There was a layer of ice on the ground, a slight fall of snow during the day, and a young moon in the evening.  At an early hour, as though something uncommon was expected, parties of boys, apprentices, and soldiers strolled through the streets, and neither side was sparing of insult.  Ten or twelve soldiers went from the main guard, in King Street, across this street to Murray’s Barracks, in Brattle Street, about three hundred yards from King Street; and another party came out of these barracks, armed with clubs and cutlasses, bent on a stroll.  A little after eight o’clock, quite a crowd collected near the Brattle-Street Church, many of whom had canes and sticks; and after a spell of bantering wretched abuse on both sides, things grew into a fight.  As it became more and more threatening, a few North-Enders ran to the Old Brick Meeting-House, on what is now Washington Street, at the head of King Street, and lifted a boy into a window, who rang the bell.  About the same time, Captain Goldfinch, of the army, who was on his way to Murray’s Barracks, crossed King Street, near the Custom-House, at the corner of Exchange Lane, where a sentinel had long been stationed; and as he was passing along, he was taunted by a barber’s apprentice as a mean fellow for not paying for dressing his hair, when the sentinel ran after the boy and gave him a severe blow with his musket.  The boy went away crying, and told several persons of the assault, while the Captain passed on towards Murray’s Barracks, but found the passage into the yard obstructed by the affray going on here,—­the crowd pelting the soldiers with snowballs, and the latter defending themselves.  Being the senior officer, he ordered the men into the barracks; the gate of the yard was then shut, and the promise was made that no more men should be let out that evening.  In this way the affray here was effectually stopped.

For a little time, perhaps twenty minutes, there was nothing to attract to a centre the people who were drawn by the alarm-bell out of their homes on this frosty, moonlight, memorable evening; and in various places individuals were asking where the fire was.  King Street, then, as now, the commercial centre of Boston, was quiet.  A group was standing before the main guard with firebags and buckets in their hands; a few persons were moving along in other parts of the street; and the sentinel at the Custom-House, with his firelock on his shoulder, was pacing his beat quite unmolested.  In Dock Square, a small gathering, mostly of participants in the affair just over, were harangued by a large, tall man, who wore a red cloak and a white wig; and as he closed, there was a hurrah, and the cry, “To the main guard!” In another street, a similar cry was raised, “To the main guard!—­that is the nest!” But no assault was made on the main guard.  The word went round that there was no fire, “only a rumpus with the soldiers,” who had been driven to their quarters; and well-disposed citizens, as they withdrew, were saying, “Every man to his home!”