"I won't believe a word of it," she said, stoutly, "until I see
the soldiers coming."
"Ah! Hear that!" cried Joe, tossing back his hair and swinging
his arms triumphantly at an airy foe. "You won't have to wait
long. THAT SIGNAL is for the minute men. They are going to
march out to meet the Red-coats. Wish I was a minute man, this
minute."
Meanwhile, poor Uncle John was getting down the steps of the
stairway, with many a grimace and groan. As he touched the
floor, Joe, his face beaming with excitement and enthusiasm,
sprang to place a chair for him at the table, saying, "Good
morning!" at the same moment.
"May be," groaned Uncle John, "youngsters LIKE YOU may think it
is a good morning, but I DON'T, such a din and clatter as the
fools have kept up all night long. If I had the power" (and now
the poor old man fairly groaned with rage), "I'd make 'em quiet
long enough to let an old man get a wink of sleep, when the
rheumatism lets go."
"I'm real sorry for you," said Joe, "but you don't know the news.
The king's troops, from camp, in Boston, are marching right down
here, to carry off all our arms that they can find."
"Are they?" was the sarcastic rejoined. "It's the best news I've
heard in a long while. Wish they had my arms, this minute. They
wouldn't carry them a step farther than they could help, I know.
Run and tell them mine are ready, Joe."
"But, Uncle John, wait till after breakfast, you'll want to use
them once more," said Martha Moulton, trying to help him into the
chair that Joe had placed on the white sanded floor.
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