commotions, which seemed to indicate that trouble was at hand.  Small parties of young men stood at the corners of the streets, or walked along the narrow pavements.  Squads of soldiers, who were dismissed from duty, passed by them, shoulder to shoulder, with the regular step which they had learned at the drill.  Whenever these encounters took place, it appeared to be the object of the young men to treat the soldiers with as much incivility as possible.

“Turn out, you lobster-backs!” one would say.  “Crowd them off the side-walks!” another would cry.  “A red-coat has no right in Boston streets.”

“Oh, you rebel rascals!” perhaps the soldiers would reply, glaring fiercely at the young men.  “Some day or other, we’ll make our way through Boston streets, at the point of the bayonet!”

Once or twice, such disputes as these brought on a scuffle; which passed off, however, without attracting much notice.  About eight o’clock, for some unknown cause, an alarm bell rang loudly and hurriedly.

At the sound, many people ran out of their houses, supposing it to be an alarm of fire.  But there were no flames to be seen; nor was there any smell of smoke in the clear, frosty air; so that most of the townsmen went back to their own fire-sides, and sat talking with their wives and children about the calamities of the times.  Others, who were younger and less prudent, remained in the streets; for there seems to have been a presentiment that some strange event was on the eve of taking place.

Later in the evening, not far from nine o’clock, several young men passed by the town-house, and walked down King Street.  The sentinel was still on his post, in front of the custom-house, pacing to and fro, while, as he turned, a gleam of light, from some neighboring window, glittered on the barrel of his musket.  At no great distance were the barracks and the guard-house, where his comrades were probably telling stories of battle and bloodshed.

Down towards the custom-house, as I told you, came a party of wild young men.  When they drew near the sentinel, he halted on his post, and took his musket from his shoulder, ready to present the bayonet at their breasts.

“Who goes there?” he cried, in the gruff, peremptory tones of a soldier’s challenge.

The young men, being Boston boys, felt as if they had a right to walk their own streets, without being accountable to a British red-coat, even though he challenged them in King George’s name.  They made some rude answer to the sentinel.  There was a dispute, or, perhaps a scuffle.  Other soldiers heard the noise, and ran hastily from the barracks, to assist their comrade.  At the same time, many of the town’s-people rushed into King Street, by various avenues, and gathered in a crowd round about the custom-house.  It seemed wonderful how such a multitude had started up, all of a sudden.