“It will mean fighting,” Don replied.
“Yes, it will mean—war.” Aunt Martha’s voice trembled. “War between us and our own kinsmen with whom we have been close friends for so long.”
Don thought of Tom Bullard, but he said nothing.
“I do hope that things will be settled peaceably before long,” said his aunt.
Not many days had passed before the inhabitants of Boston learned that tea ships that had tried to land cargoes at New York and at Charleston had fared no better than the three Indiamen at Boston. And again the people of Boston rejoiced, for they were sure that they had done right in destroying the tea.
For a while Don found things very quiet at the little house in Pudding Lane. He went regularly to the Latin School in School Street and after hours frequently helped his aunt to look after the store. He saw Tom Bullard almost every day, but Tom had not a word to say to his former close friend.
One day shortly after Christmas the two boys met unexpectedly near Tom’s house in Hanover Street. Don stopped short. “Say, Tom,” he said, “don’t you think we might be friends again even if we can’t agree on all things?”
“I don’t care to be friendly—with you,” replied Tom shortly.
“Oh, all right, then,” said Don.
For several minutes he was indignant and angry; then he decided that the best thing for him to do would be to forget the quarrel, and from that moment he did not allow it to worry him.