The last five years had seen a remarkable change in young John Master. Though he’d kept his good looks, he’d filled out into a large and sturdy figure. He no longer thought that he was worthless. The visit of his Boston cousins had proved to be a turning point. The morning after the humiliating incident with Kate had been the only time he’d ever seen his father truly angry, and it had done him good. He’d been so shaken that he’d tried to pull himself together. With a new determination, he had applied himself to the one thing he seemed to have a talent for, and he’d worked hard, as never before, at the family’s business.

His father Dirk had been astounded, but delighted. The gift of the wampum belt had been his signal to his son that he had faith in him. John had kept on his path and gone from strength to strength, and by now he was generally regarded as an accomplished merchant. But he knew his own weaknesses. He knew that his mind was inclined to be lazy; and he had to take care how much he drank. Having no illusions about his own shortcomings, however, he could accept those of others with good grace. As he approached his mid-twenties, John Master had a view of human nature that was broad and balanced.

There had even been talk of him running for political office. But he wasn’t keen to do it. For the last few years of the city’s life had also taught him much.

After the Zenger trial, the venal Governor Cosby had died, and there had been a move for reform in New York. New men had come into the city government—lesser merchants, craftsmen, men of the people. One might have thought the corrupt regime of the past had been replaced. But not a bit of it. In no time at all, most of the new people had been corrupted themselves, with high offices, high salaries and the chance of riches. In New York, as in London, it seemed the dictum of the old British prime minister held good: “Every man has his price.”

“I’ll stick to making money like an honest rogue,” John told his father, genially.

As he strode along that evening, with a silver-topped walking stick in one hand, he looked every inch the respectable citizen. The streets after dark could be dangerous, but he wasn’t concerned. Not many footpads would care to take him on.