"No, ma'am, we ain't!" they retorted, in a breath. "We'll give 'em 'Yankee Doodle' this time, my lady!"
"'Yankee Doodle,'" repeated Silver Heels, mystified.
"A foolish song the British play in Boston to plague us," I explained.
Presently Silver Heels touched my arm. "See yonder—look at that man, down there in the road! See him running now, Michael!"
I turned and looked down the Boston Road; the little barelegged drummer stood up.
Faintly came the far cry through the misty chill: "The British are coming! The British are coming!"
The next instant the wet, stringy drum banged and buzzed on the tavern porch, drowning all other sounds in our ears; a score of men stumbled to their feet, rifles in hand; the little fifer blew a whistling call, then ran out into the road.
At that same moment our post-chaise lumbered around the corner of the tavern yard and drew up before us, Mount acting as post-boy, and Foxcroft and the Weasel riding together in the rear.
Mount apprehended the situation at a glance; he motioned me to place Silver Heels in the chaise, which I did, with my eyes still fixed on the foggy Boston Road.
"Is it a false alarm?" inquired Foxcroft, anxiously, as a few of the militia came running past our chaise. "Ho! Harrington! Hey! Bob Monroe! Is it true they are coming, lads?"