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heard.’
    ‘I prefer to talk myself out of trouble, Mr Oakeshott. Not into it.’
    ‘Do you anticipate trouble?’
    ‘Do you, sir?’
    ‘Never in life,’ said Septimus. They drank.
    ‘This is really very good coffee,’ said Smith.
    ‘Yes,’ said Van Loon. ‘It comes from the Leeward plantations, and the voyage is probably shorter than you are used to.’
    ‘I am not speaking officially,’ said Septimus. ‘But if I were – if I had my wig on – then there are several categories of thing we would rather you were not. We would rather you were not a spy. We would rather you were not a hireling of the ministry. We would rather you were not a scoundrel, come to spoil the credit of London paper in the city.’
    ‘I am not a spy or a hireling,’ Smith said promptly.
    Septimus laughed. You would have thought it would crack the eggshell of his countenance, but his teeth proved as neat and white as the rest.
    ‘For myself,’ put in Van Loon cheerfully, ‘well – speaking for myself as a member of the family, not for the Post-Boy – we would not mind at all if you proved a scoundrel. Pray, be one. For if you’re a fraud, then there’s no drain in prospect on old Gregory’s funds, and our projects with him are not in danger; but he is treating you at present as the genuine article, and so we shall too, and be glad to dine with ye, and shake your hand.’
    ‘Thank you,’ said Mr Smith.
    ‘Now, I had better be getting back to the printing-house,’ said Van Loon, rising.
    ‘Would this be of any use to you?’ asked Smith, shaking out the page he had drawn from his pocket, and reaching it up. London Prices Current , it said across the masthead, and a date six weeks old.
    ‘Yes indeed,’ said Van Loon. ‘Indeed it would. The Post-Boy would be delighted. These are fresher by a fortnight than any I’ve seen.’
    ‘Take it, then.’
    ‘I thankee. So long, Septimus. See you later, Mr Smith.’
    ‘You will?’
    ‘Oh yes.’
    He departed.
    ‘Why will he see me later?’ Smith asked.
    ‘Because you are dining at the Lovells’.’
    ‘And everyone knows this.’
    ‘They do. It’s a small town.’
    ‘Is it? I see streams of people, all in motion, and ships enough to turn Quentin there polyglot.’
    ‘True. But the ships come and go again, and the most part of the traffic of souls passes straight through. They walk up from the slips to the streets and are gone; the continent devours them. New-York is but a gullet. Few stay. Will you be staying?’
    ‘For a while.’
    ‘Well, if you stay till the snows come, you will discover just how tiny it can be. When the winter takes hold we all huddle in each other’s pockets. Colonial snow is a different article from the domestic: altogether fiercer.’
    Septimus was playing with a tea-spoon.
    ‘Do you really have six sisters?’ asked Smith.
    ‘Yes. In Hampshire.’
    ‘Hence the name.’
    ‘Hence my name.’
    ‘May I ask you a question?’
    ‘What, another one? Luckily I am in more of an answering mood than you are. Go on.’
    ‘There is a board by the fort, with—’
    ‘Scalps nailed to it. Yes.’
    ‘What are they doing there?’
    ‘They are showing how much we love the French. In order to keep the river valley north of here empty of all but those who speak good English – or Dutch – the Government has a bountyon the scalps of settlers avec un mauvais façon de parler , and once a year the friendly Mohawks bring down their crop to New-York, and we count out the cash. It’s a celebrated local occasion. They march along the Broad Way with their trophies on a pole, and the Governor receives them. I stand on his right. Everybody cheers. You have to remember that here, too, last year was rather tense.’
    ‘I would have thought you were well out of reach of Jacobite troubles.’
    ‘Would you? Were you in London last year?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Doing …?’
    ‘This and that.’
    ‘Of course. And what was it like?’
    ‘When the Pretender came marching