They were perhaps half-way to Newbury Street when they heard loud talking and boisterous laughter. A minute later they saw a crowd—mostly soldiers and Tories—at the corner.
Suddenly the two boys stopped short. Don grasped Jud’s arm and in a choking voice cried, “See what they’ve done!”
Jud was speechless; his lips moved, but he made no sound. There in front of them, the centre of a boorish mob, lay the Liberty Tree! It had been cut down near the base. The delicate leaves and slender twigs were being trampled underfoot as Tories and Redcoats moved here and there, laughing, shouting and swearing. Great limbs that once had swayed so gracefully in the breeze were scattered about along the street; deep white gashes showed where the cruel axe had bitten into them. And the odor of green wood filled the moist warm air.
“J-Jud!” cried Don.
But Jud did not utter a word. His ruddy face was pale, and his cheeks seemed suddenly hollow.
“Well, what do you think of your fine tree now?” said a mocking voice.
Both boys turned and confronted—Tom Bullard.
“You dirty, sneaking chicken-thief!” cried Jud and would have hurled himself against the Tory if Don had not held him.
“Now, none of that,” said Tom and retreated a step or two. Then he turned and walked away, whistling.
“See here,” said a bystander, “I guess you boys feel as bad as I do about it, but don’t be hotheads. They’re too many for us.”