“I went down to the shipyard this morning and got two tomahawks. They are in my chamber, together with the feathers and war-paint and the other things. Come round early, Abe,” said Tom as they parted.
Again at three o’clock a great crowd filled the meetinghouse. The clouds had rolled away, and the setting sun was throwing its beams upon the gilded weather-vane when Roger Stanley entered the building. It was so full that he could only stand in one of the aisles. The moderator was reading letters from the selectmen of the surrounding towns, saying that they would stand by Boston in whatever might be done to prevent the landing of the tea.
“Their letters,” said William Molineux, rising in one of the front pews, “are all very well; they show the determined spirit of our fellow-citizens; but we must have a committee whose duty it shall be to prevent the landing of the tea. I move the appointment of such a committee.”
The meeting voted that a committee should be appointed.
The evening shades were falling and the housewives lighting their candles. In the Brandon house Tom and Abraham were putting on Indian uniforms which Mr. Brandon years before brought home from the tribes along the shores of the St. Lawrence—buckskin breeches and coats, fur caps trimmed with eagle’s feathers. Tom tripped upstairs to the garret, and returned with a bunch of garget berries, with which they stained their faces and hands.
“You look just like Indians,” said Berinthia.
“Say nothing to nobody as to what you have seen, ’Rinth,” said Tom, as he closed the door and walked with Abraham rapidly along the street.
In the Old South Meetinghouse Josiah Quincy was speaking. The sexton brought in two tallow candles and placed them on the table before the moderator. There was a stir at the door—a commotion—a turning of necks in the pews, as the young merchant, Mr. Rotch, entered the building. Many in the audience thought he had been lukewarm in his desire to have the tea sent back to London, and were ready to hiss at him.