“No, no,” cried the landlord impatiently. “I got no faith in such pop guns. I mean a man-sized weapon. Son Rob took my musket to Cambridge, but there’s a fowling piece hung up on the kitchen wall. I don’t see as well to aim as I did once. Who was it spread the word about town? Did ye happen to hear?” The shoemaker shook his head. “I couldn’t say, sir. As I told you before, I was just passing through here on my way to Newburyport to see a girl, when all at once a great stir began, and folks went rushing to the green. Somebody shouted that the British had landed at Ipswich Bar and were cutting and slashing all before them. Next thing I knew, the wagons started rolling out of town, and everyone took to the highway, afoot and on horseback. I watched them for awhile, and then came here to catch my breath and maybe have a bite of supper.” Again the landlord went to the door and peered nervously into the thickening night. “Not a light in town,” he said. “Folk that hasn’t fled away be keeping their houses dark, ’twould seem. Do ye mind if I don’t light up, lad? Can ye see by the glow o’ the fire?” “’Tis no trick to find a mouth the size of mine,” said the young man gallantly. Then as Nanny put a steaming bowl on the table in front of him, his nostrils quivered. “Did the ham smell stronger than this, my lady?” he asked her. “Yes,” said Nanny flatly, stepping back into the kitchen. He sat down on a bench, picked up a ladle, and tasted the chowder gingerly. “None for me, Nanny,” called her father. “I be that worried about the British, I wouldn’t relish victuals none.” “Right, sir,” said Gerry, putting down the ladle. “It comes to me that I, too, am worried about the British. Still, a piece of bread now--it need not have butter--I could eat it dry.” “Slice up a loaf of bread, Nanny,” called the landlord. Nanny’s thin piping voice came back from the kitchen. “The bread’s moldy. All that wasn’t, we sent to Cambridge.” Gerry Malory sighed resignedly. “Well, perhaps a glass of milk then--unless all the cows have fled away. Nothing stronger. I must keep a clear head on me.” The landlord himself brought a pitcher of milk and poured two glasses full. “Be ye just up from the Cape, Gerry? And did ye come by Cambridge? We’ve had no news from there since the word o’ Concord Fight come through.” The young man shook his head. “I haven’t been near Cambridge, and it’s a long time since I went Barnstaple way.” “Where ye been, then?” “Oh--round Charlestown most of the time, I guess. You know Job Townsend’s tavern there?” “Job Townsend? Keeps the Bay and Beagle, don’t he? In Crooked Lane near Harvard Street. I knowed him when he was your age. Too bad. He lost his wife young. Got a right pretty daughter, I’ve heard. Sally Rose, or something like.” “Yes, he’s got a pretty daughter,” said Gerry Malory, draining his glass. “I been around the Bay and Beagle some.”