She stood irresolute a moment. Then she drew a quick breath as if something pleased her, and ran down the street to the lantern swinging on its pole. Reaching, stretching, pulling herself up, she managed to lift it down and hurry back, holding it proudly aloft, flashing it on the paneled door.
In the light that flared uncertainly behind the thin panes of horn, the two cousins bent close and read aloud the words, “Closed. Gone to the wars till the damn British be beat. J. Townsend.”
They stood still and looked at each other. A salt-smelling wind blew down the old street, and a wisp of fog came with it. Fog was dimming the lights of Boston, that even now, close to midnight, still burned on the other side of the river. The lights looked unfriendly, Kitty thought, as she remembered that Boston was in the hands of the enemy. Down by the wharves men were shouting and the shouts had an angry sound. A burst of musket fire broke out, somewhere off Medford way. The girls looked at each other and shivered. They were hungry and tired and fly-bitten. They were a little frightened, maybe.
“What will we do now?” asked Kitty. The tone reminded Sally Rose that she was to blame for the plight they were in, even if the words did not.
“I—don’t—quite know,” faltered Sally Rose. “We can get into the house. We’ll have a roof over our heads, and a bed to sleep in. Maybe there’s something to eat in the cupboard. We’ll be safe for tonight. But it’s after that I’m thinking of. We can’t run the tavern alone, without father, and how are we to live if we cannot run the tavern?”
“We could send for Gran,” said Kitty a little mockingly. “Of course she’s a timid old lady, but I notice she’s able to do most everything that comes her way. I’ll bet she’d be able to serve up cider, or rum toddy, or hot grog—or whatever it is they drink.”
Suddenly Sally Rose was smiling again. “Kitty, that’s a wonderful plan. Let’s climb into the house now, and have supper, and sleep forever. When we wake up we’ll send her a letter by the first post. The buttery window’s around here at the back, under the apple tree. Come along. I can unfasten the catch, but you’ll have to hoist me in.”
Chapter Eight
SAVED BY A PIPE-SMOKING MAN
Standing in the wet salt grass at the end of Chelsea Neck, Tom Trask shifted the old blunderbuss from one shoulder to the other.
“Wisht I had my own gun,” he said to himself. “I’d rather try to lug a young pine tree, roots and all, than this critter here.”