Post by Hamilton on Jun 21, 2011 4:35:13 GMT -5
Lt. Colonel Alexander Hamilton pulled his greatcoat a little more tightly around his body as he entered the tavern. He had hoped to look forward ot a comfy sanctuary from the cloudy, sporadically rainy weather. However this little establishment was, of necessity, an out of the way little place. Certainly not his preferred meeting spot, but it was but a minor inconvenience when compared with some other sacrifices and hardships he had already endured. Of course, that didn’t stop him from whining about it under his breath.
He scanned the crowded tavern until his eyes locked with the proprietor: a fat, opportunistic fellow with the last name of Clarkson. The man paused momentarily, then went back to pouring one of his customers some beer. When he finished, he looked up at Hamilton again and inclined his head in the direction of one of the backrooms.
Hamilton nodded ever so slightly in acknowledgement. No one seemed to notice their brief, silent conversation. Well, no one he’d been able to spot. Hoping that his manner was inconspicuous, he moved past several inebriated patrons and into the indicated back room.
The furniture, sparse though it was, had less dust and dirt than the previous one. Maybe Clarkson had enough pride to clean up when Continental Army business was involved. Rubbing the edge of his tricorn hat absentmindedly, he started pacing around the perimeter of the room.
He had arrived somewhat earlier than the meeting time that had been decided upon. Hopefully the spy would be prompt. Hamilton only knew that his Christian name was was Benjamin.
He scanned the crowded tavern until his eyes locked with the proprietor: a fat, opportunistic fellow with the last name of Clarkson. The man paused momentarily, then went back to pouring one of his customers some beer. When he finished, he looked up at Hamilton again and inclined his head in the direction of one of the backrooms.
Hamilton nodded ever so slightly in acknowledgement. No one seemed to notice their brief, silent conversation. Well, no one he’d been able to spot. Hoping that his manner was inconspicuous, he moved past several inebriated patrons and into the indicated back room.
The furniture, sparse though it was, had less dust and dirt than the previous one. Maybe Clarkson had enough pride to clean up when Continental Army business was involved. Rubbing the edge of his tricorn hat absentmindedly, he started pacing around the perimeter of the room.
He had arrived somewhat earlier than the meeting time that had been decided upon. Hopefully the spy would be prompt. Hamilton only knew that his Christian name was was Benjamin.