Whig Term Analysis

Rab was obviously a Whig. ‘I can stomach some of the Tories,’ he went on, ‘men like Governor Hutchinson. They honestly think we’re better off to take anything from the British Parliament—let them break us down, stamp in our faces, take all we’ve got by taxes, and never protest. […] But I can’t stand men like Lyte, who care nothing for anything except themselves and their own fortune. Playing both ends against the middle.’

‘Uncle Lorne is upset. He says the printers will not be able to go on with the newspapers. He won’t be able to collect subscriptions, or get any advertising. He won’t be able to buy paper nor ink.’

‘He’s sending the Webb twins home?’

‘Yes. Back to Chelmsford. But he and I can manage. The Observer is to be half-size. He won’t give up. He’ll keep on printing, printing and printing about our wrongs—and our rights—until he drops dead at his press—or gets hanged.’

Johnny liked the old woman all the better that in the end she had been unable to see a considerate master, whom she had served for thirty years, a young woman whom she had taken care of since she was a baby, humiliated, tossed about, torn by a mob. Sam Adams might respect her the less for this weakness. Johnny respected her more.

‘It’s no good to me. We’ve… moved on to other things.’

‘But it isn’t stealing to take back what Mr. Lyte stole from you.’

‘I don’t want it.’

‘What?’

‘No. I’m better off without it. I want nothing of them. Neither their blood nor their silver… I’ll carry that hamper for you, Cil. Mr. Lyte can have the old cup.

‘But your mother?’

‘She didn’t like it either.’

‘Rab! How’d you do it? How’d you get away?’

Rab’s eyes glittered. In spite of his great air of calm, he was angry.

‘Colonel Nesbit said I was just a child. “Go buy a popgun, boy,” he said. They flung me out the back door. Told me to go home.’

Then Johnny laughed. He couldn’t help it. Rab had always, as far as Johnny knew, been treated as a grown man and always looked upon himself as such.

‘So all he did was hurt your feelings.’