HOMAS RIGBY, a tavern-keeper
Young British Lieutenants
EGBERT PENROSE
SIDNEY MARSH

SCENE: The tavern known as The Golden Pheasant. Place, Boston.

TIME: Six o'clock on a December evening, 1773.

The tavern-room is low-ceilinged and wainscoted with dark woodwork.
There is a door in middle background, and windows on each side of it.

At the right, towards foreground, a chimney-place, with smoldering
fire. Above is a shelf on which are iron candlesticks and short bits of
candles that show economy. Against the right wall a round mahogany
table. On it another iron candlestick, which has been lighted. A punch-
bowl. Cups. A ladle. Also a brass bowl beneath which a small charcoal
flame burns, keeping hot the lemonade. Beyond this table a dark wooden
chest with a heavy lock. Under the window in left background a similar
chest.

By the hearth, facing audience, a long seat with a high back and pew-
like ends. At the rise of the curtain, Thomas Rigby, the rubicund
landlord, is lighting with a taper the candles that stand on the
mantelshelf, the buttons on his plum-colored waistcoat twinkling in the
gleam. He has only lighted one when the door is pushed open, and there
enter two young British lieutenants, mere lads, whose scarlet cloaks,
exaggerated lace wrist ruffles, and brilliant gold braiding make a fine
showing. But Thomas Rigby shows no look of welcome.

MARSH.
Hey, landlord! Brrrr! It's cold! Give us something to warm us.

PENROSE
(foppishly).
Aye, and be brisk about it. I do not wish to be served in a loitering
fashion.

[Rigby makes as if to speak; but restrains himself, and, with a look of
quiet scorn, serves them hot lemon punch. Penrose is by the fire. Marsh
by the window.

MARSH.
It promises to be a chilly eve after a cloudy morning.

PENROSE
(with a shiver).
More snow and bitter weather!

MARSH
(looking out the window).
Nay, not so bitter. The window-panes are clear and unfrosted. The
twilight gathers quickly. The streets are gray, and there's scarce a
gleam in the darkness of the harbor.

PENROSE
(as Marsh leaves window for fire).
Not e'en a light in the rigging o' Francis Rotch's ships? The sailors
must be supping at the taverns. They're weary now of staying
harborbound. There'll be rejoicing when the tax is paid, and the stiff-
necked Yankees bring the tea to land.

MARSH.
There be some who call themselves patriots, and swear they'll never pay
it.

PENROSE
(sipping).
Not pay it?