Different Sin Read Free Page A

share his own news with his father. His sketch of Burns as he was marched to the wharf under heavy guard, through streets draped in black bunting, had appeared in the Tribune a week earlier—in the weekly digest edition with its nation-wide circulation. Tribune editor Horace Greeley had run the drawing as an editorial cartoon, captioned, “Amid cries of Shame, Slavery chains the Cradle of Liberty in its Shackles.”
    “Their engraver didn’t do much of a job of copying it,” David said, frowning at the reproduction. “But at least it’s in the Tribune.” He passed his father the newspaper, its pages creased open in a permanent fold.
    George Carter glanced at the illustration. “Yes, I know. I saw a copy while I was with Michael and Rachel. They were all proud of you for getting a picture published in the Tribune,” he said, producing a smile.
    “Did I mention that Grimes organized a concert at his church to raise proceeds for Burns? Abigail had a short solo. She has a lovely voice for a youngster. She’s been singing with the Garrison Juvenile Choir, you know. She takes it very seriously; she’s already learned to read music.” He beamed across the table with a grandfather’s pride.
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    “Dear Mr. Walker-” David paused, dipped his goose quill into the inkwell, then sighed and laid it down. Abruptly, he stood, wincing as his chair thudded into the wall of the cramped cubicle he rented for his law office. He stood a moment at the open window, hoping for a breeze, gazing desultorily down at wagons clattering along the cobblestone alley below him. The warm, humid air was as heavy as the atmosphere indoors, plastering down the locks of hair that had fallen across his forehead. Sighing again, he shoved his hair back and sat down to finish the letter.
    Walker’s letter had arrived with disconcerting promptness in response to his own note of thanks for the newsman’s help in publishing his sketch. “I do hope to keep up our correspondence,” he’d written David. “Letter writing is one of my great enthusiasms.
    “Have been much occupied since our meeting with reporting the protests of right-thinking men against the extension of slavery into the Kansas-Nebraska territories by that devil, Sen. Douglas. It was a black day for our nation when his bill was passed into law by the traitors of the Senate. Greeley has hauled down the Stars and Stripes from its rooftop staff; the glory has gone out of them.”
    There seemed little to write in reply. Other than agreeing once again to paint the scenery for the fall production of the Alexandria Dramatic Association, there was little of interest in David’s life.
    He pushed the letter aside and reached into the desk drawer for the plans he’d drawn to scale of the stage area. Within moments, he was engrossed with sketching in the main elements of the scene design.
    The thud of footsteps on the stairs recalled him from his preoccupation. Hurriedly he began to return his sketches to the drawer before the arrival of a possible client, then relaxed as Tom Miller, the proprietor of the downstairs bakeshop, entered.
    “Dotty saved you a few of the gingersnaps we baked yesterday.” Tom placed a small sack of cookies on David’s desk. “She remembered they’re your favorites.”
    David smiled his thanks. “She never stops trying to fatten me up.”
    Tom laughed. “You’re in no danger of growing stout. Dotty has more luck with me; I reckon I’ve put on a few pounds since our wedding.” He looked down at his expanse of stomach, chuckling comfortably. “You doing the scenery for the theatrical again?” he asked, waving at David’s sketch.
    David nodded. “I got a little ahead on my work, so I thought I’d spend a few minutes looking these over.” It was a pointless pretense. He’d been acquainted with Tom since they’d been boys together. Tom knew as well as David that he’d precious little law work to keep him from the scene designs.
    “I