With John Paul Jones

“Who is that man that is so much at the Wheelocks’ just now?” asked young Walter Stanton of his friend Philip Morgan.

“Some Tory friend, I suppose. I don’t like him; see the sneer upon his face as he looks at the members upon the steps of the State House.”

It was about noon on a day late in September in the year 1777. A group of young men and boys were lounging upon some benches in the shade of two big buttonwoods directly across from the quaint old State House at Philadelphia. The sun hung almost over the tower whose bell had boomed freedom to a nation only a little more than a year before; upon the stone steps of the building stood a number of grave-faced, earnest gentlemen, members of the first Continental Congress, talking of the weighty matters that were to be discussed in the approaching session.

The man who had attracted Walter Stanton’s attention was a person of striking appearance. He had thick, coal-black hair, a pale, keen face and a frame that showed strength and endurance. A boy of about nineteen stood at his side, and they were both talking in low tones and watching the patriot-legislators as they slowly assembled. Philip Morgan was right when he said that the stranger wore a sneer upon his face. That cold look of pitying contempt and the curl of the man’s lip could mean nothing else. A stir went through the crowd of lads as an erect, care-worn man passed slowly along, with bent head and an air of great abstraction, every hat came off with a sweep of respect.