A patriot lad of old Boston

The next day was fair and warm, but on the following day the wind changed, and the drab, suffering town of Boston was shrouded in a thick blanket of fog. Don rolled over in bed and stretched and yawned.

“Donald,” came the voice of his aunt, “it’s high time you were down here to breakfast. You’re awake, ’cause I hear the bed a-creaking. Come on now; Mrs. Lancaster is coming to-day.”

Don lay and blinked for a moment; then he sprang out of bed. If Mrs. Lancaster were coming, probably she would stay all night—she usually did. Don had almost given up hope of going to Jud’s and of sitting up with him to catch the skunk or whatever was stealing his chickens; but now, if Mrs. Lancaster were coming, he would not mind leaving his aunt for a while in the evening.

At breakfast Aunt Martha said that her visitor would remain overnight; and when Don had told her what he wanted to do she objected at first, as he knew she would, and then consented after he had promised her to keep far away from any skunk that might come after Jud’s chickens.

At evening when Don set out for Hog Alley the fog was still heavy. The houses on the opposite side of Pudding Lane, which was one of the narrowest streets in town, could hardly be seen. And on the Common even the scarlet-coated soldiers were almost invisible at a distance of twenty yards.

“I don’t know but what Ma was right,” said Jud when Don reached the shabby little house in Hog Alley. “There was a skunk round here last night—a big fellow too, from the smell of him. But I had the hen-house locked tight and all the chickens inside; so he didn’t get a one. I was wishing you’d been here though—are you going to stay to-night?”

“For a while, if you want me.”

“I surely do!” Jud was very positive about it. There was no doubt that, even on such short acquaintance, he liked Don quite as well as Don liked him. “Well, I’ve got a plan,” he said eagerly. “I want you to tell me what you think of it.”

“Let’s hear it,” said Don.

“Well, come around to the chicken yard and I’ll explain,” said Jud. “Now here,” he said a few moments later, “you see our chicken yard has a high fence and a small gate at the far end.”

“I see,” said Don; “the gate opens out and latches on the outside.”

“Yes, and it’s a strong latch too. Well, I thought we could leave the gate open and attach a long rope to it and run it through the fence on this side and back to the wagon shed here, where you and I could wait. Then if Mr. Skunk comes along and enters the yard, all we’ll have to do is to pull the gate shut and we’ll have him. Of course he won’t be able to hurt the chicks ’cause they’ll be locked tight in the hen-house. What do you think of the idea, Don?”

“Mighty good; but what’ll we do with the skunk when we catch it?”

“Oh, Fred Ferguson next door will kill it for us in the morning.”

“And what if it shouldn’t be a skunk? What if it should be a Redcoat?”

Jud laughed. “I guess we shan’t catch a Redcoat,” he replied. “I hate ’em so much I guess I was unfair the other day. It’s a skunk all right; you’ll see.”

“I hope so,” said Don. “We’d be in a nice fix if we caught a Redcoat.”

“Let’s set our trap,” said Jud. “The first thing is to find enough rope.”

The boys at once began to search the wagon shed, and by the time they had found enough lengths, had fastened them to one another and had tied one end of the improvised rope to the gate of the chicken yard, darkness had set in in earnest. Carrying the other end of the rope across the yard and passing it between the wires of the fence, they retired with it to the door of the wagon shed to wait.

“Just a moment,” said Jud and crossed the yard to the house.

When he returned he carried with him a pan of cornbread and two large apples. “This is going to be fun,” he said. “It’s like being out in the woods, trapping.”

“It is a little,” Don agreed; and then he told Jud more about Glen Drake and about the trips that the old trapper and he had made together. “You’ll have to come to the house sometime when he’s there,” he said.

“I’d like to,” said Jud, “but if he’s with the army, it’ll be a long time before he can come to Boston again.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Don. “If Glen wanted to come very much he’d come, and the King’s men would never catch him either!”

For a while the boys sat silent, munching cornbread and apples in the doorway of the old shed. All round them was darkness, damp and chill. Up on Common Street a wagon creaked past; the driver, whoever he was, was singing a boisterous song. After a while he passed out of hearing; and only the occasional challenge of a sentry far across the Common broke the stillness.

Don’s head was beginning to nod; but Jud, rope in hand, was wide awake. “Not asleep, are you, Don?” he whispered.

“What? Oh, yes.” Don shook his head from side to side several times. “Guess I was asleep. Wonder what time it is?”

“Don’t know; I’ve been listening for a bell.”

“It won’t do to fall asleep,” muttered Don.

But in a few minutes his head was on his chest, and his shoulder was resting comfortably against the side of the doorway.

Half an hour passed, and at the end of it Jud was nodding between sleep and wakefulness. Suddenly he felt a slight tug on the rope in his hands. With a start he sat bolt upright, and the next instant the chickens in the hen-house began to cackle furiously.

“Don! Don!” whispered Jud and seized his friend by the shoulder.

“What!” Don was wide awake in a flash.

But before Jud could reply something struck the fence. Jud gave a mighty heave on the rope, and as the gate came shut with a harsh bang both boys heard someone exclaim aloud.

“A Redcoat!” gasped Jud. “What shall we do?”

“Quick, call somebody!” cried Don, springing to his feet.

Both boys raised their voices and then rushed toward the house. The chickens were making a terrible noise now; and Jud’s dog, which he had tied at the back of the wagon shed, was barking at the top of his voice.

Whoever was in the chicken yard was having a hard time getting out. Don, standing at the corner of the house, could hear the fellow pounding furiously at the gate and shaking it with all his might.

In the midst of the commotion a window opened in the house next door, and then a light gleamed within. “There’s Fred Ferguson,” said Jud. “O Fred, O Fred!” he shouted. “Come quick!”

“Judson, Judson, what on earth is the matter?” It was the voice of Mrs. Appleton.

Jud did not reply, for at that moment Fred Ferguson, partly dressed and carrying a lighted candle, which he was shading with his hand, appeared on the back doorstep of the Ferguson house. He was a big raw-boned young fellow, and both boys noticed that he was carrying a heavy stick under one arm. “What’s wrong?” he shouted and advanced toward the fence.

“Somebody’s in our chicken yard,” replied Jud. “Come on, Don,” he added, and the boys hurried toward Fred.

“Open the gate and let me out of this!” came a voice out of the fog, and Don started.

The fence shook violently, and the dog and the chickens increased their clamor.

“Open the gate, I say!”

“Leave off shaking that fence,” cried Fred. “Who are you, and what are you doing in there? Leave off shaking that gate, I tell you—if you break it, I’ll whale ye!”

“Open up, then!”

“Come here, you boys, and tell me who it is,” said Fred and held the candle above his head.

Both boys got a brief glimpse of the person within the yard, and Jud said quickly, “’Tain’t a Redcoat.”

“No; ’tain’t a Redcoat,” said Fred. “Now come here,” he said in a loud voice. “Come here and let me see ye, and tell me what you’re a-doing in there.”

“Open that gate and stand aside—or—or, by thunder, I’ll shoot!”

“Judson! Come here!” cried his mother from the doorway. “Donald, you too!”

There was a moment of silence, and then Fred said evenly: “I’ll risk a shot from a chicken-thief.”

With those words he unlatched the gate and threw it open. “Now come here and let’s see what kind of a person ye are,” he said and waited with club poised in one hand.

“Let me hold the candle,” said Don.

He was advancing to take it when the fellow in the yard made a sudden rush. Don saw Fred’s club descend and heard it strike something hard. Then Fred went over backward, but just before the candle went out Don had a glimpse of the intruder’s face as the fellow rushed past and vanished into the darkness. It was Tom Bullard!

“Tarnation!” exclaimed Fred, getting to his feet. “Can’t see a thing. He’s gone, blast him! What a tormented fool I was to let him rush me like that!”

The quick footsteps of the thief were becoming fainter and fainter in the distance. Then they ceased abruptly.

“Who was it, Fred?” asked Jud.

“Don’t know.” Fred was angry with himself and spoke sharply. “Didn’t get much of a look at him and wouldn’t know him again if I saw him. Well, he won’t come back; that’s certain.”

“Judson, didn’t I call you?”

“Yes’m. Don, where are you? Come into the house for a minute.”

“No; I’d best be going,” replied Don quickly.

But before he went he whispered to Jud: “Do you know who the fellow was? It was Tom Bullard!”

“Tom Bullard! The fellow who kicked your dog?”

“Yes; I’m sure of it; I saw his face just before the candle went out.”

Jud whistled softly.

“Judson Greenleaf Appleton, if you don’t come into the house right straight this minute——”

“Good night, Jud,” said Don and hurried out into the alley.

A bell was striking the hour of ten o’clock as Don reached Marlborough Street. Almost no one was abroad at that late hour, and only here and there a light gleamed soft and yellow through the heavy fog. He passed the Old South Meeting-House and a few minutes later was in Pudding Lane.

Mrs. Lancaster and Aunt Martha were just preparing to go to bed, when Don entered, out of breath and red of face.

“Well, Donald,” said his aunt, “I was thinking it was high time you returned.”

“Did you catch your skunk?” inquired Mrs. Lancaster.

Don could not help grinning. “Well, yes; I guess we did.”

“You guess!” Aunt Martha was mildly astonished. “Just what do you mean, Donald?”

“It wasn’t a real skunk that was after Jud Appleton’s chickens,” Don replied. “It was Tom Bullard.”

“Goodness!” exclaimed both ladies.

And Don hastened to explain what had happened while he was gone.

“Wasn’t I just a-saying,” said Mrs. Lancaster when Don had finished, “wasn’t I just a-saying, Martha, that you can’t trust a Tory out of your sight? Wasn’t I, now?”

“You were, Hannah.”

“And Tom Bullard—well, I always said he was a bad one.”

And Don was thinking the same thing as he climbed the stairs to bed a few minutes later.