"If that were all," she replied, "I'd willingly defy Ortine and all the de'ils in hell for ye, Darling Charles—but there is far too much involved."
He argued but to no avail, reluctantly took his leave. By a steeple clock he saw that the afternoon was still young. He might as well, he thought, put his time along to good use. So he made his way directly to the ramshackle doorway of Sam Adams' ramshackled old house.
An immense shaggy Irishman, his face pitted by the universal pockmarks of the era, opened the door to his knock. His free fist was clenched about the handle of a large pewter mug and his accents were slurred as he said, "What have we here?"
"I'd like to speak to Mr. Adams," Justin said.
The giant roared, "Sam! A peasant to see ye—with the voice of a man fro' the moon!"
There was a murmur from within and Justin entered a house whose interior looked as threadbare and ramshackled as its facade. He was taken to a disorderly looking study where a tall red-faced genial-looking man, whose coat was glossy with gravy stains, regarded Justin not unpleasantly and said, "Ye wish to see me?"
"I do," replied Justin, his knees weak. Glancing at the glowering Irishman behind him, he added, "On a matter of some confidence, Mr. Adams."
Adams glanced at his companion and said, "I doubt me much that this honest-looking stranger wishes me ill. Outside, Will."
Memory rang another gong within Justin's head. Will—that could mean only Will Molineux, tough rugged South End mob leader and soon-to-be captain of the town's Liberty Boys, a vital lower-bracket cog in the machinery that ultimately set up revolt against the Crown in Boston.
"Now, Master...?" said Adams inquiringly.