Part 7 (2/2)
”A blackened eye? Has he been fighting already?”
”I don't think he had much chance to do anything of that sort; but this is the story he told Chris Gore, from whose home I have just come: After the meeting last night, and when it had been fully decided that nothing should be done until Monday, Hardy, having an idea the Britishers would be frightened, thought it a good time to demand payment from Lieutenant Draper. Without heeding the warning which the officer gave him on the morning poor little Chris Snyder was killed, Hardy went to the Custom House again this forenoon, and says he simply asked to see the lieutenant; but most likely he was as insulting as when he met that officer on Hanover Street. The sentry knocked him down, and now Hardy shows the wound as his claim to be considered a living martyr. It may be exactly as he says, that the soldier had no provocation, other than the demand to see the lieutenant; but I don't believe that portion of the story, for after yesterday's troubles it isn't reasonable to suppose the troops would invite another conflict with the citizens. It is said they have been ordered to hold no communication whatever with the people, and it is positive that the sentry at the Custom House struck Hardy.”
”I suppose he is now more violent than ever?”
”Yes, and has a stronger belief that his countrymen depend upon him to avenge their wrongs. Come down to Liberty Hall, and see him make a spectacle of himself.”
”I think it is wiser for me to stay here.”
”Why?” Jim asked, in surprise.
”Because, if I should meet Hardy now, while he is so puffed up with pride because he has been attacked by one of the enemy, he might say something which would lead to an encounter between us; and I don't think it would be well to raise any disturbance on the street at this time.”
”Perhaps you are right; but yet--”
Jim was interrupted by the noise as of a heavy blow against the side of the house, which was repeated half a dozen times before either of the boys could step to the window.
Then came threatening cries:
”We have got one Richardson in jail; now bring out the others!”
”Drive out the informers!”
[Ill.u.s.tration]
”Boston is no place for a.s.sa.s.sins!”
By this time Amos and Jim were where they could look into the street; but a view of what was taking place there was not necessary to explain to them the cause of this sudden attack.
They knew that Master Piemont's a.s.sistant was making good his threat of the previous evening.
Ten or a dozen half-grown boys, with the barber's apprentice at their head, were pelting the house with missiles of every kind, and Amos's mother cried frantically, as her son was on the point of rus.h.i.+ng out to put an end to the disturbance:
”Don't show yourself, my boy, don't show yourself! After what has happened, we must expect that the sins of your uncle will in some degree be visited upon us, and you must do nothing rash, particularly while your father is away from home.”
”But, mother, this is only some of Hardy Baker's doings, and I can soon put an end to it, once I get that precious little villain by the throat.”
”You would add to the disgrace by fighting on the street?”
”I would show the barber's apprentice that he can't insult honest people without bearing the consequences.”
”Come on!” Jim cried, impatiently. ”Two of us can handle that crowd!”
Mrs. Richardson clung to her son imploringly, crying that he would be killed if he ventured into the street, and there seemed good reason for her fears, since if any one of the missiles, which were being hurled so freely against the building, should strike him, it would inflict serious injury.
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