Though there was no longer any school for Don to attend he found plenty of things to keep him busy. He helped his aunt about the store in the daytime and sat and talked with her at night. And the conversation always was of his uncle and of Glen Drake and the army, of which they knew little enough. Then always before they went to bed Aunt Martha would spread the old thumb-worn Bible on her knees and read a chapter aloud. Frequently of an afternoon Don would take Sailor and go for a long walk as he used to do. One bright warm day early in May the two were on their way home from a long jaunt, and were walking along between the elms on Common Street, when Don observed a group of Redcoats some distance in front of him. “Here, Sailor,” he called, but the terrier paid no heed and ran on ahead. When Don was within a few yards of the group he recognized two familiar figures--Tom Bullard, who as aide to General Ruggles of the Tories, now wore a white sash round his left sleeve, and Harry Hawkins, the Redcoat, whose life Don had saved. The two were laughing and talking together. “Here’s one of the young rebels,” cried Tom as Don drew near. “And here’s his rebel dog. Get out of here, you pup.” Don made no answer but spoke sharply to Sailor, and the dog trotted to his side. “Good day to you, young sire,” said Hawkins pleasantly. “Good day,” replied Don, and then colored as he observed a boy of perhaps his own age who happened to be passing with a fishing pole over his shoulder. “Do you know him, Hawkins?” inquired Tom in astonishment and then as Sailor left Don’s side and started back toward the group he added angrily: “Git, you pup, git!” But Sailor was all friendliness as he trotted toward the soldiers. “Come here, Sailor!” ordered Don, stopping and snapping his fingers. But at that instant Tom’s foot shot out and, striking the terrier in the chest, lifted him into the air. With a loud yelp the dog landed on his back and then, scrambling to his feet, ran to Don and stood beside him, trembling. “I’ll learn a rebel dog a trick or two,” cried Tom. “And before long----” But Tom never finished the sentence. Before Don could take more than two steps forward, and before any of the soldiers could interfere, the boy whom Don had just passed dropped his fishing pole, and, lowering his head, rushed at Tom. One of his fists struck the Tory squarely in the mouth and sent him reeling; the other struck him on the ear and sent him crashing to the ground. Tom was a big boy and very active. In a moment he was on his feet and had closed with his opponent, who was easily twenty pounds the lighter. “Fight!” cried a Redcoat. “Clear the way there!” But there was no fight; at least it lasted only until Harry Hawkins could spring forward and pull the two apart. “Stop it!” he cried and pushed Tom’s assailant away. “And you,” he said sharply to Tom, “get along and be quick about it! I thought better than that of you!” “Why, Hawkins----”