“Why,” replied Don slowly, “I’m afraid it won’t please you, Tom, if I tell. I think we--that is, the Indians,--did the proper thing in throwing the tea overboard.” Tom stiffened. “So you’re a young rebel,” he said. “A young rebel! Well, I thought so all along. I’m through with you from now on.” “I’m sorry, Tom; we’ve been good friends.” “Well, I’m not sorry,” replied Tom, turning part way round. “A young rebel!” he repeated, flinging the words over his shoulder. “Well, look out for trouble, that’s all.” And he crossed the street. Don bit his lips. He had lost an old friend; Tom was a Tory. Well, he was not astonished; but he had hoped that their friendship might last through their differences. He felt somewhat depressed as he made his way along the crooked streets to his aunt’s little house in Pudding Lane. No light was burning in the store at the front where his aunt sold groceries and odds and ends of a household nature to eke out the income of his Uncle David, who was employed at MacNeal’s rope yard on Hutchinson Street. He entered the small sitting-room at the back of the house. “Hello, Aunt Martha,” he said cheerfully. “Donald Alden, for goodness’ sake, where have you been?” Aunt Martha Hollis dropped the stocking that she had been knitting and adjusted her spectacles. “Well, first I went up to the town-meeting.” “Did you see your Uncle David there?” “No, ma’am; there was an awful big crowd. I’m pretty hungry, Aunt Martha.” “What happened at the meeting?” “Well, there was a lot of talking, and then just as it broke up, a band of Indians--that is, a band of men with tomahawks and feathers and colored faces--appeared in Milk Street and started down to Griffin’s Wharf and--is there any pie, Aunt Martha?” “Donald, go on!” said his aunt, whose fingers had begun to tremble violently. “They boarded the three tea ships and tossed all the tea into the water. My, you should have seen them! Then they went home. Aunt Martha, I certainly am hungry.” “Was--was anybody hurt, Donald?” “Oh, no, ma’am--except one man whom I didn’t know; a chest of tea fell on him. Another man tried to put some of the tea into his pockets, but I guess he was more scared than hurt.” Aunt Martha drew a deep breath and rose from her chair. In a few minutes she had placed some cold meat and potatoes and a large slice of apple pie on the table. “Now don’t eat too fast,” she cautioned her nephew. Then she seated herself again, but she did not go on with her knitting. She was a little woman with blue eyes and silvery hair parted in the middle. She was naturally of a light-hearted disposition, though perhaps somewhat overly zealous for the welfare of her only nephew, whom she had taken to live with her eight years ago on the death of both his parents. Now her eyes were gravely thoughtful as she watched him eating. “This is mighty good pie, Aunt Martha.” “Well, eat it slowly, then, for that’s all you can have.”