The above, by way of portrait: When one adds to it that Planter Paul Jones rides like a Prince Rupert, fences like a Crillon, gives blows with his fist that would stagger Jack Slack, and is death itself with either gun or pistol, it will be seen how he owns every quality that should pedestal him as a paragon in the best circles of his day. It is towards the hour of midnight when Planter Paul Jones, attired like a Brummel, stands in quiet converse with his friend Mr. Hurst. Their talk runs on the state of sentiment in the colonies, and the chance of trouble with the motherland. “Hostilities are certain, my dear Hurst,” says Planter Paul Jones. “I hear it from Colonel Washington, Mr. Jefferson and Mr. Henry. They make no secret of it in Williamsburg about the House of Burgesses.” “But the other colonies’?” “Mr. Morris of Philadelphia, as well as Mr. Pynckney of Charleston, agrees with the gentlemen I’ve quoted. They say, sir, there will soon be an outbreak in Boston.” “In Boston!” repeats Mr. Hurst doubtfully. “Have the Massachusetts men the courage, think you?” “Courage, ay! and the strength, my friend! Both Colonel Washington and Mr. Jefferson assured me that, although slow to anger, they are true sons of Cromwell’s Ironsides. “And what shall be our attitude?” “We must sustain them at all hazards, sir--sustain them to the death!” It is now that a knot of English officers drift up--a little flushed of wine, are these guests of honor. They, too, have been talking, albeit thickly, of a possible future full of trouble for the colonies. “I was observing,” says Lieutenant Parker, addressing Planter Paul Jones and Mr. Hurst, “that the insolence of the Americans, which is more or less in exhibition all the way from Boston to Savannah, will never get beyond words. There will be no blows struck.” “And why are you so confident?” asks Planter Paul Jones, eye agate, voice purringly soft. “Now I should say that, given provocation, the colonies would strike a blow, and a heavy one.” “When do you sail?” interrupts Mr. Hurst, speaking to Lieutenant Parker. Mr. Hurst would shift conversation to less perilous ground. As a mover of the ball, he is in sort host to the officers, as well as to Planter Paul Jones, and for the white credit of the town desires a peaceful evening. “I hear,” he concludes, “that your sloop is for a cruise off the French coast.” “She and the fleet she belongs to,” responds Lieutenant Parker, utterance somewhat blurred, “will remain on this station while a word of rebel talk continues.” “Now, instead of keeping you here,” breaks in Planter Paul Jones, vivaciously, “to hector peaceful colonies, if I were your king I should send you to wrest Cape Good Hope from the Dutch.” “Cape Good Hope from the Dutch?” “Or the Isles of France and Bourbon from the French--lying, as they do, like lions in the pathway to our Indian possessions. If I were your king, I say, those would be the tasks I’d set you.”