Bunker Hill, but by now the dust was so thick that they could hardly
distinguish which side the men belonged to. Intermittent firing
continued for some time, and the warm air was saturated with the
pungent odor of powder.

“Victory for the Redcoats,” said Jud in a choking voice, and Don nodded
in agreement. There was such a lump in his throat that he would not
trust himself to speak.

“Well, maybe,” said Short, “but I’m a-thinking it’s a pretty costly
victory for old King George.”

And so it proved to be. The town of Boston wore a gloomy aspect during
the next few days. The King’s troops, who had looked so fine on parade
on the morning of the battle, went about dispiritedly and muttered
among themselves at the awful price that they had paid for the hill.

When Don reached home late that evening the sound of cannon was still
ringing in his ears--indeed the guns did not cease firing until the
next afternoon. He told his aunt what he had seen, but omitted a good
deal out of sympathy for her feelings. But though Aunt Martha had not
seen so much as her nephew she seemed to know quite as much about what
had happened as he did; and all her anxiety, all her thoughts were for
her husband and for Glen Drake.

Almost all of the next day, which was Sunday, she spent in reading the
Bible; nor would she permit her nephew to stir from the house. “I want
you with me, Donald,” she said. “Something tells me that your uncle was
in the battle, and something tells me that everything did not go just
right.”

“But, Aunt Martha, you can’t be sure,” said Don. “I’m just going to
suppose that he was there and didn’t get a scratch.”

Although Aunt Martha did not reply her eyes said plainly that she
wished she could think as her nephew did.

To relieve the depressed and disgruntled Redcoats the Tories took upon
themselves the work of patrolling the streets at night. Every evening
forty-nine of them went on duty, and once Don saw Tom Bullard, dressed
in a green uniform, hurrying importantly along Cornhill apparently with
a message from his chief, General Ruggles. That was the same evening
after General Gage had issued another proclamation calling upon the
townspeople again to turn over to him any firearms that they still
possessed.

“Aunt Martha,” said Don, “you know there’s some powder among that stuff
in the cellar. Do you suppose we’d better turn that in?”

“No,” replied his aunt firmly. “Only to have the Redcoats use it
against our own men! Never! If the cellar were full of swords and
muskets, I’d not say a word about them to anyone who wears a red coat.
Maybe some day that powder will be useful in the hands of those who
really deserve it.”

It was now nearing the end of June, but not a word, not the slightest
hint concerning the fate of either David Hollis or Glen Drake had
reached Aunt Martha’s ears. Together Don and his aunt had visited the
hospitals where both Americans and British wounded soldiers were being
cared for; yet not a thing could they find out. Instead of feeling
encouraged, however, Aunt Martha became more and more worried, and
oddly enough Don soon began to feel much as she did.

One bit of information of quite a different sort did, however, seep
into the beleaguered town. Rumor had it that a valiant soldier from
Virginia--Col. George Washington--was coming to Cambridge to take
command of the entire Continental army. Don heard the news from Jud,
who in turn had heard it from a storekeeper in Orange Street.

“Col. George Washington--why, he was with Braddock and saved what
remained of the British army after the French and Indians had ambushed
them.” Don’s eyes were wide with admiration. “When’s he coming, Jud?
Say, he’s a great man!”

“He’s one of the finest soldiers there ever was,” said Jud. “He’ll make
things hum when he arrives. Give him an army and he won’t be long in
driving the Redcoats into the sea!”

“When’s he coming?” Don asked again.

“Oh, in a few days, so they say. I heard that he’s already on his way
and that Congress had made him commander-in-chief just a day or so
before the fight over Charlestown way.”

“I’d surely like to see him,” said Don. “Glen Drake knows him and has
fought beside him. He says he’s the finest looking man he ever saw.”

“Have you heard anything of Glen or your uncle?”

Don immediately became grave. “Not a word, Jud,” he replied.

The first two weeks in July came and passed, and it was known
definitely that General Washington had reached Cambridge and had taken
command of the army beneath a large spreading elm tree.

Still no word came concerning David Hollis. Aunt Martha went
mechanically about her housework and had got into the habit of reading
much and of talking little. Other people who had relatives in the
Continental army had managed to get word of them--somehow; but David
Hollis and his friend, the trapper,--it seemed at times almost as if
they never had existed.

The friendship between David and Jud seemed to grow stronger each day,
and the boys spent most of their time together. One evening, Jud, in
response to an invitation from Aunt Martha, came to spend the afternoon
and night at the house in Pudding Lane. The boys had intended to go
fishing that afternoon, but unfortunately rain began to fall around
noon and increased to a steady, violent downpour as the afternoon wore
on.

By five o’clock it was so dark that Aunt Martha had to light a candle
in order to see to read. Rain was still falling, and with it came a
heavy fog that swept like smoke through the narrow streets.

“It’s good we didn’t so fishing,” said Jud. “This is a regular
northeast storm. Probably it will last for two or three days.”

“Yes, and it’s growing cold,” said Aunt Martha. “Donald, I think we’d
better have a fire.”

Between the two of them the boys soon had a cheerful, crackling fire on
the hearth; and by the light of it Aunt Martha became more like her old
self. During supper she laughed frequently with the boys, especially
when Jud told of his many pets. And afterward she played fox and geese
with them. “I declare, Jud,” she said, “I’m glad you came.”

The evening passed swiftly and pleasantly, though outside the wind was
howling and sending the heavy drops of rain spattering against the
windows.

Don and Jud had finished their last game, and Aunt Martha was looking
at them inquiringly, when suddenly the knocker on the door rose and
fell.

“Oh!” cried Aunt Martha, startled.

“Now who can that be?” said Don and went to the door.

He opened it a crack and then stepped backward in astonishment as a man
pushed his way inside and hastily closed the door behind him.

“Glen--Glen!” cried Aunt Martha and fairly flew to meet the visitor.

Don was too much surprised to speak. He only looked on dumbly as the
old trapper caught his aunt’s hands and drew her swiftly into the
shadows away from the window.

“Glen,” said Aunt Martha, “only one thing could bring you
here--David----”

“Is well,” replied the trapper and sat down in one of the chairs. “He’s
been sick, Martha--he was wounded at Bunker’s Hill--but he’s doing
well. There’s no cause for worry.”

Aunt Martha drew a deep breath and sank into a chair beside him.

“Don, my boy, how are you?” asked Glen. “I see you’re taking good care
of your aunt. And this----” He glanced at Jud searchingly for a moment.

“This is Jud Appleton,” said Aunt Martha. “Don’s close companion and as
loyal as any of us.”

Jud winced under the trapper’s grip and from that moment would have
followed his lead anywhere.

“I told you he’d come if he wanted to,” whispered Don.

Though Glen was naturally a man of few words he did most of the talking
during the two hours that he remained at the house in Pudding Lane. He
had crossed from Cambridge under cover of rain and darkness and would
return the same way. David Hollis, he said, had received a ball through
the shoulder during the third assault of the Redcoats on the hill and
was now at Cambridge, where he would probably remain until he was fully
recovered; then he would rejoin his company.

Glen had had two reasons for coming, it seemed; one was to acquaint
Aunt Martha with the exact condition of her husband; the other was to
bring money, which both he and David Hollis feared she was sorely in
need of.

For perhaps half an hour he and Aunt Martha talked in low whispers.
Then he raised his voice and spoke of events that had happened
concerning the Continental army, and both boys bent forward eagerly to
listen.

“You boys just ought to see Cambridge,” he said. “Soldiers
everywhere--fine-looking fellows from up north, dark, handsome boys
from the South. I tell you it’s a sight to see them on parade. And
tents--hundreds of ’em of all sorts. Those of the Rhode Islanders are
all canvas, but the others--why, they’re part sailcloth and part wood,
and some are mostly mud and branches. And fortifications all over;
Boston Neck and Charlestown Neck are sealed tight, you might say.”

Glen paused and filled his pipe. “It’s a funny thing,” he continued;
“not many years ago the settlers faced their fortifications the
opposite way to protect their homes against the Injuns; now it’s an
enemy from the east they’ve got to protect themselves against.”

“And have you seen Colonel Washington?” asked Jud.

“Seen him! I should say so!” The old trapper’s face lighted up, and his
eyes gleamed in the shadows. “There’s not a better officer alive. He’s
what you call an officer and a gentleman, and he looks the part every
inch when he’s on his big horse. He wears a blue uniform faced with
buff and a black cockade in his hat--but you ought to see him. I’m no
hand at describing.”

Glen had another talk alone with Aunt Martha before he finally shook
everyone by the hand, bade them keep up their spirits and then,
muffling his face with the collar of his coat, slipped noiselessly out
into the night.

“Now, you boys, to bed with you,” said Aunt Martha. “And don’t lie
awake, talking.”

But her good advice was given in vain; the boys lay awake until long
into the night, talking of the wily old trapper who somehow had entered
the town right under the Redcoats’ nose without their knowing it.

“I told you he’d come if he wanted to,” Don repeated exultantly.

“Yes, and he’ll get back easily too,” said Jud. “I’d pity any Redcoat
who tried to stop him.”

“So would I,” said Don, thinking of how Glen had acted on the evening
when they had crossed the flats together and had met the British sentry.

“Are you boys asleep?” came the voice of Aunt Martha.

Only the echoes answered her question.

CHAPTER XI

THE LIBERTY TREE

By the end of July both the people of Boston and the King’s soldiers
were beginning to feel the ill effects of the siege. One of the main
troubles was the food. Civilian and soldier alike were obliged to eat
much salt fish and meat--so much in fact that sickness and fever broke
out, especially in the army. Don and his aunt were rather better off
than most folks, for at the beginning of the trouble the store had been
well stocked, and, moreover, Aunt Martha now had money with which to
buy fresh eggs and vegetables.

With the increasing discontent owing to improper food individual
Redcoats became more arrogant toward the townsfolk, whom they far
outnumbered. There were fewer than seven thousand inhabitants; whereas,
the troops and their dependents numbered close to fourteen thousand.

“Oh, dear,” said Aunt Martha, “how is it ever going to end? How much
longer are we to live this way, insulted and persecuted on every hand?”

“It seems that every time they have a skirmish with Washington’s men,”
said Don, “they take their spite out on us. Well, just you wait, Aunt
Martha; General Washington will show them he means business. He can’t
do it now because his army isn’t ready; he has to train his men. And
besides, he needs more powder and cannon and----”

“Why, Donald, where do you learn all these things?”

“Oh, Jud and I hear folks talking. Sometimes we hear when we’re
pretending not to. Jud says that’s the thing to do.”

Aunt Martha smiled and shook her head.

“We were down on Essex Street yesterday near the Liberty Tree,” Don
continued, “and heard some Tories and Redcoats talking. One of the
Tories said, ‘These stubborn rebels’--meaning us, Aunt Martha,--‘think
they’ll do wonders now that they’ve appointed a Virginian head of their
upstart army; but they’re wrong; if great Cæsar himself were head of
that army he couldn’t make ’em stand up and fight!’

“Then one of the soldiers--I thought at first it was Harry Hawkins,
but it wasn’t--faced around quick and said, ‘Were you at Lexin’ton or
Bunker’s Hill?’

“‘No,’ the Tory replied.

“‘Well, then,’ said the Redcoat, ‘what do you know about it? I was at
Lexin’ton, and I was over at Charlestown last June, and I _know_ they
can fight. I hate ’em just as much as you do, my friend,’ he said,
‘but I respect them too. They can fight. If they’d had lots of powder,
we’d never have taken that hill. And another thing, I know this man
Washington. I should say I do! I was with Braddock. And when Washington
gets his army trained and has plenty of ammunition I tell you we’re
a-going to have a fight on our hands, and don’t you forget it!’”

“What did the Tory say?” asked Aunt Martha.

“He didn’t say anything. He just shrugged his shoulders and turned
away. That’s how a Tory is, Aunt Martha; he’ll talk a lot and let the
Redcoats do the fighting.”

Certainly the Tories had much to talk about. It must have given them
much satisfaction to see their neighbors imprisoned on false charges.
Mr. Lovell, the schoolmaster, charged with being a spy, was confined
for sixty-five days. John Gill, a close friend of Don’s uncle, was
imprisoned for twenty-nine days for printing what had displeased
General Gage.

But even numerous vexations and wrongs of that sort were not enough to
satisfy the Tories. They themselves were suffering from the siege, and
they wanted to punish the whole people of Boston, who they said were
the cause of their suffering. Just what a malicious form of punishment
they chose Don and Jud were soon to learn.

Early one morning the two boys were on their way to Coffin’s Field to
get bait for fishing. Each was lightly dressed, and both were hurrying
along briskly. The sun was pushing its way up warm and bright and
seemed to promise a good day. They had come down Newbury Street and
were turning into Essex when Jud pointed to the Liberty Tree, a great
elm that stood on the southeast corner. “That’s what I call the finest
tree that ever grew,” he said.

“It surely is pretty,” replied Don; “just look how dainty and green
the leaves are, and how the limbs curve way up and hang over like long
ferns. Yes, I’d say an elm is about the finest tree that ever grew.”

“I wasn’t thinking of the appearance of it so much,” Jud replied,
“though it surely is a beauty. I was thinking rather of what it means.
It stands for Liberty. Don’t you remember how, whenever there used to
be trouble with King George, folks would flock to the tree?”

“They do still, for that matter.”

“Well, yes, but I was thinking of one night when I was just a little
fellow. I don’t remember just what had happened--the repeal of a stamp
law maybe--anyway Ma took me to the tree, and there it was covered with
lanterns and a big flag flying from the pole in the centre up there,
and everybody was laughing and singing and ringing bells. Oh, it surely
was fine!”

Still talking about the tree, the boys went on down Essex Street and
a few minutes later were at Coffin’s Field. Jud led the way to a far
corner of it, where they began to dig.

For almost three-quarters of an hour they worked, turning over great
clods of earth; but grub worms, which they particularly wanted, were
scarce.

“How many have we got?” asked Don.

Jud counted them. “Only fourteen,” he replied. “Let’s try over there
behind that pig-pen.”

The ground behind the pig-pen proved somewhat better, and at last, with
a fair supply of worms, the boys started back along Essex Street.

They were perhaps half-way to Newbury Street when they heard
loud talking and boisterous laughter. A minute later they saw a
crowd--mostly soldiers and Tories--at the corner.

Suddenly the two boys stopped short. Don grasped Jud’s arm and in a
choking voice cried, “See what they’ve done!”

Jud was speechless; his lips moved, but he made no sound. There in
front of them, the centre of a boorish mob, lay the Liberty Tree!
It had been cut down near the base. The delicate leaves and slender
twigs were being trampled underfoot as Tories and Redcoats moved here
and there, laughing, shouting and swearing. Great limbs that once had
swayed so gracefully in the breeze were scattered about along the
street; deep white gashes showed where the cruel axe had bitten into
them. And the odor of green wood filled the moist warm air.

“J-Jud!” cried Don.

But Jud did not utter a word. His ruddy face was pale, and his cheeks
seemed suddenly hollow.

“Well, what do you think of your fine tree now?” said a mocking voice.

Both boys turned and confronted--Tom Bullard.

“You dirty, sneaking chicken-thief!” cried Jud and would have hurled
himself against the Tory if Don had not held him.

“Now, none of that,” said Tom and retreated a step or two. Then he
turned and walked away, whistling.

“See here,” said a bystander, “I guess you boys feel as bad as I do
about it, but don’t be hotheads. They’re too many for us.”

“How did it happen?” asked Don unsteadily.

“Job Williams, the Tory, led the mob,” replied the man. “And a mob
it surely was. Such a lot of swearing and yelling--it’s good you
missed it. Redcoats and Tories alike swarmed up the tree like so many
thick-lipped gorillas. But it wasn’t all fine for them. Just before you
came one of the soldiers in the topmost branches missed his hold and
fell. I saw him fall; he was killed!”

“Good!” cried Jud, clenching his fists.

“That’s just what I said.” The man smiled. “They carted him off a few
minutes ago. It was the hand of Providence that did it, my lads, and
the hand of Providence will account for many more of them before long.”

“Let’s get out of here,” said Don. “It makes me sick to look. Just hear
’em yelling.”

Each boy picked up a twig from the street, and, thrusting it into his
pocket, hurried up Newbury Street toward Hog Alley.

There was no fishing for Don or for Jud that day. What they had seen in
the morning had taken away all their desire for sport. And Aunt Martha
felt quite as bad about the destruction of the tree as the boys did.
“If there’s one thing I can’t abide,” she said, “it’s spite work.”

The Liberty Tree yielded the soldiers fourteen cords of wood, but they
had paid dearly for it. Other trees also were cut down for the sake of
the wood, and before winter set in the Common had lost many of its fine
old elms.

September passed, and with the turning of the leaves Don longed to go
forth into the woods. “Say, Aunt Martha,” he remarked one day, “I never
knew that the town was so small. There’s no place to go without seeing
Redcoats. I’d like to go off somewhere in the woods.”

“Have patience, Donald. Maybe if you wait, some day the whole continent
will be free for you to come and go in as you please.”

“Do you think the Colonies will be independent, Aunt Martha? Do you
really want them to be?”

“Yes. I think it, and I hope it.” Aunt Martha’s lips were set in a
straight line, as they had been when she had told her husband that she
would not leave her home for the sake of a Redcoat.

Don was about to make some reply when he spied Jud outside the window;
he was hurrying up the street, and there was an eager look in his eyes.

“Hello, Jud,” Don greeted him as he opened the door. “What’s the news?”

“Good news,” Jud replied breathlessly. “I’ve heard that old Gage is
going back to England. How glad I am!”

“Say, where did you hear that?” asked Don.

“Over near Faneuil Hall. I was listening again.” Jud grinned.

“Who’s to take his place?” asked Aunt Martha.

“Don’t know yet. But won’t it be fine to see old Gage go? He’s caused
enough trouble for half a dozen men.”

The news proved to be true enough. On the tenth of October, General
Gage sailed for England, never to return. Lord Howe, who had commanded
the British in the assault at Charlestown, took Gage’s place. He was
popular with the troops, but with the suffering townsfolk he was a poor
substitute for the unpopular Gage. The proclamations that he issued
were irritating at best; he seemed to think only of the safety and
comfort of his soldiers.

One of his first acts was to erect new fortifications. Then he
requisitioned private dwellings and some of the meeting-houses for the
use of his men.

CHAPTER XII

A BLUSTERING SERGEANT-MAJOR

“Donald, someone’s at the door. Hurry and answer it.” Aunt Martha’s
voice sounded from her nephew’s room up-stairs, which she was sweeping.

Knock, knock--_knock_!

“He’s pretty anxious to make us hear,” said Don as he crossed the floor
of the living-room.

Knock!

Don opened the door and looked full into the face of a red-haired,
red-coated British sergeant-major, who at once inserted his foot and
pushed his way inside the room. “Who lives here besides yourself, young
sire?” he demanded.

Don stared at him and thought he had never seen such an ugly-looking
fellow. He was big and broad and flabby, and the only thing about
him that was not red, it seemed, were his eyes, which were a pale,
washed-out blue.

“Don’t stand there and stare!” the sergeant-major bellowed. “Tell me
who lives here.”

“My Aunt Martha Hollis and I and my uncle David, who’s with the
Continental army just at present,” replied Don.

The soldier snorted and then hurried to face Aunt Martha, who had come
down-stairs. “Is that right?” he asked in a surly but milder voice.

“My nephew has told you the truth,” Aunt Martha replied with dignity.

“How many rooms are in the house?”

“The living-room and three rooms up-stairs.”

The sergeant-major produced a piece of paper. “Show me to the rooms
up-stairs,” he said and walked toward the stairway.

“Why do you wish to see them?” asked Aunt Martha, somewhat alarmed and
bewildered.

The soldier made no reply but mounted the steps. Don followed him
closely. After a brief inspection of the rooms they came down, and the
soldier wrote something on the slip of paper. “You’ll have two men to
billet,” he said. “So you’d better fix up that big room at the front.”

“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Aunt Martha said indignantly.

The man’s red face became redder than ever; he started to say
something, then checked himself and laughed. “Two men,” he repeated
and strode toward the door and slammed it behind him.

“O Donald!” cried Aunt Martha. “If your uncle were only here!”

Don clenched his fists. “Two Redcoats to live with us all winter!” he
exclaimed. “That’s what it means, Aunt Martha.”

“Oh, dear,” said his aunt and sat down by the window. “Two--two
Redcoats to track in mud and dirt and scratch and tear things with
their heavy shoes----”

“Now, don’t worry, Aunt Martha,” Don interrupted her. “Maybe it won’t
be so bad, having them here. And maybe before long General Washington
will have his army ready to drive all of them out of the town.”

Aunt Martha soon recovered her spirits and set about making ready for
the two unwelcome guests. “I suppose if they insist on having the big
front room, we’ll have to give it to them,” she said. “I don’t see any
other way out of it.”

[Illustration: “WHO LIVES HERE BESIDE YOURSELF, YOUNG SIRE?”]

Nevertheless, she spent most of the day in cleaning the spare bedroom,
and when Don looked at it that afternoon he could not help smiling.
“You’ve made it the best-looking room in the house,” he said. “Maybe
they’ll prefer it to the big room.”

“That’s just what I had in mind,” his aunt replied and smiled.

“Oh, say!” exclaimed Don, and his face suddenly became pale. “All that
stuff in the cellar--what if they should discover it!”

Aunt Martha shared her nephew’s agitation, and she bit her lips in
perplexity. “I haven’t thought of that,” she said. “We’ll just have to
run our chances and see that the door is kept locked always.”

“We’d surely find ourselves in hot water if they happened to learn that
it’s there,” said Don. “Oh, how I hate ’em all!” he cried impulsively.

The next morning when the two soldiers came with all their equipment
Don and his aunt got a surprise that for Don at least was not
altogether unpleasant. One of the Redcoats was Private Harry Hawkins!

He nodded and smiled at Don as he and his comrade entered the house and
were shown up-stairs.

The man who was with him, a short, dark-haired fellow, stopped at the
door of Aunt Martha’s room. “This is it, Hawkins,” he said. “The big
room on the front, the sergeant-major said, and a fine room it is.
We’re in luck, you and I.”

Hawkins looked at Aunt Martha and, observing the troubled expression in
her eyes, said, “Is this the room you want us to occupy?”

“No, it isn’t,” she replied. “That’s my room, and the one across the
hall is my nephew’s. Next to his is the room I’d hoped you would
occupy--since it seems you’ve got to occupy a room of some sort.”

“That’s the room we’ll have, then,” said Hawkins promptly and carried
his equipment into it.

But his companion did not follow him; he stood looking into the big
room.

“Come on, Snell,” said Hawkins, laughing. “The other room is plenty big
enough. Anyone would think you were six feet, five, instead of five
feet, six.”

Grumbling, the fellow turned away reluctantly and entered the room that
Aunt Martha had made ready for them.

Both Don and his aunt gave Hawkins a look of thanks and then went
down-stairs. For some time they sat in silence and listened to the
scuffling of feet on the floor above them. Then Don said in a low
voice: “It might have been worse, mightn’t it?”

His aunt nodded. “I suppose it might,” she admitted. “One of them seems
a gentlemanly fellow.”

Fortunately, Hawkins and Snell were in the house very little during the
daytime. They would rise early and hurry off to eat mess with their
company; then they might return for a few minutes only to hurry out
to the parade grounds. Usually they were away somewhere during the
afternoon and evening. On the whole they were not much bother; it was
the mere fact that Aunt Martha had to have them that irritated her most.

Jud’s mother also had suffered. Jud told Don about it one evening
at Aunt Martha’s. “We’ve got only one,” he said, “but he’s a
sergeant-major--big and fat and red-faced and uglier than a mud fence!”

“With blue eyes and a red nose?” asked Don.

“Yes, little mean eyes that somehow make me think of buttermilk.”

“Probably it’s the sergeant-major who came to us,” said Don.

“Probably it is,” added his aunt dryly. “I don’t see how there could
be two men quite so ugly as he.”

“Well, he’s a billeting sergeant,” said Jud, “and his name is Bluster.”

“Huh,” said Don. “He’s well named.”

“Just listen to that wind outside,” said Aunt Martha; “that’s blustery
enough too!”

The wind had been blustery and sharp for several days, and almost
before the boys realized it winter had set in in dead earnest. And
with the cold came increased suffering. Fuel was scarce, and the army
had hard work getting it. But they did get it, nevertheless, and the
way they went about it added another grievance to the long list that
the townsfolk held against them. Buildings were torn down--usually
they were the poorest structures, but not always--fences disappeared
overnight, and gates that had creaked on their hinges one day were
missing the next morning.

In December the town presented its most deplorable aspect. Hostile
cannon glowered in position on hill and thoroughfare, and insolent
soldiers such as Sergeant-Major Bluster and Private Snell sat about
hearthstones where once happy families had been wont to gather. Food
as well as fuel was extremely scarce, and prices were so high that
more than one person was driven to steal. Faneuil Hall had been turned
into a playhouse for the amusement of the Redcoats, and in it the fine
spirit of the people, their intense desire for peace and liberty and
fair treatment, were turned into ridicule. Even when snow fell and
covered the suffering town in a soft white blanket, and few soldiers
were on the streets to jostle and mock pedestrians, the guns on Beacon
Hill boomed forth as if to remind them that Howe and the King’s troops
still held sway.

Hundreds of persons, too poor longer to support themselves, had
obtained Howe’s permission to depart in boats to Point Shirley,
whence they made their way into the country--homeless, penniless and
miserable. But still Aunt Martha’s will would not allow her to yield.
“No--no,” she declared more than once, “I’ll not go! The good Lord
knows how I long to be with David, but I know that he is being well
cared for. Glen gave me his word, and he is a man I’d trust to the ends
of the earth.”

Mrs. Lancaster, who happened to be calling, only shook her head.

“Yes, I know you think I’m stubborn,” Don’s aunt continued. “Perhaps I
am, but I intend to remain right here in my own home, and that’s an
end of it.”

One day in January, Don and Jud went to Aunt Martha with a request that
Don be permitted, as Jud said, to “go some place” the following evening.

“Where do you want to go, Don?” she asked.

“Down to Faneuil Hall,” Don said quickly. “There’s something or other
going on there, and we’d like to see it.”

“There’ll be music,” added Jud.

“British music,” said Aunt Martha.

“Well, yes, but it may sound all right.”

Aunt Martha frowned.

“Oh, say, Aunt Martha,” exclaimed Don, laughing, “we won’t become
Tories--honest. It’s mighty dull here these days, and we want to see
what’s going on. It’s all right, isn’t it?”

If Aunt Martha was stubborn she seldom showed it where her nephew was
concerned, and this time was no exception to the rule. She yielded to
him--whereas the whole force of General Howe only made her the more
resolute!

“Good for you, Aunt Martha,” said Jud--he had got into the habit of
calling her “aunt,” and she seemed rather pleased with him for doing
it.

“I picked up some information to-day,” he added. “Our privateers
have been doing some great things on the high seas. They’ve captured
hundreds of the King’s vessels.”

“I’ve heard of Captain Manly,” said Aunt Martha.

“Well, there are lots besides Captain Manly,” Jud replied. “And another
thing--our men have chosen a flag; it’s called the Union Flag of the
Thirteen Stripes--one stripe for each Colony, you see. They raised it
the first day of the year.”

“My, my, Judson. Where you and Donald learn all these things is a
mystery to me.”

“Well, you see,” replied the resourceful Jud, “if we go to Faneuil Hall
to-morrow night we’ll probably learn more, hey, Don?”

But at that moment Snell and Hawkins entered, and the conversation
ceased.

CHAPTER XIII

A FARCE IS INTERRUPTED

Dusk had fallen over the town when Don and Jud, warmly clad in heavy
coats and mufflers, made their way toward Faneuil Hall. Others were
walking in the same direction--mostly officers, who stepped with the
firmness and confidence that marked an officer of the King. The night
was cold and dark, and few lights gleamed as they once had gleamed,
cheerily, in the windows of the shops along King Street and Merchant’s
Row; yet there was cheery conversation. The boys could hear laughing
and congenial talking among the hurrying throngs.

“I just feel like laughing good and hard to-night,” they heard one man
say.

“Yes, and I too,” another agreed. “There’s been little enough to laugh
at ever since we landed in this town.”

“Well, you’ll laugh to-night, or I’m a Dutchman,” said a third.
“There’s to be a farce called the Blockade of Boston. Funny! I thought
I’d laugh myself sick the first time I heard it rehearsed. I tell you
the officers who wrote it--let’s see; who was it now? Well, never mind;
they certainly wrote a funny play. Just wait till you catch sight of
General Washington!”

Jud scowled in the darkness. “Remember, Don,” he whispered, “we’ll have
to keep a firm hold on our tempers.”

Don laughed. “I’ll keep a firm hold of mine, Jud; but I’m not so sure
about you. You’re hot-headed, you know.”

“Don’t worry about me,” said Jud. “He who laughs last, you know----”

“But say,” Don interrupted him, “you haven’t told me yet how we’re
going to get inside the place.”

“That’s so,” replied Jud and thrust his elbow knowingly into his
companion’s ribs. “This will get us inside, I think,” and he drew
something small and shiny from his pocket and handed it to Don.

“A silver snuff-box,” said Don, looking at it with some wonder.

“Yes; it’s Sergeant-Major Bluster’s. He couldn’t seem to find it
to-day. Funny, too, ’cause if he’d asked me, I could have told him
right where it was all the time--in my pocket. Do you understand now?”

Don did not understand and said so emphatically.

Jud laughed good-naturedly. “You’re pretty dull sometimes,” he said
frankly. “Just you let me do the talking and we’ll be inside Faneuil
Hall in three shakes.”

“You’ve been doing most of the talking.” Don could not resist the
thrust. “So go ahead and finish.”

“All right; now here we are.”

The boys had reached the hall, which was well lighted and partly filled
with troops. Don and Jud stood to one side of the door and watched the
men as they came singly and in groups and vanished inside the great
building. There were ladies too, most of them young, and all escorted
by gallant officers. Jud kept a sharp lookout toward the door.

At last Don, a bit impatient at the delay, asked, “How much longer are
we going to wait?”

“Just a few minutes, I think. I’m waiting for fat Bluster--ah, here he
comes, isn’t it?”

“You’re right,” said Don. “Look at the gait, will you?”

Bluster strode pompously to the door, nodded curtly to one of the
soldiers who was on duty there and passed into the hall.

“Come on,” said Don.

“No; just a few minutes longer. Can’t you wait?”

“Say, Jud, you’re a mystery to me to-night,” said Don. “I don’t know
what under the sun you’re trying to do. I don’t think you know,
yourself!”

“Who’s doing all the talking now?” inquired Jud with a grin.

For almost ten minutes the boys waited in the cold. Then Jud led the
way to the door. The soldier on duty at once blocked the passage.
“Scat, you youngsters,” he said.

Jud surely had his temper well in hand that night. “We’re looking for a
sergeant-major,” he said, smiling. “We’ve got to see him, for we have
something important that belongs to him.”

“What is it?”

Jud was embarrassed--at least, he showed every sign of being
embarrassed. “It’s--it’s just a little thing with a lady’s name
engraved on it.”

The soldier laughed. “Do you think you could find him in there?”

“Between the two of us I think we could,” Jud replied promptly.

“Well, be quick about it then.”

The boys were as quick as a flash.

“Young Tories,” the soldier said to a bystander as they entered the
building.

Jud turned abruptly, but Don grasped his arm and pulled him along.
“Don’t be a hothead,” he whispered.

It was only luck that made Jud spy Bluster a few moments later in the
crowded hall. The sergeant-major was sitting on a chair at the extreme
right of the hall. His hat was on the floor beneath the chair, and he
was leaning back with his arms folded across his chest.

More than one Redcoat looked inquiringly at the boys as they walked
round the chairs and benches, and thought no doubt that they were the
sons of some prominent Tory who had brought them with him. As Jud was
passing behind Bluster’s chair he dropped his hat and, in picking it
up, succeeded in laying the ornamental snuff-box on the hat of the
soldier--a circumstance that puzzled the fellow till the end of his
days.

After that the boys found a secluded corner where they stood, in the
shadows, and waited for the play to begin. In front of them were
Redcoats, talking and laughing and smoking. There were a great many
ladies, all of whom had come to laugh at the expense of the townsfolk
of Boston and of the Continental army outside the town. Fans were
moving lightly to and fro, though there was no need of fans in the cold
building; scabbards and buckles were clacking against the wooden seats;
and the lights round the small stage jarred and flickered as couples
moved in front of them to their seats.

Don and Jud said little, but their eyes and ears were alert. At last
the music started, and some time later the curtain on the stage was
hauled up. There were to be two plays that evening, the first of which
was called “The Busy Body.” The boys watched the actors, all of whom
were Redcoats, and thought the thing rather dull and stupid. But the
audience seemed to enjoy it; there were frequent bursts of applause and
a good deal of laughter.

“Huh,” said Jud as the curtain went down for the last time. “I guess
you have to be a Redcoat or a Tory to like a thing like that.”

“Look,” whispered Don. “Bluster’s found his snuff-box.”

“Sure enough!”

It was all that the boys could do to keep from laughing as they watched
the big sergeant-major. He had found his snuff-box indeed. In the
uncertain light his face was ruddier than ever, and his little eyes
seemed to be popping from his head as he turned first to one side,
then to the other. He looked at the little box; he looked at his hat;
he looked at his cuffs as if the thing might have been hidden there.
Perhaps he thought he had suddenly become a magician. Then he looked at
the ceiling, as if to find the person--or the bird--that had succeeded
in dropping it so that it had landed on his hat beneath his chair. But
even a magician or a bird could not have done that!

He was still looking at the ceiling when the lights were dimmed, and
the curtain was hauled up again. “The Blockade of Boston,” which was
to be played next, was a farce in which the character who represented
General Washington was supposed to stride awkwardly upon the stage,
wearing a long rusty sword and a wig that was many sizes too large for
him; behind him walked his servant, an uncouth country boy with a rusty
gun. But the audience was not to laugh at the antics of the two that
night.

The curtain had been up only a few moments when the noise of firing
sounded from a distance, and then a red-coated sergeant burst into the
hall and exclaimed:

“The Yankees are attacking our works on Bunker’s Hill!”

Startling as the announcement was, it carried only a ripple of mild
excitement; for no doubt many of the audience supposed that the
sergeant’s words were part of the farce that was to be played. “A good
beginning anyway,” a lieutenant who was sitting in front of the boys
said to his neighbor and laughed heartily.

At that moment a general who was seated close to the stage sprang to
his feet. “Look,” whispered Don. “There’s Howe himself. I didn’t notice
him before.”

“Officers to your posts!” cried the general in a ringing voice.

Then there was excitement enough for anyone. To the two boys it
seemed as if the whole audience rose and started for the doors at the
same instant. Women were screaming and several had already fainted.
Chairs and benches were being overturned--one chair overturned with
Sergeant-Major Bluster in it. Scabbards were clashing and men were
shouting hoarse commands.

“Let’s get out of here!” whispered Jud.

“All right; but wait till the rest have gone; we’d be killed in that
mob.”

“What a glorious ending to the ‘Blockade of Boston’!” Jud exulted.
“Couldn’t be better, could it?”

In the excitement some of the lights round the stage were blown out,
and then the place was so dark that you could hardly distinguish faces.

And in the street it was still darker. The boys were among the last to
leave the hall, and as they stepped outside they could hear the rattle
of small arms and the sound of cheering away to the north.

“It’s an attack on the town,” whispered Jud excitedly. “That’s just
what it is--a big attack!”

But, positive as Jud was, he was wrong, as both boys found out later.
General Putnam had sent a party of perhaps two hundred Continentals
under the command of Major Knowlton to destroy fourteen houses along
Mill Street in Charlestown and to capture the British guards who were
stationed in them. Through a mistake some of the houses were fired
too soon, and the flames gave the alarm to the enemy on Bunker Hill.
But the daring attempt was by no means unsuccessful. Major Knowlton
succeeded in burning eight of the houses and in capturing five
prisoners. Washington himself was well pleased with the venture.

But the thing that pleased Don and Jud most was the untimely ending of
the night’s entertainment. No one thought of returning to the hall.

“Here comes Bluster,” said Jud, stepping into a doorway on King Street
to let the Redcoat pass. “I don’t want him to see me.”

When the sergeant-major had passed, the boys made their way hurriedly
to Don’s house in Pudding Lane, which they reached shortly before
eleven o’clock.

“Well,” said Aunt Martha, “did you hear anything of interest at the
hall?”

“Did we?” repeated Don. “You tell what happened, Jud!”

And Jud told her, not omitting the incident of the snuff-box. And
when he had finished, Don thought his aunt laughed more heartily than
she had laughed since the blockade began. “I’m glad you boys went,”
she said. “I’m glad you could see the fine officers discomfited. They
deserve it for the way some of them have acted.”

Jud was suddenly thoughtful. “What in the world will I tell fat Bluster
if he ever asks me about the snuff-box?” he inquired.

“Tell him the truth, Judson,” said Aunt Martha. “But don’t tell him
unless he asks you,” she added with a smile.

“I’ll tell you what to tell him,” said Don. “Tell him that the last
time he used snuff he sneezed and blew the box over the Old South
Meeting-House, and that when it came down it landed right on top of his
hat.”

“Donald!” exclaimed his aunt. “Now you boys scat to bed--quick!”

“That’s the second time we’ve been scatted to-night,” said Jud as he
followed Don up-stairs.

CHAPTER XIV

A BROKEN LOCK

For many days the townsfolk and the soldiers talked of the performance
that the Continental assault on Charlestown had interrupted. Don and
Jud joked about it frequently, but they were always careful that
neither Hawkins nor Snell should overhear them.

If all the Redcoats had been like Hawkins, the good people of Boston
would have had little to complain of. He was always courteous and
considerate; he seemed to spend as little time as possible in the
house and kept to his room even on the coldest nights. The fellow was
undoubtedly a fine soldier and as loyal to his King as any of them
were, and secretly both Don and Jud admired him for it. He seemed to
have a genuine affection for Don, though he rarely spoke more than a
few words at a time to the boy.

Snell, on the other hand, was surly and quick-tempered and an ugly
person to have about the house. He was inquisitive also. Once Aunt
Martha found him trying to unlock the door to the cellar, and though he
desisted at sight of her, the circumstance troubled her. It troubled
Don too, but there was something that troubled him more than that.
Snell had formed an acquaintance with Tom Bullard, and the two spent
much time together.

“I tell you,” Don said to Jud one evening in February, “I don’t like
it one bit, the way those two are together so much. Tom Bullard
hates us like poison--I know that’s why he tried to steal your ma’s
chickens--and I’m sure he’d like nothing better than to make us
uncomfortable somehow.”

“But he can’t do anything, can he? You and your aunt have complied with
all the town regulations, haven’t you?”

Don did not reply at once. “Well, maybe,” he said at last.

But Jud was not easily put off. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I’ll tell you something sometime,” said Don. “Not now, though.”

Don might not have told his companion his secret at all if it had not
been for an unfortunate event that occurred toward the end of the
month. One Saturday when Aunt Martha had been at the home of a sick
neighbor almost all morning Don entered the house in Pudding Lane and
to his consternation found Snell coming up from the cellar with an
armful of wood. The broken lock lying on the floor told how the man had
entered.

For several moments the two stood confronting each other; Don’s face
was flaming, and his heart was beating a tattoo against his ribs.
Snell, a bit discomfited, soon recovered his poise. “It’s cold in
here,” he said; “I suspected all along that you had wood in the cellar.”

“There’s wood out in the back shed too,” replied Don in a voice that
trembled slightly. “Why didn’t you use that?”

Snell evidently thought no reply was necessary. He crossed the floor
and tossed several sticks upon the fire.

“Why didn’t you use the wood in the shed?” repeated Don in a louder
voice.

Snell looked at the boy tolerantly. “Now see here, young sire,” he said
slowly. “It won’t do for you to ask too many questions. I will say,
though, that if the wood in the shed had not been wet, I might not have
gone to the cellar. Now let that be an end of it. Understand?”

Don was silent and bit his lips. How long had the fellow been down
cellar? Had he seen the merchandise and the powder that belonged to his
uncle? Or had he known that they were there in the first place? Or had
he gone down merely to fetch dry wood? Over and over Don asked himself
the questions without being able to answer them.

He glanced slyly at the Redcoat as he sat in front of the fire,
toasting his fingers. The man was smiling to himself--a faint,
inscrutable smile that told nothing. The fellow might be smiling
because he had discovered the stuff, or he might be smiling merely
because of the discomfiture that he knew he had caused the boy. Don
could not tell which answer was right.

At any rate he was glad that Snell was not in the house when Aunt
Martha entered two hours later. If Snell had been there he would have
learned just exactly what she thought of him and of his inquisitive
visit to the cellar.

Hawkins, however, did enter while Don and his aunt were discussing the
matter. “What is wrong?” he asked, glancing from one to the other and
then at the broken lock, which Don was trying to fix.

“Your comrade,” replied Aunt Martha steadily, “has seen fit to force
his way into the cellar to get wood with which to replenish the fire.
Our fire-wood is in the back shed, and he knows it.”

Hawkins frowned and then, taking the lock from Don’s hands, examined it.

“There is a great deal of wood in the back shed, as you know,”
continued Don’s aunt, “and I know that it is not all wet as he says it
is.”

“Just so,” said Hawkins and placed the lock on the table. “Just so.”
And he went abruptly to his room.

“There,” said Aunt Martha. “What did I say? They’re all alike, these
Redcoats.”

Later Snell returned, and while Don was helping his aunt to prepare the
supper the two heard the sound of voices from up-stairs. Louder and
louder they became until it was quite plain that the two soldiers were
disagreeing over something.

Suddenly the voices ceased, and the ceiling jarred with a heavy crash.

“O Donald! What are they doing?”

Steps sounded on the stairs, and a moment later Hawkins, red of face,
entered the room. “I’d like a basin of hot water, if you please,” he
said.

Aunt Martha hastened to get it for him, and presently he returned with
it to the room. He was down again in a few minutes and went out into
the street.

Don and his aunt had finished supper when Hawkins again entered the
house. “Here, my lad,” he said and put a small package into Don’s hand.
“No,” he added, smiling, “it’s something that you can very well accept.
Don’t thank me for it.” And he hurried up-stairs.

Don opened the package; it contained a new lock similar to the one that
Snell had broken.

“Well, I declare!” exclaimed Aunt Martha. “Donald, I believe I wronged
that man.”

When Snell came down-stairs the following morning he made for the door
without delay, but, quick as he was, Aunt Martha observed that he
carried the marks of his encounter with Hawkins; one eye was partly
discolored, and his cheek was swollen.

Later in the morning Don fixed the new lock in place and then hurried
off to find Jud and tell him what had happened.

The day was warm for a day in late February; indeed the winter, which
had begun with severe weather, had proved to be mild after all. The two
boys directed their steps toward Walmer’s wharf at the foot of Beech
Street, where they sat down in the sunlight with their backs against
one of the deserted warehouses.

“We’ll be safe here,” said Don; “no one is likely to overhear what I’ve
got to tell you, Jud.”

Jud leaned forward eagerly, and neither boy observed a third person,
who had followed them at some distance and who now took a position just
within hearing round the corner of the silent warehouse.

“Go on and tell it,” said Jud. “You’ve got me all curious.”

“Well, in our cellar----” began Don, and the hidden figure near the
corner of the building slunk a step nearer. “In our cellar there’s
quantities and quantities of linen and cloth and some powder----” And
Don told of the purchase that his uncle had made before the blockade.

When he had finished that part of his story Jud whistled softly.
“My, but that’s risky business, keeping it there,” he said. “Just
suppose----”

Don put his hand on his friend’s arm. “Not so loud,” he whispered.
“And, Jud, I know you won’t breathe a word of it to anyone--not even to
your mother.”

“Of course not.”

Don glanced round cautiously. The old wharf apparently was quite
deserted except for themselves. The sun was shining brightly on the
water; the wind, blowing across the rough planks, was rattling the
loose shingles on a small fisherman’s shack beside the big warehouse.

“Now for some reason,” Don continued, “Snell, the Redcoat, broke into
our cellar yesterday, and that’s why I’m telling you this; I’m afraid
he knows what’s down there, and I want you to help me if you can.”

Jud’s eyes snapped as he listened to his comrade’s story of how Snell
had broken the lock on the cellar door.

As a matter of fact Snell had not known of what was in the cellar;
it was curiosity more than anything else that had prompted him to
break the lock. But it would not be long before he knew just what was
hidden away beneath the little house in Pudding Lane, for before Don
had finished his story the figure that had been listening so intently
at the corner of the warehouse drew back and walked quickly in the
direction of Beech Street. He had not gone far, however, before he
turned on his heel and strode carelessly toward the wharf.

A few minutes later the boys spied Tom Bullard walking toward them;
his hands were in his pockets, and he seemed wrapped in thought. “Oh!”
he exclaimed as if catching sight of them for the first time. “Didn’t
expect to find anybody here.”

“Huh,” said Jud and turned his back.

Tom walked to the edge of the dock and, smiling to himself, stood for
some time, looking at the sparkling waters. Then he turned and strode
back toward Beech Street.

Don glanced at his companion. “It’s lucky he didn’t hear anything,” he
said.

“If he had,” Jud replied with emphasis, “I’d have pushed him into the
water. What do you suppose he was doing down here anyway?”

“Oh, just snoopin’ around,” replied Don easily. “Since he’s become a
sort of aide to old Ruggles he’s been doing it, you know.”

The boys continued to talk in low tones for some time. It was pleasant
there on the dock in the morning sunlight.

Once Tom Bullard was out of their sight, he started to run. He ran
up Beech Street to Shea’s Lane and from there made his way to Common
Street. Out on the Common some of the companies were drilling, but Tom
did not pause to look at them. He crossed the Mall and then at a fast
walk went here and there among the troops.

It took him almost half an hour to find the person he was looking for,
and when he did find him at last he was so excited that he could hardly
talk. “Snell--Snell,” he began, “I’ve got--something--to--to----”

“Toot, toot!” said Snell, taking his arm. “Get your breath before you
tell it.”

Tom got his breath, enough of it anyway to tell the Redcoat what he had
overheard at the warehouse. Then Snell was almost as much excited as
Tom was. He rubbed his swollen face thoughtfully.

“Powder in the cellar of that house!” he exclaimed. “Powder and fine
cloth, and I like a fool was down there and didn’t even see it! You’re
sure of it, Bullard?”

“I should say I am,” Tom replied. “Didn’t I hear of it with my own
ears?”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“That’s for the two of us to decide together,” replied Tom. “There’s no
hurry, you know. We want to do it in the best way.”

“Yes; in the best way.” Snell touched his fingers lightly to his
discolored eye. “In the best way,” he repeated.

CHAPTER XV

MARCH WINDS BLOW

It was clear that Snell’s idea of the “best way” to punish Don and his
aunt was a way that would also punish Hawkins, with whom Snell was now
on the bitterest of hostile terms; the two soldiers neither spoke nor
so much as glanced at each other. But whatever Snell’s plan was, he and
Tom were slow in carrying it out.

No doubt they were busy with other things, for the month of March began
in a way that promised to keep the Redcoats and the Tories occupied for
some little time. On the night of the second the Continental batteries
opened fire on the town.

Don and his Aunt Martha were in bed when the firing began. For a long
while they lay listening to the crash, crash of the shells, which
seemed to be landing somewhere on the Common. They heard Snell and
Hawkins descend the stairs and pass out into the street; then Aunt
Martha went to her nephew’s room. “Donald, my boy,” she said, “what can
it mean?”

“It means that General Washington is preparing to drive out old Howe
and his men,” Don replied confidently.

Don was nearer right than his aunt supposed. The two following nights
the bombardment was repeated; it seemed that every gun in all the
forts, both friendly and hostile, was crashing forth and illuminating
the sky every few seconds.

And on the next morning, the fifth of March and the anniversary of
the Boston Massacre, the whole town--and especially the British
high-command--opened their eyes wide with amazement. Strong
fortifications had sprung up, as if by magic, on Dorchester Heights.
Grim black guns were pointing at the town; grim black guns threatened
the British fleet, which lay at anchor out in the harbor.

Later in the morning Jud came hurrying into Pudding Lane and entered
the house; he was trembling with excitement. “The time’s come!” he
cried. “Have you seen Dorchester Heights? The Redcoats have either got
to attack the Heights the way they did Bunker’s Hill, or they’ve got to
clear out. I hope they attack!”

“Goodness!” exclaimed Aunt Martha.

“It’s true,” declared Jud, “everything I’ve told you. The Tories are
scared silly!”

“Have you seen Tom Bullard?” asked Don.

“Yes; I passed him on the way. He didn’t seem scared, though--maybe
he’s just too stupid. He shook his fist at me, and he said, ‘You’d
better keep away from Pudding Lane if you know what’s good for you.’”

“What did he mean?” asked Aunt Martha.

“Nothing, I guess,” said Don. “He likes to talk, that’s all.”

Throughout the rest of the day the town was a place of keen excitement.
Howe, it seems, had decided to accept Washington’s challenge and attack
the Heights. He was a brave man, and his own honor as well as the
honor of England was at stake; he did not mean to yield weakly to a
band of “rebels.” He ordered twenty-four hundred men to embark at once
in transports; under the command of Lord Percy, they were to land at
Castle William, from which place they were to attack Dorchester Heights
when night fell.

Don and Jud saw the Redcoats assemble for the attack and then march
off. They saw Hawkins, tall, erect, well-composed and confident;
they saw Snell marching in another rank--and he seemed anything but
confident.

By noon virtually everyone in Boston and the vicinity expected to see
a terrible battle. It seemed inevitable, for both sides were preparing
for it. While the British were mustering for the attack on Dorchester
Heights, Washington was preparing to attack the British lines in
Boston. A fine detachment of four thousand troops were on parade in
Cambridge; under the command of Generals Putnam, Greene and Sullivan
they were all ready to embark in boats at the mouth of the river. And,
as at Bunker Hill, people had taken up points of vantage on the tops of
houses and on some of the near-by hills.

But somewhat to the disappointment of Don and Jud the two armies were
not to meet. In the afternoon the wind blew furiously, and a wild
destructive surf crashed and pounded on the shores; no boat could
possibly land with safety in such a storm. Great limbs cracked and
crashed on the Common, and boards and shingles were torn from many of
the houses. The two boys, hurrying along Long Acre, narrowly missed
being struck with a pile of stones that came tumbling from a chimney
on a house near Rawson’s Lane.

“Say, that was close, wasn’t it?” exclaimed Jud. “A little more, Don,
and you and I might have been killed.”

Don laughed. “Come on, Jud, and let’s get home. Just look how dark it’s
getting! It’s going to rain too.”

That evening the rain came down in torrents, and the wind continued to
blow with unabated fury. And the next day, the sixth, found the waves
in the harbor high and confused. Both armies waited; and Washington’s
men strengthened their fortifications.

The next day Howe found himself in a critical and perplexing situation.
His army was at the mercy of the Continental batteries, and the fleet
was unable to ride in safety in the harbor. To remain in Boston would
be to expose his men to the greatest danger; to withdraw would be to
lose much valuable property. But Howe was first of all a soldier, and
after a hurried council he determined to withdraw to save his army.
Preparations began at once.

“They’re going, Aunt Martha!” cried Don, bursting in upon his aunt.
“The Redcoats are going to leave the town!”

“And what will they do to the town before they go? O Donald, what will
they do?”

“I don’t know,” replied Don thoughtfully. “They could do a lot of bad
things, I suppose, but, Aunt Martha, I don’t think they’ll do anything
very bad. I tell you it won’t be well for them if they set fire to any
buildings.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of most of all,” said his aunt.

Many other persons besides Aunt Martha were worried about the fate of
Boston. In the Continental army itself there was many a soldier who
wondered what would become of his home and of his relatives who had
refused to leave the town.

After a little group of prominent citizens had sent a petition to
Washington, begging him to take no measures that would injure the town,
the two armies reached a tacit understanding that the British might
embark without the Continentals molesting them. Nevertheless, the
American army held itself in readiness to act in case the enemy did any
damage.

Meanwhile, Washington was strengthening his defenses round the town.
On the evening of the ninth he sent a strong detachment to plant a
battery on Nook’s Hill to threaten the fleet; but the British learned
of his purpose, and almost all night Don and his aunt lay awake and
listened to the roar of cannon.

The next day Howe issued a printed proclamation that almost caused Aunt
Martha to lose heart. Don and Jud brought her word of it.

“All linen and woolen goods have to be turned over to Crean Brush, the
Tory,” whispered Don--for Snell was up-stairs. “Old Howe knows there’s
stuff hidden in the town that our men can use. That’s why he wants it.”

Aunt Martha glanced involuntarily at the door to the cellar. “We’d best
give it up, Donald,” she said. “I’d hoped we could keep it, but I see
now that we can’t. Oh, what a foolish woman I was!”

“No, Aunt Martha--no!” Don’s voice trembled in spite of himself.
“Nobody knows we have the stuff, and the Redcoats can’t possibly search
every cellar.”

“Don is right, Aunt Martha,” whispered Jud. “Don’t you turn it over to
them!”

“But if they come and search----” Aunt Martha checked herself
suddenly, for Snell was coming down the stairs.

Without looking to right or left, the Redcoat crossed the room and went
out on the street.

“Did he hear us?” asked Don’s aunt.

“Not likely,” replied Jud. “Now don’t you say one word about that stuff
in the cellar.”

Aunt Martha shook her head in uncertainty, but she finally decided to
do as the boys had advised.

The next day Crean Brush began his work of searching for hidden
supplies. Stores were broken into, and goods of all sorts were carried
off in violation of strict orders that Howe had issued. Lawless bands
of soldiers, sailors, marines and Tories went from house to house and
took what pleased them. And while they were doing that, the army was
transporting its equipment to the water-front to be shipped aboard the
vessels.

All day Don and his aunt remained in the house, anxiously expecting
every minute to hear the sound of Crean Brush’s men outside. Jud did
not put in an appearance until after dark, and then he remained only
for a few moments to say that a searching party had come to his house
but had found nothing. “If they had,” he added, “Ma and I would have
been as surprised as they, I guess.”

Don and his aunt laughed. Before Jud went away he got Don to one side.
“Say, Don,” he whispered, “you’ve got powder in the cellar along with
that other stuff, haven’t you?”

“Yes, a little,” Don replied.

“Well,” said Jud, “if I were you I’d move it somewhere else.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Well, at the rate Crean Brush and his gangs are going they’re pretty
sure to reach your house sooner or later; and if they search it and
find that powder--well, I don’t know what they won’t do.”

“I guess they’ll do enough even if they just find the cloth and stuff,”
said Don. “So it seems to me I might as well leave it all together.”

“No, Don; do as I tell you!” Jud’s voice was low and excited.

Don laughed. “I never knew you to be so cautious before, Jud.”

But Jud seized his friend’s arm. “Take my advice for once and do it,”
he urged. “I’ll help you move it now if you like.”

“No, not now,” replied Don. “Maybe later.”

“All right, then.” And Jud hurried out into the night.

CHAPTER XVI

CREAN BRUSH’S MEN

Don said nothing to his aunt about the powder in the cellar. Indeed
after Jud had gone he thought little of it and of the advice his
companion had given. Don and his aunt waited until Snell and Hawkins
had gone up-stairs, and then Aunt Martha said:

“Well, Donald, I think we’re almost at the end of the story.”

“What story?” asked Don.

Aunt Martha smiled. “I merely meant,” she replied, “that in a few more
days we’ll be all through with our suffering--or else there will be
more suffering, far more terrible than some of us can bear perhaps.”

“You’re still afraid they’ll burn the town?”

“I can’t get it off my mind. Just look at Charlestown across the water.
What a snug little place to live in it used to be--and just see it now!”

Don was silent for a few moments. “Everything has gone pretty well so
far,” he said at last.

“And maybe before long we’ll see Uncle David and Glen.”

“O Donald, I’ve prayed for it!”

“I certainly wish that one or the other were here now.” Don was
thinking of Crean Brush and of his lawless men.

“Ah, yes. Well, we’d best go to bed now. Another night--another night.”

“Yes, and before you know it General Washington will be here, and the
Redcoats will be on the water.”

Up-stairs in his room, Don lay for some time listening to the sound
of firing that seemed to come from the direction of Noddles Island.
The night was dark, and a strong wind was blowing against the little
windows. From across the hall came the sounds of snoring and of
heavy breathing; apparently both Snell and Hawkins were asleep.
Don closed his eyes and lay back on the pillow; but the position
was uncomfortable, and he turned on his side. That position also
uncomfortable, and he turned on his other side. Then his foot began to
itch, then his back, then his neck. He could not sleep.

At last he sat up in bed. Now he could hear the regular breathing of
his aunt; no doubt she was exhausted with the day’s worry. Once more
he tried to get to sleep, but it was of no use. He raised himself on
his elbow. “Now what in thunder ails me?” he thought.

There was something--something that somebody had said. What was it?
The next instant he thought of Jud and of what he had said about the
powder. “That’s it!” he said to himself. “What if Crean Brush and his
men should find it in the cellar and, drunk as some of them were likely
to be, touch a light to it!”

The thought made him spring part way out of bed. Aunt Martha was still
breathing regularly. That was enough for Don to make up his mind.

He began softly to dress. The house was cold, and he shivered as he
put on his shirt and his trousers. In a few minutes he was all dressed
except for his shoes. Then he made his way cautiously to the head of
the stairs. Once he stepped on a loose, squeaky board and heard his
aunt turn and sigh; but she did not waken. Neither did either of the
soldiers.

Down the steep stairs Don went on all fours. In the kitchen he found
the candlestick, but he did not light it until he had opened the door
to the cellar. Half-way down the old steps he paused, undecided
whether to go the rest of the way. Then he took another step, but it
required courage. The flickering light of the candle sent grotesque,
ghostlike shadows dancing along the walls, like great unearthly black
vultures.

He wondered whether he were doing right and then wished that Jud were
with him. But, taking a fresh grip on himself, he went the rest of the
way.

Trembling with nervousness, he set the candle on a box and looked about
him. All around lay the goods that David Hollis had bought in a hasty
moment--large bales and small bales piled side by side and on top of
one another. With shaking fingers Don examined them, going quickly from
one to another. Then suddenly he came upon the powder; there were one
small keg and seven canvas bags of it lying close to the foot of the
steps.

He lifted the keg and then lifted one of the bags; the keg was much the
heavier. “Now what shall I do with the stuff?” he wondered.

For a few moments he stood in deep thought. The old cellar was cold and
damp, and a draft from somewhere was stirring the flame of the candle.
“I know,” he said at last and bent over the keg again.

With an effort he lifted it and started up the stairs. In a moment or
two he no longer felt cold. It was no easy task to get that heavy keg
up the stairs. From step to step he half rolled, half lifted it, and
in a few minutes he was sweating with the exertion. Another thing that
made the work hard was that he did not dare make any noise.

At last he got the keg to the top, and then after a brief rest he
carried it through the room to the back shed, the door to which had
only a latch. There he found another candle, and lighting it, set it on
the floor. Five minutes later he had the keg hidden well at the back of
the woodpile.

Then he returned for the bags. One at a time he carried them--all seven
of them--up the steps and stowed them close to the keg. Having covered
them well with the wood and having snuffed both candles, he returned to
his room and began hastily to undress. He was congratulating himself on
not having disturbed anyone when he heard the voice of his aunt:

“Donald, are you awake?”

Don paused in the act of removing his shirt. He did not reply at once.

“Donald!”

“Uh-hm,” said Don.

“There--you _are_ awake!”

“Didn’t you hear a noise down-stairs a few minutes ago?”

“Noise? H’m--what noise?” Don was in bed by this time and had the
covers well round his head.

He heard his aunt sigh heavily. How could her nephew sleep so soundly?
The good woman was really sorry that she had wakened him!

It was not long before Don was asleep indeed. Nor did he waken when
Snell and Hawkins descended the stairs in the morning. Aunt Martha had
to call him four times before he roused and crawled sleepily from his
bed.

“My goodness,” said his aunt as she was putting the breakfast on the
table, “you’re surely a sleepyhead this morning, Donald Alden. Ah,
well, you’re a growing boy, and you need your rest.”

Don grinned up at her. “You have a speck on your specs, Aunt Martha.”

“Donald!”

“A speck of dust on your spectacles, Aunt Martha.”

His aunt hastily removed the speck with the corner of her apron. “Now
just see that candle,” she said. “I thought it was just yesterday that
I put a fresh one in the stick--but see how short it is now!”

Don examined the candle with great care, as if to find out what had
become of the rest of it. “Why, it seems that----” he began and then
sprang to his feet.

From the street came the sound of shouting and of heavy footsteps on
the cobblestones.

“O Donald, they’ve come. It’s--it’s----”

“Now, you be easy, Aunt Martha,” Don interrupted her.

Though he spoke calmly he was anything but calm in his mind. He went
to the door, and just as he reached it someone pounded heavily on the
outside.

“Open the door, Donald,” said Aunt Martha, “or they’ll beat it down.”

Don flung the door open and to his great astonishment looked full into
the leering face of Tom Bullard. Beside him were three of Crean Brush’s
men, and behind them, grinning insolently, was the Redcoat Snell. In a
moment all were inside, and Snell was striding toward the door to the
cellar. “We’ll find something this time, boys!” he said exultantly.

“Gentlemen, what is it you wish?” It was the voice of Aunt Martha, and
Don, glancing at her as she stood slight but well poised beside the
fireplace, thought she looked fully ten years younger.

There was something in her voice that made everyone turn and look at
her. “A-hem,” began one of the Tories--a big fellow who obviously was
the leader. “A-hem, we’ve come to search your house.”

“Yes,” said Snell, “we’ve come to get that powder which you’ve got in
the cellar.” With his bayonet he began to pry at the lock on the cellar
door.

Aunt Martha looked helplessly at her nephew. Tom Bullard, standing
near the door, made a sneering remark to the Tory beside him, and Don
clenched his fists and started for him. But he had taken only two steps
when he checked himself and turned to the leader. “You’ve no right in
that cellar!” he cried. “You’ve no right in this house!”

“Hold your young tongue,” said the Tory sharply. “There’s powder in
this cellar, and we know it. That’s what we want, and that’s what we’re
a-goin’ to get.”

“There’s not a grain of powder in the cellar,” Don replied.

Aunt Martha’s eyebrows lifted in astonishment; never in her life had
she known her nephew to tell an untruth, even in fun.

“No powder?” repeated the Tory. “Well, now that’s curious--very
curious--because both these fellows say there is.” He indicated Snell
and Tom.

“I’ll stake my life on it,” said Tom, stepping forward and throwing out
his chest.

“And I’ll stake mine,” said Snell.

“Well, hurry up and get that lock off, and we’ll soon see,” said the
leader.

Snell inserted the bayonet and gave a wrench. Don was thinking, not of
the powder, but of the bales of cloth at the foot of the stairs. In a
few minutes they would find them, and then things would go hard with
him and his aunt. Well, he had done his best, but what wouldn’t he have
done to keep them out of the cellar altogether!

“Blasted lock!” muttered Snell and gave another fierce wrench; there
was a sharp crack, and his bayonet was in two pieces.

Infuriated, the Redcoat hacked away with the short end that was in his
hand, and in a few moments the lock clattered to the floor. He had
opened the door and was about to go down when a sharp command behind
him made him turn as if he had seen a ghost.

“Snell, you hound, what does this mean!” Harry Hawkins, gun in hand,
crossed the threshold; he had just returned from the drill grounds.

Snell’s face had gone suddenly white, and he only stood and looked.

“It means,” said the leader, “that we’re about to get some ammunition
that these rebels have hidden in the cellar.”

“It’s not true, sir!” cried Don, turning to Hawkins. “It’s not true.
There is no ammunition in the cellar--not a speck!”

Hawkins looked steadily at Aunt Martha. “That is true, I suppose?” he
inquired.

“My nephew has never told a lie in his life, and, sir, he--he is
telling the truth now. There is no ammunition in the cellar.”

“They’re both lying----” Tom Bullard stopped as abruptly as he had
begun as Hawkins whirled and faced him.

For a long moment no one spoke; then Aunt Martha addressed Hawkins:
“These men have taken it upon themselves to enter my house unbidden.
Five men against one boy and a woman! They have no right here----”

“Oh, enough of that!” cried the leader and strode toward the cellar
door.

“Halt where you are!” exclaimed Hawkins, and as the Tory hesitated the
soldier raised his gun a few inches. “Let me see your orders.”

“Orders! Orders to search a rebel’s house?”

“Now, see here,”--Hawkins’s voice was hard and cold, and his eyes were
like points of fire--“this thing has gone about as far as I want to see
it go. I’ll stand sponsor for the boy and the woman--and I’ve got a
good reason for doing it. Now, my friends, you’ll oblige me by leaving
the house----”

“Why--why, you don’t mean to say----” began the leader.

“At once,” finished Hawkins and tapped the stock of his musket.

Tom Bullard was already outside the door, but Snell and the three
Tories did not move. Whereupon Hawkins stepped swiftly to the cellar
door and, slamming it shut, quickly drew his bayonet and affixed it to
the end of his piece.

“By heaven, you’ll hear of this!” cried the leader and backed slowly
across the room. “I promise you I’ll see you in the guard-house before
nightfall!”

“And,” added another, “we’ll be here again, and we’ll bring Brush,
himself, along.”

Hawkins made no answer but followed the three across the room and,
when they had gone out, held the door open for Snell, who lost no
time in joining them. The sudden turn of affairs had left the fellow
speechless, for he had expected to find the powder and then to accuse
Hawkins of knowing that it was hidden in the cellar.

“Oh, sir,” exclaimed Don a few moments later, “it’s true, what I told
you, every word of it, but, oh----”

“Say no more,” interrupted Hawkins, smiling. “Say no more. I don’t
doubt your word; and if I had I should have stopped them, Tories
as they are. But had they been the King’s men, I should not have
interfered in any circumstances.”

“But you’ve rendered us a great service----” Aunt Martha began.

“It is nothing compared with the service your nephew once rendered me.
I owe him my life, and I trust that sometime we may meet again--in
better days.” Hawkins turned and walked to the stairs.

Later in the afternoon Don explained to his aunt what he had done with
the powder the night before, and a look of relief came into her tired
eyes. “I knew there must be some explanation,” she said simply. “And,”
she added, smiling slightly, “that accounts for the noise I heard last
night and for the shortness of the candle.”

“Do you suppose they’ll return?” asked Don.

“I’m afraid so,” his aunt replied.

CHAPTER XVII

DON MEETS GENERAL WASHINGTON

Crean Brush’s men did not return to the house in Pudding Lane; they had
more than enough to do in the excitement of the withdrawal. Nor did
Snell give any further trouble; no doubt the fellow feared the strong
arm of Hawkins.

On the sixteenth of the month both Redcoats carried all their equipment
from the house and did not return. All that Hawkins said as he left the
room was “Better days, young sire; better days, my good woman.”

“Ah, yes, let us hope for them,” replied Aunt Martha.

Don only smiled, and Hawkins, as he closed the door, smiled in return.
That was the last that Don ever saw of him during the war.

The following day, which was Sunday, the Redcoats began to embark; and
not only the soldiers left the town, but the Tories also. Don and Jud
caught a glimpse of Tom Bullard and his father carrying some of their
household effects down King Street. The faces of both Tories showed
anger and mortification.

“Come on,” whispered Jud, “let’s get ahead of ’em and then turn and
give ’em a yell. We’ll never see them again.”

“No, Jud,” Don replied, “I’m just a little sorry for them. Oh, yes, I
know Tom’s acted mean, but just think what’s happening to him and his
father; they’re going to Halifax, so I’ve heard, and all they can take
along is just that little bit of stuff they’re carrying. Their fine
house up on Hanover Street is lost, and they’ll never get it again,
because they daren’t ever return.”

Jud did not reply but glanced at his companion sidewise. And so the
two boys stood and watched their enemy until he and his father had
disappeared among the throngs of Redcoats and Tories at the foot of the
street.

The last boatload of soldiers and refugees had not been long away from
the shore when the Continental soldiers entered the town by way of the
Neck and by boats across the river. The boys spied one of the first
patrols on the southern end of the Common and hastened toward them.

“I want to find out first of all about Uncle Dave and Glen,” Don said
to Jud.

But none of the men in the patrol knew either of the two men. Kindly
fellows they were, all of them, and they laughed and joked with the
boys and with one another as they marched along toward the Mall.

“Say!” exclaimed Jud when they had gone past. “I’m so glad to see those
buff and blue uniforms I can hardly say how I feel. I feel as if I’d
burst!”

“Me, too,” said Don, “except that I almost feel like--well, like when
you’re so happy it makes the tears come into your eyes. Look, here come
some more of our men!”

Probably most of the good people of Boston felt as Don and Jud felt;
certainly there were many who shed tears of joy as they stood in their
doorways and watched the various detachments of Continentals arriving.
There was good reason for the tears, for the people who shed them had
suffered like martyrs during long months of privation, insult and
oppression--to say nothing of disease, for smallpox had broken out in
the poorer parts of the town.

The first words that greeted Don as he entered his aunt’s house were,
“Donald, my boy, did--did you see your uncle?”

“No, Aunt Martha. I asked at least a score of our men about him, but
none of them seemed to know him. But, O Aunt Martha, ain’t it fine! The
Redcoats are gone!”

“When I’ve seen your uncle I shall rejoice,” his aunt replied and
turned quickly away.

One thing that annoyed Don the following day was that he failed to see
General Washington, who had entered the town and had dined with Mr.
James Bowdoin at the home of Mr. Erving, both of whom were friends of
Don’s uncle. Nor did Don see Washington the next day, for the general
had returned to Cambridge.

On Wednesday, the twentieth, the main body of the Continental troops
entered the town, with flags flying and drums beating.

“Watch out for my uncle and for Glen Drake,” Don said to Jud as the
two boys stood on a crowded street corner waiting for the head of the
column to appear.

“Yes, and you keep your eyes open for my father and for my brothers.”

From far off came the sound of drums and fifes. The crowd at the
corner, mostly boys and women, moved uneasily. “It’s Yankee Doodle
they’re playing,” whispered Jud. “Say, doesn’t that sound good!”

“It surely does!” agreed Don.

In a few minutes the regular tramp, tramp of marching feet reached the
ears of the eager little group.

“Here they are!”

A cavalcade of horses, white, black and chestnut, had turned a corner.
Behind them came the foot soldiers, resplendent in buff and blue, ruddy
of face, keen of eye.

“Hurrah! Hurrah!” Don and Jud swung their caps high into the air.
“Hurrah!” cried the rest of the little group.

But for the most part the main body of Continentals were greeted with
few cheers. The people of the besieged town had suffered too much under
Howe and the British; most of the inhabitants remained at doors and
windows and were content to wave their hands.

“There he is!” cried Jud.

“Who? Who?”

“General Washington! See, there on the big horse! Don, just look
how----”

But Don was not listening. All his attention was given to the man who
sat with such ease and dignity on the big horse. Never had he seen
anyone who looked so thoroughly like his ideal of a soldier. Tall and
well-proportioned, the general looked truly noble and majestic. His
coat was blue with buff facings, and on each shoulder he wore a rich
epaulette. His under dress was buff, and he wore a black cockade in his
hat. At his side hung an elegant small-sword.

The cavalcade swung past, and the two boys turned to each other at the
same time. “Jinks!” exclaimed Jud. “Wasn’t he fine!”

“Fine!” echoed Don and with a deep sigh turned again to view the troops.

Several ranks of foot soldiers had already passed, but the boys sharply
scrutinized those who were approaching. Company after company swung
past. Then Jud suddenly spied his father and the next instant one of
his brothers. Both recognized him and smiled as they passed. A few
minutes later he spied the other brother.

Don was worried; not a man had he seen who looked in the least like his
uncle or Glen. Company after company, regiment after regiment, marched
by, and somehow Don felt his lips beginning to quiver.

“It’s too bad, Don,” said Jud. “I’d hoped we’d see Glen and your uncle
right off. Here’s the end of the column. Maybe they’ll come later.”

Don made no answer; he was wondering how he could tell his aunt that
Uncle David had not entered with the troops. He bit his under lip.
Maybe his uncle’s wound had not healed. Maybe----

“I’ll see you later, Don,” Jud was saying. “Won’t Ma be glad when I
tell her!”

Don made his way dejectedly to the little house in Pudding Lane. He
could just picture his aunt’s face when he told her the news. He opened
the door and with head down stepped inside; the next instant, when he
lifted his eyes, he could hardly believe what he saw. There, standing
beside his aunt near the fireplace, resplendent in a captain’s uniform
was--David Hollis! His arm was round Aunt Martha’s waist, and she was
laughing and crying both at the same time. And there in one corner of
the room, looking almost as he had looked when Don had first seen him,
was Glen Drake!

“Donald, my lad!”

Don felt the breath almost squeezed from his body, for his uncle was
a big man. And then he felt the bones in his hand crunch as the old
trapper greeted him.

“Oh, this seems almost too good to be true!” Aunt Martha was saying.

For the next fifteen minutes questions and answers followed one another
in quick succession. Then at last Don asked gravely: “Uncle David,
where did you come from? I never saw you in the column.”

David Hollis laughed heartily. “I saw you, though; my company led the
column. But you were so interested in our general that you didn’t have
eyes for anybody else.”

“Never mind, Don,” said Glen; “he’s a fine man to look at, the general
is.”

“What a hard time you’ve had here!” said Uncle David. “Your aunt has
been telling me. My boy, I’m proud of you for the way you’ve acted and
especially for the way you kept the Redcoats from getting that stuff in
the cellar.”

“Yes, Don, you sure played the fox that time,” said Glen. “And now that
the Redcoats have gone, I’m thinking you and I and that other boy will
be able to do a little trapping in the woods together.”

“Now, David,” said Aunt Martha, “what are we going to do with the stuff
in the cellar? I don’t want it to remain there; truly I don’t.”

David Hollis laughed and turned to his nephew. “It’s yours, Donald,” he
said; “you’ve earned the right to it, I think; do with it as you wish.
Perhaps you can sell it.”

“Me--sell it!” exclaimed Don.

“It’s yours. My friend in the South doesn’t want it.”

“With all that cloth you won’t have to worry about breeches now for the
rest of your life, Don,” said Glen grinning.

Don did not reply; he was thinking hard.

The next morning while Glen and his uncle were with the troops he
entered the cellar and spent almost an hour making a list of the
supplies that were there. Then he hurried up-stairs and went out into
the street.

Half an hour later he was standing in front of a lieutenant in a large
hallway. “I’d like very much to see General Washington,” he said.

“Indeed,” said the lieutenant; “and what may be your business?”

“I have something to give him.”

“Indeed. You don’t look as if you had much to give.” The lieutenant
smiled good-naturedly. “I’m sorry to have to turn you away, but the
general is a busy man these days.”

Don fell back a pace and looked around him.

“I’m sorry----” the lieutenant was saying, when a door opened, and a
tall figure stepped into the hall.

Like a flash the lieutenant and several other officers who were
standing near by snapped to attention. It was Washington himself that
was walking quietly toward the entrance. Don gulped once, and then
before he knew what he was doing he had exclaimed:

“Sir--General Washington!”

The general turned, and Don pulled his slip of paper from his pocket
and handed it to him. “This is a list of goods that were in our cellar
all during the occupation,” he said. “My uncle, Capt. David Hollis,
gave them to me for keeping the Redcoats from getting them. I want to
give them to our army.”

Washington glanced at the paper--he seemed to read everything on it in
a single glance--and then turned to the boy. “The army will be very
grateful to have these supplies,” he said. “I thank you, my boy. You
are a true patriot.”

Don colored to the roots of his hair as he watched the general hand
the paper to the lieutenant and then turn and smile and pass into the
street.

“Donald!” cried Aunt Martha as Don burst noisily into the room. “What’s
the matter?”

“I gave the supplies to Washington!” cried Don. “I saw him, Aunt
Martha, and he said the army would be glad to get them. You know they
need stuff for uniforms, and especially powder.”

“Good for you, Donald! It’s the best thing you could have done with
them.”

“And, Aunt Martha, he said I was a true patriot!”

“You are, Donald; you’ve helped the cause.”

In another minute Don was, closely followed by Sailor, on his way to
Hog Alley to tell Jud the news. His eyes were bright, and his face
was flushed as he ran along the streets, which now were filled with
Continental uniforms. He had done something to help his country at last.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

  Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.

  Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

  Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

  Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.