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“A penny borrowed is a penny toward rent.” – P.D.
After the Continental Army weathered a few more wintry skirmishes with the Germans, I submitted my notice of resignation to Gen. Washington. Spying was an interesting profession, but it was incredibly dangerous. I knew that balancing espionage and quality time with Zippy would grow difficult as my assignments became increasingly critical to the war effort. By resigning, I returned to my previous role as an on-again-off-again citizen soldier of the mediocre variety.
Zippy and I surfed from the battlefields of New Jersey’s frontier and returned to our home-away-from-home-and-Sammy’s-home in Philadelphia. I had enough money saved up to buy a small cottage on the city’s outskirts. My neighbor was John Adams’ groom’s florist, if you’re one of those people who enjoy feeling that the world is filled with similar coincidences.
Philadelphia had changed since I’d left it more than a year before. People walked more quickly and kept their eyes down when Zippy and I surfed through the town’s streets and back gardens. If I hadn’t known they were concerned about the possibility of losing the war, I would’ve suspected they were attempting to avoid Zippy and me. At that point in the war—just a few months into the real fighting—there were still many ways that the tide of history could’ve rolled us astern. In those days, you couldn’t pass a newsstand or park bench that wasn’t plastered with the latest news from the home front—you know, since the front was only a short distance from our homes.
When we’d gotten settled, I enrolled Zippy in a dog obedience course. You might think, “How cruel of you to send an animal which you introduce as your daughter to an obedience course intended for an entirely different species.” In my defense, Zippy’d been very naughty, so I paid someone else to curb her teenage angst. I’m sure some parents would agree that’s the only way to handle these situations.
Those first few days, I attempted to call on some of my old friends. Sadly, BJ Franklin was nowhere to be found. A servant answered the door of his home and informed me BJ had gone away on a diplomatic mission to France. I didn’t envy him. If I’d been in his shoes, not only would I have stumbled about—BJ had large feet—but I would’ve been unable to quell my laughter at their foolish accents.
Since the second congress was still in session, I knew Sammy was staying in Philadelphia, but I kept a distance to ensure he didn’t have another one of his episodes. At his age, it could’ve been fatal. However, I made sure to write him regularly to keep him abreast of my affairs and Zippy’s progress in her obedience training. One day, I picked up my mail at the post office and found that Sammy had responded to one of my more recent letters. (Letter included below.)
“Pritchard & Tippy,
I see you’re back in town. To be clear, you are not welcome at the congress. Should you come, we will not open a door, window, or grate for you to enter. It’ll be a waste of your time to try.
The very possibility of your return caused Franklin to volunteer to leave for France. Don’t bother trying to visit the children and me in Annapolis. We’ve moved.”
I was proud to hear that I still exerted a motivating influence on BJ. I’m sure he volunteered because he knew I’d guilt trip him for turning it down. Nevertheless, I was a bit bummed that he’d set sail for France, but I made a note to use my new-found spying ability to track down the week of his return. That way, I could stand on the docks with a “Welcome Back!” banner and join the rest of the Pennsylvania colony in toasting his return. I’ve been called many things, but unwelcoming isn’t one of them. Ignorant? Sure. Uselessly chatty? Don’t make me blush. But unwelcoming? Never.
Bottling Zippy’s drool paid the bills, but I searched the newspaper’s help needed advertisements to find a proper day job. A few listings sounded fun. However, I had a difficult time finding a position that allowed for frequent breaks and unashamed dancing. I knew I’d found a keeper when I spied an advertisement for something called “street sweeping.” Without delay, Zippy and I surfed down to the address to inquire about the position. It had been filled. A job like that is like a comet. It comes around occasionally on a set schedule, and if you get distracted by traveling circus performers, you miss it.
Hearing the position was filled didn’t stop me from filching an unattended broom and doing the job for free. Some days, I could be found late into the night, dancing through Philly’s streets, sweeping the thoroughfares and avenues free of the dust caked on and betwixt their cobbles. When Zippy wasn’t busy socializing with her peers down at the stables or her new friends at the pound, she joined me in my work. I had to be careful to not make bringing her along a regular habit, though. Zippy’s short stature meant she inhaled most of the dust kicked up by my broom. She’d start sneezing. Then I’d start sneezing. Bystanders would take notice and run around screaming, “The Black Death has returned!” Each time this occurred, I attempted to set the leopard straight, but my explanations, intermixed with fits of sneezing, didn’t do much good. The panicked city always returned to normal after a few days when everyone didn’t die.
My street sweeping gig wasn’t without its perks. While I swept, I had loads of time to meet new people and window shop. Ever since I’d left Rinky-Dink nearly three years prior to make history, I’d felt I needed an article of clothing that would set me apart in the colonial fashion scene. Everyone had those tricorne hats, but that was practically old news. Wigs were still a hit, but my habit of gesticulating with my head while talking made that an impractical choice.
On one blustery June afternoon in 1777, high winds were moving the dust much faster than I ever could, so I took a break and perused the offerings at some locally-sourced shops. In those days, the slogan of the Philadelphia Chamber of Commercial Merchants and Recreational Fisherpeople was, “Shop Local – We’re All You’ve Got.” It was both catchy and accurate. Anyway, I spotted a large satchel sitting outside of a trendy leather goods store. I was instantly taken by it and took it before anyone noticed. Before you ask, yes, I did pay for it several days later when I realized my haste in standing out fashionably had led me to commit a crime. That satchel has served me well over the years. It’s just the right size to hold Zippy. She was the first satchel mule in the colonies, but there’ve been many copyrats over the years.
On my evenings off, I began hanging around the Snapdragon again. To my dismay, I was told that Singsong, Post, and Cheddar were no more. At least, they were no longer in the area. All of them had joined up to serve in the Continental Army. They were brave souls. I often drank to their health to the detriment of my own.
As summer turned to fall, news from the Continental Army wasn’t good. In early September, the congress was relocated elsewhere because the British were on the move nearby. By the end of the month, many of those who were sympathetic to the revolution had abandoned Philly. John Adams skipped town in such a hurry that, when I tried to hail his passing carriage to wish him well, I was run over. I lay down as the carriage careened toward me and only got a little trampled.
I was startled to hear that the British had entered the city and intended to quarter there for some time. I’ll never forget the circumstances that led me to discover it. I was in the older district of the city, waltzing with my broom while Zippy was still at her obedience lesson. Someone tapped me on the shoulder to cut in, so I dropped my broom and danced another few measures with said person before realizing it was a British officer.
I didn’t want to seem rude, so I finished out the waltz, but once it concluded, I unhanded him and stood aside. He stared at me for a moment before shouting, “Right! What’s all this then, mah boy?” I didn’t reply. My confused and somewhat dazed expression must’ve made it clear that I was ignorant of many British colloquialisms. The officer continued, “Old chap, we’ve entered the city and intend to take ownership of it.” He smacked me about the shoulders with a riding crop. I remember puzzling over why he carried a riding crop, because he wasn’t accompanied by a horse.
“Will you excuse me, sir? I owe someone a samba across town.”
“Certainly! Haha, you cheeky colonists aren’t without your spunk.” I smiled slightly and sashayed at great speed to the pasture where Zippy’s obedience lessons were held. When I arrived, her instructor was being roughed up by a few British regulars. I watched from a safe distance as Zippy—that dear, defensive daughter of mine—roughed the soldiers right back. They soon fled from the scene.
I picked Zippy up from her lesson a bit early, given the circumstances, and asked a few of my usual questions as we surfed home. “How was your day? What did you learn? Did you bite anyone on purpose? How about on accident?” I skirted the busiest areas of the city and any place that seemed to be crawling with British soldiers. It took a while, but we made it home to our little cottage by dusk. After performing the old “batten the hatches” maneuver, my mini mule and I embraced, trembling in dread of the grave Anglo-Saxon persecution to come.
