“I can’t call you Redcoat or soldier, but since it was a sailor I got you of, and a sailor that pulled both of us out of the water, I’m going to call you--Sailor!” The pup’s tail wagged more vigorously, as if he were content with the name. Don reached his aunt’s house; there was a light in the store; he entered and passed through to the sitting-room. Uncle David and Glen evidently had been home for some little while, for they were both seated comfortably beside a candle, reading the _Massachusetts Spy_ and the _Boston Gazette_. They looked up as Don entered, and Aunt Martha, who had just come from the kitchen, dropped a plateful of doughnuts and gave a little cry. “Where you been, Don, to get such clothes as those?” asked Glen. “Donald Alden, I couldn’t believe it was you,” said Aunt Martha. “How you frightened me!” “Scarecrow come to town,” said David Hollis. Don helped to pick up the doughnuts, adding as he held the last one, “This one’s dirty, Aunt Martha; I’ll eat it.” Then he told what had happened to him on his afternoon walk, and Uncle David’s face glowed while he listened, though Don could not tell whether it was with satisfaction or with anger. “Did I do what was right, Uncle Dave?” he asked when he had concluded the narrative. David Hollis did not reply at once, but Aunt Martha said quickly, “You did, Donald; but, my dear boy, what a risk you took! Don’t ever do such a thing again--that is,” she hastened to add, “don’t do it unless you have to.” The good lady seemed to be having a hard time adjusting her spectacles. “Yes,” said Uncle David at last, “your Aunt Martha is right, Don.” He laughed and added, “You did right, but don’t do it again unless you have to.” Glen Drake nodded and bent over the _Gazette_. CHAPTER IV A TRIP TO CONCORD The next day was Sunday, a bleak, damp day that most of the good people of Boston were content to spend indoors. Snow was falling in large wet flakes that melted almost as soon as they struck the sidewalks. The great elms on the Common tossed their gaunt black branches in the wind; and on the water-front the flakes of snow whirled downward among the spars of the idle shipping and vanished into the black water. In Pudding Lane, Aunt Martha and the two men had finished dinner, and Don was munching his fourth doughnut, when a knock sounded at the door. “Now who can that be?” asked Don’s aunt. Uncle David opened the door and disclosed a tall, well-built man in the bright uniform of a British soldier. “Good day to you, sir,” said the Redcoat and took off his hat. “Good day to you.” David Hollis’s tone was by no means hospitable. “You have a boy--a boy who is called Donald--Donald Alden, I think.” Uncle David nodded. “Be so kind as to step inside. The day is bleak.”