RICHARD (joining him in the toast).  And the confounding of the British!  And now, since there are no red-coats about, I may tell you that the Old South Church is not the only place that’s to hold a meeting.  There’s going to be one here.

RIGBY
(surprised). 
Here?

RICHARD. 
In less than half an hour the lads will meet me.  We call ourselves “The
Younger Sons of Freedom.”

RIGBY (somewhat severely).  All that I have is at your service; yet ’tis only lately that lads have been allowed to rove past curfew time.

RICHARD.  Such days as these lads grow to men right quickly.  Do you think we waste our time with games and—­and snowball forts, Tom Rigby?  No!  The Younger Sons of Freedom have learned to fight and fence, to run and swim, and to swarm up a ship’s ladder if need be.  How could any lad be idle these last nineteen days, with fathers and brothers patrolling the wharves day and night to keep the tea from landing; when patriot sentinels are stationed in every belfry; and when all Beacon Hill is topped with tar-barrels ready to blaze out into signals at a moment’s notice.  I tell you—­my very dreams are of defiance!  But my deeds—­what can a lad do when he goes through life halting?  A maimed foot makes a maimed ambition, unless—­unless as I would fain believe, the spirit is stronger than the body.  It is the will that counts.

RIGBY.  You’re wiser than most lads, Richard.  You’ve a head on your shoulders.  I’ve known you long; but you have never spoken—­until to-night.  It was your will that took you through your puny childhood, fatherless, motherless, and made your stern old uncle proud of you.  Why now be down-hearted?  I’ve heard you spoken of as a lad of spirit by Dr. Warren, aye, and by Paul Revere.

RICHARD. 
There’s a patriot for you!  Would I could do such deeds as he can do. 
Oh, all I think of is to serve my country—­my city and my country!

RIGBY. 
That’s all I think on, too.

RICHARD
(amazed). 
You, Tom Rigby?

RIGBY (somewhat bitterly).  Did I seem to you only a waistcoat with buttons?  Nay, don’t protest!  ’Tis how most folks think of me.  What have I to do with valor?  I’m Tom the landlord, Tom the tapster, Tom the tavern-keeper!  How should they guess in me Tom the patriot, Tom the hero-worshiper?  And yet there’s not one bit of my country’s past, not one smallest Indian war but what has meaning for me.  What do you think those chests are full of?  Trophies!

RICHARD. 
Trophies!

RIGBY. 
From all the wars we’ve had. (Unlocks chest at right wall, excitedly.)
Look!  Tomahawks.  Headdresses. (Taking things out of chest.) Feathers.  A
war-knife.  An Indian robe taken in Philip’s war.

RICHARD.
(delighted:  interested). 
In Philip’s war.

RIGBY.
(with emotion). 
They’re more to me than a king’s ransom!

[He pauses, looking over contents of chest.