“I’m cold,” said Tom, “and hungry too. Aren’t you, Don?”
“No,” replied Don.
He lifted his hands to loosen his collar; they were trembling but not with cold. Something must happen soon, he thought.
Somewhere a bell was tolling, and the tones seemed to shiver in the chill air. Half an hour dragged by, slowly. And then there was a sudden commotion near the door of the church, and the buzz of conversation rose to a higher pitch. “It’s Rotch!” exclaimed someone. “It’s Rotch,” said another; “and Governor Hutchinson has refused clearance.”
The crowd pressed closer to the door. Don could see people moving about inside the meeting-house. Then he saw somebody at the far end of the hall lift his hand, and he barely distinguished the words: “This meeting can do nothing more to save the country.”
An instant later there was a shout from someone on the little porch of the church, and then the startling sound of war-whoops rang in Marlborough Street. In a moment the people in the church began to pour out of the door. In Milk Street, near Bishop’s Alley, Don spied half a dozen figures clothed in blankets and wearing feathered head-dresses; their faces were copper-colored, and all of them carried hatchets or axes. Where they had come from no one seemed to have any clear idea, but as they started down the street others joined them; and the crowd followed.
“Where are you going, Don?” Tom asked sharply as his companion turned to join the throng in Milk Street.
“He’s going to have a look at the King’s tea, aren’t you, my lad?” said a voice near by.
“Come on along,” cried Don.
But Tom seized his companion’s arm and held him. “Don, are you crazy?” he demanded. “Keep out of this; it’s trouble; that’s what it is——”