Читать книгу The Collected Prose Works of Stephen Vincent Benét - Stephen Vincent Benét - Страница 6

Table of Contents

But as soon as he got into Boston he started to feel queer—and it wasn’t only his tooth. He hadn’t been there in four years and he’d expected to find it changed, but it wasn’t that. It was a clear enough day and yet he kept feeling there was thunder in the air. There’d be knots of people, talking and arguing, on street corners, and then, when you got closer to them, they’d kind of melt away. Or, if they stayed, they’d look at you, out of the corners of their eyes. And there, in the Port of Boston, were the British warships, black and grim. He’d known they’d be there, of course, but it was different, seeing them. It made him feel queer to see their guns pointed at the town. He’d known there was trouble and dispute, in Boston, but the knowledge had passed over him like rain and hail. But now here he was in the middle of it—and it smelt like earthquake weather. He couldn’t make head or tail of it, but he wanted to be home.

All the same, he’d come to get his tooth fixed, and, being New England, he was bound to do it. But first he stopped at a tavern for a bite and a sup, for it was long past his dinnertime. And there, it seemed to him, things got even more curious.

“Nice weather we’re having, these days,” he said, in a friendly way, to the barkeep.

“It’s bitter weather for Boston,” said the barkeep, in an unfriendly voice, and a sort of low growl went up from the boys at the back of the room and every eye fixed on Lige.

Well, that didn’t help the toothache any, but, being a sociable person, Lige kept on.

“May be, for Boston,” he said, “but out in the country we’d call it good planting weather.”

The barkeep stared at him hard.

“I guess I was mistaken in you,” he said. “It is good planting weather—for some kinds of trees.”

“And what kind of trees were you thinking of?” said a sharp-faced man at Lige’s left and squeezed his shoulder.

“There’s trees and trees, you know,” said a red-faced man at Lige’s right, and gave him a dig in the ribs.

“Well, now that you ask me—” said Lige, but he couldn’t even finish before the red-faced man dug him hard in the ribs again.

“The liberty tree!” said the red-faced man. “And may it soon be watered in the blood of tyrants!”

“The royal oak of England!” said the sharp-faced man. “And God save King George and loyalty!”

Well, with that it seemed to Lige Butterwick as if the whole tavern kind of riz up at him. He was kicked and pummeled and mauled and thrown into a corner and yanked out of it again, with the red-faced man and the sharp-faced man and all the rest of them dancing quadrilles over his prostrate form. Till, finally, he found himself out in the street with half his coat gone galley-west.

“Well,” said Lige to himself, “I always heard city folks were crazy. But politics must be getting serious in these American colonies when they start fighting about trees!”

Then he saw the sharp-faced man was beside him, trying to shake his hand. He noticed with some pleasure that the sharp-faced man had the beginnings of a beautiful black eye.

“Nobly done, friend,” said the sharp-faced man, “and I’m glad to find another true-hearted loyalist in this pestilent, rebellious city.”

“Well, I don’t know as I quite agree with you about that,” said Lige. “But I came here to get my tooth fixed, not to talk politics. And as long as you’ve spoken so pleasant, I wonder if you could help me out. You see, I’m from Lexington way—and I’m looking for a fellow named Paul Revere—”

“Paul Revere!” said the sharp-faced man, as if the name hit him like a bullet. Then he began to smile again—not a pleasant smile.

“Oh, it’s Paul Revere you want, my worthy and ingenuous friend from the country,” he said. “Well, I’ll tell you how to find him. You go up to the first British soldier you see and ask the way. But you better give the password first.”

“Password?” said Lige Butterwick, scratching his ear.

“Yes,” said the sharp-faced man, and his smile got wider. “You say to that British soldier, ‘Any lobsters for sale today?’ Then you ask about Revere.”

“But why do I talk about lobsters first?” said Lige Butterwick, kind of stubborn.

“Well, you see,” said the sharp-faced man, “the British soldiers wear red coats. So they like being asked about lobsters. Try it and see.” And he went away, with his shoulders shaking.

Well, that seemed queer to Lige Butterwick, but no queerer than the other things that had happened that day. All the same, he didn’t quite trust the sharp-faced man, so he took care not to come too close to the British patrol when he asked them about the lobsters. And it was lucky he did, for no sooner were the words out of his mouth than the British soldiers took after him and chased him clear down to the wharves before he could get away. At that, he only managed it by hiding in an empty tar-barrel, and when he got out he was certainly a sight for sore eyes.

“Well, I guess that couldn’t have been the right password,” he said to himself, kind of grimly, as he tried to rub off some of the tar. “All the same, I don’t think soldiers ought to act like that when you ask them a civil question. But, city folks or soldiers, they can’t make a fool out of me. I came here to get my tooth fixed and get it fixed I will, if I have to surprise the whole British Empire to do it.”

And just then he saw a sign on a shop at the end of the wharf. And, according to my great-aunt, this was what was on the sign. It said “Paul Revere, Silversmith” at the top, and then, under it, in smaller letters, “Large and small bells cast to order, engraving and printing done in job lots, artificial teeth sculptured and copper boilers mended, all branches of goldsmith and silversmith work and revolutions put up to take out. Express Service, Tuesdays and Fridays, to Lexington, Concord and Points West.”

“Well,” said Lige Butterwick, “kind of a Jack-of-all-trades. Now maybe I can get my tooth fixed.” And he marched up to the door.