They'll defy us? Pooh! We could bring them to time with a
twist of the wrist did we but wish to! (Looking with approval at his
own apparel.) A mere handful of men with scarcely any lace for their
ruffles, and tarnished buckles for their shoes! _They_ defy _us_?
You're jesting! No, no, my dear Sidney! In spite of all their protests
and town meetings they'll be glad enough to give in at the end, and to
pay the tax right speedily. For, mark you, in spite of all the rumors
of defiance that we've heard, the town to-night lies as quiet as a
church.

MARSH.
Aye, so it does.

PENROSE
(rising).
Too quiet for my spirits. Let's seek another tavern where there's more
revelry than there is here.

MARSH
(draining his glass).
We'll not find shrewder lemon punch at any. On my way back I'll have
another glass.

[Tosses money at Rigby, who lets it lie where it falls. He shakes a
clenched hand after the retreating figures of the two lieutenants, and
then goes back to lighting his candles on the mantelshelf. Marsh and
Penrose exeunt. After a moment there comes from without the sound of a
halting step, the door is opened, and Richard Stockton enters, a lad
with the eyes of a dreamer, and the bearing of a doer of deeds. Thomas
Rigby, at sound of the entering step, turns, taper in hand.

RICHARD
(coming forward).
'Tis only I. Go on with the candles, landlord.
RIGBY
(joyfully).
Only you, Dick Stockton! Zounds! There's none whom I'd sooner see!
Quick! Tell me the news! These be stirring days, and here am I tied to
this tavern-room, and afraid to leave it lest those brawling red-coats
loot it while I'm gone. To leave a tavern-room empty is to invite
disaster--and yet--what patriot should bide indoors on days like these!
'Faith! I'm torn 'twixt necessities! Come! Your news. Sit by the fire
and out with it! What's to become of the tea we won't pay taxes on?

RICHARD.
Give me breath and I'll tell you! There's news to make your blood boil.
I've been at the town meeting in the Old South Church all day. What
think you--! The governor at Milton has refused a pass to Francis
Rotch, and the tea ships cannot leave the harbor. The British have
sworn they'll make us pay the tax or wring our scurvy necks.

RIGBY
(outraged).
Zounds! There are necks I'd like to have the wringing of! What else,
lad, what else?

RICHARD.
The Old South Church could not hold half the patriots who wish to talk
and listen. Such speeches! Oh, they'd stir your blo