98 JUSTIN MORGAN 



home-made boots of calf-skin (smelling- horribly of 

 grease), with the heavy breeches tucked well inside, 

 were warm and comfortable to his feet. 



But they must have cut a sorry figure when they 

 reached Boston and went along Summer Street ; that 

 lovely, fashionable thoroughfare, with its stately trees, 

 beautiful flower gardens and splendid mansions. 



It was dusk when they stopped in Corn Court, at the 

 Braser Inn — the famous hostelry opened by Samuel 

 Cole, in 1634, where Miantonomah's painted Indians — 

 envoys to Sir Harry Vane — had been entertained ; where 

 the French Premier, Talleyrand, had so lately stayed ; 

 where so many other events of history had taken place. 



As Evans was hitching his horse to a post near the 

 side door of the tavern, Morgan heard a familiar, ban- 

 tering voice ; the odor of musk came to his nostrils 

 faintly, and glancing about, he saw — as he knew he 

 should — the Coxcomb. 



No fop of the King's court could have looked more 

 elegant ; his Continental coat, cocked hat and high shin- 

 ing boots were of the latest cut — not less offensive to 

 the simple taste of the horse was his insolent swagger. 



Master Knickerbocker, of course, did not notice Mor- 

 gan, but cried to Evans persuadingly : 



"Tarry the night, my Green Mountain Giant, we can 

 show you rare sport at cards if you've money in your 

 purse." 



Evans towered above the popinjay as his Green Moun- 

 tains would have towered over Beacon Hill. He gazed 

 down at him with contempt, vaguely, yet not definitely, 

 recognizing his one-time antagonist in a race, as Mor- 

 gan had. 



*T have no money to lose to you, my young sir," he 

 made reply, ungraciously. "I am but a simple farmer, 



