Yet his next impression was one of dinginess. The snow, piled high on either side of the street, looked almost as dirty as snow that had lain for awhile in the side-streets of his own Boston. A narrow passageway had been dug out and even as he and Deborah watched a horse-drawn cart, laden with night-soil, and an ox-cart, evidently proceeding north to market, stood motionless, facing one another, while their drivers indulged in the mutual invective city and countrymen have invoked in like dilemmas since the invention of the wheel. "What horrid words!" said Deborah, feigning shock. Justin took her arm and they edged past the incipient combatants, about whom a crowd of rough-looking customers was beginning to collect. A gust of wind caused Deborah's cloak to billow about her and she tugged him away to the half-shelter of the rope-walk, where despite the weather a few hardy souls were engaged in splicing and reeving and other intricate arts of rigging and sailmaking. A gong rang in Justin's memory. He said, "Where does Sam Adams live?" "Ye know of him?" she countered, added, "That big run-down house at the next corner. What would ye of Master Adams, Charles?" "Never mind, honey," he told her but his thoughts were humming. Sam Adams, of course--here was his opportunity, not only to survive in Old Boston, but to do it creditably in Deborah's eyes. Surely the so-called father of the Revolution would not be able to refuse the aid of a man who knew the course of the future. * * * * * Anxiety struck him. He said, "You aren't a supporter of the Court Party are you, Debby?" Her eyes widened in surprise. Then she said, "Nay, not yet--but unless certain folk cease plaguing me in the name of the Colony I shall become so in self-defence." "Don't switch," he assured her, relieved. They walked the streets of the Old Town, down Belcher's Lane and the Battery March, whence they could see scarlet-coated soldiers at frigid sentry duty atop the Fort ramparts. They warmed chilling bodies with boiled beef and bacon and steaming buttered Medford rum at Stratton's tavern just off King Street, then on to the Province House toward Beacon Hill. Look at the palladian gable of that small but stately structure, at the gilded lion and unicorn that adorned its cornices, Justin reflected it looked scarcely younger than when he had paused on his way home in the dusk to survey it a scant sixteen hours--or rather a hundred and ninety-two years--away. If anything, in his own era, it was rather better kept up. Then they rambled back along Rawson's Lane to Milk Street and Deborah's house, which by daylight proved to be a stoutly comfortable dwelling in obvious good repair. To his surprise Deborah bade him enter. He followed her inside, said, "How are you going to explain me, honey?" "I'm not," she replied with a flicker of dimple. "There's no soul here but ourselves."