“Well, you see,” replied the resourceful Jud, “if we go to Faneuil Hall to-morrow night we’ll probably learn more, hey, Don?”
But at that moment Snell and Hawkins entered, and the conversation ceased.
CHAPTER XIII
A FARCE IS INTERRUPTED
Dusk had fallen over the town when Don and Jud, warmly clad in heavy coats and mufflers, made their way toward Faneuil Hall. Others were walking in the same direction—mostly officers, who stepped with the firmness and confidence that marked an officer of the King. The night was cold and dark, and few lights gleamed as they once had gleamed, cheerily, in the windows of the shops along King Street and Merchant’s Row; yet there was cheery conversation. The boys could hear laughing and congenial talking among the hurrying throngs.
“I just feel like laughing good and hard to-night,” they heard one man say.
“Yes, and I too,” another agreed. “There’s been little enough to laugh at ever since we landed in this town.”
“Well, you’ll laugh to-night, or I’m a Dutchman,” said a third. “There’s to be a farce called the Blockade of Boston. Funny! I thought I’d laugh myself sick the first time I heard it rehearsed. I tell you the officers who wrote it—let’s see; who was it now? Well, never mind; they certainly wrote a funny play. Just wait till you catch sight of General Washington!”
Jud scowled in the darkness. “Remember, Don,” he whispered, “we’ll have to keep a firm hold on our tempers.”
Don laughed. “I’ll keep a firm hold of mine, Jud; but I’m not so sure about you. You’re hot-headed, you know.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Jud. “He who laughs last, you know——”