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classroom. Quick-witted, it was not long before Sally graduated from the primer to more complicated works. One often found Sally’s freckled nose buried in a book or a newspaper.
    The front door opened and slammed shut.
    â€œA mob, Annie!” Sally flew in, flinging her basket to the table.
    Anne jumped from her stool. “Where?”
    â€œRivington’s!” Sally pulled the folios from the drying rack into a sloppy pile. “They say poor Mr. Rivington’s fled the town.”
    Titus opened the door. The handle was wrenched from his grip by a wicked gust off the East River and the door slammed bang against the wall. The wind tore in, creating a swirling maelstrom of paper flying erratic about the shop. Titus pushed the door shut, putting an equally sudden end to the sudden hurricane. He clacked the three brass bolts home—bottom, top and center.
    â€œOch, but tha’s an ill wind.” Sally scooped up one of the wind-strewn pages and stared despondent at the copy. “This Tory business’ll surely do us in.”
    â€œInto the fire with them, Sally,” Titus ordered as he threw off his coat and hat. “Mrs. Anne—you and I must see to the type.”
    Anne did not waste time bemoaning all the fine work going up the chimney. She knew the drill. Following Titus to the back of the shop, together they pulled and pushed the unwieldy supply cabinet away from the wall to expose a short, wide door—access to the triangular closet space beneath the stairs. Anne unlatched the door and Titus pulled out a few heavy cases filled with old worn fonts they kept stored there. While Sally darted about plucking up pages and tossing them on the fire, Anne and Titus worked like a pair of stevedores loading a ship’s hold, lugging the expendable old type to the compositor’s table and tucking the precious cases of fine Caslon into the closet.
    Titus maneuvered the last case into the closet when a raucous pounding sounded at the front door. Sally helped to push and shove the supply cabinet back into position, concealing the closet door. The hammering at the front door and boarded windows became more boisterous, accompanied by much shouting and sharp whistling.
    Anne swiped the ink-stained mobcap from her head and stuffed it into the box with the leading. She twisted her tumble of chestnut hair into a quick knot and secured it with the pair of pins from the pocket at her hip. Spying a streak of black ink on the kerchief tucked about the low neckline of her blouse, she stripped it off and tossed it into the fire. There was no time to change from the old brown skirt she wore on press days, or the linsey blouse, now made immodest for lack of a neckerchief.
    The knocking at the door shifted to an incessant thudding, but the sturdy brass hinges and bolts withstood the weight of determined shoulders being heaved into the oak door. Anne took a position at the front of the shop next to one of the trestle tables. A good foot taller, Titus stood behind her, the iron poker snatched from the hearth gripped in one fist. Anne waved Sally to the door. “Go, go, go . . . afore they break it down.”
    Sally snapped the bolts back, one by one. “Hoy, lads!” she shouted. “Keep yer breeches on, aye?”
    The door swung open, and a dozen men spilled into the shop like so many slippery cod from a fisherman’s net—young men smelling strong of rum and ale—dockworkers, mechanics and apprentices by the looks of them. Having gained entrance, the raiders blinked in momentary confusion, floundering to form slipshod ranks. Most were armed with clubs, though Anne noticed several muskets and one man with a brace of pistols tucked at his waist.
    The last three men came through the open door bearing grim expression—all three familiar to Anne. Walter Quakenbos, the baker in apron and shirtsleeves, must have come straight from his shop next door. Captain Isaac Sears and Jack