“It is hard, very hard, on me that I should be obliged to close the house my brother James loved so well, and that has been a glory to the Dunlap name for two centuries. It may break my heart, too, lad.”
The white head sunk on the heaving chest and an audible sob now shook the bended frame. Jack watched his good godfather with manly tears filling his honest eyes. Then, laying his hand softly on the old man’s arm, he said,
“Cousin John, would you feel less wretched if I promised to leave the sea, and do my best to keep the old sign, ‘J. Dunlap,’ in its place in the crooked street where it has hung for two hundred years?”
John Dunlap raised his head almost as soon as his namesake began to speak, and when Jack had finished he had him around the neck and was hugging the sturdy sailor, crying all the time,
“God bless you, boy! Will you do that for your old kinsman? Will you, lad?” And then wringing Jack’s hand he cried,
“A young J. Dunlap succeeds the old; all the ships, trade and the capital remain as before! You and Lucy are sole heirs to everything! The chief clerks will shout for joy to know that the house still goes on; they will help you faithfully for love of my brother James and me. And oh! Jack, when I am far away it will make my heart beat easier to know that the Dunlap red ball barred with black still floats upon the ocean, and that the old sign is still here; that I was not the one of my long line to take it from its place.”
Five times has Boston Common, old, honored in history’s story, slept beneath its snowy counterpane, all damaskeened by winter sunbeam’s glory.
Five times have brooks in Yankee vales burst icy chains to flee, with gladsome shouts of merriment, on joyous journey to the sea.
Five times have Massachusetts hills and dales been garbed in cloak of emerald, embroidered wide in gay designs of daffodils and daisies since the grand old Commonwealth was shocked by the commission of a horrid crime by one called Burton.
An old sign still swings before an even older building, in one of Boston’s most crooked streets. “J. Dunlap, Shipping and Banking,” is what the passersby may read on the old sign.
Sometimes an old man is seen to enter the building above the door of which is suspended this sign; he is much bent and white of hair, but sturdy still, despite some four-score years. All men of Boston accord great respect to this handsome old gentleman.