"Don't trouble about that. I can see over my shoulder, and before a man can touch me I shall shoot."
He was a quick and good shot, as I found out next summer, when I used to stay with him in Milton, and we practised at a target.
But the memorable 21st of January drew on, when the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society was to be held in Tremont Temple. Rumours again filled the air, and something more than rumours. I have already said I had friends in the other camp. One of them came to me to beg me to let it alone. "I care nothing about Phillips," he said, "but you are my friend and I must tell you what I know, though I am betraying my own party." "Then don't tell it." But he insisted.
His story came to this: That, knowing we had organized in December for defence, they had organized for attack. A group of men outnumbering ours would go to the Temple on the 21st, well led and well armed. Under the new Mayor, Wightman, a more subservient tool of the mob than his predecessor, Lincoln, the police would no longer be allowed to protect the Abolitionists. This hostile band would wait on events a little, but if Phillips and his friends were in the same mood as at the Music Hall, they would be driven out of the Temple. "What do you mean by driven out?" He answered, gravely, "It would be truer to say carried out. We are determined to put down this mad agitation. They will not leave the Temple alive."
My friend spoke in perfect good faith, but it is needless to say I did not believe him. I told him so.
"Your friends talk, but they will not act. They well know that if they murder Phillips they will be hanged for it."
"But will you not advise Phillips to stay away, or at least to be moderate?"
"No, I will not. If I did, it would be useless."
"But if you tell him what I say?"
"He would disbelieve it, as I do."