Berkley Harrison and Captain Barron were in the breakfast room talking to my mother and sister. They had just finished lunch. Harrison was an outspoken tory who lived upon the adjoining plantation, and who, though only thirty years of age, was one of the richest planters on the James river. My mother had a high regard for his many accomplishments, for he had lived much in England, and had the bearing of a man who had seen something of the life at His Majesty's court. Therefore Will and I were anxious to hear what important news the Major had to tell before anyone else joined us, for we were afraid lest his radical views should reach the ears of Mr. Harrison. When the Major put down his glass he looked at us, and it was strange to note the effects of the liquor in the old soldier's face. Every line, from the heavy creases about his square jaw to the fan-like wrinkles that stretched away from the corners of his eyes, seemed to stand out more clearly. His eyes brightened and he spoke with great feeling-- "Gage's men stormed the hill defenses at Boston last week, and carried them by assault," he said. "The devil," said Will. "And then what happened?" I asked, jumping from my chair. "What could happen with a lot of yokels against regular troops, hey? What could happen? But," he added, and his eyes fairly flashed, "our boys made a fine stand, sir. Yes, sir, stood there on Bunker Hill 'till the last dram of powder was burned, and the scoundrels were running in and jabbing them with the bayonet. Yes, sir, by Gad, sir, they have the making of the finest men in them that ever stood up to be killed." "I wish I had been there," said Will. "Wish thunder!" roared Bullbeggor, half rising from his chair. "What's the use of wishing! Why don't you do something besides lying around here and wishing. Holy thunder! If I was your age I would have been there in the thick of it with our company of Prince George boys. Wish to thunder!" And the old soldier reached for the bottle. "That is as may be," remarked Will, quietly, referring to the Major's imaginary military movements. "Wish smoke and blazes!" growled the old fighter, putting down his empty glass. "If it wasn't for this settling in the bones and numbing of the joints, and having pains shooting all through me, to say nothing of a vertigris in the head when I stoop over, I'd have gone up there with the boys. As it is, I'll do what I can against that rascal Dunmore,--and stay here with Woodford _toe_ do it." "But give us the details of the Boston fight," I urged.