“Now I call that frigid,” complained Edward to his mother, staring at the door behind which Mr. Faringfield had disappeared.  “Here was I, in for a pleasant confab with my father, concerning my future; and before I can put in a word, out he flings, and there’s an end of it.  ’Tisn’t fatherly, I protest!  Well, well, I might have known!  He was always stony-hearted; never would discuss matters.  That’s the gratitude I get for putting the case to him in a reasonable, docile, filial fashion.  However, he said he’d think upon it.  That means I shall stay here, and take a holiday, till he makes up his mind where to ship me to next.  ’Twon’t be England, I fancy, mother.  I wouldn’t object to France, egad!  I could learn to eat frogs as soon as another man, if it came to that.  Well, I need a holiday, after working so hard in that cursed devil’s paradise I’ve just come from.  I suppose I can depend on you for a little pocket-money, ma’am, till dad comes to a conclusion?”

During the next fortnight, as he passed most of his time in the taverns and the coffee-house, save when he attended horse-races on Long Island, or chased foxes upon Tom’s horse, or lent the honour of his presence to cock-fights; Mr. Edward found his mother’s resources inadequate to his demands, and so levied tribute not only upon Fanny and Tom but also upon Mr. Cornelius, who still abode in the Faringfield house, and upon Philip Winwood.  To Phil his manner was more than civil; ’twas most conciliating and flattering, in a pleasantly jocular way.

Ere Mr. Faringfield had announced his mind, the visitor had worn out his welcome in most of his tavern haunts, and become correspondingly tired of New York.  One evening, as Philip was leaving the warehouse, a negro boy handed him a note, in which Mr. Ned begged him to come immediately, on a matter of importance, to the King’s Arms tavern.  There he found Edward seated at a small table in a corner of the tap-room.  Ned would have it that Phil should send home his excuses, by the negro, and sup at the tavern; which, for the sake of peace, though unwillingly, Philip finally consented to do.

Edward was drinking rum, in a kind of hot punch of his own mixing.  Phil, though fond of madeira at home, now contented himself with ale; and the two were soon at work upon a fried chicken prepared in the Maryland fashion.

“You know, Phil,” says Ned at last, having talked in a lively strain upon a multitude of matters, none of which Philip perceived to be important, “’fore gad, I always liked you!  Tis so, as the Lord’s my judge.  Nay, you think I took a damned odd way of showing it.  But we’re not all alike.  Now look you!  Hearken unto me, as the parson says.  I can say a good word for you in a certain ear.”

“Whose?” queried Phil, wondering in what ear he needed a good word said.

“Whose, eh?  Now whose would it be?  Come, come, I’ll speak to the point.  I’m no man for palaver.  ’Tis an ear you’ve whispered more than one sweet thing into, I’ll warrant.  You’re young, Philip, young:  you think you can fall in love and nobody find it out.  Why, I hadn’t been landed two hours, and asked the news, when I was told that you and Bert Russell were over ears in love with my sister.”