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Paul Revere was behind the counter when Lige came in, turning a silver bowl over and over in his hands. A man of forty-odd he was, with a quick, keen face and snapping eyes. He was wearing Boston clothes, but there was a French look about him—for his father was Apollos Rivoire from the island of Guernsey, and good French Huguenot stock. They’d changed the name to Revere when they crossed the water.

It wasn’t such a big shop, but it had silver pieces in it that people have paid thousands for, since. And the silver pieces weren’t all. There were prints and engravings of the Port of Boston and caricatures of the British and all sorts of goldsmith work, more than you could put a name to. It was a crowded place, but shipshape. And Paul Revere moved about it, quick and keen, with his eyes full of life and hot temper—the kind of man who knows what he wants to do and does it the next minute.

There were quite a few customers there when Lige Butterwick first came in—so he sort of scrooged back in a corner and waited his chance. For one thing, after the queer sign and the barber’s calling him a wizard, he wanted to be sure about this fellow, Revere, and see what kind of customers came to his shop.

Well, there was a woman who wanted a christening mug for a baby and a man who wanted a print of the Boston Massacre. And then there was a fellow who passed Revere some sort of message, under cover—Lige caught the whisper, “powder” and “Sons of Liberty,” though he couldn’t make out the rest. And, finally, there was a very fine silk-dressed lady who seemed to be giving Revere considerable trouble. Lige peeked at her round the corner of his chair, and, somehow or other, she reminded him of a turkey-gobbler, especially the strut.

She was complaining about some silver that Paul Revere had made for her—expensive silver it must have been. And “Oh, Master Revere, I’m so disappointed!” she was saying. “When I took the things from the box, I could just have cried!”

Revere drew himself up a little at that, Lige noticed, but his voice was pleasant.

“It is I who am disappointed, madam,” he said, with a little bow. “But what was the trouble? It must have been carelessly packed. Was it badly dented? I’ll speak to my boy.”

“Oh no, it wasn’t dented,” said the turkey-gobbler lady. “But I wanted a really impressive silver service—something I can use when the Governor comes to dinner with us. I certainly paid for the best. And what have you given me?”

Lige waited to hear what Paul Revere would say. When he spoke, his voice was stiff.

“I have given you the best work of which I am capable, madam,” he said. “It was in my hands for six months—and I think they are skillful hands.”

“Oh,” said the woman, and rustled her skirts. “I know you’re a competent artisan, Master Revere—”

“Silversmith, if you please—” said Paul Revere, and the woman rustled again.

“Well, I don’t care what you call it,” she said, and then you could see her fine accent was put on like her fine clothes. “But I know I wanted a real service—something I could show my friends. And what have you given me? Oh, it’s silver, if you choose. But it’s just as plain and simple as a picket fence!”

Revere looked at her for a moment and Lige Butterwick thought he’d explode.

“Simple?” he said. “And plain? You pay me high compliments, madam!”

“Compliments indeed!” said the woman, and now she was getting furious. “I’m sending it back tomorrow! Why, there isn’t as much as a lion or a unicorn on the cream jug. And I told you I wanted the sugar bowl covered with silver grapes! But you’ve given me something as bare as the hills of New England! And I won’t stand it, I tell you! I’ll send to England instead.”

Revere puffed his cheeks and blew, but his eyes were dangerous.

“Send away, madam,” he said. “We’re making new things in this country—new men—new silver—perhaps, who knows, a new nation. Plain, simple, bare as the hills and rocks of New England—graceful as the boughs of her elm trees—if my silver were only like that indeed! But that is what I wish to make it. And, as for you, madam,”—he stepped toward her like a cat,—“with your lions and unicorns and grape leaves and your nonsense of bad ornament done by bad silversmiths—your imported bad taste and your imported British manners—puff!” And he blew at her, just the way you blow at a turkey-gobbler, till she fairly picked up her fine silk skirts and ran. Revere watched her out of the door and turned back, shaking his head.

“William!” he called to the boy who helped him in the shop. “Put up the shutters—we’re closing for the day. And William−-no word yet from Dr. Warren?”

“Not yet, sir,” said the boy, and started to put up the shutters. Then Lige Butterwick thought it was about time to make his presence known.

So he coughed, and Paul Revere whirled and Lige Butterwick felt those quick, keen eyes boring into his. He wasn’t exactly afraid of them, for he was stubborn himself, but he knew this was an unexpected kind of man.

“Well, my friend,” said Revere, impatiently, “and who in the world are you?”

“Well, Mr. Revere,” said Lige Butterwick. “It is Mr. Revere, isn’t it? It’s kind of a long story. But, closing or not, you’ve got to listen to me. The barber told me so.”

“The barber!” said Revere, kind of dumbfounded.

“Uh-huh,” said Lige, and opened his mouth. “You see, it’s my tooth.”

“Tooth!” said Revere, and stared at him as if they were both crazy. “You’d better begin at the beginning. But wait a minute. You don’t talk like a Boston man. Where do you come from?”

“Oh, around Lexington way,” said Lige. “And, you see—”

But the mention of Lexington seemed to throw Revere into a regular excitement. He fairly shook Lige by the shoulders.

“Lexington!” he said. “Were you there this morning?”

“Of course I was,” said Lige. “That’s where the barber I told you about—”

“Never mind the barber!” said Revere. “Were Mr. Hancock and Mr. Adams still at Parson Clarke’s?”

“Well, they might have been, for all I know,” said Lige. “But I couldn’t say.”

“Great heaven!” said Revere. “Is there a man in the American colonies who doesn’t know Mr. Hancock and Mr. Adams?”

“There seems to be me,” said Lige. “But, speaking of strangers—there was two of them staying at the parsonage, when I rode past. One was a handsomish man and the other looked more like a bulldog—”

“Hancock and Adams!” said Revere. “So they are still there.” He took a turn or two up and down the room. “And the British ready to march!” he muttered to himself. “Did you see many soldiers as you came to my shop, Mr. Butterwick?”

“See them?” said Lige. “They chased me into a tar-barrel. And there was a whole passel of them up by the Common with guns and flags. Looked as if they meant business.”

Revere took his hand and pumped it up and down.

“Thank you, Mr. Butterwick,” he said. “You’re a shrewd observer. And you have done me—and the colonies—an invaluable service.”

“Well, that’s nice to know,” said Lige. “But, speaking about this tooth of mine—”

Revere looked at him and laughed, while his eyes crinkled.

“You’re a stubborn man, Mr. Butterwick,” he said. “All the better. I like stubborn men. I wish we had more of them. Well, one good turn deserves another—you’ve helped me and I’ll do my best to help you. I’ve made artificial teeth—but drawing them is hardly my trade. All the same, I’ll do what I can for you.”

So Lige sat down in a chair and opened his mouth.

“Whew!” said Revere, with his eyes dancing. His voice grew solemn. “Mr. Butterwick,” he said, “it seems to be a compound, agglutinated infraction of the upper molar. I’m afraid I can’t do anything about it tonight.”

“But—” said Lige.

“But here’s a draught—that will ease the pain for a while,” said Revere, and poured some medicine into a cup. “Drink!” he said, and Lige drank. The draught was red and spicy, with a queer, sleepy taste, but pungent. It wasn’t like anything Lige had ever tasted before, but he noticed it eased the pain.

“There,” said Revere. “And now you go to a tavern and get a good night’s rest. Come back to see me in the morning—I’ll find a tooth-drawer for you, if I’m here. And—oh yes—you’d better have some liniment.”

He started to rummage in a big cupboard at the back of the shop. It was dark now, with the end of day and the shutters up, and whether it was the tooth, or the tiredness, or the draught Paul Revere had given him, Lige began to feel a little queer. There was a humming in his head and a lightness in his feet. He got up and stood looking over Paul Revere’s shoulder, and it seemed to him that things moved and scampered in that cupboard in a curious way, as Revere’s quick fingers took down this box and that. And the shop was full of shadows and murmurings.

“It’s a queer kind of shop you’ve got here, Mr. Revere,” he said, glad to hear the sound of his own voice.

“Well, some people think so,” said Revere—and that time Lige was almost sure he saw something move in the cupboard. He coughed. “Say—what’s in that little bottle?” he said, to keep his mind steady.

“That?” said Paul Revere, with a smile, and held the bottle up. “Oh, that’s a little chemical experiment of mine. I call it Essence of Boston. But there’s a good deal of East Wind in it.”

“Essence of Boston,” said Lige, with his eyes bulging. “Well, they did say you was a wizard. It’s gen-u-wine magic, I suppose?”

“Genuine magic, of course,” said Revere, with a chuckle. “And here’s the box with your liniment. And here—”

He took down two little boxes—a silver and a pewter one—and placed them on the counter. But Lige’s eyes went to the silver one—they were drawn to it, though he couldn’t have told you why.

“Pick it up,” said Paul Revere, and Lige did so and turned it in his hands. It was a handsome box. He could make out a growing tree and an eagle fighting a lion. “It’s mighty pretty work,” he said.

“It’s my own design,” said Paul Revere. “See the stars around the edge—thirteen of them? You could make a very pretty design with stars—for a new country, say—if you wanted to—I’ve sometimes thought of it.”

“But what’s in it?” said Lige.

“What’s in it?” said Paul Revere, and his voice was light but steely. “Why, what’s in the air around us? Gunpowder and war and the making of a new nation. But the time isn’t quite ripe yet—not quite ripe.”

“You mean,” said Lige, and he looked at the box very respectful, “that this-here revolution folks keep talking about—”

“Yes,” said Paul Revere, and he was about to go on. But just then his boy ran in, with a letter in his hand.

“Master!” he said. “A message from Dr. Warren!”