Once out in Winter Street, they formed in a solid square, Phillips and his friends in the centre. The square was never broken. The mob were many thousands strong. There were wild rushes, there was the tremendous pressure of great masses of men, but against it all the police held good. Down Winter Street to Washington Street, along Washington Street to Essex Street, and in Essex Street to the door of Phillips's house, the mob kept us company, oozing and surging slowly on, reviling and cursing all the way. They thought they would have a chance at the house, but the Deputy Chief had taken possession there in advance, and when the door opened we passed comfortably in between the police lines. It had taken us an hour or more from the hall to the house. The distance is a short half-mile.
It had been a murderous mob. Phillips's life was aimed at and had been in imminent danger during that hour. The spirit of murder was abroad. The police warned us. They thought the peril over for the moment, but none the less remained on duty near the house. Men were stopped and asked to state their business. When I returned in the afternoon an officer came up to me but recognized me, nodded, and I went in. I found Phillips as cool as usual, the usual sunshine in his blue eyes. I told him what I had heard from the police, and that I thought his house ought to be garrisoned for the night.
"But who will undertake that?"
"Your friends know there is danger and will gladly come."
He seemed a little sceptical and asked:
"Will you come?"
"Certainly." I explained to him our plans. He went into the back parlour and brought out an ugly-looking pike. "It was John Brown's," he said. No weapon could be more unfit for use in a narrow hall or on winding stairs. It might have a moral effect. It was agreed that three of us whose names are above, should camp out that night in the parlour. When we arrived about ten o'clock we found the table laid, with food and drink for a much larger army. The night passed without alarm, as did following nights, but neither our vigilance nor that of the police relaxed.
During these days, and long after, Phillips walked the streets of Boston with his hand on his revolver. I was sometimes with him. I said one day:
"I am more afraid now they will try insult than injury."