His aunt nodded. “I suppose it might,” she admitted. “One of them seems a gentlemanly fellow.” Fortunately, Hawkins and Snell were in the house very little during the daytime. They would rise early and hurry off to eat mess with their company; then they might return for a few minutes only to hurry out to the parade grounds. Usually they were away somewhere during the afternoon and evening. On the whole they were not much bother; it was the mere fact that Aunt Martha had to have them that irritated her most. Jud’s mother also had suffered. Jud told Don about it one evening at Aunt Martha’s. “We’ve got only one,” he said, “but he’s a sergeant-major--big and fat and red-faced and uglier than a mud fence!” “With blue eyes and a red nose?” asked Don. “Yes, little mean eyes that somehow make me think of buttermilk.” “Probably it’s the sergeant-major who came to us,” said Don. “Probably it is,” added his aunt dryly. “I don’t see how there could be two men quite so ugly as he.” “Well, he’s a billeting sergeant,” said Jud, “and his name is Bluster.” “Huh,” said Don. “He’s well named.” “Just listen to that wind outside,” said Aunt Martha; “that’s blustery enough too!” The wind had been blustery and sharp for several days, and almost before the boys realized it winter had set in in dead earnest. And with the cold came increased suffering. Fuel was scarce, and the army had hard work getting it. But they did get it, nevertheless, and the way they went about it added another grievance to the long list that the townsfolk held against them. Buildings were torn down--usually they were the poorest structures, but not always--fences disappeared overnight, and gates that had creaked on their hinges one day were missing the next morning. In December the town presented its most deplorable aspect. Hostile cannon glowered in position on hill and thoroughfare, and insolent soldiers such as Sergeant-Major Bluster and Private Snell sat about hearthstones where once happy families had been wont to gather. Food as well as fuel was extremely scarce, and prices were so high that more than one person was driven to steal. Faneuil Hall had been turned into a playhouse for the amusement of the Redcoats, and in it the fine spirit of the people, their intense desire for peace and liberty and fair treatment, were turned into ridicule. Even when snow fell and covered the suffering town in a soft white blanket, and few soldiers were on the streets to jostle and mock pedestrians, the guns on Beacon Hill boomed forth as if to remind them that Howe and the King’s troops still held sway.