“I don’t get down that way much myself,” said the landlord thoughtfully. “What’s the news thereabout? Do they think the British’ll fight? And if they do....” The young man shook his head solemnly. “You got no chance against the British,” he said. The landlord looked up sharply. “Ye say ‘you’ and not ‘we,’” he protested. “Does that mean Barnstable don’t intend to join against the cruel laws o’ the King? That they be not with the rest o’ Massachusetts? The Hampshire towns be with us, and I hear that so be the west and south, New York and Virginia, too.” “Oh no, no, I do not mean that at all,” cried the young shoemaker. “’Twas a slip of the tongue. Of course Barnstable--on Cape Cod--will join cause with you. I only mean that the outlook is dark, sir, dark, for those who would fan the flames of rebellion in America.” He put down his empty glass and leaned forward, his hands clenched before him on the table. “How can _we_ defend a thousand miles of seacoast with only a few scattered towns, against a great battle fleet of three hundred ships and armed men? We can scarce put thirty thousand soldiers in the field. England has one hundred and fifty thousand, and can summon more. We lack guns, ammunition, money, and trade. More than that, we lack the tradition of love of country, a tradition that will make the meanest man fight and die bravely. For a thousand years men have been giving their lives for England. What man has ever given his life for America before?” “Sounds like you been listening to some Tory make speeches, lad. Happens there was a few gave their lives at Concord and Lexington the day before yesterday,” retorted the landlord. “There’s a first time for everything, Gerry.” His voice was milder than the milk in his half-empty glass, but his eyes held a sharp look, a look of question. Suddenly his face went white. “Lord in heaven, I’ll fetch the gun for ye! Here they come!” he cried, dashing from the room, tripping over a footstool unseen in the light of the fire. Gerry Malory lifted his head. He heard a shouting in the road, the creak of wagons rumbling along. He, too, got up, went to the door, and stared out into the soft April night. The moon had not yet risen, but as he turned to look to the north he could see swaying lights and shadowy figures, moving painfully slow, but drawing closer. He waited, silent, to see what would emerge out of the dark. As the cavalcade became more sharply visible, he saw that it consisted of three oxcarts piled with boxes, kegs, and baskets, escorted by some half dozen men. The oxen lumbered along wearily, and the men seemed weary, too, as they plodded at the side. They were not young men, but grayish and old and frail, except for a thin-faced lad with tow-colored hair and an ancient gun gripped casually in his right hand. The wagons drew to a halt in front of the tavern, one man stayed with the oxen, and the others came forward eagerly, seeking refreshment.