Some of what he said did penetrate the fog of Richard Morgan’s worry-snatches, phrases only: “ ‘in open and avowed rebellion… the utmost endeavors to suppress such rebellion, and bring the traitors to justice… ’ ”

Feeling the contempt in his father’s gaze, Richard genuinely tried to concentrate. But surely the fever was beginning? Was it? If so, then the inoculation was definitely taking. And if it did take, would William Henry be one of those who suffered the full disease anyway? Died anyway? Dear God, no!

Mr. James Thistlethwaite was arriving at his peroration. “ ‘The die is now cast! The colonies must either submit or triumph!’ ” he thundered.

“What an odd way for the King to put it,” said Mine Host.

“Odd?”

“It sounds as if the King deems a colonial triumph possible.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much, Dick. His speech writer-some scurvy undersecretary to his bum boy Lord Bute, I hazard a guess-is fascinated with the balances of rhetoric-ah?” This last word was accompanied by a gesture, forefinger pointing to mouth.

Mine Host grinned and ran a measure of rum into a small pewter mug, then turned to chalk a slash on the slate fixed to his wall.

“Dick, Dick! My news merits one on the house!”

“No it does not. We would have heard sooner or later.” Mine Host leaned his elbows on his counter in the place where they had worn two slight depressions and stared at the armed and greatcoated Mr. Thistlethwaite-mad as a March hare! The summer’s day was sweltering. “Seriously, Jem, it is not exactly a bolt from the blue, but these are shocking tidings all the same.”