“Is—is he alive?”
“Oh, yes; he’ll stand parade to-morrow all right. I’m sorry for that. How I hate ’em!”
Don caught a glimpse of Tom Bullard entering the warehouse. Then a low, plaintive cry sounded behind him, and, looking over the edge of the wharf, he saw his terrier in the water. “My pup!” exclaimed Don. “Get him somebody, please!”
A good-sized group of persons had gathered round the boy by that time, and the sailor and two other men hastened to rescue the dog. Once on the wharf, the terrier ran to his young master and began to leap up on him.
“Get the boy to a warm place,” said a lanky fisherman and grasped Don by one arm.
The sailor who had pulled him from the water placed himself on the other side, and together the three of them started down the street at a rapid pace. Soon Don felt a warm glow all over his body; nevertheless his teeth were chattering, and with each puff of strong wind he shivered.
“Wish it had been old Gage instead of a common Redcoat,” the sailor was saying.
“Same here,” replied his companion. “You’d have pushed him under when you pulled the lad out, wouldn’t you, Hank?”
“You’re right, I would have done just that.”
Down one street and into another the three hurried and then paused in front of a tavern with a swinging sign-board that bore the grotesque figure of a green dragon. “Here’s Revere’s place,” said the sailor. “In we go.”