CHAPTER V.

A BURST OF FLAME.

It was a rainy April day in New York. Three years had passed since the events of the last chapter. Promises of spring were to be seen on every hand. A few warm days had already started the leaf buds along the Bowery Lane; even a few blossoms had begun to show in the shrubbery in Ranleigh Gardens.

But the feeling of uneasiness in the colonies, due to the continued oppressions of Great Britain, was soon to be broken by a burst of flame.

New York was yet the most loyal city that the King held in America, but much indignation had been shown at the actions of the crown that were directed against Boston, and the latter city was on the verge of rebellion. Except for the excitement of the days when the long-expected tea was attempted to be landed in New York in April, when Captain Lockyer had returned to England with the tea-ships, their cargoes all intact, the year of '74 had passed without happenings of much moment.

But now it was the momentous year of '75, and many things had changed--changes in some respects hard to believe.

Poring over the books in a dingy shipping-office in a narrow side street off Mill Lane leaned a tall figure. Two years of this same kind of work had not impaired George's health in the least. Although now only sixteen, he looked years older, for he was tall and wonderfully developed, and the grave manner of speech and that strange dignity which the young Frothinghams possessed had not left him. From some ancestor the twins must have inherited immense natural strength, for George was as strong almost as the biggest porter in Mr. Wyeth's employ.

His clothes were neat, but were devoid of any attempt at lace or ornament. In fact, young Frothingham had quite a struggle at present to get along. His aunt sent him a little money from the proceeds of the grist-mill, for mining had now wholly ceased at Stanham Mills. This, with the pittance that Mr. Wyeth paid him for his services, had enabled him to secure a small room in the house of a good old Irish woman named Mrs. Mack, who washed clothes for the gentle folk.

Poor Uncle Nathan had been dead now two years or more, and George had been taken from school at a Mr. Anderson's, and placed in Mr. Wyeth's office.

Mr. Wyeth and George had grown apart in the last year. The latter always did his duty, but could not stand the tirades of the virulent Tory against a cause to which the boy now felt himself firmly united, for George, even against his will and inclination, had become converted to the side taken by the Sons of Liberty. Mr. Wyeth, over a year before this rainy April morning, had found that George had, as he expressed it, "gone entirely wrong," and after seeing remonstrance would be in vain, had ignored him altogether. If it were not for what he owed Uncle Daniel in London he would have discharged him from his service.

This would not have mattered much. But there was one sorrow that cut the younger Frothingham deeper and deeper every day. It was the tone of his brother's letters from England. Since the day upon the dock they had not seen each other. Long letters, however, passed between them every month.

So strongly had William felt upon the matter, and so frequently had he expressed himself angrily at the course of popular thought and action in the colonies, that George could never bring himself to take up the other side in his correspondence. There had never been a difference of opinion between them in their lives. So he had from the first ignored the question in his letters to his brother.

If, however, the trouble should blow over, and wise counsels prevail in England, at some future time, when everything was once more tranquil, he could confess all. England even at this late moment could have recalled the colonies to her standard.

In the mean time, no one, not even Mr. Wyeth or his fellow clerks, knew that George was attached to a secret society, whose members were pledged to give their lives to "opposing tyranny."

George was not the only lad whose smooth face was innocent of a razor, but whose strong young frame and true heart were both at the service of his country.

Through the window-panes of Mr. Wyeth's office, on the second floor, could be seen the dripping streets and the rain pouring down from the gables of the houses.

George paused, with his finger marking the place in a column of figures, and looked out. He saw Mr. Wyeth coming towards the office, and as soon as he had entered, the merchant came through the large store-room and approached George's desk.

"Master Frothingham," he said, "will you come to my house to-morrow morning? I am desirous of having people in my employ meet some gentlemen who will be there present."

George accepted the invitation gravely, and the events of the next day were to have a tremendous influence on his life.

The morrow dawned clear and bright. It was Sunday, the twenty-second of the month. Clouds, however, were banking all around, and shortly after the breakfast hour it was portending rain.

George walked to his employer's house. Several of his fellow clerks waited in the hall. Mr. Wyeth was in consultation in his library with one or two influential men of well-known royalist principles. One of them was Rivington the Tory, printer to his Majesty, and another was Mr. Anderson, George's former schoolmaster, now secretary to the hated Governor Tryon.

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.

The latter, hearing the disturbance, had pushed himself out of the great leather chair in his library, and had stepped to the door.

"Did any one call my name?" he asked; then catching sight of Abel's dripping figure, "Well, sir," he said, "what means this, prithee?"

"It means," said Abel, "that there has been a battle near Boston. It means that war is on."

"Another Tea Party, I presume," said Mr. Wyeth, taking a pinch of snuff calmly, and dusting his shirt frill with a stroke of his fingers.

"No, sir," exclaimed the chief clerk. "His Majesty's troops have been defeated, and driven, with great slaughter, back from Concord and Lexington to the protection of the city. The rebels are organized, well drilled and armed."

"Hurrah!" said a voice quite audibly.

Everybody started back in consternation; Mr. Wyeth dropped his snuff-box with a jingle.

"Who said that?" he asked, his face turning a shade redder.

George stepped forward. He was pale, and his hands were gripped strongly together behind his back.

"The time has come," he said, looking Mr. Wyeth in the eye--"the time to decide. I did so long ago. The voice of liberty has spoken."

There was a murmur of assent or disagreement--it was hard to tell which--from the group of clerks.

One of the porters who stood in the doorway with folded arms exclaimed, beneath his breath, so no one heard him, "Thank God!"

Mr. Wyeth stepped forward. "I had suspected quite as much," he said. "You disgrace your name, sir. Leave my presence and eke my employment. Instanter, sir."

George walked down the hall. When he reached the door, he turned and bowed.

"Hold!" exclaimed Mr. Wyeth. "There is a letter here from your brother in England. Let us trust that he is more loyal to his country's interests and to his King. Let us trust that there is only one of your family name who does not know his duty."

He extended a letter which had arrived by a packet the previous afternoon. George took it and silently walked out into the rain.

The porter Thomas followed him and half closed the door behind him. "I thank you, Mr. Frothingham," he said, "for the words you spoke. We'll drive the 'Lobster Backs' into the ships, and turn 'em all adrift--eh, sir, will we not?"

The two grasped hands without a word, and George, stepping into the shelter of a big elm, broke the seal of the letter.

It was from William. It beseeched him to stand by the side of the "loyal men and true, who uphold the crown." It expressed sorrow at hearing through Mr. Wyeth that he had been seen at least on friendly terms with "traitors and arch conspirators." His brother prayed him to remember all their early talks, and exhorted that his first thought be of the King.

"If you cannot answer me," went on the letter, "in a way I hope you will, I shall understand your silence; but remember it is for the--"

George glanced at the last word, crumpled the letter in his hands, and then tore it into small pieces that floated out into the rainy gutter.

"My country has no King now," he said, and looking out through the rain and through his tears it seemed to him that the world was turned upside down. He drew his hand across his forehead wearily, and drawing his cloak about him like an old man, strode down the street.

Suddenly the idea of the "Redcoats" running before the farmers at Lexington came into his mind's eye. He quickened his steps and threw back his shoulders once again, and as he turned about the corner he ran into some one hastening in the opposite direction. He looked closely at the thick-set, muscular figure.

"Carter Hewes!" he exclaimed.

"Well met, indeed," replied the other, "What think you of the news?"

"Glorious!" said George.

"We will have it all about here soon," said Carter. "You are with us?"

"I am, with all my heart," replied young Frothingham, "to the very end." The two lads shook hands for full a minute.

"Listen! Listen!" said Carter, suddenly. "The bells!--the bells have it, and I would that the King in England could hear them ringing."

"I would better that my brother William were here and listening with us," returned George.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A NEW LIFE.

BY FLORENCE HALLOWELL HOYT.

(_In Three Instalments_).