ops were closed, their owners
parading as on Sunday in their best, pausing in knots at every corner
to discuss the affair with which the town simmered. I encountered old
Farris, the clockmaker, in his brown coat besprinkled behind with powder
from his queue. "How now, Master Richard?" says he, merrily. "This is
no place for young gentlemen of your persuasion."

Next I came upon young Dr. Courtenay, the wit of the Tuesday Club, of
whom I shall have more to say hereafter. He was taking the air with Mr.
James Fotheringay, Will's eldest brother, but lately back from Oxford and
the Temple.

The doctor wore five-pound ruffles and a ten-pound wig, was dressed in
cherry silk, and carried a long, clouded cane. His hat had the latest
cock, for he was our macaroni of Annapolis.

"Egad, Richard," he cries, "you are the only other loyalist I have seen
abroad to-day."

I remember swelling with indignation at the affront. "I call them
Tories, sir," I flashed back, "and I am none such." "No Tory!" says he,
nudging Mr. Fotheringay, who was with him; "I had as lief believe your
grandfather hated King George." I astonished them both by retorting that
Mr. Carvel might think as he pleased, that being every man's right; but
that I chose to be a Whig. "I would tell you as a friend, young man,"
replied the doctor, "that thy politics are not over politic." And they
left me puzzling, laughing with much relish over some catch in the
doctor's words. As for me, I could perceive no humour in them.

It was now near six of the clock, but instead of going direct to the
Governor's I made my way down Church Street toward the water. Near the
dock I saw many people gathered in the street in front of the "Ship"
tavern, a time-honoured resort much patronized by sailors. My curiosity
led me to halt there also. The "Ship" had stood in that place nigh on to
three-score years, it was said. Its latticed windows were swung open,
and from within came snatches of "Tom Bowling," "Rule Britannia," and
many songs scarce fit for a child to hear. Now and anon some one in the
street would throw back a taunt to these British sentiments, which went
unheeded. "They be drunk as lords," said Weld, the butcher's apprentice,
"and when they comes out we'll hev more than one broken head in this
street." The songs continuing, he cried again, "Come out, d-n ye." Weld
had had more than his own portion of rum that day. Spying me seated on
the gate-post opposite, he shouted: "So h