Read Online Valley Forge by David Garland - Free Book Online Page A

secluded. Ezekiel Proudfoot soon found it. He had had little difficulty getting into the city. All that he had to do was to join the long column of people and wagons that streamed into Philadelphia at dawn for the market, and he slipped past the patrols unnoticed. He rode down Front Street, located the lane he was after, and saw the name of Pearsall Hughes swinging on the board outside the bookshop. It was early, but the shop was already open.
    Proudfoot tethered his horse and went into the building. He found himself in a long, low, narrow room whose walls were covered with bookshelves. A table stood in the middle of the room with a display of new books to catch the eye. There was a faint musty smell to the place. The proprietor was seated in a chair beside a window at the far end of the room, reading a large leather-bound volume. Nobody else was in the shop. Proudfoot walked toward him.
    "Mr. Hughes?" he asked.
    "That is so," replied the man, looking at the visitor over the top of his spectacles. "How may I help you, sir?"
    "General Washington sent me."
    Hughes blinked. "That's a bizarre thing to say."
    "He warned you of my arrival, surely?"
    "No, sir."
    "But he must have."
    "I've no idea what you are talking about."
    "He told me to contact you here."
    "I doubt that very much," said Hughes, snapping his book shut. "I have no truck with the rebel commander, and would never make him, or any of his misguided supporters, welcome in my shop."
    Proudfoot was baffled. "You are Mr. Pearsall Hughes, are you not?"
    "That much I freely admit."
    "Then you are the editor of a newspaper."
    "I'm nothing of the kind," returned Hughes, hauling himself to his feet. "I'm a respectable bookseller, the best—though I say so myself—in the whole city. I'll thank you to make no more absurd allegations about me, sir. Newspaper!"he went on with utter distaste. "I inhabit the literary world. I would never demean myself by sinking to mere journalism."
    Proudfoot was bewildered. The shop was at the address he had been given, and it was clearly owned by the man whose name he had been told. Why was he being given such a frosty reception? He looked at Pearsall Hughes more carefully. There was much to occupy his vision. The bookseller was a man of middle height but outsize proportions, fat to the point of obesity and with heavy jowls that shook as he spoke. His face was red, his nose even redder, and his wig too small for the bulbous head. Snuff had spilled down the lapel of his coat. Well into his fifties, Hughes exuded an air of erudition mixed with truculence.
    "Well, sir?" he demanded. "Do you intend to buy a book?"
    "No, Mr. Hughes."
    "Then I'd be obliged if you quit my premises."
    "But I came to see you."
    "And I have been duly seen." He lowered himself into his chair and opened the book again. "Excuse me while I return to Plato."
    "Something is amiss here," said Proudfoot, running a hand across his chin. "There can surely be only one bookseller in Philadelphia with your name and address."
    "And with my reputation, sir. Beyond compare."
    "Then why do you refuse to acknowledge me?"
    "Because I have never seen you before in my life," said Hughes brusquely. "And since you make such preposterous assumptions about me, I hope never to set eyes on you again. Away with you."
    "But I was told that you've heard of me."
    "Indeed?"
    "And that you would be glad of my assistance."
    "My wife and I can run this place quite well on our own."
    "I'm not talking about the bookshop," said the visitor. "I am Ezekiel Proudfoot. Does that name mean anything to you?"
    "Should it?"
    "I'm a silversmith and engraver."
    The bookseller looked mystified. "Ezekiel Proudfoot?"
    "Standing before you, Mr. Hughes."
    "How do I know that?"
    "Because I just told you. I am he."
    "Any fool could walk in from the street and pretend that."
    "I am Ezekiel Proudfoot," the other insisted, "and I can prove it." He undid the strap on the satchel that hung from his shoulder. "I have my engraving