Fine folk was
setting on the white stone doorsteps of their houses, and a girl
threw me a handful of laylock sprays, and when I said "Merci"
without thinking, she said she loved the French. They all was the
fashion in the city. I saw more tricolour flags in Philadelphia than
ever I'd seen in Boulogne, and every one was shouting for war
with England. A crowd o' folk was cheering after our French
Ambassador - that same Monsieur Genet which we'd left at
Charleston. He was a-horseback behaving as if the place belonged
to him - and commanding all and sundry to fight the British. But
I'd heard that before. I got into a long straight street as wide as the
Broyle, where gentlemen was racing horses. I'm fond o' horses.
Nobody hindered 'em, and a man told me it was called Race
Street o' purpose for that. Then I followed some black niggers,
which I'd never seen close before; but I left them to run after a
great, proud, copper-faced man with feathers in his hair and a red
blanket trailing behind him. A man told me he was a real Red
Indian called Red Jacket, and I followed him into an alley-way off
Race Street by Second Street, where there was a fiddle playing.
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