“Here,” he said, slipping a long sealed packet into his friend’s hand. “This is of the utmost importance. See that it reaches Dr. Franklin’s hands in Paris at once; it must not be lost, for it may save my life. De Vergennes has forsaken us.”
“Come,” replied Ross, hiding the paper in his pocket. “Endeavor to hide--you may escape in the crowd.”
“And be hunted like a rat with a ferret or taken like a criminal. Never that in the world. Appear not to know me.”
With that Conyngham stepped forward into the open space that the crowd had formed in giving way for the soldiers’ coming. Stepping boldly out to meet the company, the captain drew a short sword from under his long blue coat, and advancing toward the officer he extended him the hilt across the hollow of his left arm.
The officer was so surprised that he halted, as if not knowing what to do, then in some hesitation he took the proffered weapon. At the same time Conyngham spoke in a loud voice:
“Captain Conyngham of the American navy gives himself and his sword into the keeping of the Government of France.”
Then he glanced about to the English spy, but the latter had disappeared.
Leaving a guard of soldiers about the vessel, the officer and part of his company walked back up the wharf. Before he had gone many steps he returned the short sword to Conyngham, who took it with a smile and walked off by the officer’s side, chatting pleasantly in French with a strong touch of Irish brogue.
At the same corner where he had passed them but a few hours previously stood his friends. Again they gave no sign of recognition.
Dr. Franklin had just returned from court. He had been saying many pretty things to fair ladies, and had made his usual wise and witty remarks to ministers and to courtiers, and now he seated himself in his large arm-chair near the table, placed his big horn spectacles upon his nose, and drew toward him a pile of correspondence and some paper. Dipping his big quill into the inkstand, he paused a moment before he began to write. On his face suddenly came an expression of great pain. He pushed back his chair, and lifting his leg carefully kicked off the heavy buckled shoe and rested his foot on a cushion that lay on the floor. The good doctor was suffering a twinge from his old enemy, the gout. At last, when he was more comfortable, a smile of amusement lit up his features and he began scratching away quickly with the squeaky quill pen. It was not a letter of state importance or secret instructions that he was working on, for every now and then his smile widened or changed to one of quizzical amusement. He had abandoned himself to the whim of the moment, and when he had gone on for an hour or so he paused and began to read what he had inscribed aloud. It was an imaginary conversation between himself and his present bodily visitor and tormentor, whom he referred to politely as “Madam Gout.” He was defending himself against the accusations of the lady in question as he read.