“He hasn’t got the pluck of a goslin,” said the first.
Robert set his teeth together, but made no reply, and walked away. He felt like pitching them headforemost into the dock, and was fearful he might do something which, in cooler blood, he would wish he had not done.
By what right were they strolling the streets of an orderly town? Those who supported the king said they were there to maintain the dignity of the crown. True, a mob had battered the door of Thomas Hutchinson, but that had been settled. The people were quiet, orderly, law-abiding. The sentinel by the Town House glared at him as he walked up King Street, as if ready to dispute his right to do so. He saw a bookstore on the corner of the street, and with a light heart entered it. A tall, broad-shouldered young man welcomed him.
“May I look at your books?” Robert asked.
“Certainly; we have all those recently published in London, and a great many pamphlets printed here in the Colonies,” the young man replied.
“I live in the country. We do not have many books in New Hampshire,” said Robert.
“Oh, from New Hampshire? Please make yourself at home, and look at any book you please. My name is Henry Knox,”[16] said the young man.
“I am Robert Walden.”
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Walden, and shall be glad to render you any service in my power. Is this your first visit to town?”