The bells had commenced ringing for church, and people could be seen walking along the streets with their prayer-books under one arm and unwieldy umbrellas under the other.
"We are going to receive a lecture on loyalty to the crown," whispered one of the clerks.
"I do not think we are in need of it, Master Frothingham," said another. "Trust us for that."
The speaker was a loose-jointed youth, with pale fishy eyes, whom George disliked extremely. So he did not reply, but walked to the doorway and gazed out through the little strip of lozenge-shaped windows. It had commenced to rain, and the big drops were hopping up from the doorstep.
The street joined the Bowery Lane; the ground sloped slightly, and at the top of the incline the lad saw a crowd was gathering. Some people bareheaded, others with umbrellas, were swarming out from the houses and thronging at the corner. The church-going crowds had halted.
There was a man on horseback there, who waved his hand excitedly as he talked. News had evidently come from Boston, and all ran to the window. What could it mean? Just then some one laughed. Flying down the hill came Abel Norton, the chief clerk. He was plashing the mud to right and left, and holding his hat on with both hands as he ran along, heading direct for Mr. Wyeth's.
"Abel's got the news," said some one. "There's no use going out; we'll hear it all." They laughed again.
The old man burst breathlessly through the door, and at that moment a cheer came from the crowd outside. The people did not seem to mind the rain in the least. Hats were thrown into the air, then the gathering dispersed in different directions, and the corner was deserted.
Abel stood leaning against the tall clock in the hallway, trying to catch his breath.
"Where's Mr. Wyeth?" he said.