Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.
The drum major dropped his baton, freeing the fifes to begin playing “Yankee Doodle” for what seemed like the five hundredth time. Lizzie’s head pounded in time with the shrill music.
“I swear, if I had that Yankee Doodle in my hands, I’d ring his neck like a chicken,” Lizzie muttered as she slapped six tankards of ale onto the bar. Matt snorted before he grabbed the tankards by their handles and headed toward the back side of Ship Tavern.
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