The next day was Friday, and thanks to the trapper’s ointment Don was able to walk a very little. In the evening his uncle came to talk with him again. “I probably shan’t see you again for some time,” he said. “My company is leaving Cambridge. When you see your Aunt Martha I want you to say this to her: tell her first of all that I’m safe and well and that she needn’t worry. Second, tell her that at the first opportunity I want her to leave the town; it’s the height of folly to remain. And, Donald”--David Hollis spoke in a low voice,--“tell her I love her. And now, my boy, good-bye, and God bless you!” That was the last that Don saw of his uncle for many, many weeks. The next day he and the trapper went for a short walk among the narrow, twisting streets of the town. Soldiers were quartered in many of the houses, and people were talking of others that were soon to arrive. One man remarked that as a result of the British attack on Concord and Lexington an army of twenty thousand Provincials had arisen almost overnight. There was much brave talk of attacking the King’s troops in Boston and of driving them headlong into the sea. By Tuesday, Don’s ankle was strong again, but he had to walk with great care. Then early one foggy morning Glen Drake announced that the time had come to cross the flats. The two had a hot supper together down in the kitchen, and an hour or so later they started toward the river. Glen led the way and in spite of the heavy fog and the darkness stepped boldly yet as silently as a cat. They had gone beyond the last fringe of dwelling houses when the trapper put the end of a buckskin thong into Don’s hand. “Keep tight hold,” he whispered, “and don’t talk.” Don thought he had never seen a blacker night--blackness and fog overhead, blackness and fog all round them, with here and there a dim yellow light. Several times, at the sound of footsteps, Glen paused to let a Provincial sentry pass unseen ahead of them. Once they turned sharply to the left and walked for almost half an hour over uneven grassy land. Then they turned to the right, and soon Don felt his feet sink into cool mud. Glen put his mouth close to the boy’s ear and whispered, “How’s the ankle?” “All right, Glen,” Don replied softly. They pressed forward slowly. Sometimes reeds and cattails swept against their hands; sometimes they seemed to be walking on firm sand. The fog, cold and oppressive, was blowing in from the east and seemed to deaden all sounds, even the quash, quash of their feet. Don’s fingers were like ice as he clung to the thong. He had no idea in what direction he was going, but he had confidence in his sturdy guide. Then a bell tolled somewhere ahead, and a few minutes later he heard a horse neigh loudly. A quarter of an hour passed, then half an hour. Finally they were among more cattails. Glen led the way cautiously among them and at last climbed a gentle slope. They had reached the Boston side.