By the first of the new year the force of Redcoats in Boston had increased to approximately thirty-five hundred; and, moreover, General Timothy Ruggles, the leader of the Tories, was doing his best to aid the soldiers in every possible way. Tom Bullard, it seems, was acting as a kind of aide to the general and had accompanied him several times on missions to the Tory town of Marshfield. “I tell you, Don,” said Glen one day, “watching this trouble is a whole lot like watching a forest fire. It started with only a few sparks, like the Stamp Act, you might say; now it’s burning faster and faster every minute. It won’t be long before it blazes up bright, and then it’ll have to burn itself out.” “How soon is it likely to blaze up?” “Mighty soon, I’m a-thinking.” Glen’s estimate was correct. In March the people of Boston saw a marked change in the behavior of the troops. On the fifth of the month, which was the anniversary of the Boston Massacre, the address that Dr. Warren made was hissed by perhaps twoscore of officers who had attended the Old South just for that purpose. And on the sixteenth, a day of fasting and prayer, soldiers of the King’s Own Regiment acted in a way that filled Aunt Martha with indignation. She and Don had gone to church early. Shortly before the service began, old Mrs. Lancaster, who lived across the way in Pudding Lane, came in and remarked that soldiers were pitching their tents outside. A few minutes later, in the midst of the service, the sounds of fife and drum came from the street. The minister stopped his sermon and looked round him. Aunt Martha bit her lips, and two bright pink spots showed on her cheeks. “This is scandalous!” she exclaimed. “It’s downright wicked!” said old Mrs. Lancaster. The minister went on with the service, raising his voice to make himself heard; but Don, and doubtless many others, had little thought for what was being said inside the church. At the end of the service many of the people hurried past the soldiers on their way home; but others stood and watched with indignant glances. That event was only one of many other irritations that followed and inflamed the hearts of the townsfolk. “Aunt Martha, war has got to come,” said Don. “Don’t speak of it, Donald,” she replied, and Don glanced once at his aunt’s face and wished that he had held his tongue in the first place; his aunt’s eyes were red and moist. “All that cloth and powder is still in the cellar, isn’t it?” he asked a while later. “Yes, Donald; and your uncle intends to keep it there until he can find a satisfactory way of getting it out, though what with all the trouble that surrounds us, I do believe that he doesn’t often give it a thought any more.” “Seems too bad not to sell it,” said Don. “Yes, I’ve said so myself, but he always nods and says, ‘Yes, that’s right,’ and then his mind goes wandering off on--on other matters.”