Youre right. And the passenger, who has been out of sight, has been haunting the hangar, trying to find the other life belt, Larry took up the theory. Mr. Whiteside must have guessed that, too, and he planned today to make a good search and if he didnt find what he wantedHe lay thinking for a while, then had her send the striker for Ellton, who promptly, and awkwardly, replied to the anxious question as to what might be the trouble, that he was not quite sure, but perhaps it had to do with these"these" being a small roll of newspaper clippings he took from his portfolio.
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The news from Boston could not have arrived at a moment when the public mind was more ill-disposed towards the Americans. The affair of the abstraction of Mr. Whately's private letters from his house or office, and their publication, contrary to custom and to its own engagement, by the Massachusetts Assembly, had produced a deep conviction in all classes in England of the utter disregard of honour both in the American colonists and their agent, Franklin. This disgraceful violation of the sacred security of private papers roused the indignation of Mr. William Whately, banker, in Lombard Street, and brother to the late Mr. Thomas Whately. He conceived strong suspicions of John Temple, afterwards Sir John Temple, Lieutenant-Governor of New Hampshire, and, though one of the Commissioners of Customs at Boston, really hostile to the Commission, and a strong partisan of Franklin. Whately challenged Temple, and was severely wounded in the rencontre. At this, Franklin came forward with an avowal that neither the late Mr. Whately nor Mr.[211] Temple had anything to do with the carrying off of the letters; that he alone was responsible for this act.If he is Mr. Everdail, after all, Larry said.[See larger version]One fine afternoon the post was moving along in its usual routinethat quiet which is only disturbed by the ever recurring military formalities and the small squabbles of an isolated community. There had been a lull in the war rumors, and hope for the best had sprung up in the wearied hearts of the plains service, much as the sun had that day come out in a scintillating air after an all-night rain-storm.HENRY FIELDING. (The Portrait by Hogarth; the Border by James Basire.)
