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 ho, Master Carvel, the streets are not for his Majesty’s supporters to-day.”  Other artisans who were there bade him leave me in peace, saying that my grandfather was a good friend of the people.  The matter might have ended there had I been older and wiser, but the excitement of the day had gone to my head like wine.  “I am as stout a patriot as you, Weld,” I shouted back, and flushed at the cheering that followed.  And Weld ran up to me, and though I was a good piece of a lad, swung me lightly onto his shoulder.  “Harkee, Master Richard,” he said, “I can get nothing out of the poltroons by shouting.  Do you go in and say that Weld will fight any mother’s son of them single-handed.”

“For shame, to send a lad into a tavern,” said old Bobbins, who had known my grandfather these many years.  But the desire for a row was so great among the rest that they silenced him.  Weld set me down, and I, nothing loth, ran through the open door.

I had never before been in the “Ship,” nor, indeed, in any tavern save that of Master Dingley, near Carvel Hall.  The “Ship” was a bare place enough, with low black beams and sanded floor, and rough tables and chairs set about.  On that September evening it was stifling hot; and the odours from the men, and the spilled rum and tobacco smoke, well-nigh overpowered me.  The room was filled with a motley gang of sailors, mostly from the bark Mr. Hood had come on, and some from H.M.S.  Hawk, then lying in the harbour.