CHAPTER VIIJUD APPLETON
Luckseemed to walk hand in hand with Don after Glen Drake had vanished into the darkness. The boy set out at once along Cambridge Street, walking slowly, pausing frequently, and keeping well at the side of the road, where the shadows were thickest. When he came within sight of the first house he stopped to consider, but the sudden barking of a dog caused him to turn abruptly into the field at the right. He crossed George Street and skirted Beacon Hill. Near Valley Acre he came unexpectedly on a large overhanging rock with two scrub pines growing in front of it; the spot was so sheltered and so fragrant and dry with pine needles that he decided to remain there till dawn.
Aunt Martha was an early riser, and it was well that she was, for shortly before six o’clock the knocker rose and fell heavily three times on the door. She left her stove and hastened toanswer the knocks. The next moment she was perhaps the most astonished woman in Boston. “Why—why, Donald!” she cried, and then caught her nephew in her arms.
Don had the breath almost crushed from his body, and the little prepared speech of greeting that he had had all ready seemed to have fled from his memory. “Aunt Martha,” he gasped. “I didn’t know—you were so—so strong!”
“Now,” said his aunt, releasing him at last, “tell me everything, Donald,—everything!”
Hungry as Don was, he made no mention of food but sat down in the low white rocker beside the window and began with the thing that was most vivid in his mind—the skirmish at Concord.
And all the while that he talked, Aunt Martha sat pale and rigid in the chair beside him. Only once were her eyes moist, and that was when Don gave her the last of his uncle’s three messages; but she said nothing and merely nodded for him to continue.
“Well, I guess that’s all,” said Don at last. “You know, Aunt Martha, I’d have been home long ago except for my ankle.”
“I know, Donald; and I’m thankful, I hope. It might have been worse. And now let me getyou something to eat. Oh, Donald, you’ll never know how glad I am to have you with me again.”
It was a long while before Aunt Martha ceased to ask questions; and then it was Don’s turn. A great change, he learned, had come over the town even in the few days that he had been away from it. It was in a state of siege, cut off from the outside world, and food was scarce among the poor. There were suffering and distress; many persons, like Aunt Martha, had relatives and friends in the Continental army and thought with dread and apprehension of what might happen if the besiegers should attack.
“I don’t know what’s to become of us, truly I don’t,” said Aunt Martha. “With your uncle and Glen with the army, it’s most too much to bear. Fortunately, though, we shall not lack for food; the store’s well stocked.”
“And that stuff in the cellar, is it still there?” asked Don.
“Yes, and it’s likely to remain.”
“We might be able to sell it,” Don suggested hopefully. Then he added, “If we could only get it to the army in Cambridge!”
But Aunt Martha only smiled and shook her head. “Don,” she said, “would you rather bein Cambridge, or perhaps with your cousin in Concord, than here?”
“I want to be with you,” Don replied firmly and then wondered at the look of quick relief that came over his aunt’s face.
The next day he learned the reason for it. General Gage had agreed to allow those families who wished to leave the town to go in safety. But Aunt Martha had not changed her mind. In spite of the supplications of her husband, whom she loved dearly, and in spite of the risks that she ran in remaining, she would not leave the little house in which she had been born and had lived most of her life. If she was stubborn, it was stubbornness of a defiant, heroic sort, and those who knew her respected her for it, though some called her a “foolish woman.”
As a result of General Gage’s permission hundreds of families did leave the town—a circumstance that greatly alarmed the Tories, who believed that as long as there were women and children in the town the Continentals would not attack. So at last the general withdrew his permission, and the town settled down to wait and to watch.
Though there was no longer any school forDon to attend he found plenty of things to keep him busy. He helped his aunt about the store in the daytime and sat and talked with her at night. And the conversation always was of his uncle and of Glen Drake and the army, of which they knew little enough. Then always before they went to bed Aunt Martha would spread the old thumb-worn Bible on her knees and read a chapter aloud.
Frequently of an afternoon Don would take Sailor and go for a long walk as he used to do. One bright warm day early in May the two were on their way home from a long jaunt, and were walking along between the elms on Common Street, when Don observed a group of Redcoats some distance in front of him. “Here, Sailor,” he called, but the terrier paid no heed and ran on ahead.
When Don was within a few yards of the group he recognized two familiar figures—Tom Bullard, who as aide to General Ruggles of the Tories, now wore a white sash round his left sleeve, and Harry Hawkins, the Redcoat, whose life Don had saved. The two were laughing and talking together.
“Here’s one of the young rebels,” cried Tomas Don drew near. “And here’s his rebel dog. Get out of here, you pup.”
Don made no answer but spoke sharply to Sailor, and the dog trotted to his side.
“Good day to you, young sire,” said Hawkins pleasantly.
“Good day,” replied Don, and then colored as he observed a boy of perhaps his own age who happened to be passing with a fishing pole over his shoulder.
“Do you know him, Hawkins?” inquired Tom in astonishment and then as Sailor left Don’s side and started back toward the group he added angrily: “Git, you pup, git!”
But Sailor was all friendliness as he trotted toward the soldiers.
“Come here, Sailor!” ordered Don, stopping and snapping his fingers.
But at that instant Tom’s foot shot out and, striking the terrier in the chest, lifted him into the air. With a loud yelp the dog landed on his back and then, scrambling to his feet, ran to Don and stood beside him, trembling.
“I’ll learn a rebel dog a trick or two,” cried Tom. “And before long——”
But Tom never finished the sentence. BeforeDon could take more than two steps forward, and before any of the soldiers could interfere, the boy whom Don had just passed dropped his fishing pole, and, lowering his head, rushed at Tom. One of his fists struck the Tory squarely in the mouth and sent him reeling; the other struck him on the ear and sent him crashing to the ground.
Tom was a big boy and very active. In a moment he was on his feet and had closed with his opponent, who was easily twenty pounds the lighter.
“Fight!” cried a Redcoat. “Clear the way there!”
But there was no fight; at least it lasted only until Harry Hawkins could spring forward and pull the two apart. “Stop it!” he cried and pushed Tom’s assailant away. “And you,” he said sharply to Tom, “get along and be quick about it! I thought better than that of you!”
“Why, Hawkins——”
“Never mind that; you deserve a licking, and if the boy hadn’t been smaller than you, I’d have stood and watched you take it. Kick a dog! You ought to be kicked, yourself!”
Tom Bullard’s mouth opened and closed. Hegulped several times and then turned for sympathy to the other soldiers; but they were laughing at him. With low mutterings he picked up his hat and strode abruptly off across the Common. The soldiers, still laughing, started toward the tented area.
Don gathered Sailor in his arms and walked to where the boy was standing; he had shouldered his fishing pole and was blowing on the knuckles of his right hand.
He was a boy very much like Don in general appearance—sturdy, active and alert-looking. His hair was of a reddish brown, and his eyes, dark and sparkling, seemed to flash with little points of fire. As Don approached him, a smile played about the corners of his rather large mouth.
Don extended his hand, and the boy grasped it. “I want to thank you,” said Don, “for thrashing Tom Bullard. My name is Donald Alden; I live in Pudding Lane.”
The boy grinned. “Mine’s Jud Appleton.” He patted the head of the terrier. “Nice looking dog you have. When that big Tory kicked him I couldn’t help sailing into him. He’d have licked me, though, if it hadn’t been for the Redcoat.My, but didn’t he talk hot to him afterward!”
The two boys laughed heartily. “You surely hit him hard,” said Don.
“Did I?” said Jud. “Well, not hard enough, I reckon. Anybody who’d kick a dog—my, how I hate ’em! I hate Redcoats too, and Tories worse—and when a Tory kicks a dog I just boil over.”
The boy’s eyes were flashing again, and his fists were tightly clenched. Don felt an instant liking for him.
“Say,” said Jud quickly, “do you know that Redcoat? I saw him speak to you.”
“Well, yes,” Don replied and colored again. “You see, I—I saved him from drowning once.”
“From drowning!”
“Yes; that is—it was before Concord.”
“Oh, I see.” Jud seemed somewhat relieved. “Do you know the Tory?”
“We used to be good friends once. His name is Tom Bullard.”
“Oh, yes; so you said. Say, come on along home with me, won’t you? I live just down here in Hog Alley. I’ve got the finest bunch of kittens you ever saw.”
“You like kittens?”
“I like all kinds of animals,” Jud replied gravely.
That was enough for Don, and he accompanied his new friend past West Street and along toward the alley.
“It’s no fun, living so close to the Common these days,” said Jud. “All you see is Redcoats. And how I hate ’em! My father and my two brothers are in the army, and I only wish I could be there too. A drummer boy is what I’d like to be.”
“So would I,” replied Don. “I was up at Concord and saw the fight——”
“Did you!” cried Jud. “Tell me about it. And how did you ever get back?”
By the time Don had told him something of the skirmish and of Glen Drake and his Uncle David the two boys were at Jud’s house. A poor, miserable-looking, one-story little place it was, with a cracked weather-worn door and a window on either side that looked out across the road on a large triangular field covered with clover and dandelions.
“That’s our cow over there,” said Jud, “and those are our chickens. We had twenty-six, butwe lost four the other night. Ma thinks a skunk got ’em, but I think it was Redcoats.”
He led the way to a shed behind the house, and a moment later Don was looking at six fluffy black and white kittens nestled in the folds of a burlap bag. As he bent over them the mother cat came running from a corner of the shed, and he started backward. Sailor backed away and sat down; he had suffered enough for one day.
“She won’t hurt you,” said Jud, laughing. “Will you, puss?” He played with the kittens for several minutes, stroking and calling each by name while the mother cat sat by and watched contentedly. “They’re pretty well grown now and about ready to shift for themselves. That’s a good dog of yours to sit there like that. I had a hard time to keep my dog away from them at first. Say, wouldn’t you like to have one? Ma says I can’t keep ’em all.”
“Yes, I would,” replied Don. “We haven’t any, and a cat might be good company for my aunt.”
“Well, here’s a nice one,” and Jud lifted one of the kittens that was all black except for one white foot. “See, she has one white shoe on; she lost the others.”
“I’ll call it Whitefoot, then,” said Don and laughed.
“Judson, are you home?” came a woman’s voice from the house.
“Just got home, Ma.”
“Well, come here; we lost two more chickens last night.”
“Thunder!” exclaimed Jud in a low voice.
“Yes, two more,” repeated Mrs. Appleton, appearing at the door of the shed. “I counted them just now, and there’s only twenty. Oh!” she exclaimed at sight of Don.
“This is Don Alden,” said Jud; “he lives up in Puddin’ Lane.”
Don found Jud’s mother a pleasant, talkative little woman who in some ways reminded him of his aunt, though she was not so old. When Jud had explained to her about their adventure with Tom Bullard and about Don’s trip to Concord she insisted that he stay and have something to eat with them.
Later as Don was about to set out with his new pet, Jud whispered to him: “I’m going to stay up to-night and catch that chicken-thief. I wish you could be here with me. Can’t you come back?”
“I don’t know,” Don replied doubtfully. “I’d like to, but there’s my aunt, you know; I don’t like to leave her alone. Have you got a gun or anything?”
“No; but I’ve got a hickory club, and I can throw a stone pretty straight.”
“I’d like to sit up with you,” said Don.