headquarters, had rather an idle time of it so far as regular service went. He did not waste his days, however; each afternoon he rode out and inspected the roads and outlying defenses; also he made pencil sketches of points which he fancied would be of value, and topographical maps of both Manhattan and Long Island for miles around. This sort of work came naturally to him; more than once his officers had complimented him upon his facility, and found its product of considerable value.

[146]

One evening toward the end of May he rode into the city with a bundle of sketches in his saddle-bag; he had been in the district about Kingsbridge, but had made his way back by the roads along the East River. Riding along Queen Street he had all but reached the junction of Crown when he espied a little party that crossed just ahead of him. There was something familiar about them, so touching his horse with the spur he turned into Crown Street after them.

There was a corpulent old gentleman upon a broad-backed Flemish mare; there was a[147] spare old gentleman upon a rangy looking cob; and there was a girl upon a chestnut which champed its bit and seemed to disdain the ground. He had not gone more than a dozen yards into Crown Street before he recognized those ahead of him. They were Merchant Camp, his partner, Mr. Dana—and Peggy.

[147]

Before a wide fronted brick house, not more than a dozen yards east of William Street, the party halted. It was undoubtedly old Camp’s city residence, for at his call, a couple of stout serving men hastened out and assisted the three to dismount. The stout old merchant gallantly led Peggy up the steps, while Dana halted along behind them.

Somehow, after this, George found much to interest him in that part of the city. The flower gardens, just beginning to bloom, were full of attraction; the quaint old Dutch houses were rich in lore of times past; he found odd, loitering fellows who could and would talk of their neighbors; also craftsmen who were not in the least averse to an honest gossip while they plied their trades.

An old basket weaver, who sat in the sun[148] which slanted in at his doorway while he contrived articles of reed and cane, had lived and worked there for forty years.

[148]

“Things were different when I first came,” said he to George, and he shook his white head in recollection of times 

 Prev. P 68/155 next