Captain Lockyer had returned to England with the tea-ships, their cargoes all intact, the year of '74 had passed without happenings of much moment.
But now it was the momentous year of '75, and many things had changed—changes in some respects hard to believe.
Poring over the books in a dingy shipping-office in a narrow side street off Mill Lane leaned a tall figure. Two years of this same kind of work had not impaired George's health in the least. Although now only sixteen, he looked years older, for he was tall and wonderfully developed, and the grave manner of speech and that strange dignity which the young Frothinghams possessed had not left him. From some ancestor the twins must have inherited immense natural strength, for George was as strong almost as the biggest porter in Mr. Wyeth's employ.
His clothes were neat, but were devoid of any attempt at lace or ornament. In fact, young Frothingham had quite a struggle at present to get along. His aunt sent him a little money from the proceeds of the grist-mill, for mining had now wholly ceased at Stanham Mills. This, with the pittance that Mr. Wyeth paid him for his services, had enabled him to secure a small room in the house of a good old Irish woman named Mrs. Mack, who washed clothes for the gentle folk.
Poor Uncle Nathan had been dead now two years or more, and George had been taken from school at a Mr. Anderson's, and placed in Mr. Wyeth's office.
Mr. Wyeth and George had grown apart in the last year. The latter always did his duty, but could not stand the tirades of the virulent Tory against a cause to which the boy now felt himself firmly united, for George, even against his will and inclination, had become converted to the side taken by the Sons of Liberty. Mr. Wyeth, over a year before this rainy April morning, had found that George had, as he expressed it, "gone entirely wrong," and after seeing remonstrance would be in vain, had ignored him altogether. If it were not for what he owed Uncle Daniel in London he would have discharged him from his service.
This would not have mattered much. But there was one sorrow that cut the younger Frothingham deeper and deeper every day. It was the tone of his brother's letters from England. Since the day upon the dock they had not seen each other. Long letters, however, passed between them every month.