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Authors: David Garland
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tools with me. You can examine them."
"There are lots of silversmiths in Philadelphia. Each one of them has a set of tools. I do not accept those as proof of identity."
"You must, Mr. Hughes."
"I sense that you may be an impostor."
"An impostor!" Proudfoot exclaimed with an edge of desperation in his voice. "Why should I try to deceive you? There must be some way that I can convince you who I am."
"There is, sir."
Hughes got to his feet again, crossed to the table, and opened a drawer in it. He took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Proudfoot.
"What's this for?" asked the other.
"Draw."
"Why?"
"Draw," Hughes ordered. "I know a little about this Ezekiel Proudfoot. I've seen his prints. He has a very distinctive style. Let me see if you can match his skills."
"What must I draw?"
"The first thing that comes into your mind."
Taking out a pencil, Proudfoot put his satchel on the floor, then bent over the table. His hand moved quickly and fluently over the paper. Pearsall Hughes, meanwhile, sauntered across to the door and locked it so that nobody else could disturb them. He waited until his visitor had finished, then took the drawing from him. The portrait of George Washington was remarkably lifelike. After one glance at it, the bookseller's manner changed completely.
He offered a flabby hand. "Welcome to my shop, sir."
"A moment ago, you were about to throw me out."
"That was before I realized who you really were, Mr. Proudfoot. This sketch of yours has persuaded me completely. Nobody else but you could have drawn it."
"Why were you so hostile to me?"
"I'm suspicious of anyone who walks in here and makes such a bold claim asyou did. The city is full of spies. You would not have been the first person who used the name of George Washington in the hope of tricking me into declaring my sympathies." He beamed at the other man and pumped his hand. "I am sorry that I was inhospitable."
Proudfoot relaxed. "I'm so grateful to learn the truth."
"Then learn something else. Be more discreet. Never use names, least of all that of our revered commander. It will give you away at once. When you are in Philadelphia, you are a Tory."
"I'll remember that."
"Befriend the British troops. It's the best way to gain intelligence."
"And the newspaper?"
"All in good time," whispered Hughes, a finger to his lips. "Let's get more closely acquainted before we touch on that. When did you last eat?"
"Yesterday."
"No breakfast?"
"Not so far."
"My wife will make you some food at once."
"I don't wish to put her to any trouble."
"Miranda will be more than happy to prepare you a meal." Hughes tugged at a bookcase and it swung forward on hinges to reveal a doorway. "Come and meet her, Ezekiel Proudfoot."
The farther they sailed down the Charles River, the more signs of life they saw. It was not just the appearance of other craft heading for the sea. There were gulls wheeling in the sky, ducks swimming in the shallows, and cows in the fields, waiting to be milked. As the fisherman had predicted, it was a clear day. He was still at the tiller, pulling on his pipe and steering his boat in midstream. Tom Caffrey sat with his arm around Polly Bragg, wondering how on earth she had managed to doze off while he was kept so wide-awake. He was more concerned about her safety than his own, and was having second thoughts about the wisdom of bringing her on what was bound to be a hazardous journey.
The other passengers were now in the stern of the boat. Elizabeth Rainham nestled against Jamie Skoyles, sad to have left so many good friends behind her but relieved that she was sailing away at last from Major Harry Featherstone.
"What will they do?" she asked.
"Who?"
"The people who discover that we've gone."
"Our disappearance will be duly reported," said Skoyles, "and our names added to the list of deserters. We're not the first to run away, by any means, and—when it becomes clear that our army will be kept here as prisoners of war in
"There are lots of silversmiths in Philadelphia. Each one of them has a set of tools. I do not accept those as proof of identity."
"You must, Mr. Hughes."
"I sense that you may be an impostor."
"An impostor!" Proudfoot exclaimed with an edge of desperation in his voice. "Why should I try to deceive you? There must be some way that I can convince you who I am."
"There is, sir."
Hughes got to his feet again, crossed to the table, and opened a drawer in it. He took out a sheet of paper and handed it to Proudfoot.
"What's this for?" asked the other.
"Draw."
"Why?"
"Draw," Hughes ordered. "I know a little about this Ezekiel Proudfoot. I've seen his prints. He has a very distinctive style. Let me see if you can match his skills."
"What must I draw?"
"The first thing that comes into your mind."
Taking out a pencil, Proudfoot put his satchel on the floor, then bent over the table. His hand moved quickly and fluently over the paper. Pearsall Hughes, meanwhile, sauntered across to the door and locked it so that nobody else could disturb them. He waited until his visitor had finished, then took the drawing from him. The portrait of George Washington was remarkably lifelike. After one glance at it, the bookseller's manner changed completely.
He offered a flabby hand. "Welcome to my shop, sir."
"A moment ago, you were about to throw me out."
"That was before I realized who you really were, Mr. Proudfoot. This sketch of yours has persuaded me completely. Nobody else but you could have drawn it."
"Why were you so hostile to me?"
"I'm suspicious of anyone who walks in here and makes such a bold claim asyou did. The city is full of spies. You would not have been the first person who used the name of George Washington in the hope of tricking me into declaring my sympathies." He beamed at the other man and pumped his hand. "I am sorry that I was inhospitable."
Proudfoot relaxed. "I'm so grateful to learn the truth."
"Then learn something else. Be more discreet. Never use names, least of all that of our revered commander. It will give you away at once. When you are in Philadelphia, you are a Tory."
"I'll remember that."
"Befriend the British troops. It's the best way to gain intelligence."
"And the newspaper?"
"All in good time," whispered Hughes, a finger to his lips. "Let's get more closely acquainted before we touch on that. When did you last eat?"
"Yesterday."
"No breakfast?"
"Not so far."
"My wife will make you some food at once."
"I don't wish to put her to any trouble."
"Miranda will be more than happy to prepare you a meal." Hughes tugged at a bookcase and it swung forward on hinges to reveal a doorway. "Come and meet her, Ezekiel Proudfoot."
The farther they sailed down the Charles River, the more signs of life they saw. It was not just the appearance of other craft heading for the sea. There were gulls wheeling in the sky, ducks swimming in the shallows, and cows in the fields, waiting to be milked. As the fisherman had predicted, it was a clear day. He was still at the tiller, pulling on his pipe and steering his boat in midstream. Tom Caffrey sat with his arm around Polly Bragg, wondering how on earth she had managed to doze off while he was kept so wide-awake. He was more concerned about her safety than his own, and was having second thoughts about the wisdom of bringing her on what was bound to be a hazardous journey.
The other passengers were now in the stern of the boat. Elizabeth Rainham nestled against Jamie Skoyles, sad to have left so many good friends behind her but relieved that she was sailing away at last from Major Harry Featherstone.
"What will they do?" she asked.
"Who?"
"The people who discover that we've gone."
"Our disappearance will be duly reported," said Skoyles, "and our names added to the list of deserters. We're not the first to run away, by any means, and—when it becomes clear that our army will be kept here as prisoners of war in
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