“I’ll warrant, Richard, your uncle would be but ill pleased to see you in such company.”

“Nay, sir,” I replied, for I never feared to speak up, “there are you wrong.  I think it would please my uncle mightily.”

“The lad hath indifferent penetration,” said Mr, Tilghman, laughing, and adding more soberly:  “If you never do worse than this, Richard, Maryland may some day be proud of you.”

Mr. Hammond having finished his speech, a paper was placed in the hand of the effigy, and the crowd bore it shouting and singing to the hill, where Mr. John Shaw, the city carpenter, had made a gibbet.  There nine and thirty lashes were bestowed on the unfortunate image, the people crying out that this was the Mosaic Law.  And I cried as loud as any, though I knew not the meaning of the words.  They hung Mr. Hood to the gibbet and set fire to a tar barrel under him, and so left him.

The town wore a holiday look that day, and I was loth to go back to the Governor’s house.  Good patriots’ shops 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,