"Is it generally known that your opposition to the mother country is based upon a snubbing you received from a British officer in an ale-house fifteen years ago?"
"Enough, young man," said Adams. "Ye are either what ye say ye are—in which case ye'r a wizard—or ye'r a spy sent here by my enemies to muddle me with poor advice. Ye know too much about me and I know too little about ye. Now get out!"
There was no mistaking the anger in those genial brown eyes as Adams rose to his feet. All at once Justin realised he was going to call Molineux, have him chased out of town, perhaps beaten. After all, there was no police force in the Boston of 1761.
Moving quickly he picked up a heavy paperweight, evidently once an Indian axe-head, that lay atop a stack of foolscap on the desk, and struck Adams on the head with it before he could call for help. The oft-called Father of the Revolution fell forward across his desk. Justin bolted.
Molineux, who had been facing a front window in the other room turned and made a menacing move. "In there!" cried Justin. "Mr. Adams has fainted. I'll get help."
Feeling like an errant coward, Justin fled.
VIII
Behind Justin, moments later, Will Molineux, brandishing his pewter tankard, emerged from Sam Adams' house, roaring his rage and anger. Even as he cut for Long Lane, Justin once again felt a curious undefinable flicker of memory—the same that had troubled him while listening to Ortine—and once before recently on an occasion he could not recall.
For a few brief moments, while Justin slithered up the uneven icy surface of Long Lane, Molineux's shouts were blanketed by the corner buildings. But before Justin had proceeded more than fifty yards past his lodging place of the night before, a rising outcry struck his ears—ominous not only because of its closeness but because it no longer issued from one throat. Evidently Molineux's gang was joining the chase.