“I—I surely hope so!” said Don and turned reluctantly toward the stairs.
He did not go to sleep at once; his room was directly above the sitting-room, and he could hear his uncle and Glen Drake talking until late into the night.
The month that followed was a delightful one for Don. After school hours he and the old trapper would often cross the Neck and go for a long walk through Cambridge and far beyond. The backbone of winter was broken; spring was well along, and the birds had returned from the south. Glen knew them all, by sight and by sound, and he was willing and even eager to teach his companion; he taught him also the habits of the fur-bearing animals and the best ways to trap them; he taught him how to fish the streams, the baits to use and the various outdoor methods of cooking the fish they landed.
“I declare,” said Glen one evening in May when they were returning with a fine mess of fish, “you’re the quickest boy to learn a thing ever I knew. I’m as proud of ye as if you were my own son.”
Don felt a thrill pass over him; he had not expected such praise as that. “I hope I can learn a lot more,” he said.
But that was the last trip the two made into the country together for a long time. On arriving at the house in Pudding Lane, they found Uncle David pacing nervously back and forth across the floor.
“What’s the matter, Dave?” asked Glen.
“Matter enough; haven’t you heard?” Uncle David paused. Then he said with a note of anger in his voice: “I was sure all along that the King would take some means of revenge for the affair of the tea, but it’s worse than I’d suspected. He’s going to close the port.”
Glen Drake whistled softly. Don paused at the foot of the stairs.
“Military governor is coming first,” continued Uncle David, “and troops later—Redcoats!”