VIII.
CHRISTOPHER SNIDER.
The night-watchman of the North End of Boston, with overcoat buttoned to the chin and a muffler around his neck, a fur cap drawn down over his ears to exclude the biting frost of midwinter, was going his rounds. He saw no revelers in the streets, nor belated visitors returning to their homes.
If suitors were calling upon their ladies, the visits were ended long before the clock on the Old Brick struck the midnight hour. No voice broke the stillness of the night. The watchman scarcely heard his own footsteps in the newly fallen snow as he slowly made his way along Middle Street,[37] with his lantern and staff. He was not expecting to encounter a burglar, breaking and entering a shop, store, or residence. He heard the clock strike once more, and was just pursing his lips to cry, “Two o’clock, and all’s well,” when he caught a glimpse of a figure in front of Theophilus Lillie’s store.[38] Was it a burglar? The man was standing stock-still, as if scanning the premises. The watchman dodged back behind the building on the corner of the street, hid his lantern, and peered slyly at the thief, who was still looking at the store. What was the meaning of such mysterious inaction? The watchman, instead of waiting to catch the culprit in the act of breaking and entering, stepped softly forward. Grasping his staff with a firm grip, to give a sudden whack, should the villain turn upon him,—“What ye ’bout, sir!” he shouted.
The burglar did not reply, neither turn his head.
“Is the fellow dead, I wonder—frozen stiff, this bitter night, and standing still?” the question that flashed through the watchman’s brain.
“Bless my soul! It’s Mr. Lillie’s head,—his nose, mouth, chin. Looks just like him. And the post is set in the ground. I’ll bet that carving is Abe Duncan’s work. Nobody can carve like him. But what is it here for? Ah! I see. Lillie has gone back on his agreement not to import tea. The Sons of Liberty have rigged it up to guy him. Ha, ha!”
The watchman laughed to himself as he examined the figure.