Our Irish surgeon sat in a corner, reading a book--I think 'twas a
Latin author--by the light of a tallow candle. He nodded to us
indifferently, as if he had no engagement with us, and continued to
read. Tom and I ordered a hot rum punch mixed for us, and stood at the
bar to drink it.
"You look pale and shaky, you two," said the tavern-keeper, who
himself waited upon us.
"'Tis the cold," said I. "We're not all of your constitution, to walk
around in shirt-sleeves this weather."
"Why," says the landlord, "I go by the almanac. 'Tis time for the
January thaw, 'cordin' to that. Something afoot to-night, eh? One o'
them little trips up the river, or out East Chester way, with De
Lancey's men, I reckon?"
We said nothing, but wisely looked significant, and the host grinned.
"More like 'tis a matter of wenches," put in a half-drunken ensign
standing beside us at the bar. "That's the only business to bring a
gentleman out such a cursed night. Damn such a vile country, cold as
hell in winter, and hot as hell in summer! Damn it and sink it! and
fill up my glass, landlord. Roast me dead if _I_ stick _my_ nose
outdoors to-night!"
"A braw, fine nicht, the nicht, gentlemen," said a sober, ruddy-faced
Scot, very gravely, with a lofty contempt for the other's remarks.
"Guid, hamelike weather."
But the feelings and thoughts prevailing in the tap-room were not in
tune with those agitating our hearts, and as soon as Captain Falconer
and his friend came in, we took our leave, exchanging a purposely
careless greeting with the newcomers.
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