MARSH. 
Aye, so it does.

PENROSE (rising).  Too quiet for my spirits.  Let’s seek another tavern where there’s more revelry than there is here.

MARSH (draining his glass).  We’ll not find shrewder lemon punch at any.  On my way back I’ll have another glass.

[Tosses money at Rigby, who lets it lie where it falls.  He shakes a clenched hand after the retreating figures of the two lieutenants, and then goes back to lighting his candles on the mantelshelf.  Marsh and Penrose exeunt.  After a moment there comes from without the sound of a halting step, the door is opened, and Richard Stockton enters, a lad with the eyes of a dreamer, and the bearing of a doer of deeds.  Thomas Rigby, at sound of the entering step, turns, taper in hand.

RICHARD (coming forward).  ’Tis only I. Go on with the candles, landlord.  RIGBY (joyfully).  Only you, Dick Stockton!  Zounds!  There’s none whom I’d sooner see!  Quick!  Tell me the news!  These be stirring days, and here am I tied to this tavern-room, and afraid to leave it lest those brawling red-coats loot it while I’m gone.  To leave a tavern-room empty is to invite disaster—­and yet—­what patriot should bide indoors on days like these!  ’Faith!  I’m torn ’twixt necessities!  Come!  Your news.  Sit by the fire and out with it!  What’s to become of the tea we won’t pay taxes on?

RICHARD.  Give me breath and I’ll tell you!  There’s news to make your blood boil.  I’ve been at the town meeting in the Old South Church all day.  What think you—!  The governor at Milton has refused a pass to Francis Rotch, and the tea ships cannot leave the harbor.  The British have sworn they’ll make us pay the tax or wring our scurvy necks.

RIGBY (outraged).  Zounds!  There are necks I’d like to have the wringing of!  What else, lad, what else?

RICHARD.  The Old South Church could not hold half the patriots who wish to talk and listen.  Such speeches!  Oh, they’d stir your blood if you could hear them!

RIGBY (eyes a-gleam).  ’Tis stirred enough already!  Go on, lad, quickly!

RICHARD.  Josiah Quincy is presiding at the New Old South.  ’Twas he who thought of sending word to the governor.  And now the governor has refused, and if there’s nothing done we’re beaten—­beaten, Tom Rigby, we who so love freedom!

RIGBY. 
Tut!  Tut!  Lad!  The night’s not done yet.  Are they still at the meeting?

RICHARD. 
Aye, and are like to be for the next hour.  ’Tis scarcely six—­just
candle-lighting time.

RIGBY. 
You look white, lad.  Have you eaten?

RICHARD. 
Eaten!  On such a day as this!

RIGBY.  Nonsense, lad.  You must keep up your strength. (Crosses to serving-table where bowl stands.) Here!  If you will not eat, at least you can drink a cup of steaming lemon punch.  No lads who come to my tavern get anything stronger—­unless, mayhap, a cup of apple juice.  Youth is its own best wine.  Cider for you.  Burgundy for your betters, eh, lad?  (Gives Richard a cup and takes a cup himself.) Here’s to taxless tea!  (Drinks.)