Philadelphia is experiencing a cool June, and in a sober, Quakerish way shows grateful for it. The windows of General Washington’s apartments, looking out into Chestnut Street, are raised to let in the weather and the urbane sun, not too hot, not too cool, casts a slanting glance into the room, as though moved of a solar curiosity concerning the mighty one who inhabits them. The sun, doubtless, goes his way fully satisfied; General Washington himself is there, in casual talk with the Marquis de Lafayette.

There is a marked difference between the General and the Marquis; the former tall, powerful, indomitable—the type American; the latter nervous, optimistic, full of romantic heroisms—the type French. The General is speaking; his manner a model of the courteous and the suave. For the young Marquis is a peer of France, the head of a party, and may be held as carrying at his heels a third of French sentiment and French influence. It is not what he brings, but what he leaves behind him, that makes the young Marquis important.

The talk between the General and the Marquis is running on Captain Paul Jones.

“It surprises me,” the General is saying, “it surprises me, my dear Marquis, to learn that you know Captain Jones.”

“We meet—Captaine Jones and I,” responds Lafayette, in a choppy, fervent fashion of English, that carries something more than a mere flavor of Paris, “we meet, my dear General, in Alexandria by the Potomac, when I come North from the Carolina, where I disbark. Captaine Jones he assist in Alexandria to find horses to bring me here.”

“And you believe, as does he, that a best use that can be made of him is to give him a ship, and send him to Europe?”

“Certaine, General, certaine! Give him a good ship, and let him hawk at England with it. It should be a quick, smart ship, that they may not catch him. Give him such a vessel, General, and he will keep five hundred English boats at home to guard the British coasts.”

“You think, Marquis, that he would make a good impression in France?”

“The best, General; the best! Captaine Jones has—what you call?—the aplomb, yes, and the grace, the charm, the dash to captivate the fancy of my countrymen—ever brave, the French, they love a brave man like Captaine Jones! More, General, he speaks the French language, and that is most important.”

General Washington stalks up and down the polished, hardwood floor, wearing a thoughtful face. As he turns to speak, he is interrupted by an obsequious black attendant—one of those body slaves brought from Mount Vernon.

“Pardon, Gin’ral,” says the grizzled old darky, as he pokes his grinning head in at the door; “Cap’n Jones presents his comp’ments, sare; an’ can he come up?”

General Washington makes a sign of assent, and the grizzled old servitor smirks and smiles and bows himself backward into the hall.

There are two pairs of feet heard climbing the stair; the elastic step belongs to Captain Paul Jones, the more stolid is that of Mr. Morris, who, using the familiarity of a closest friendship, walks in on General Washington unannounced.

“The Marquis was just saying,” observes General Washington to Captain Paul Jones, when greetings are over and conversation, to employ a nautical phrase, has settled to its lines, “that he met you in Virginia as he came up.”

“Yes, General; I had been having a look at my plantation, which Lord Dunmore did me the honor to lay waste.”

“Was the destruction great?”

“The torch had been everywhere. The work could not have been more complete had his Lordship been a professional incendiary.” Captain Paul Jones shrugs his wide shoulders, as though dismissing a disagreeable subject, one not to be helped by talk: “You received my letter, General? I was so rash as to think you might aid me in getting the new frigate Trumbull.”

“Captain,” returns General Washington, “you will understand that my connection with the army makes any interference on my part in naval affairs a most delicate business. I must give my counsel in that quarter cautiously. As for the Trumbull; it is, I fear, already claimed by Mr. Adams for Captain Saltonstall.”

“Captain Saltonstall!” cries Captain Paul Jones in a fervor of bitterness. “General, hear me! I sailed lieutenant in the Alfred with Captain Saltonstall. I know him, and do not scruple to say that he is an incompetent coward. Since he went ashore in New London after that disgraceful cruise, he hasn’t shown his face aboard ship. He was ashamed to do so. Only Mr. Adams could have protected him from the court-martial he had earned. On my side—if I must plead my own cause—I’ve made two cruises since then, one in the Providence, one in the Alfred. I’ve taken twenty-four prizes; some of them by no means unimportant to the American cause.”

“Ah, yes!” interrupts General Washington, his steady face lighting up a trifle; “you mean the Mellish and the Bideford. I heard how you captured the winter equipment meant for Howe’s army—ten thousand uniforms, eleven hundred fur overcoats, eleven thousand blankets, besides a battery or two of field guns and six hundred cavalry equipments. You did us a timely service, Captain Jones. Many an American soldier was the warmer last winter, because of the Mellish and the Bideford.”

“I am glad,” says Captain Paul Jones, not without confusion, “to learn that I so much pleased you. It gives me courage to hope that you will come to my shoulder against Mr. Adams and his pet incompetent, Saltonstall.”

General Washington again dons his manner of grave inscrutability, and falls to his habit of striding up and down, hands locked beneath the buff-and-blue flaps of his coat.

“Captain Jones,” he suddenly breaks forth, “you are a sailor: What do you do afloat in case of a head wind!”

“A head wind?” repeats Captain Paul Jones. “Why, sir, if it’s no more than just a gale, I fall to tacking, sta’board and port. If it should be aught of a hurricane, now, I’d set a storm stays’l, heave to, and wait for weather.”

“Quite so!” returns the General, soberly. “Well, Captain Jones, one may find headwinds ashore as well as afloat. Now, in the matter of the Trumbull, I should advise you to ‘heave to,’ as you say, ‘and wait for weather.’ Mr. Adams insists on Captain Saltonstall; and it is not alone inconvenient, it’s impossible, with the Marine Committee made up as it is, to oppose him. Be patient, and you shall not in the end fare worse than your deserts.”

Captain Paul Jones wheels on Mr. Morris, who, with Lafayette, has kept silence, while giving interested ear to the conversation.

“You hear, Mr. Morris?” observes Captain Paul Jones, manner dogged and aggressive. “As I warned you............