The humours of the situation were all the Deacon's own. He dressed the
part in black; his respectability grinned behind a vizard; and all the
while he trifled nonchalantly with a pistol. Breaking the silence with
snatches from The Beggar's Opera, he promised that all their lead should
turn to gold, christened the coulter and the crow the Great and Little
Samuel, and then went off to drink and dice at the Vintner's. How could
anger prevail against this undying gaiety? And if Smith were peevish at
failure, he was presently reconciled, and prepared once more to die for
his Deacon.
Even after escape, the amateur is still apparent. True, he managed the
trip to Flushing with his ancient extravagance; true, he employed all
the juggleries of the law to prevent his surrender at Amsterdam. But
he knew not the caution of the born criminal, and he was run to earth,
because he would still write to his friends like a gentleman. His
letters, during this nightmare of disaster, are perfect in their
carelessness and good-fellowship. In this he demands news of his
children, as becomes a father and a citizen, and furnishes a schedule of
their education; in that he is curious concerning the issue of a main,
and would know whether his black cock came off triumphant. Nor, even in
flight, did he forget his proper craft, but would have his tools sent to
Charleston, that in America he might resume the trade that had made him
Deacon.
But his was the art of conduct, not of guile, and he deserved capture
for his rare indifference.
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