So Master Clinton suggested: “Let’s go down to Mr. Day’s tavern here in Murray Street. He knows me, and, if he can, will find Colonel Phillipse for us.” Down into Murray Street therefore they turned, and, near the road to Greenwich, saw the tavern--a long, low-roofed house, gable end to the street--around which an excited crowd surged and shouted. “Why, look there,” Master Clinton cried; “look there; and the king’s men not yet gone!” and, following the direction of his finger, they saw with surprise the stars and stripes, the flag of the new republic, floating from the pole before the tavern. “Huzza!” they shouted with the rest, but the “little lord” said, somewhat contemptuously, “Why, ’tis the rebel flag--or so my grandfather calls it.” “Rebel no longer, little one,” said Cousin Ned, “as even your good grandfather must now admit. But surely,” he added anxiously, “Mr. Day will get himself in trouble by raising his flag before our troops come in.” An angry shout now rose from the throng around the flag-staff, and as the fringe of small boys scattered and ran in haste, young Livingston caught one of them by the arm. “What’s the trouble, lad?” he asked. “Let go!” said the boy, struggling to free himself. “You’d better scatter, too, or Cunningham will catch you. He’s ordered down Day’s flag and says he’ll clear the crowd.” They all knew who Cunningham was--the cruel and vindictive British provost-marshal; the starver of American prisoners and the terror of American children. “Come away, quick,” said Cousin Ned. But though they drew off at first, curiosity was too strong, and they were soon in the crowd again. Cunningham, the marshal, stood at the foot of the flag-pole. “Come, you rebel cur,” he said to Mr. Day. “I give you two minutes to haul down that rag--two minutes, d’ye hear, or into the Provost you go. Your beggarly troops are not in possession here yet, and I’ll have no such striped rag as that flying in the faces of His Majesty’s forces!” “There it is, and there it shall stay,” said Day, quietly but firmly. Cunningham turned to his guard. “Arrest that man,” he ordered. “And as for this thing here, I’ll haul it down myself,” and seizing the halyards, he began to lower the flag. The crowd broke out into fierce murmurs, uncertain what to do. But in the midst of the tumult the door of the tavern flew open, and forth sallied Mrs. Day, “fair, fat, and forty,” armed with her trusty broom. “Hands off that flag, you villain, and drop my husband!” she cried, and before the astonished Cunningham could realize the situation, the broom came down thwack! thwack! upon his powdered wig. Old men still lived, not thirty years ago, who were boys in that excited crowd, and remembered how the powder flew from the stiff white wig and how, amidst jeers and laughter, the defeated provost-marshal withdrew from the unequal contest, and fled before the resistless sweep of Mrs. Day’s all-conquering broom. And the flag did not come down.