glanced toward the mill. Then he slammed the door and lit a lantern and hung it up to see by, now that he'd shut the sun out. He didn't say anything. Just stood there letting his chowder get cold and staring at the floor.
"Maybe Mr. Purdy didn't mean it," I said. "Maybe he only means to scare you into thinking about the King the way he does."
"He means to scare me all right. He's been at it for months now, ever since the first of summer. But he hasn't, Sarah. It's the crowd that hangs around him and listens to his rantings that scares meâHubert Hines, the surveyor; Burton, the drayman; the post rider, John Seldon, who spreads gossip like the pox from here to Boston and back. And also Birdsall. He's the worst of them."
"Mr. Purdy wanted to know why we haven't enough money to pay for a bag of meal when you do tinkering for people and get paid for it. I wonder, too, sometimes. Why we are so poor in money that I have to ask for credit every week." I grew bolder. "Perhaps you bury it in the ground somewhere."
"Perhaps I do."
I wasn't surprised. I'd had suspicions for a long time that he was hiding money.
"Been burying it since early summer," Father admitted. "Since Purdy first threatened me, and Birdsall began to ride."
"Shouldn't I know where it is, just in case?"
"No, if you knew and they came looking for it, Birdsall and his gang, then you'd be bound to tell them."
"I never would."
"You don't know what you'd do. The other day, over at Hempstead, Birdsall broke in on Seth Parsons and his wife and asked them for silverware he knew the Parsonses owned. Parsons said they'd sold it. Birdsall's men clouted him over the head and knocked him unconscious. He died two days later. Mrs. Parsons they hung up by her thumbs until she told..."
"No matter what, I'd never tell."
"You'd be foolish. Valuables aren't worth your life. I'm not going to say where I hid them. Nobody knows but me. And it's not money. It's silverware."
"Silverware?"
"Yes."
Father began to eat his chowder and said no more. When he was through eating, he opened the door. He stood for a long time gazing toward Purdy's mill, at the fast-running stream and the wheel turning.
Father was dark-skinned and his hair was soot-black and long. He wore it in a club tied with a leather string.
He looked like an Indian. Many people took him for an Indian. Sometimes I felt that he wished he'd been born an Indian and lived in the wilderness and could travel about from place to place when the seasons changed.
He had the courage of an Indian, too; the courage to stand up to Purdy and Birdsall. He could have kept his thoughts to himself. He could have said that he hated King George. Or just kept quiet, like most of the people we knew.
4
F ATHER ATE HIS food and went back to work on Mrs. Ryder's grandfather clock, which had something wrong with its pendulum. He laid it out on his bench and did some soldering and put it back in the case and gave it a little nudge.
The pendulum had just begun to move when my brother, Chad, came into the barn. With him was a skinny young man who lived on a farm on the other side of Purdy's mill. They both had been drinking, from all that I could tell.
Father was strict about young men drinking, so I was surprised that Chad would walk right in and stand up
bold in front of him, even if he had the help of skinny David Whitlock, who was a student and very religious.
"Good morning, Mr. Bishop," David Whitlock said.
"Good morning, Father," Chad said.
They spoke this greeting at the same time and both bowed stiffly from the waist. Now I was certain that they'd been drinking.
"Chad, why aren't you at work?" my father asked sharply. "The day's only half over."
Chad and David glanced at each other and grinned, as if they were sharing a momentous secret. Then they clutched each other like long-lost friends.
I noticed that Chad had a pamphlet in his hand that had printing on its gray, dog-eared cover, something about
Common Sense
by someone
"Maybe Mr. Purdy didn't mean it," I said. "Maybe he only means to scare you into thinking about the King the way he does."
"He means to scare me all right. He's been at it for months now, ever since the first of summer. But he hasn't, Sarah. It's the crowd that hangs around him and listens to his rantings that scares meâHubert Hines, the surveyor; Burton, the drayman; the post rider, John Seldon, who spreads gossip like the pox from here to Boston and back. And also Birdsall. He's the worst of them."
"Mr. Purdy wanted to know why we haven't enough money to pay for a bag of meal when you do tinkering for people and get paid for it. I wonder, too, sometimes. Why we are so poor in money that I have to ask for credit every week." I grew bolder. "Perhaps you bury it in the ground somewhere."
"Perhaps I do."
I wasn't surprised. I'd had suspicions for a long time that he was hiding money.
"Been burying it since early summer," Father admitted. "Since Purdy first threatened me, and Birdsall began to ride."
"Shouldn't I know where it is, just in case?"
"No, if you knew and they came looking for it, Birdsall and his gang, then you'd be bound to tell them."
"I never would."
"You don't know what you'd do. The other day, over at Hempstead, Birdsall broke in on Seth Parsons and his wife and asked them for silverware he knew the Parsonses owned. Parsons said they'd sold it. Birdsall's men clouted him over the head and knocked him unconscious. He died two days later. Mrs. Parsons they hung up by her thumbs until she told..."
"No matter what, I'd never tell."
"You'd be foolish. Valuables aren't worth your life. I'm not going to say where I hid them. Nobody knows but me. And it's not money. It's silverware."
"Silverware?"
"Yes."
Father began to eat his chowder and said no more. When he was through eating, he opened the door. He stood for a long time gazing toward Purdy's mill, at the fast-running stream and the wheel turning.
Father was dark-skinned and his hair was soot-black and long. He wore it in a club tied with a leather string.
He looked like an Indian. Many people took him for an Indian. Sometimes I felt that he wished he'd been born an Indian and lived in the wilderness and could travel about from place to place when the seasons changed.
He had the courage of an Indian, too; the courage to stand up to Purdy and Birdsall. He could have kept his thoughts to himself. He could have said that he hated King George. Or just kept quiet, like most of the people we knew.
4
F ATHER ATE HIS food and went back to work on Mrs. Ryder's grandfather clock, which had something wrong with its pendulum. He laid it out on his bench and did some soldering and put it back in the case and gave it a little nudge.
The pendulum had just begun to move when my brother, Chad, came into the barn. With him was a skinny young man who lived on a farm on the other side of Purdy's mill. They both had been drinking, from all that I could tell.
Father was strict about young men drinking, so I was surprised that Chad would walk right in and stand up
bold in front of him, even if he had the help of skinny David Whitlock, who was a student and very religious.
"Good morning, Mr. Bishop," David Whitlock said.
"Good morning, Father," Chad said.
They spoke this greeting at the same time and both bowed stiffly from the waist. Now I was certain that they'd been drinking.
"Chad, why aren't you at work?" my father asked sharply. "The day's only half over."
Chad and David glanced at each other and grinned, as if they were sharing a momentous secret. Then they clutched each other like long-lost friends.
I noticed that Chad had a pamphlet in his hand that had printing on its gray, dog-eared cover, something about
Common Sense
by someone
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