Tom looked westward across the pleasant farms to the faint blue line of hills beyond them, and he thought of the unseen army that was supposed to be circling tightly all around Boston, an army of men like himself and the Londonderry boys. Some said it was ten thousand strong, and some said twenty, all the way from Medford River to Jamaica Plain. He thought of that other army, swaggering through the streets of Boston; men, he supposed, like that redcoat captain he’d brought home in chains a while back--and nobody knew what strength they had. He remembered Kitty’s warning that the British meant to strike by the week’s end. Well, here it was, Friday, June sixteenth, and the weather hotter’n the burning roof of hell. If the British were coming, they’d better be on their way. Maybe they were on their way. Everybody in camp was worn out and restless with expecting them, but nobody seemed to know. Just then his horse gave a neigh, laid back its ears, and stood still. Perforce, the other horse halted, too. “Must ha’ seen a rabbit,” said Hugh Watts, peering over the side of the cart into the thick grass that grew beside the road. “I don’t see anything but ripe strawberries, though. Think we could stop to pick a few?” Asa Senter shook his head. “Wouldn’t hardly dare it,” he objected. “Stark wants us to go and get back. By the look o’ the sun, it’s already six o’clock, and we still got about another mile.” Tom leaped down from the wagon. “I don’t think it was a rabbit,” he said. “He acts more like there was thunder in the air.” “Not a cloud anywheres that I can see,” said Peter Christie. “Don’t have to be.” Tom patted the horse’s flank and started to lead them ahead. “If there’s thunder somewheres over back, a critter’ll always know.” “Feel a bit uneasy myself,” said Asa, getting down to walk beside Tom. “Look! There’s a steeple and some roofs sticking up through the trees. Cambridge must be just ahead.” There were a sight of mighty fine houses round Cambridge Common, Tom thought, as they approached it. Big square mansions, some of them; some with gambrel roofs, mostly painted yellow and white. But he didn’t see any of the sort of folk who looked as if they lived in the houses; pretty women with flowers and jewels, or gentlemen in velvet jackets wearing swords. The roads that led to the Common were thronged with soldiers like himself, in cowhide shoes, leather breeches, and tattered tow-cloth shirts, with bandanas round their heads; and all too many, for his taste, had a short-stemmed pipe gripped between their teeth. They all seemed to be excited about something. He had no trouble in getting the old Hastings house pointed out to him, but he was unable to lead his horse anywhere near it because the crowd was so great. They seemed to be having some sort of muster on the Common, for men were drawn up in rank there, maybe a thousand or so. “What’s a-going on, Tom?” Peter demanded.