“See here, Don,” began Tom abruptly, “I know where you’ve come from, and I know what’s happened down at the wharf. I know also that those men weren’t Indians. The thing I want to ask you is, what do you think of it?”
“Why,” replied Don slowly, “I’m afraid it won’t please you, Tom, if I tell. I think we—that is, the Indians,—did the proper thing in throwing the tea overboard.”
Tom stiffened. “So you’re a young rebel,” he said. “A young rebel! Well, I thought so all along. I’m through with you from now on.”
“I’m sorry, Tom; we’ve been good friends.”
“Well, I’m not sorry,” replied Tom, turning part way round. “A young rebel!” he repeated, flinging the words over his shoulder. “Well, look out for trouble, that’s all.” And he crossed the street.
Don bit his lips. He had lost an old friend; Tom was a Tory. Well, he was not astonished; but he had hoped that their friendship might last through their differences.
He felt somewhat depressed as he made his way along the crooked streets to his aunt’s little house in Pudding Lane. No light was burning in the store at the front where his aunt sold groceries and odds and ends of a household nature to eke out the income of his Uncle David, who was employed at MacNeal’s rope yard on Hutchinson Street. He entered the small sitting-room at the back of the house. “Hello, Aunt Martha,” he said cheerfully.
“Donald Alden, for goodness’ sake, where have you been?” Aunt Martha Hollis dropped the stocking that she had been knitting and adjusted her spectacles.
“Well, first I went up to the town-meeting.”
“Did you see your Uncle David there?”