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.