packet of letters from his inside pocket, wrapped in a bit of tarred
cloth, and opening it he picked one out and placed it upon my knee.
'Read!' said he, pointing at it with his long thin finger.

It was inscribed in large plain characters, 'To Joseph Clarke,
leather merchant of Havant, by the hand of Master Decimus Saxon,
part-owner of the ship _Providence_, from Amsterdam to Portsmouth.'
At each side it was sealed with a massive red seal, and was
additionally secured with a broad band of silk.

'I have three-and-twenty of them to deliver in the neighbourhood,' he
remarked. 'That shows what folk think of Decimus Saxon.
Three-and-twenty lives and liberties are in my hands. Ah, lad, invoices
and bills of lading are not done up in that fashion. It is not a cargo
of Flemish skins that is coming for the old man. The skins have good
English hearts in them; ay, and English swords in their fists to strike
out for freedom and for conscience. I risk my life in carrying this
letter to your father; and you, his son, threaten to hand me over to the
justices! For shame! For shame! I blush for you!'

'I don't know what you are hinting at,' I answered. 'You must speak
plainer if I am to understand you.'

'Can we trust him?' he asked, jerking his head in the direction of
Reuben.

'As myself.'

'How very charming!' said he, with something between a smile and a
sneer. 'David and Jonathan--or, to be more classical and less