JUD APPLETON
Luck seemed 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 to answer 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 get you 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 be in 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 for Don 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 Tom as 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. Before Don 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. He gulped 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, but we 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.