CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VA RUN ON THE BANKIn the garden, at the side of our house, there was an apple tree. There were two routes to the top of it. One, the common everyday path, was obvious and easy, almost like climbing a ladder. You took hold of the large limb nearest the ground, curled one leg and then the other around it, and so wriggled upon its upper side. From that point you could climb from one branch to another, without any difficulty, till you had reached the top of the tree. That was the prosaic method for ordinary occasions.But when hard pressed by enemies, when the shrieking Indians were at ourvery heels, or a Bengal tiger with dripping jaws uttered his frightful snarls only three feet behind us, then the circumstances called for a different route. It must be something not only quick, but risky. Time must be saved, seconds were precious. More than that, the fitness of things called for an element of danger in the ascent. There was no honor in the adventure if we climbed by the slow, safe path—the highroad, so to speak, of commerce and trade.Blood was up; the blast of war blew in our ears.So, at such times, we approached the tree from the other side, leaped high in the air to a branch above our heads, and, by a deal of swarming, shinning, pulling, and straining, reached the top.Then, from amid the leaves, we could pour down a murderous fire from our trusty rifles, till every Indian lay stretchedon the ground, or the Bengal tiger gave one last bellow and expired.It must not be thought, however, that these exciting moments, when the apple tree was an island of refuge, made it altogether a tame and profitless retreat in quieter times. It was enjoyable for rest and recreation, and it formed an excellent watch-tower from which to spy out the land. In May the pink and white blossoms turned it into an exquisite bouquet. Later in the summer the big green fruit—though not agreeable if eaten raw—could be transformed into the highest triumph cooks ever achieved—the apple-pie.Near the top an almost horizontal branch made a tolerable seat. At about the level of our eyes, as we sat there, another branch stretched its smooth surface. The bark on it was new, and so plainly adapted to the use of a jack-knifethat the symbols "E. M.," "J. R. T.," and "S. E.," deeply carven, indicated that Edward Mason, James Rogers Toppan, and Samuel Edwards had left their signs manual upon it.On the day of which I speak these gentlemen sat on the horizontal branch and devoured the contents of a roll of peppermint lozenges. I had had a cent that afternoon, and had expended it in this highly satisfactory form of pleasure.You got twelve tiny lozenges for a cent, and that made four apiece all round. In buying them you had to make serious choice between peppermint in yellow wrappers, checkerberry in green wrappers, cinnamon in pink wrappers, clove in brown wrappers (especially alluring because reputed to be dangerous—cloves having the well-known habit of "drying your blood"), and rose in purple wrappers—a particularly insipid flavor, oftentried in the hope that it would taste different this time.The fun was not all over when you had eaten the lozenges (by a slow process of suction), for there still remained the paper wrapper. This had always printed upon it some legend of more or less interest. The yellow one, that inclosed these peppermint lozenges, bore a few moral and patriotic sentiments concerning the Father of Our Country.The three personages in the apple tree thereupon engaged in a discussion on the subject: Who was the greatest man that ever lived? Jimmy Toppan and I declared for George Washington, but Ed Mason, for some unexplained reason, brought in a minority report for Amerigo Vespucci.Then Jimmy Toppan was moved to relate an anecdote."I heard somewhere that George Washington,or p'r'aps 'twas Daniel Webster, but anyhow it wassome one, when he was a boy, once put a coin in the bark of a tree in his father's orchard. Then, a long time afterward, when he was President of the United States, he came back there, and went right up to the tree and took out his jack-knife and cut away the bark, and there was the piece of money! You see, the bark had grown over it, and covered it up all those years."This was an interesting bit of information!All of us were instantly filled with a desire to follow in the footsteps of the great. Here was the tree, and here was the bark. But the coins were lacking. The only one we had possessed that afternoon had gone for peppermint lozenges. Fourth of July money must not be touched. Perhaps, however, a special appeal to the authorities would be successful. Weagreed to make application to the lords of the treasuries, and each to come to-morrow provided with a cent.The agreement was kept, and the following morning saw us at work on the bark of the apple tree. Three incisions were made (each one working at that part of the branch nearest his initials) and three copper cents were duly deposited. Then we descended the tree, and left our treasure to the silent years."How long do you suppose it will take the bark to grow over them?" inquired Ed Mason."Oh, I don't know. Years and years. Washington, or whoever it was, didn't come back till he was an old man.""Well, then, we ought not. They ought to be left there for sixty or seventy years, anyhow."It was unanimously agreed that not less than seventy years must elapse before the coins should be disturbed.We wandered out of the garden, down the street, and through the grounds of the Universalist Church. Drippings from the eaves of that building had unearthed hundreds of pebbles, and Ed Mason began selecting round ones for his sling-shot. Then he took that instrument out of his pocket and discharged the pebbles at a distant fence. But the sling-shot worked indifferently, and Ed pronounced the elastic worn out."You can get a dandy piece for a cent down at Higginson's," I observed.Then the significance of the remark struck me, and I glanced guiltily away. There was a pause in the conversation, until the sound of a horn suggested the approaching Fourth of July."Only nine days till the Fourth," declared Jimmy Toppan. "How many bunches you fellers goin' to have?"We counted on at least fifteen apiece."So do I," said Jimmy; "and torpedoes, and a horn.""Horns are foolish," remarked Ed Mason; "girls and babies always have horns.""That's all right," retorted Jimmy; "theylast. You'll prob'ly be round Fourth of July afternoon, when you've fired off all your fifteen bunches of fire-crackers, wantin' to blow on my horn."I put in a remark here."I'm goin' to have six sticks of slow-match, an' five boxes of Ajax torpedoes."But it did not impress Ed Mason."Ajax ain't half as good as Ironclad," he announced.Jimmy Toppan also had preferences."Have you seen those Chinese Aërial Bombs down at Johnson's? They're the biggest torpedoes you ever saw—each one as big as your fist! Gee! I'd liketo hear one of 'em go off! They cost a cent apiece, an'—"He stopped.Somehow the conversation would get around to the subject of things costing a cent. It was most embarrassing. We had invested our capital for seventy years, and were already feeling the pinch.The morning wore on, and though I observed both Ed and Jimmy to cast surreptitious glances toward the apple tree, there were no more references to the subject of cents.In the afternoon I went over to Rob Currier's house, and found him engaged with the most fascinating weapon imaginable. It was a pop-gun made from a goose-quill. It shot small pieces of raw potato to a great distance, and did so with a loud and soul-satisfying pop.His uncle had made it for him, said Rob.He willingly let me experiment with it, but he was not interested to watch me very long."Let's go down and look at the fire-crackers in Johnson's window," he suggested."I'd rather stay here and shoot this pop-gun," I declared."I'm tired of it," he rejoined. "Sell it to you for a cent."Again the cent!I put down the pop-gun and accompanied Rob to Johnson's shop, where we spent twenty minutes with our noses flattened against the pane, choosing what we would take if Mr. Johnson should come out and invite us to help ourselves.Mr. Johnson did nothing of the sort, however.We agreed that our first choice would be a mine, which was described as "sendingto an enormous height nine colored stars, alternately green, purple, and carmine, and then exploding with a rain of golden serpents."This point decided, we repaired to the Curriers' and spent the afternoon perfecting our skill with the lasso.In the interval that evening, between supper and bedtime, I suffered much uneasiness.Some member of my family read from the evening paper that thieves were reported in town. Instantly, I thought of the three cents in the apple tree. Surely it had been rash to leave them exposed. There was nothing in the story about Washington to tell what he did to protect his coin from thieves. How would he have felt if he had come back, President of the United States, and found that some one had stolen his cent?Moreover, there was always the chancethat I might never become President. In all fairness, I had to consider that.Suddenly the thought of Rob Currier's pop-gun recurred to me. I needed that pop-gun.Once during the night I got up and looked out of my bedroom window to see if the apple tree were safe. It seemed to be standing serene enough in the moonlight, but who could tell what marauders might besiege it?In the morning my mind was made up. As soon as I finished breakfast I hurried out, climbed the tree by the emergency route, and began to cut at the bark where my cent was concealed.I had it in an instant.As I was working I noticed that the other two cents were gone already. I turned around and looked down Oak Street. Jimmy Toppan, with one fist tightly clutched, was running at full speedtoward Johnson's and the Chinese Aërial Bomb.Ed Mason was nowhere in sight. Apparently he had withdrawn his deposit even earlier.CHAPTER VIHORACEDuring that week before the Fourth of July the days passed with incredible slowness. One afternoon, to beguile the time, I went over to Horace Winslow's house.Horace, from the standpoint of most of us, was entitled to sympathy,—he was being "brought up" with so much care.Not that any of us were neglected. School was our portion, Mr. Colburn's and other improving but uncomfortable books were our fare through nine months of the year. On Sundays we were duly despatched to the school appropriate to that day. We each carried the traditional cent for the contribution box. And, as in the story-books (which aresometimes faithful transcripts from life), it was with difficulty that we passed the traditional drug shop, which displayed the traditional peppermint lozenges and "coltsfoot."And, still in the traditional manner, the Tempter's voice was loud sometimes in our ears,—so loud that we turned and entered Dr. Dibden's shop, and spent that cent for a roll of lozenges, or a piece of coltsfoot, or of "stick lickrish."But if we did this thing, so did Horace Winslow. And if, occasionally, we had to be sent from the dinner-table to remove a few burrs from our coat collars, or to make another attempt with the hair-brush, so had Horace. In such matters his experiences were not different from those of the other boys in the neighborhood.His mind was being improved,—that was all.It had not injured his health to any extent. He presented, on that afternoon, his usual round countenance, and red cheeks. A pleasing plumpness was his most noticeable characteristic,—not the lean air of the scholar.I found him making a suitable home for his turtles, and I joined in the work with enthusiasm. The turtles had been straying lately, and it was clear that something had to be done. It is distressing, after you have lavished any amount of attention on a turtle, and have tied him by a long string so as to give him wide liberty, to find in the morning that he has twisted and tangled the string amongst the grass, and then departed, leaving one end of the string buried, as if in derision, in the ground.We set out to construct a turtle-proof pen from boards and shingles."I came pretty near losin' all the turtles," said Horace."Did they break the strings?" I asked."No,—only one of 'em. But Aunt said she didn't know but I'd have to put 'em all back in the pond.""What for?""'Cos I took one of 'em to bed with me night 'fore last.""Which one?""That big one, with the yuller spots.""Did she mind?""Who,—Aunt Cora? You bet she did! I put him in the bath-tub to give him a swim in the mornin', an' I forgot him when I went to breakfast, an' then right after breakfast I had to go down town to get a yeast-cake, an' Aunt found him swimmin' round in the tub, an' she said 'twas horrid to have turtles in the tub, an' she wanted to know when I put him there, an' so she found out I'd had him under the pillow all night, an' she was awful mad! I thought she was goin'to lick me, but she didn't. I didn't dare tell her I'd had another one up there the night before,—the little black one. He's a jim-dandy,—the best turtle I've got. His name is Pete."I agreed that Pete was a very desirable turtle. And I put in a request."Tell me if your Aunt makes you put 'em back in the pond, will you?""She won't. She said I could keep 'em, but I can't bring 'em inside the house. Gee! She's been awful cross lately, though. Last night again. An' Uncle, too. We went in swimmin' out to Four Rocks,—I mean I did, an' Ben Spauldin', an' Harry Fletcher, an'—""How'd you go?" I interrupted; "out the railroad?""No, we got a ride on Dole's wagon to the green, an' then went out the middle road. While we were in the water, two fellers came along, an' grabbed most ofmy clothes, an' Ben's, an' run up across the track, an' chucked 'em into Mr. Harris' shanty, an' then run off laughin'; an' I run up to get 'em, an' just as I got up on the road Aunt an' Uncle came drivin' along with Mr. Benton, an' they were mad as hops 'cos I didn't have anythin' on, an' Uncle was goin' to make me get into the carriage an' get under a robe, till I told him my clothes were in the shanty.""What did he say?""He said I'd ought to have taken better care of my clothes, an' Aunt said it was disgraceful runnin' round stark naked on the road, an' she was mortified to death, an' I couldn't go in swimmin' any more if I didn't behave, an'—oh, darn it all, is that two o'clock?"It was certainly two. The North Church clock struck the hour distinctly."I s'pose I'll have to go in, now," he announced sorrowfully.I was about to ask the reason, when the voice of Mrs. Vincent, Horace's aunt, came from behind the closed shutters of a window."Horace!""Oh, I don't want to come in now!""Horace!""Well, I don't, Aunt. Sam Edwards is here, and we've got to build this turtle-pen.""HORACE!""I can't leave Sam here all alone, Aunt. 'Twouldn't be polite.""Horace, come in the house instantly. You may bring Samuel with you.""Oh, he don't want to come.""Doesn'twant to come, you mean. Wouldn't you like to hear me read to Horace, Samuel?"I was greatly interested in the turtles,but I was also fond of being read to. Apparently I was going to lose the company of Horace, anyhow. Moreover, I was afraid of Horace's aunt. So I meekly said:—"Yes'm."But Horace still raised objections."We can't leave the turtles like this Aunt,—they'll all get away.""Horace, mind what I say this minute. You can make the turtles safe enough. I will give you three minutes longer, and if you are not indoors then, your uncle will punish you this evening."We collected the wayward turtles and put them in a garden basket. A few seconds later we presented ourselves before Mrs. Vincent, who looked at us ominously over the top of a book. Horace sat down in one stiff-backed chair, and I in another. He began to screw his face into knots as soon as he saw the book.It was unknown to me, and fifteen or twenty years were to elapse before I should know its title. Then, one day, reading Guizot's "History of France," I recognized a passage, and realized with what work we had been regaled,—when we wished to build a turtle-pen."Oh, Aunt—""Horace, be quiet. Sit up straight in your chair. Put your hand down."She looked Horace over critically, and then began to read."'The old parliamentarians were triumphant; at the same time as Abbé Terray, Chancellor Maupeou was disgraced, and the judicial system he had founded fell with him. Unpopular from the first, the Maupeou Parliament had remained in the nation's eyes the image of absolute power corrupted and corrupting. The suit between Beaumarchais and Councillor Goëzman—'""Oh, Aunt, I don't want—""Horace, if you are not still this instant, I will put you to bed!"Horace's articulations dissolved into snuffles and whines; we both hitched and wriggled in our chairs, and the reading went on. We heard what Chancellor Maupeou said to the Duke de La Vrillière, and what M. Turgot wrote to Louis XVI,—if a process in which the brain took almost no part can be called hearing. These personages were strangers to me, but Horace greeted them as familiar enemies. I judged that he knew and hated them of old time.An hour passed, a long hot hour. M. de Malesherbes had gone the way of Turgot, and Horace and I were reduced to a mere coma. Then the book was closed, and we were told that we might return to our turtles.We did so with profound joy, andHorace, seeing the Tiltons' cat hurrying over the fence, remarked that she was Chancellor Maupeou, and threw a green apple at her.CHAPTER VIITHE GREAT DAYFrom far off came a sound of popping and snapping,—some boy, unable to wait, was trying a few fire-crackers. It still lacked a day or two of the Fourth of July, and the strain was telling on us.A door that was slammed or a whip that was cracked took on a new significance, while the fish-pedlers' horns seemed to have an altogether unusual note.Underneath my bed was a box containing fifteen bunches of fire-crackers, ordinary size; three bunches of cannon crackers; two single gigantic fellows; and some sticks of slow-match. There were also the five boxes of Ajax torpedoes,twisted tight in their red paper, and slumbering now in sawdust, but all ready to explode delightfully when the time came.Jimmy Toppan had taken the wrappers from his fire-crackers, and separated the crackers. Slowly and painfully he had disentangled the fuses which some Chinese workman had skilfully braided together. It had taken a whole afternoon to do it, but now he had no one knew how many thousands of crackers, neatly piled in a large cigar-box.He was prepared for the morning of the Fourth, when he could sit down in some convenient place,—the curb-stone, for instance, with a stick of lighted slow-match in one hand, and the cigar-box full of fire-crackers beside him.Then, with due deliberation, he could choose a fire-cracker, bring the glowing end of the slow-match to the fuse of thecracker, throw the latter into the street as soon as it began to spit out sparks, and wait ecstatically for the explosion.As soon as this had occurred he could repeat the whole operation,—for hours.Untangling the fire-crackers had pulled the fuses out of some of them. These unfortunates were carefully put aside for "cat and dog fights."There were one or two green fire-crackers in every bunch, and occasionally ayellowone. These he herded by themselves, for use at especially important moments. That they make a louder noise than the red ones is a scientific fact well known to all experts.I had not separated my crackers. It was a joy I decided to defer until the great day. There was a pleasure in seeing the bunches intact, and in observing the red wrappers with their gorgeous gilt dragons. You could smell the gunpowdery smell aswell as if the packages had been opened. But I counted those eighteen bunches of crackers every night and every morning, and sometimes during the day. And I had broken the top of one of the torpedo boxes and explored with my fingers in the sawdust.There were twelve fat torpedoes in the box, and five boxes, and that made—that made—(oh! Mr. Colburn!) it made sixty! yes, sixty great, big, lovely torpedoes. Sixty beautiful bangs!But one must be careful with torpedoes. They must be fired with care, one at a time, for the proper enjoyment of them. There had been accidents,—I had seen one the year before. Little Larry Paine had fired all his crackers before ten o'clock in the morning. He went into the house to get the last of his stock of explosives,—a box of torpedoes. The sawdust had been taken out, and he cameforth again with a dozen torpedoes loose in the box. As he reached the sidewalk the box slipped, and fell on the bricks with one terrifying crash. All the torpedoes had gone off together.It was magnificent, but it was not war. It filled us with joy, but it filled Larry with woe. He lifted up his voice and mourned because they were not. With loud wails he retreated into the house, and his agonized family knew no peace for an hour."My brother Billy's goin' to the bonfire at midnight," announced Ed Mason, conscious of the glory reflected upon him by this fact.But I was not to be outdone."Poo! that's nothin'.Mybrother's goin' to stay upallnight; he an' Phil Coombs an' Arthur Monroe are goin' to sleep in Arthur Monroe's barn an' they're goin' to the bonfire an' they ain't goin'to bed at all. Last Fourth he nearly got arrested for ringin' the High School bell!"I was determined to leave Ed Mason not a leg to stand on."Well," he remarked weakly, "I'm goin' to get up at half-past three, anyway."He had me there. I had parental permission to get up at four o'clock, and I had not expected to be surpassed in this important achievement by my own familiar friend.It rankled with me all day, and in the evening I laid the case before my father and mother. For the honor of the family, as well as for my own self-respect, I simply had to get up at half-past three.They were in doubt. It was going to be a long and exciting day for me. Aside from the exertion of firing my own supply of crackers and torpedoes, I was going atnoon to see "Gunner Hunt" fire his annual salute at the foot of River Street. Then there was the flag-raising on the mall at two o'clock, and the fireworks at March's Hill in the evening.But they finally consented, and once more I could look Ed Mason in the face.When the evening of the 3d of July came, I went cheerfully to bed at seven o'clock, in order to prepare for the labors of the next day. I counted my fire-crackers, and found their number complete. It was rather hard to get to sleep on account of the uproarious sounds from Main Street,—cannon crackers, muskets, revolvers, cow-bells, and horns. But finally I dropped off,—only to be disturbed by a dream that Auntie Merrill had come into the room and was making a raid on my fire-crackers.It was a hideous nightmare,—she vanished out the door with her arms fullof my precious possessions, and I could not do a thing to stop her. When I woke I had to get up and count those fire-crackers again.Then I climbed back in bed once more and listened to the distant noise. Somebody came down our street, dragging a string of cow-bells. The national holiday was being celebrated with diligence.Suddenly it struck me that perhaps the morning had already come. In a panic I jumped up, lighted a match, and looked at the clock. It was eight o'clock,—I had been asleep less than an hour. Listening at the open window I could hear my family talking in the garden below. I remembered that I was to meet Ed Mason and Jimmy Toppan in that garden at half-past three, and that I had better get to sleep again.I lay in bed once more, trying not to hear the din. All at once I becameaware that some one—my father—was standing at the side of the bed, shaking me."Sam! Sam! I thought you were going to get up. It's quarter of four.""What?"I jumped out, confused. There was a dim light outside,—not daylight, by any means. I began to dress, and fumble for the fire-crackers. Things seemed very different, somehow, from what I had expected.As I went downstairs I heard my father say:—"It's raining, I think,—put on your rubber coat."Rain! How would the fire-crackers like that?Outside I found Ed and Jimmy. They were rather silent, but inclined to be contemptuous because I was late. They had been fiddling around in the gardenfor some minutes, waiting for me. Jimmy had an umbrella, and did not look very happy.We went out to the front of the house, and sat down on the door-steps. Jimmy had his box of fire-crackers (which he managed with difficulty on account of the umbrella), while Ed Mason had his crackers in a canvas bag. Owing to the breeze, which was rather brisk, we had some trouble in lighting the slow-match. Just as we got it going the rain began to fall in a smart shower.There was nothing for it but to retreat inside the house once more. This was a pretty sort of Fourth of July! The possibility of such an inconsiderate act on the part of Heaven had never occurred to us. Could it be that they did not know, up there, what day this was?It was a little dull in the house. Jimmy and I both fell asleep, and so, Ithink, did Ed Mason, though he denied it. Fortunately I found some raspberry turnovers in the pantry, and they helped alleviate our sufferings.Shortly before breakfast the rain stopped, and the sun came feebly out. We were soon in the street once more, creating a racket that left nothing to be desired. Joe and Charley Carter joined us, and so did Rob Currier and Peter Bailey. Peter had a revolver, and he scorned fire-crackers. The Rev. Mr. Dimmick, who lived across the street, stood on the steps of his dwelling and beamed upon us. He looked as if he would like to celebrate, too.Mr. Dimmick was a minister, which was too bad, because he was such a good ball-player. Charley Carter had an enormous cannon cracker, and when he started to touch it off, Mr. Dimmick called out:—"Wait a minute,—you ought to have something to put over that,—a box, or a can, or something.""I wish I had!" said Charley; "let me take that cigar-box, Jimmy?""I've got just the thing," shouted the minister; "I'll get it."And he vanished into the house. Presently he came out again with a shining tin box. They lighted the cannon cracker, clapped the box over it, and ran.Bang! went the cracker, and the box shot straight up in the air."Jiminy!" said Joe Carter, "'twon't never come down!"It looked as if it wouldn't. It went up above the houses, above the trees, even. Then it started to fall, and as it did so a funny thing happened. For the seams of the box had all been blown apart, and only its swift upward rush had kept them together. As soon as it started on itsdownward trip, they flew apart, and the box struck the earth, a flat sheet of tin,—flat as a fritter.Just then Mrs. Dimmick came to the door."James," she said, "I can't find my new cake tin,—have you seen it?""Er—oh, what, my dear? Yes, Harold has just strayed off,—up the street, I think,—I'll find him all right."And Mr. Dimmick hurried away.We spent the morning, after breakfast, in the midst of a delicious cloud of powder smoke. "Dynamite" crackers had not been invented then, and nobody got hurt at all,—except Rob Currier, who burned his thumb slightly on a piece of slow-match. Charley Carter's father, a man of untold wealth, bought a dozen bunches of fire-crackers, and fired thema whole bunch at a time!We stood around in awe at the delightfulnoise and the princely extravagance of it.At noon all the church bells rang for an hour, and we went down to the foot of River Street to hear "Gunner Hunt" and his assistants fire a salute. Mr. Jones was there, leaning on his Napoleon cane, and regarding the spectacle with a sarcastic grin. It probably seemed a pretty small business to him, compared with his famous battle.We had ice-cream for dinner, and strawberry shortcake, and ginger-ale. There were other things,—lamb and green peas, I believe, in which the grown-ups were interested.In the afternoon we saw the flag-raising on the Mall. The Mayor made a speech, and so did General Cogswell, but the speeches did not appeal to us especially. Luckily a horse ran away, so we found some entertainment. ThenDr. Macey treated us all to lemonade, and more ice-cream.If we had had any doubts of what the Mayor said about the Declaration of Independence being the most important event in the history of mankind, such doubts would have been removed.In the evening, as soon as it began to get dark, we joined the crowds wending down Elm Street toward March's Hill.People who lived in that neighborhood, people whose back yards afforded a good view of the fireworks, found themselves suddenly popular. It was astonishing how many friends they had. Acquaintances whom they had not seen for a year began to invade their gardens, shake hands cordially, and show themselves perfectly willing to sit on their chairs and camp-stools, or even their back door-steps.The fireworks passed off in the usual blaze of glory, and about half-past nineI walked wearily home with my father and mother. Even then, we could see, through the trees of Elm Street, distant rockets streaming up the sky, pausing for an instant, and then vanishing with a far-off "T'lock!"A shower of sparks hung for a while in the sky, disappeared, and left all quiet and black, except for the twinkling stars.CHAPTER VIIITHE GREEN CHESTJimmy Toppan was worth knowing for the sake of his grandmothers, if for no other reason. He had two of them. With one, and a great-aunt, he lived on Elm Street.The other grandmother was mistress of a farm in the country, to which we often went. There were uncles and aunts there, too, but it was Grandmother Toppan who seemed best to understand our needs. When we were at the farm she knew the exact hours (about eleven in the morning, and again about half-past four in the afternoon) when a large slice of apple pie is most useful.Tactfully and unfailingly she administered it at those times.Grandmother Bradley, with whom Jimmy lived, ran Grandmother Toppan a very close race. Her favorite remedy for our troubles (certain hollow feelings which often afflicted us) was sugar-gingerbread. I will leave it to any one if it is possible to choose between two such excellent women.The farm was, of course, a centre of attractions. Grandmother Bradley's domain, on a principal street of the town, was naturally circumscribed. Yet it contained one object of overwhelming interest.In the basement stood a green chest. It was bumped and scarred, and, worse than all, it was locked.Lovely things dwelt within it, so Jimmy said.It had come across the seas with somefar-off great-uncle, and it was never opened. But if the cover should ever be raised, he who stood by should be envied of all boys. For inside was a large tank, filled with some liquid, the exact nature of which Jimmy never explained. In this silvery fluid swam or floated all manner of fairy shapes. There were mermaids, tiny golden fishes, and other strange inhabitants of the ocean. Enormous turtles reposed on the sands at the bottom, and gay little ships with bright rigging sailed overhead.All of these delectable objects were made, by the cunning of some foreign workman, out of glass. The golden hair of the mermaids, the scales of the fish, the sand, the sea-shells, the monstrous whales, the sword of the swordfish, the flippers of the turtles, the little lighthouse that stood on the shore, the beautifully colored seaweeds that clustered about therocks, all of these—even the thread-like ropes and shrouds of the bobbing vessels—all were fashioned from brittle glass.Did a boy ever have a more tantalizing vision dancing before his eyes?I stood and gazed at that green chest. A more stolid, unyielding affair cannot be imagined. It was dusty, and the corners of it were worn and rounded. The green paint which had covered it was faded, and in many spots knocked off altogether. Sailors' boots had kicked it, perhaps, or it had rocked about some cabin or hold when the waves of the real ocean had started a miniature tempest on the little sea within. What, then, had prevented collisions between the glass ships, or kept the mermaids from being shivered to bits on the reef?Some glass sailor must have steered the ships to safety, while the mermaids hadplunged beneath the waves to find calmer water below.The solution seemed to fit the case, but how was I to prove it? How was I to look at any of these charming things? The chest was locked, and locked it was likely to remain. A sort of decree had issued from Jimmy Toppan's great-aunt: no one was to see the inside of the chest. Nay, more, one must not even ask about it. It was locked tight, and there was an end of it. I never heard Jimmy's great-aunt say this; I never mentioned the chest in her presence. Nor did Jimmy say that the unlocking of the chest was forbidden. He described its contents in a way to set my imagination aflame. He did not say definitely that he had ever looked in it. But he let it be known that it held such glories that a glimpse therein was a vision of fairyland. And he somehow cast an air ofmystery and awe about it, till I would no more have asked to have the cover raised than I would have presented myself, snub-nosed and with holes in the knees of my stockings, at the gates of Paradise with a request to be enrolled in the cherubs' chorus.I never knew why there was such a curse upon the chest. But I gathered, somehow, that the great-uncle, or grandfather, or whoever he was, who had brought it from foreign parts, had uttered, with his dying breath, a solemn injunction that it was to stay closed. The opening of Pandora's box was to be a holiday recreation compared to opening that green chest. It was no more to be disturbed than Shakespeare's bones. Why he should have transported it such a distance, with such infinite care, and then sealed it up forever, passed my understanding. Did the prohibition extendto grown-ups, or was it only for boys? That, also, I never could find out.I used to fancy that Jimmy's great-aunt stole down to the basement in the dark hours of night to gloat over the silver sea and its delicate inhabitants. Once, in the late afternoon, I detected her going chestwards, and I followed with beating heart. I got behind an apple barrel and watched her movements. But she only went to an ice-box, from which she took out a plate of mutton chops.The intolerable curiosity aroused in me by Jimmy's account of the chest was equalled only by the fear I had to make any inquiries about it. I was convinced that a painful family secret overhung that green chest.Night after night I dreamed that I had been permitted to look within. Sometimes it was all I had imagined, and more. The ships, the mermaids, the turtles,and all the rest were there indeed. And others, new and indescribable forms, floated or swam in that enchanted ocean, glittering, fragile, wonderful. I could take them in my hand, play with them, and set them again in their element.They did not merely act the lifeless part of china figures in an aquarium. They moved about with an intelligence of their own; the ships spread gauzy sails to catch a magic wind, and flew before it. The whales rose to the surface, disported themselves heavily, like true whales, and blew jets of spray into the air.In the midst of my rapture I would wake; all the glass toys vanished, and I could have cried to find them gone. In the morning it would be impossible to recall these new figures. I remembered them dimly and more dimly as the hours of the day blurred my dream. The iridescent creatures turned to formless thingsof gray and drab, and then lost themselves, to be found again only in another dream.But not all my sleeping experiences were so happy. Sometimes I would seem to approach the chest only to have Jimmy's great-aunt rise from behind it, shaking a broom. At other times I would lift the lid and find inside the chest the crouching figure of the long-departed great-uncle. He would jump out, gibbering frightfully, and I would scream and wake up. Thus the chest became surrounded by terrors even when viewed by daylight. Jimmy's great-aunt was like another dragon set over the golden apples. She kept watch by day, while at night the goblin uncle came on duty.So we began to steer clear of the green chest and to confine our activities to other parts of the basement. Much has been written of the joy that dwells in old garrets.The basement is neglected. Yet, if dry and well lighted, it may have its points.In this one much importance was attached to a plate of sand set on a table. This, so Jimmy solemnly averred, was for the purpose of discovering the presence of mice in the basement. If they ran over the sand, their footprints would betray them, and traps might be set. It did not occur to me to marvel at the obliging nature of mice who should be at such great pains to record their arrival. Observing that Jimmy's great-aunt often inspected the plate of sand and smoothed its surface over after each inspection, we looked to it that she should never be disappointed.It is not hard to counterfeit small footprints, such as might be made by a scurrying mouse.In an adjoining room there was asteam-boiler—part of the heating apparatus of the house. The existence of this boiler, the discovery of clay in Davenport's field, and the always present need of marbles, these conditions led to the foundation of an enterprise that occupied a number of days.The clay was brought from "Davenport's," and rolled into balls of the proper size. These were placed on shingles and set to bake beneath the boiler.Visions of revolutionizing the marble industry spurred us on. We calculated that we could undersell the regular dealers and that profits would accrue. But although the clay balls were duly left beneath the boiler all night, there were defects in the finished product. The part that had rested on the shingle obstinately remained flat. We found no way of giving our marbles the glaze necessary to the real thing; so the dealers continuedto ask the exorbitant sum of a cent for ten, and did not have to break prices to meet our competition.It is possible that the fact that there was no heat in the boiler had something to do with this fiasco.After this, to keep our minds from wandering toward the green chest, we started the manufacture of gunpowder on a large scale. The raw material, rotting stone, could be procured from the sand heap and dump, which at that date (before the rise of city improvement associations) adorned the banking at the end of the frog pond. This dump had many attractions, not the least of which were the squash vines which trailed over it. They never got beyond the blossoming stage, but that did not trouble us. The possession of raw squashes would have availed us little. The flowers were interesting, and I scarcely need to point outthe value of the stems. We cut a slit near one end, and they became in our hands trumpets with which to blow soul-animating strains. It is, of course, necessary to scrape off the prickles with a jack-knife, or the lips of the performer are apt to suffer.But these were by the way. The rotting stone, red, gray, brown, and black, was the most valuable product of the dump. We carried it to a broad, flat piece of slate which covered a cistern just outside the basement windows. Here, with hard rocks, we ground it fine. It then became, by the chemistry which worked so quickly in those days, gunpowder. The black dust was the ordinary article. Mixed with red or other colors, it was transformed into various high explosives. Then we stored it in packets in the basement, where it might be drawn upon in case of need—anysudden attacks by Indians or pirates, for instance.The day on which we stored the powder was not long after the Fourth of July. Our operations in the basement had to come to an end on that day, for Grandmother Bradley and Aunt Josephine were going away for a week. The house was to be closed, and Jimmy would stay with his Grandmother Toppan in the country.The last time we entered the basement our eyes wandered toward the green chest. But neither of us spoke about it. I wondered if the chest would be stolen, or be burned up, or should I die and never look inside it? Already the little glass ships and fishes had become less real, though more beautiful, than the folks of elf-land. What small hope I had ever entertained of seeing them was dwindling to a pin-point.I was never troubled by any suspicionthat the tank, the ocean, and the glass creatures existed only in Jimmy's imagination. Such doubts did not fret me then, nor afterwards. The green chest remained one of the mysteries of the believing years.CHAPTER IXWHITE PEACOCKSDuring the time that Jimmy stayed at his grandmother's farm—a period that was lengthened to more than two weeks—we were all agitated by the approach of a circus. Excitement had reached such a pitch that when, three days before circus-day, Jimmy invited me to make him a visit, I was in some doubt whether I ought to venture so far afield.But on a solemn promise from Jimmy's Uncle Will that he would personally convey me home, behind one of his own horses, at least twenty-four hours before the great event, I thought it might be safe to risk it. Jimmy could stay at thefarm (fully two miles away) until the very morning, if he liked. I preferred to be nearer at hand. So to the farm I went.Certainly, no other place would have tempted me. It was, to our fancies, perhaps the most fortunate spot on earth. Historians and antiquaries might deny that it had been the scene of a proper Indian raid.Wecould see the loopholes from which the flintlocks had been fired, and mark the small window whence a dipperful of molten lead was poured, to discourage an Indian whose anxiety to come inside the house made him indiscreet. I have never heard any of the slaves to fact assert that the farm-house might not have seen the tomahawk flashing about its walls and heard the war-whoop ring out.It was there in the days of tomahawks and war-whoops.If the Indians had been so inconsiderateas to pass it by, we were not going to let that trouble us. Certainly, a plough seldom turned the earth of the adjoining meadow without bringing to light a flint arrow-tip or the head of a stone axe—weapons which even the scientific historian might hesitate to attribute to the ministers and deacons of Puritan times.There was the meadow itself, an enormous tract of land, as it appeared to us. In it, somewhere, dwelt the lord of the herd, a legendary bull whose uncertain temper might be aroused by the sight of a small boy wearing a plaid necktie with a single spot of red in it. He could detect this spot at half a mile, and the boy had better make for the nearest fence, and affect blue neckties exclusively henceforth. Thus the crossing of the meadow had that spice of danger without which life is tasteless.There were other reasons for crossingthe meadow besides the mere braving of the bull. At its foot was a pond, rich in mud of primeval blackness, and well stocked with turtles and "green-leapers." Farther on was a bog and wood, deep and gloomy as the magic forest of Broceliande, and not less pleasing to us because it went by the more homely name of Pettingell's Swamp. Crows built their nests in its trees, and without its borders jack-in-the-pulpit held his springtime services. Beyond this, more meadows—salt ones this time; then the river, the sand-dunes, and the ocean.The barns about the farm-house were full of sweet-smelling hay. You could bore long tunnels through this, and come out with your hair full of dust and spiders' webs. Certain cocks of salt hay stood outside. By climbing to the top of one of them, sitting down, and sliding to the bottom you could enjoy an exhilaratingexercise. It is only fair to say, however, that the salt water and occasional bit of mud which gave the hay its slipperiness had an evil effect upon knickerbockers, and furnished relatives with a subject for wearisome jest which dieth never.Yet with all these methods of entertainment, Jimmy and I considered the peacocks chief among the attractions of his grandmother's farm. They did not really belong on the farm, but were the property of Mr. Bartlett, who lived at some distance. We judged that the owner of such exotic fowls must possess the wealth of Ormus and of Ind. The birds themselves were indifferent in the matter of domicile, and spent most of the day and all the night on the Toppans' land.Their bedtime was an hour of unusual interest. They gathered about sunset around a large apple tree which stood near one corner of the farm-house. Therewas much strutting and spreading of tails among the gentlemen of the party; the peahens moved about nervously, but with less ostentation. Both sexes raised discordant shrieks from time to time, for no purpose that we could discover.When, one by one, they had taken up their roosting-places in the tree, they made an impressive spectacle, especially after night had fallen, and seemed to bring the jungles of Hindustan to our very doors.They inspired a feeling of awe and mystery because of their radiant plumage and reputed value. It was the veneration which we felt toward the whole tribe that turned so quickly to terror in the matter of the white peacock.The adventure flashed on us suddenly the morning after my arrival at the farm.In a sand-pit beyond the orchard it was the immemorial custom to build fires and roast potatoes and other eatables. Marksof fires long dead showed us that the practice extended far back, perhaps to the boys of prehistoric times, or to those whose fathers had shot the arrows whereof the flint heads lay beneath the surface of the meadow. Potatoes and apples were placed in the hot embers, and removed at the end of about twenty minutes. The apples were, by this time, roasted not wisely but too well. The potatoes had an outer region of softness, but at heart were firm and unyielding. Both were so covered with wood ashes that their consumption left streaks of soot all about the vicinity of the mouth, extending back even to the ears.Potatoes and apples, thus prepared, had palled upon us. We sought for variety in the bill of fare, and this morning Jimmy proposed eggs."At clam-bakes they roast eggs in hot seaweed," declared Jimmy.The idea was worthy, but eggs were not so easy to procure. A visit to the hen-house proved that the day's supply had already been gathered. Then, though Robinson Crusoe would hardly have done it, we applied at the kitchen. But Grandmother Toppan, who might have humored our whim, was away from home. The Power temporarily in command dismissed our request brusquely:—"Ye byes git outer here, now, or I'll be afther takin' the paddle to yez."We did not know what paddle was referred to, but we understood that we had leave to withdraw. We wondered if Robinson Crusoe ever met with humiliating rebuffs like that. It was impossible; no tyrannous cook could lord it over him while he carried that long gun.But we had no gun, so, in dejection and despair, we wandered again toward the sand-pit. As we crossed the orchard,a startling event occurred. Some large bird rustled off through the grass, and in the little round hollow where she had been sitting gleamed four white objects. It was enough to renew our trust in the gods who favor the romantic in their everlasting encounters with the practical folk of the world.For here were eggs!And eggs obtained under conditions that our friend Crusoe need not have scorned. To us the adventure said in no unmistakable tones: Abase yourself not before cooks when your spoil is at hand. Trust Providence, as did the Swiss Family Robinson.We hurried to the sand-pit, kindled the fire, and put in the eggs. I refuse to dwell upon their condition when we took them out, or on the difficulty attendant upon eating the two that remained unbroken, or what these tasted like.People who think that the carnal joy of eating is of much importance at these camp-fires have vulgar, prosaic minds.We heard the dinner-bell ringing just as we disposed of the second egg, and we hurried toward the house.Ten minutes later (for it takes some time to remove from one's face and hands the evidences of a feast of roasted eggs) we appeared at the dinner-table. It was a long one, with Uncle Will at one end, Uncle Charley at the other. The eggs had not spoiled our appetites, and we ate, with nothing to disturb our pleasure, up to the point when blueberry pie came on. Then Uncle Will, his carving duties over, and his own share of the dinner consumed, leaned back in his chair and addressed Uncle Charley:—"I was over at Bartlett's last night.""That so?" returned Uncle Charley. "Did you speak about the peacocks?""About the peahen that's setting in the orchard? Yes. He knew she had been setting there on nothing for three days. The eggs came from New York yesterday, and he said he was going to send Foley over with them this morning."Aunt Ellen showed an interest in the conversation. "Eggs from New York?" she queried."Yes," replied Uncle Will; "from the Zoo. They're peacocks' eggs.Whitepeacocks, too. They cost him ten dollars apiece—forty dollars for the four. I told him 'twas a risky thing to leave them out in the orchard. SaidIwouldn't be responsible. Bartlett said the peahen wouldn't set anywhere else. He'd have to take the chance. What are you going to do with a man like that?"I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Jimmy Toppan. He was trying to insert a piece of blueberry pie in hismouth. Three times he made the attempt, and each time his aim was poor. I had a feeling as if my chair were sinking beneath me. The dining-room and the whole family of Toppans revolved about me in a blur.Peacocks' eggs! Forty dollars!I have no recollection of the rest of the meal. The elder Toppans talked together, I believe, but on what subject I have not the faintest notion.In five or six minutes Jimmy and I were safely over the fence and running across the meadow. We had to stop once or twice for breath, but we covered the distance to the wooded swamp in record time. Back of a large oak, where we were nearly covered by ferns, we stopped and panted.Jimmy spoke first."They don't hang people under sixteen years old," he said."Are you sure?""I'm sure," he replied."They put 'em in prison, though," I remarked, "for life!""What'll we do?" asked Jimmy.We debated the question from every point of view. Of one thing we were determined: we would never be taken alive."There's the circus," I suggested. "Don't you suppose we could join that?""Like Toby Tyler? He had a horrible time!""It's better than stayin' all your life in a dungeon on bread and water hollowed out of the living rock," I reminded him."I'd have to go home first and get my decalcomania book," Jimmy stipulated."Well, that will be all right; I'll get my punch."About my most cherished possession was a discarded punch, formerly used by a real conductor on a train. It seemed that I ought not present myself to the circus people empty-handed if Jimmy were going to bring his book of decalcomanias. It struck me that I might be especially welcome, as a ticket-taker, if I had a punch. I could work in that capacity while I was learning to ride bareback, or qualifying for the position of ring-master, or perhaps—so high do one's air-castles tower—that of clown!Why not? Others had achieved it.We decided to leave our refuge in the swamp, sneak up the meadow, pass the farm by a back route, and so to the highroad and home. Then, separating long enough to get the decalcomania book and the punch, we could camp for a night or two in Davenport's field, and join thecircus in the morning. By the time the peacocks' eggs were missed we would be far away.The first part of the plan was carried out. We crossed the meadow stealthily, creeping a greater part of the way on our hands and knees. Once in a while, when this got tiresome, we would rise and walk in the normal fashion, which was probably just as safe, for there was no one within half a mile.As we slunk by the rear of the barn we came suddenly on Mr. Bartlett and his man, Foley. There was no time to run. Mr. Bartlett addressed us genially."Hullo, boys! Want to see something? Look in this box. Peacocks' eggs—white peacocks, too. Very rare. We're going to set them under that peahen in the orchard. I suppose she's there all right, Foley?""Yis, sorr. She was at foive o'clockthis marning, sorr. Oi give her four ducks' eggs to kape her continted-loike.""All right, then. Come on, boys. We'll see how she's getting on. We'll have to set a guard around her while she hatches these out. They're too valuable to risk. Do you suppose she'd stand for it if we put up a little tent around her, Foley? Big nuisance she won't set in some convenient place."Mr. Bartlett and Foley walked on ahead, discussing ways and means for protecting the peahen against marauders. We followed, a dozen steps behind. The shadow of the dungeon fell no longer upon our path, and there was no necessity for joining the circus. We did not admit it to each other, but we felt it to be a happy release.In a moment we heard Foley's voice."Here she is, sorr. An' settin' on nothin' again. Phwhere's thim ducks'eggs gone, Oi dunno. Somebody's shtole thim, fir the birrd niver ate thim, shills an' all. 'Twill niver do to lave thim ixpinsive eggs here, sorr!"Jimmy Toppan and I maintained expressions of innocent wonder.

CHAPTER VA RUN ON THE BANKIn the garden, at the side of our house, there was an apple tree. There were two routes to the top of it. One, the common everyday path, was obvious and easy, almost like climbing a ladder. You took hold of the large limb nearest the ground, curled one leg and then the other around it, and so wriggled upon its upper side. From that point you could climb from one branch to another, without any difficulty, till you had reached the top of the tree. That was the prosaic method for ordinary occasions.But when hard pressed by enemies, when the shrieking Indians were at ourvery heels, or a Bengal tiger with dripping jaws uttered his frightful snarls only three feet behind us, then the circumstances called for a different route. It must be something not only quick, but risky. Time must be saved, seconds were precious. More than that, the fitness of things called for an element of danger in the ascent. There was no honor in the adventure if we climbed by the slow, safe path—the highroad, so to speak, of commerce and trade.Blood was up; the blast of war blew in our ears.So, at such times, we approached the tree from the other side, leaped high in the air to a branch above our heads, and, by a deal of swarming, shinning, pulling, and straining, reached the top.Then, from amid the leaves, we could pour down a murderous fire from our trusty rifles, till every Indian lay stretchedon the ground, or the Bengal tiger gave one last bellow and expired.It must not be thought, however, that these exciting moments, when the apple tree was an island of refuge, made it altogether a tame and profitless retreat in quieter times. It was enjoyable for rest and recreation, and it formed an excellent watch-tower from which to spy out the land. In May the pink and white blossoms turned it into an exquisite bouquet. Later in the summer the big green fruit—though not agreeable if eaten raw—could be transformed into the highest triumph cooks ever achieved—the apple-pie.Near the top an almost horizontal branch made a tolerable seat. At about the level of our eyes, as we sat there, another branch stretched its smooth surface. The bark on it was new, and so plainly adapted to the use of a jack-knifethat the symbols "E. M.," "J. R. T.," and "S. E.," deeply carven, indicated that Edward Mason, James Rogers Toppan, and Samuel Edwards had left their signs manual upon it.On the day of which I speak these gentlemen sat on the horizontal branch and devoured the contents of a roll of peppermint lozenges. I had had a cent that afternoon, and had expended it in this highly satisfactory form of pleasure.You got twelve tiny lozenges for a cent, and that made four apiece all round. In buying them you had to make serious choice between peppermint in yellow wrappers, checkerberry in green wrappers, cinnamon in pink wrappers, clove in brown wrappers (especially alluring because reputed to be dangerous—cloves having the well-known habit of "drying your blood"), and rose in purple wrappers—a particularly insipid flavor, oftentried in the hope that it would taste different this time.The fun was not all over when you had eaten the lozenges (by a slow process of suction), for there still remained the paper wrapper. This had always printed upon it some legend of more or less interest. The yellow one, that inclosed these peppermint lozenges, bore a few moral and patriotic sentiments concerning the Father of Our Country.The three personages in the apple tree thereupon engaged in a discussion on the subject: Who was the greatest man that ever lived? Jimmy Toppan and I declared for George Washington, but Ed Mason, for some unexplained reason, brought in a minority report for Amerigo Vespucci.Then Jimmy Toppan was moved to relate an anecdote."I heard somewhere that George Washington,or p'r'aps 'twas Daniel Webster, but anyhow it wassome one, when he was a boy, once put a coin in the bark of a tree in his father's orchard. Then, a long time afterward, when he was President of the United States, he came back there, and went right up to the tree and took out his jack-knife and cut away the bark, and there was the piece of money! You see, the bark had grown over it, and covered it up all those years."This was an interesting bit of information!All of us were instantly filled with a desire to follow in the footsteps of the great. Here was the tree, and here was the bark. But the coins were lacking. The only one we had possessed that afternoon had gone for peppermint lozenges. Fourth of July money must not be touched. Perhaps, however, a special appeal to the authorities would be successful. Weagreed to make application to the lords of the treasuries, and each to come to-morrow provided with a cent.The agreement was kept, and the following morning saw us at work on the bark of the apple tree. Three incisions were made (each one working at that part of the branch nearest his initials) and three copper cents were duly deposited. Then we descended the tree, and left our treasure to the silent years."How long do you suppose it will take the bark to grow over them?" inquired Ed Mason."Oh, I don't know. Years and years. Washington, or whoever it was, didn't come back till he was an old man.""Well, then, we ought not. They ought to be left there for sixty or seventy years, anyhow."It was unanimously agreed that not less than seventy years must elapse before the coins should be disturbed.We wandered out of the garden, down the street, and through the grounds of the Universalist Church. Drippings from the eaves of that building had unearthed hundreds of pebbles, and Ed Mason began selecting round ones for his sling-shot. Then he took that instrument out of his pocket and discharged the pebbles at a distant fence. But the sling-shot worked indifferently, and Ed pronounced the elastic worn out."You can get a dandy piece for a cent down at Higginson's," I observed.Then the significance of the remark struck me, and I glanced guiltily away. There was a pause in the conversation, until the sound of a horn suggested the approaching Fourth of July."Only nine days till the Fourth," declared Jimmy Toppan. "How many bunches you fellers goin' to have?"We counted on at least fifteen apiece."So do I," said Jimmy; "and torpedoes, and a horn.""Horns are foolish," remarked Ed Mason; "girls and babies always have horns.""That's all right," retorted Jimmy; "theylast. You'll prob'ly be round Fourth of July afternoon, when you've fired off all your fifteen bunches of fire-crackers, wantin' to blow on my horn."I put in a remark here."I'm goin' to have six sticks of slow-match, an' five boxes of Ajax torpedoes."But it did not impress Ed Mason."Ajax ain't half as good as Ironclad," he announced.Jimmy Toppan also had preferences."Have you seen those Chinese Aërial Bombs down at Johnson's? They're the biggest torpedoes you ever saw—each one as big as your fist! Gee! I'd liketo hear one of 'em go off! They cost a cent apiece, an'—"He stopped.Somehow the conversation would get around to the subject of things costing a cent. It was most embarrassing. We had invested our capital for seventy years, and were already feeling the pinch.The morning wore on, and though I observed both Ed and Jimmy to cast surreptitious glances toward the apple tree, there were no more references to the subject of cents.In the afternoon I went over to Rob Currier's house, and found him engaged with the most fascinating weapon imaginable. It was a pop-gun made from a goose-quill. It shot small pieces of raw potato to a great distance, and did so with a loud and soul-satisfying pop.His uncle had made it for him, said Rob.He willingly let me experiment with it, but he was not interested to watch me very long."Let's go down and look at the fire-crackers in Johnson's window," he suggested."I'd rather stay here and shoot this pop-gun," I declared."I'm tired of it," he rejoined. "Sell it to you for a cent."Again the cent!I put down the pop-gun and accompanied Rob to Johnson's shop, where we spent twenty minutes with our noses flattened against the pane, choosing what we would take if Mr. Johnson should come out and invite us to help ourselves.Mr. Johnson did nothing of the sort, however.We agreed that our first choice would be a mine, which was described as "sendingto an enormous height nine colored stars, alternately green, purple, and carmine, and then exploding with a rain of golden serpents."This point decided, we repaired to the Curriers' and spent the afternoon perfecting our skill with the lasso.In the interval that evening, between supper and bedtime, I suffered much uneasiness.Some member of my family read from the evening paper that thieves were reported in town. Instantly, I thought of the three cents in the apple tree. Surely it had been rash to leave them exposed. There was nothing in the story about Washington to tell what he did to protect his coin from thieves. How would he have felt if he had come back, President of the United States, and found that some one had stolen his cent?Moreover, there was always the chancethat I might never become President. In all fairness, I had to consider that.Suddenly the thought of Rob Currier's pop-gun recurred to me. I needed that pop-gun.Once during the night I got up and looked out of my bedroom window to see if the apple tree were safe. It seemed to be standing serene enough in the moonlight, but who could tell what marauders might besiege it?In the morning my mind was made up. As soon as I finished breakfast I hurried out, climbed the tree by the emergency route, and began to cut at the bark where my cent was concealed.I had it in an instant.As I was working I noticed that the other two cents were gone already. I turned around and looked down Oak Street. Jimmy Toppan, with one fist tightly clutched, was running at full speedtoward Johnson's and the Chinese Aërial Bomb.Ed Mason was nowhere in sight. Apparently he had withdrawn his deposit even earlier.CHAPTER VIHORACEDuring that week before the Fourth of July the days passed with incredible slowness. One afternoon, to beguile the time, I went over to Horace Winslow's house.Horace, from the standpoint of most of us, was entitled to sympathy,—he was being "brought up" with so much care.Not that any of us were neglected. School was our portion, Mr. Colburn's and other improving but uncomfortable books were our fare through nine months of the year. On Sundays we were duly despatched to the school appropriate to that day. We each carried the traditional cent for the contribution box. And, as in the story-books (which aresometimes faithful transcripts from life), it was with difficulty that we passed the traditional drug shop, which displayed the traditional peppermint lozenges and "coltsfoot."And, still in the traditional manner, the Tempter's voice was loud sometimes in our ears,—so loud that we turned and entered Dr. Dibden's shop, and spent that cent for a roll of lozenges, or a piece of coltsfoot, or of "stick lickrish."But if we did this thing, so did Horace Winslow. And if, occasionally, we had to be sent from the dinner-table to remove a few burrs from our coat collars, or to make another attempt with the hair-brush, so had Horace. In such matters his experiences were not different from those of the other boys in the neighborhood.His mind was being improved,—that was all.It had not injured his health to any extent. He presented, on that afternoon, his usual round countenance, and red cheeks. A pleasing plumpness was his most noticeable characteristic,—not the lean air of the scholar.I found him making a suitable home for his turtles, and I joined in the work with enthusiasm. The turtles had been straying lately, and it was clear that something had to be done. It is distressing, after you have lavished any amount of attention on a turtle, and have tied him by a long string so as to give him wide liberty, to find in the morning that he has twisted and tangled the string amongst the grass, and then departed, leaving one end of the string buried, as if in derision, in the ground.We set out to construct a turtle-proof pen from boards and shingles."I came pretty near losin' all the turtles," said Horace."Did they break the strings?" I asked."No,—only one of 'em. But Aunt said she didn't know but I'd have to put 'em all back in the pond.""What for?""'Cos I took one of 'em to bed with me night 'fore last.""Which one?""That big one, with the yuller spots.""Did she mind?""Who,—Aunt Cora? You bet she did! I put him in the bath-tub to give him a swim in the mornin', an' I forgot him when I went to breakfast, an' then right after breakfast I had to go down town to get a yeast-cake, an' Aunt found him swimmin' round in the tub, an' she said 'twas horrid to have turtles in the tub, an' she wanted to know when I put him there, an' so she found out I'd had him under the pillow all night, an' she was awful mad! I thought she was goin'to lick me, but she didn't. I didn't dare tell her I'd had another one up there the night before,—the little black one. He's a jim-dandy,—the best turtle I've got. His name is Pete."I agreed that Pete was a very desirable turtle. And I put in a request."Tell me if your Aunt makes you put 'em back in the pond, will you?""She won't. She said I could keep 'em, but I can't bring 'em inside the house. Gee! She's been awful cross lately, though. Last night again. An' Uncle, too. We went in swimmin' out to Four Rocks,—I mean I did, an' Ben Spauldin', an' Harry Fletcher, an'—""How'd you go?" I interrupted; "out the railroad?""No, we got a ride on Dole's wagon to the green, an' then went out the middle road. While we were in the water, two fellers came along, an' grabbed most ofmy clothes, an' Ben's, an' run up across the track, an' chucked 'em into Mr. Harris' shanty, an' then run off laughin'; an' I run up to get 'em, an' just as I got up on the road Aunt an' Uncle came drivin' along with Mr. Benton, an' they were mad as hops 'cos I didn't have anythin' on, an' Uncle was goin' to make me get into the carriage an' get under a robe, till I told him my clothes were in the shanty.""What did he say?""He said I'd ought to have taken better care of my clothes, an' Aunt said it was disgraceful runnin' round stark naked on the road, an' she was mortified to death, an' I couldn't go in swimmin' any more if I didn't behave, an'—oh, darn it all, is that two o'clock?"It was certainly two. The North Church clock struck the hour distinctly."I s'pose I'll have to go in, now," he announced sorrowfully.I was about to ask the reason, when the voice of Mrs. Vincent, Horace's aunt, came from behind the closed shutters of a window."Horace!""Oh, I don't want to come in now!""Horace!""Well, I don't, Aunt. Sam Edwards is here, and we've got to build this turtle-pen.""HORACE!""I can't leave Sam here all alone, Aunt. 'Twouldn't be polite.""Horace, come in the house instantly. You may bring Samuel with you.""Oh, he don't want to come.""Doesn'twant to come, you mean. Wouldn't you like to hear me read to Horace, Samuel?"I was greatly interested in the turtles,but I was also fond of being read to. Apparently I was going to lose the company of Horace, anyhow. Moreover, I was afraid of Horace's aunt. So I meekly said:—"Yes'm."But Horace still raised objections."We can't leave the turtles like this Aunt,—they'll all get away.""Horace, mind what I say this minute. You can make the turtles safe enough. I will give you three minutes longer, and if you are not indoors then, your uncle will punish you this evening."We collected the wayward turtles and put them in a garden basket. A few seconds later we presented ourselves before Mrs. Vincent, who looked at us ominously over the top of a book. Horace sat down in one stiff-backed chair, and I in another. He began to screw his face into knots as soon as he saw the book.It was unknown to me, and fifteen or twenty years were to elapse before I should know its title. Then, one day, reading Guizot's "History of France," I recognized a passage, and realized with what work we had been regaled,—when we wished to build a turtle-pen."Oh, Aunt—""Horace, be quiet. Sit up straight in your chair. Put your hand down."She looked Horace over critically, and then began to read."'The old parliamentarians were triumphant; at the same time as Abbé Terray, Chancellor Maupeou was disgraced, and the judicial system he had founded fell with him. Unpopular from the first, the Maupeou Parliament had remained in the nation's eyes the image of absolute power corrupted and corrupting. The suit between Beaumarchais and Councillor Goëzman—'""Oh, Aunt, I don't want—""Horace, if you are not still this instant, I will put you to bed!"Horace's articulations dissolved into snuffles and whines; we both hitched and wriggled in our chairs, and the reading went on. We heard what Chancellor Maupeou said to the Duke de La Vrillière, and what M. Turgot wrote to Louis XVI,—if a process in which the brain took almost no part can be called hearing. These personages were strangers to me, but Horace greeted them as familiar enemies. I judged that he knew and hated them of old time.An hour passed, a long hot hour. M. de Malesherbes had gone the way of Turgot, and Horace and I were reduced to a mere coma. Then the book was closed, and we were told that we might return to our turtles.We did so with profound joy, andHorace, seeing the Tiltons' cat hurrying over the fence, remarked that she was Chancellor Maupeou, and threw a green apple at her.CHAPTER VIITHE GREAT DAYFrom far off came a sound of popping and snapping,—some boy, unable to wait, was trying a few fire-crackers. It still lacked a day or two of the Fourth of July, and the strain was telling on us.A door that was slammed or a whip that was cracked took on a new significance, while the fish-pedlers' horns seemed to have an altogether unusual note.Underneath my bed was a box containing fifteen bunches of fire-crackers, ordinary size; three bunches of cannon crackers; two single gigantic fellows; and some sticks of slow-match. There were also the five boxes of Ajax torpedoes,twisted tight in their red paper, and slumbering now in sawdust, but all ready to explode delightfully when the time came.Jimmy Toppan had taken the wrappers from his fire-crackers, and separated the crackers. Slowly and painfully he had disentangled the fuses which some Chinese workman had skilfully braided together. It had taken a whole afternoon to do it, but now he had no one knew how many thousands of crackers, neatly piled in a large cigar-box.He was prepared for the morning of the Fourth, when he could sit down in some convenient place,—the curb-stone, for instance, with a stick of lighted slow-match in one hand, and the cigar-box full of fire-crackers beside him.Then, with due deliberation, he could choose a fire-cracker, bring the glowing end of the slow-match to the fuse of thecracker, throw the latter into the street as soon as it began to spit out sparks, and wait ecstatically for the explosion.As soon as this had occurred he could repeat the whole operation,—for hours.Untangling the fire-crackers had pulled the fuses out of some of them. These unfortunates were carefully put aside for "cat and dog fights."There were one or two green fire-crackers in every bunch, and occasionally ayellowone. These he herded by themselves, for use at especially important moments. That they make a louder noise than the red ones is a scientific fact well known to all experts.I had not separated my crackers. It was a joy I decided to defer until the great day. There was a pleasure in seeing the bunches intact, and in observing the red wrappers with their gorgeous gilt dragons. You could smell the gunpowdery smell aswell as if the packages had been opened. But I counted those eighteen bunches of crackers every night and every morning, and sometimes during the day. And I had broken the top of one of the torpedo boxes and explored with my fingers in the sawdust.There were twelve fat torpedoes in the box, and five boxes, and that made—that made—(oh! Mr. Colburn!) it made sixty! yes, sixty great, big, lovely torpedoes. Sixty beautiful bangs!But one must be careful with torpedoes. They must be fired with care, one at a time, for the proper enjoyment of them. There had been accidents,—I had seen one the year before. Little Larry Paine had fired all his crackers before ten o'clock in the morning. He went into the house to get the last of his stock of explosives,—a box of torpedoes. The sawdust had been taken out, and he cameforth again with a dozen torpedoes loose in the box. As he reached the sidewalk the box slipped, and fell on the bricks with one terrifying crash. All the torpedoes had gone off together.It was magnificent, but it was not war. It filled us with joy, but it filled Larry with woe. He lifted up his voice and mourned because they were not. With loud wails he retreated into the house, and his agonized family knew no peace for an hour."My brother Billy's goin' to the bonfire at midnight," announced Ed Mason, conscious of the glory reflected upon him by this fact.But I was not to be outdone."Poo! that's nothin'.Mybrother's goin' to stay upallnight; he an' Phil Coombs an' Arthur Monroe are goin' to sleep in Arthur Monroe's barn an' they're goin' to the bonfire an' they ain't goin'to bed at all. Last Fourth he nearly got arrested for ringin' the High School bell!"I was determined to leave Ed Mason not a leg to stand on."Well," he remarked weakly, "I'm goin' to get up at half-past three, anyway."He had me there. I had parental permission to get up at four o'clock, and I had not expected to be surpassed in this important achievement by my own familiar friend.It rankled with me all day, and in the evening I laid the case before my father and mother. For the honor of the family, as well as for my own self-respect, I simply had to get up at half-past three.They were in doubt. It was going to be a long and exciting day for me. Aside from the exertion of firing my own supply of crackers and torpedoes, I was going atnoon to see "Gunner Hunt" fire his annual salute at the foot of River Street. Then there was the flag-raising on the mall at two o'clock, and the fireworks at March's Hill in the evening.But they finally consented, and once more I could look Ed Mason in the face.When the evening of the 3d of July came, I went cheerfully to bed at seven o'clock, in order to prepare for the labors of the next day. I counted my fire-crackers, and found their number complete. It was rather hard to get to sleep on account of the uproarious sounds from Main Street,—cannon crackers, muskets, revolvers, cow-bells, and horns. But finally I dropped off,—only to be disturbed by a dream that Auntie Merrill had come into the room and was making a raid on my fire-crackers.It was a hideous nightmare,—she vanished out the door with her arms fullof my precious possessions, and I could not do a thing to stop her. When I woke I had to get up and count those fire-crackers again.Then I climbed back in bed once more and listened to the distant noise. Somebody came down our street, dragging a string of cow-bells. The national holiday was being celebrated with diligence.Suddenly it struck me that perhaps the morning had already come. In a panic I jumped up, lighted a match, and looked at the clock. It was eight o'clock,—I had been asleep less than an hour. Listening at the open window I could hear my family talking in the garden below. I remembered that I was to meet Ed Mason and Jimmy Toppan in that garden at half-past three, and that I had better get to sleep again.I lay in bed once more, trying not to hear the din. All at once I becameaware that some one—my father—was standing at the side of the bed, shaking me."Sam! Sam! I thought you were going to get up. It's quarter of four.""What?"I jumped out, confused. There was a dim light outside,—not daylight, by any means. I began to dress, and fumble for the fire-crackers. Things seemed very different, somehow, from what I had expected.As I went downstairs I heard my father say:—"It's raining, I think,—put on your rubber coat."Rain! How would the fire-crackers like that?Outside I found Ed and Jimmy. They were rather silent, but inclined to be contemptuous because I was late. They had been fiddling around in the gardenfor some minutes, waiting for me. Jimmy had an umbrella, and did not look very happy.We went out to the front of the house, and sat down on the door-steps. Jimmy had his box of fire-crackers (which he managed with difficulty on account of the umbrella), while Ed Mason had his crackers in a canvas bag. Owing to the breeze, which was rather brisk, we had some trouble in lighting the slow-match. Just as we got it going the rain began to fall in a smart shower.There was nothing for it but to retreat inside the house once more. This was a pretty sort of Fourth of July! The possibility of such an inconsiderate act on the part of Heaven had never occurred to us. Could it be that they did not know, up there, what day this was?It was a little dull in the house. Jimmy and I both fell asleep, and so, Ithink, did Ed Mason, though he denied it. Fortunately I found some raspberry turnovers in the pantry, and they helped alleviate our sufferings.Shortly before breakfast the rain stopped, and the sun came feebly out. We were soon in the street once more, creating a racket that left nothing to be desired. Joe and Charley Carter joined us, and so did Rob Currier and Peter Bailey. Peter had a revolver, and he scorned fire-crackers. The Rev. Mr. Dimmick, who lived across the street, stood on the steps of his dwelling and beamed upon us. He looked as if he would like to celebrate, too.Mr. Dimmick was a minister, which was too bad, because he was such a good ball-player. Charley Carter had an enormous cannon cracker, and when he started to touch it off, Mr. Dimmick called out:—"Wait a minute,—you ought to have something to put over that,—a box, or a can, or something.""I wish I had!" said Charley; "let me take that cigar-box, Jimmy?""I've got just the thing," shouted the minister; "I'll get it."And he vanished into the house. Presently he came out again with a shining tin box. They lighted the cannon cracker, clapped the box over it, and ran.Bang! went the cracker, and the box shot straight up in the air."Jiminy!" said Joe Carter, "'twon't never come down!"It looked as if it wouldn't. It went up above the houses, above the trees, even. Then it started to fall, and as it did so a funny thing happened. For the seams of the box had all been blown apart, and only its swift upward rush had kept them together. As soon as it started on itsdownward trip, they flew apart, and the box struck the earth, a flat sheet of tin,—flat as a fritter.Just then Mrs. Dimmick came to the door."James," she said, "I can't find my new cake tin,—have you seen it?""Er—oh, what, my dear? Yes, Harold has just strayed off,—up the street, I think,—I'll find him all right."And Mr. Dimmick hurried away.We spent the morning, after breakfast, in the midst of a delicious cloud of powder smoke. "Dynamite" crackers had not been invented then, and nobody got hurt at all,—except Rob Currier, who burned his thumb slightly on a piece of slow-match. Charley Carter's father, a man of untold wealth, bought a dozen bunches of fire-crackers, and fired thema whole bunch at a time!We stood around in awe at the delightfulnoise and the princely extravagance of it.At noon all the church bells rang for an hour, and we went down to the foot of River Street to hear "Gunner Hunt" and his assistants fire a salute. Mr. Jones was there, leaning on his Napoleon cane, and regarding the spectacle with a sarcastic grin. It probably seemed a pretty small business to him, compared with his famous battle.We had ice-cream for dinner, and strawberry shortcake, and ginger-ale. There were other things,—lamb and green peas, I believe, in which the grown-ups were interested.In the afternoon we saw the flag-raising on the Mall. The Mayor made a speech, and so did General Cogswell, but the speeches did not appeal to us especially. Luckily a horse ran away, so we found some entertainment. ThenDr. Macey treated us all to lemonade, and more ice-cream.If we had had any doubts of what the Mayor said about the Declaration of Independence being the most important event in the history of mankind, such doubts would have been removed.In the evening, as soon as it began to get dark, we joined the crowds wending down Elm Street toward March's Hill.People who lived in that neighborhood, people whose back yards afforded a good view of the fireworks, found themselves suddenly popular. It was astonishing how many friends they had. Acquaintances whom they had not seen for a year began to invade their gardens, shake hands cordially, and show themselves perfectly willing to sit on their chairs and camp-stools, or even their back door-steps.The fireworks passed off in the usual blaze of glory, and about half-past nineI walked wearily home with my father and mother. Even then, we could see, through the trees of Elm Street, distant rockets streaming up the sky, pausing for an instant, and then vanishing with a far-off "T'lock!"A shower of sparks hung for a while in the sky, disappeared, and left all quiet and black, except for the twinkling stars.CHAPTER VIIITHE GREEN CHESTJimmy Toppan was worth knowing for the sake of his grandmothers, if for no other reason. He had two of them. With one, and a great-aunt, he lived on Elm Street.The other grandmother was mistress of a farm in the country, to which we often went. There were uncles and aunts there, too, but it was Grandmother Toppan who seemed best to understand our needs. When we were at the farm she knew the exact hours (about eleven in the morning, and again about half-past four in the afternoon) when a large slice of apple pie is most useful.Tactfully and unfailingly she administered it at those times.Grandmother Bradley, with whom Jimmy lived, ran Grandmother Toppan a very close race. Her favorite remedy for our troubles (certain hollow feelings which often afflicted us) was sugar-gingerbread. I will leave it to any one if it is possible to choose between two such excellent women.The farm was, of course, a centre of attractions. Grandmother Bradley's domain, on a principal street of the town, was naturally circumscribed. Yet it contained one object of overwhelming interest.In the basement stood a green chest. It was bumped and scarred, and, worse than all, it was locked.Lovely things dwelt within it, so Jimmy said.It had come across the seas with somefar-off great-uncle, and it was never opened. But if the cover should ever be raised, he who stood by should be envied of all boys. For inside was a large tank, filled with some liquid, the exact nature of which Jimmy never explained. In this silvery fluid swam or floated all manner of fairy shapes. There were mermaids, tiny golden fishes, and other strange inhabitants of the ocean. Enormous turtles reposed on the sands at the bottom, and gay little ships with bright rigging sailed overhead.All of these delectable objects were made, by the cunning of some foreign workman, out of glass. The golden hair of the mermaids, the scales of the fish, the sand, the sea-shells, the monstrous whales, the sword of the swordfish, the flippers of the turtles, the little lighthouse that stood on the shore, the beautifully colored seaweeds that clustered about therocks, all of these—even the thread-like ropes and shrouds of the bobbing vessels—all were fashioned from brittle glass.Did a boy ever have a more tantalizing vision dancing before his eyes?I stood and gazed at that green chest. A more stolid, unyielding affair cannot be imagined. It was dusty, and the corners of it were worn and rounded. The green paint which had covered it was faded, and in many spots knocked off altogether. Sailors' boots had kicked it, perhaps, or it had rocked about some cabin or hold when the waves of the real ocean had started a miniature tempest on the little sea within. What, then, had prevented collisions between the glass ships, or kept the mermaids from being shivered to bits on the reef?Some glass sailor must have steered the ships to safety, while the mermaids hadplunged beneath the waves to find calmer water below.The solution seemed to fit the case, but how was I to prove it? How was I to look at any of these charming things? The chest was locked, and locked it was likely to remain. A sort of decree had issued from Jimmy Toppan's great-aunt: no one was to see the inside of the chest. Nay, more, one must not even ask about it. It was locked tight, and there was an end of it. I never heard Jimmy's great-aunt say this; I never mentioned the chest in her presence. Nor did Jimmy say that the unlocking of the chest was forbidden. He described its contents in a way to set my imagination aflame. He did not say definitely that he had ever looked in it. But he let it be known that it held such glories that a glimpse therein was a vision of fairyland. And he somehow cast an air ofmystery and awe about it, till I would no more have asked to have the cover raised than I would have presented myself, snub-nosed and with holes in the knees of my stockings, at the gates of Paradise with a request to be enrolled in the cherubs' chorus.I never knew why there was such a curse upon the chest. But I gathered, somehow, that the great-uncle, or grandfather, or whoever he was, who had brought it from foreign parts, had uttered, with his dying breath, a solemn injunction that it was to stay closed. The opening of Pandora's box was to be a holiday recreation compared to opening that green chest. It was no more to be disturbed than Shakespeare's bones. Why he should have transported it such a distance, with such infinite care, and then sealed it up forever, passed my understanding. Did the prohibition extendto grown-ups, or was it only for boys? That, also, I never could find out.I used to fancy that Jimmy's great-aunt stole down to the basement in the dark hours of night to gloat over the silver sea and its delicate inhabitants. Once, in the late afternoon, I detected her going chestwards, and I followed with beating heart. I got behind an apple barrel and watched her movements. But she only went to an ice-box, from which she took out a plate of mutton chops.The intolerable curiosity aroused in me by Jimmy's account of the chest was equalled only by the fear I had to make any inquiries about it. I was convinced that a painful family secret overhung that green chest.Night after night I dreamed that I had been permitted to look within. Sometimes it was all I had imagined, and more. The ships, the mermaids, the turtles,and all the rest were there indeed. And others, new and indescribable forms, floated or swam in that enchanted ocean, glittering, fragile, wonderful. I could take them in my hand, play with them, and set them again in their element.They did not merely act the lifeless part of china figures in an aquarium. They moved about with an intelligence of their own; the ships spread gauzy sails to catch a magic wind, and flew before it. The whales rose to the surface, disported themselves heavily, like true whales, and blew jets of spray into the air.In the midst of my rapture I would wake; all the glass toys vanished, and I could have cried to find them gone. In the morning it would be impossible to recall these new figures. I remembered them dimly and more dimly as the hours of the day blurred my dream. The iridescent creatures turned to formless thingsof gray and drab, and then lost themselves, to be found again only in another dream.But not all my sleeping experiences were so happy. Sometimes I would seem to approach the chest only to have Jimmy's great-aunt rise from behind it, shaking a broom. At other times I would lift the lid and find inside the chest the crouching figure of the long-departed great-uncle. He would jump out, gibbering frightfully, and I would scream and wake up. Thus the chest became surrounded by terrors even when viewed by daylight. Jimmy's great-aunt was like another dragon set over the golden apples. She kept watch by day, while at night the goblin uncle came on duty.So we began to steer clear of the green chest and to confine our activities to other parts of the basement. Much has been written of the joy that dwells in old garrets.The basement is neglected. Yet, if dry and well lighted, it may have its points.In this one much importance was attached to a plate of sand set on a table. This, so Jimmy solemnly averred, was for the purpose of discovering the presence of mice in the basement. If they ran over the sand, their footprints would betray them, and traps might be set. It did not occur to me to marvel at the obliging nature of mice who should be at such great pains to record their arrival. Observing that Jimmy's great-aunt often inspected the plate of sand and smoothed its surface over after each inspection, we looked to it that she should never be disappointed.It is not hard to counterfeit small footprints, such as might be made by a scurrying mouse.In an adjoining room there was asteam-boiler—part of the heating apparatus of the house. The existence of this boiler, the discovery of clay in Davenport's field, and the always present need of marbles, these conditions led to the foundation of an enterprise that occupied a number of days.The clay was brought from "Davenport's," and rolled into balls of the proper size. These were placed on shingles and set to bake beneath the boiler.Visions of revolutionizing the marble industry spurred us on. We calculated that we could undersell the regular dealers and that profits would accrue. But although the clay balls were duly left beneath the boiler all night, there were defects in the finished product. The part that had rested on the shingle obstinately remained flat. We found no way of giving our marbles the glaze necessary to the real thing; so the dealers continuedto ask the exorbitant sum of a cent for ten, and did not have to break prices to meet our competition.It is possible that the fact that there was no heat in the boiler had something to do with this fiasco.After this, to keep our minds from wandering toward the green chest, we started the manufacture of gunpowder on a large scale. The raw material, rotting stone, could be procured from the sand heap and dump, which at that date (before the rise of city improvement associations) adorned the banking at the end of the frog pond. This dump had many attractions, not the least of which were the squash vines which trailed over it. They never got beyond the blossoming stage, but that did not trouble us. The possession of raw squashes would have availed us little. The flowers were interesting, and I scarcely need to point outthe value of the stems. We cut a slit near one end, and they became in our hands trumpets with which to blow soul-animating strains. It is, of course, necessary to scrape off the prickles with a jack-knife, or the lips of the performer are apt to suffer.But these were by the way. The rotting stone, red, gray, brown, and black, was the most valuable product of the dump. We carried it to a broad, flat piece of slate which covered a cistern just outside the basement windows. Here, with hard rocks, we ground it fine. It then became, by the chemistry which worked so quickly in those days, gunpowder. The black dust was the ordinary article. Mixed with red or other colors, it was transformed into various high explosives. Then we stored it in packets in the basement, where it might be drawn upon in case of need—anysudden attacks by Indians or pirates, for instance.The day on which we stored the powder was not long after the Fourth of July. Our operations in the basement had to come to an end on that day, for Grandmother Bradley and Aunt Josephine were going away for a week. The house was to be closed, and Jimmy would stay with his Grandmother Toppan in the country.The last time we entered the basement our eyes wandered toward the green chest. But neither of us spoke about it. I wondered if the chest would be stolen, or be burned up, or should I die and never look inside it? Already the little glass ships and fishes had become less real, though more beautiful, than the folks of elf-land. What small hope I had ever entertained of seeing them was dwindling to a pin-point.I was never troubled by any suspicionthat the tank, the ocean, and the glass creatures existed only in Jimmy's imagination. Such doubts did not fret me then, nor afterwards. The green chest remained one of the mysteries of the believing years.CHAPTER IXWHITE PEACOCKSDuring the time that Jimmy stayed at his grandmother's farm—a period that was lengthened to more than two weeks—we were all agitated by the approach of a circus. Excitement had reached such a pitch that when, three days before circus-day, Jimmy invited me to make him a visit, I was in some doubt whether I ought to venture so far afield.But on a solemn promise from Jimmy's Uncle Will that he would personally convey me home, behind one of his own horses, at least twenty-four hours before the great event, I thought it might be safe to risk it. Jimmy could stay at thefarm (fully two miles away) until the very morning, if he liked. I preferred to be nearer at hand. So to the farm I went.Certainly, no other place would have tempted me. It was, to our fancies, perhaps the most fortunate spot on earth. Historians and antiquaries might deny that it had been the scene of a proper Indian raid.Wecould see the loopholes from which the flintlocks had been fired, and mark the small window whence a dipperful of molten lead was poured, to discourage an Indian whose anxiety to come inside the house made him indiscreet. I have never heard any of the slaves to fact assert that the farm-house might not have seen the tomahawk flashing about its walls and heard the war-whoop ring out.It was there in the days of tomahawks and war-whoops.If the Indians had been so inconsiderateas to pass it by, we were not going to let that trouble us. Certainly, a plough seldom turned the earth of the adjoining meadow without bringing to light a flint arrow-tip or the head of a stone axe—weapons which even the scientific historian might hesitate to attribute to the ministers and deacons of Puritan times.There was the meadow itself, an enormous tract of land, as it appeared to us. In it, somewhere, dwelt the lord of the herd, a legendary bull whose uncertain temper might be aroused by the sight of a small boy wearing a plaid necktie with a single spot of red in it. He could detect this spot at half a mile, and the boy had better make for the nearest fence, and affect blue neckties exclusively henceforth. Thus the crossing of the meadow had that spice of danger without which life is tasteless.There were other reasons for crossingthe meadow besides the mere braving of the bull. At its foot was a pond, rich in mud of primeval blackness, and well stocked with turtles and "green-leapers." Farther on was a bog and wood, deep and gloomy as the magic forest of Broceliande, and not less pleasing to us because it went by the more homely name of Pettingell's Swamp. Crows built their nests in its trees, and without its borders jack-in-the-pulpit held his springtime services. Beyond this, more meadows—salt ones this time; then the river, the sand-dunes, and the ocean.The barns about the farm-house were full of sweet-smelling hay. You could bore long tunnels through this, and come out with your hair full of dust and spiders' webs. Certain cocks of salt hay stood outside. By climbing to the top of one of them, sitting down, and sliding to the bottom you could enjoy an exhilaratingexercise. It is only fair to say, however, that the salt water and occasional bit of mud which gave the hay its slipperiness had an evil effect upon knickerbockers, and furnished relatives with a subject for wearisome jest which dieth never.Yet with all these methods of entertainment, Jimmy and I considered the peacocks chief among the attractions of his grandmother's farm. They did not really belong on the farm, but were the property of Mr. Bartlett, who lived at some distance. We judged that the owner of such exotic fowls must possess the wealth of Ormus and of Ind. The birds themselves were indifferent in the matter of domicile, and spent most of the day and all the night on the Toppans' land.Their bedtime was an hour of unusual interest. They gathered about sunset around a large apple tree which stood near one corner of the farm-house. Therewas much strutting and spreading of tails among the gentlemen of the party; the peahens moved about nervously, but with less ostentation. Both sexes raised discordant shrieks from time to time, for no purpose that we could discover.When, one by one, they had taken up their roosting-places in the tree, they made an impressive spectacle, especially after night had fallen, and seemed to bring the jungles of Hindustan to our very doors.They inspired a feeling of awe and mystery because of their radiant plumage and reputed value. It was the veneration which we felt toward the whole tribe that turned so quickly to terror in the matter of the white peacock.The adventure flashed on us suddenly the morning after my arrival at the farm.In a sand-pit beyond the orchard it was the immemorial custom to build fires and roast potatoes and other eatables. Marksof fires long dead showed us that the practice extended far back, perhaps to the boys of prehistoric times, or to those whose fathers had shot the arrows whereof the flint heads lay beneath the surface of the meadow. Potatoes and apples were placed in the hot embers, and removed at the end of about twenty minutes. The apples were, by this time, roasted not wisely but too well. The potatoes had an outer region of softness, but at heart were firm and unyielding. Both were so covered with wood ashes that their consumption left streaks of soot all about the vicinity of the mouth, extending back even to the ears.Potatoes and apples, thus prepared, had palled upon us. We sought for variety in the bill of fare, and this morning Jimmy proposed eggs."At clam-bakes they roast eggs in hot seaweed," declared Jimmy.The idea was worthy, but eggs were not so easy to procure. A visit to the hen-house proved that the day's supply had already been gathered. Then, though Robinson Crusoe would hardly have done it, we applied at the kitchen. But Grandmother Toppan, who might have humored our whim, was away from home. The Power temporarily in command dismissed our request brusquely:—"Ye byes git outer here, now, or I'll be afther takin' the paddle to yez."We did not know what paddle was referred to, but we understood that we had leave to withdraw. We wondered if Robinson Crusoe ever met with humiliating rebuffs like that. It was impossible; no tyrannous cook could lord it over him while he carried that long gun.But we had no gun, so, in dejection and despair, we wandered again toward the sand-pit. As we crossed the orchard,a startling event occurred. Some large bird rustled off through the grass, and in the little round hollow where she had been sitting gleamed four white objects. It was enough to renew our trust in the gods who favor the romantic in their everlasting encounters with the practical folk of the world.For here were eggs!And eggs obtained under conditions that our friend Crusoe need not have scorned. To us the adventure said in no unmistakable tones: Abase yourself not before cooks when your spoil is at hand. Trust Providence, as did the Swiss Family Robinson.We hurried to the sand-pit, kindled the fire, and put in the eggs. I refuse to dwell upon their condition when we took them out, or on the difficulty attendant upon eating the two that remained unbroken, or what these tasted like.People who think that the carnal joy of eating is of much importance at these camp-fires have vulgar, prosaic minds.We heard the dinner-bell ringing just as we disposed of the second egg, and we hurried toward the house.Ten minutes later (for it takes some time to remove from one's face and hands the evidences of a feast of roasted eggs) we appeared at the dinner-table. It was a long one, with Uncle Will at one end, Uncle Charley at the other. The eggs had not spoiled our appetites, and we ate, with nothing to disturb our pleasure, up to the point when blueberry pie came on. Then Uncle Will, his carving duties over, and his own share of the dinner consumed, leaned back in his chair and addressed Uncle Charley:—"I was over at Bartlett's last night.""That so?" returned Uncle Charley. "Did you speak about the peacocks?""About the peahen that's setting in the orchard? Yes. He knew she had been setting there on nothing for three days. The eggs came from New York yesterday, and he said he was going to send Foley over with them this morning."Aunt Ellen showed an interest in the conversation. "Eggs from New York?" she queried."Yes," replied Uncle Will; "from the Zoo. They're peacocks' eggs.Whitepeacocks, too. They cost him ten dollars apiece—forty dollars for the four. I told him 'twas a risky thing to leave them out in the orchard. SaidIwouldn't be responsible. Bartlett said the peahen wouldn't set anywhere else. He'd have to take the chance. What are you going to do with a man like that?"I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Jimmy Toppan. He was trying to insert a piece of blueberry pie in hismouth. Three times he made the attempt, and each time his aim was poor. I had a feeling as if my chair were sinking beneath me. The dining-room and the whole family of Toppans revolved about me in a blur.Peacocks' eggs! Forty dollars!I have no recollection of the rest of the meal. The elder Toppans talked together, I believe, but on what subject I have not the faintest notion.In five or six minutes Jimmy and I were safely over the fence and running across the meadow. We had to stop once or twice for breath, but we covered the distance to the wooded swamp in record time. Back of a large oak, where we were nearly covered by ferns, we stopped and panted.Jimmy spoke first."They don't hang people under sixteen years old," he said."Are you sure?""I'm sure," he replied."They put 'em in prison, though," I remarked, "for life!""What'll we do?" asked Jimmy.We debated the question from every point of view. Of one thing we were determined: we would never be taken alive."There's the circus," I suggested. "Don't you suppose we could join that?""Like Toby Tyler? He had a horrible time!""It's better than stayin' all your life in a dungeon on bread and water hollowed out of the living rock," I reminded him."I'd have to go home first and get my decalcomania book," Jimmy stipulated."Well, that will be all right; I'll get my punch."About my most cherished possession was a discarded punch, formerly used by a real conductor on a train. It seemed that I ought not present myself to the circus people empty-handed if Jimmy were going to bring his book of decalcomanias. It struck me that I might be especially welcome, as a ticket-taker, if I had a punch. I could work in that capacity while I was learning to ride bareback, or qualifying for the position of ring-master, or perhaps—so high do one's air-castles tower—that of clown!Why not? Others had achieved it.We decided to leave our refuge in the swamp, sneak up the meadow, pass the farm by a back route, and so to the highroad and home. Then, separating long enough to get the decalcomania book and the punch, we could camp for a night or two in Davenport's field, and join thecircus in the morning. By the time the peacocks' eggs were missed we would be far away.The first part of the plan was carried out. We crossed the meadow stealthily, creeping a greater part of the way on our hands and knees. Once in a while, when this got tiresome, we would rise and walk in the normal fashion, which was probably just as safe, for there was no one within half a mile.As we slunk by the rear of the barn we came suddenly on Mr. Bartlett and his man, Foley. There was no time to run. Mr. Bartlett addressed us genially."Hullo, boys! Want to see something? Look in this box. Peacocks' eggs—white peacocks, too. Very rare. We're going to set them under that peahen in the orchard. I suppose she's there all right, Foley?""Yis, sorr. She was at foive o'clockthis marning, sorr. Oi give her four ducks' eggs to kape her continted-loike.""All right, then. Come on, boys. We'll see how she's getting on. We'll have to set a guard around her while she hatches these out. They're too valuable to risk. Do you suppose she'd stand for it if we put up a little tent around her, Foley? Big nuisance she won't set in some convenient place."Mr. Bartlett and Foley walked on ahead, discussing ways and means for protecting the peahen against marauders. We followed, a dozen steps behind. The shadow of the dungeon fell no longer upon our path, and there was no necessity for joining the circus. We did not admit it to each other, but we felt it to be a happy release.In a moment we heard Foley's voice."Here she is, sorr. An' settin' on nothin' again. Phwhere's thim ducks'eggs gone, Oi dunno. Somebody's shtole thim, fir the birrd niver ate thim, shills an' all. 'Twill niver do to lave thim ixpinsive eggs here, sorr!"Jimmy Toppan and I maintained expressions of innocent wonder.

CHAPTER VA RUN ON THE BANKIn the garden, at the side of our house, there was an apple tree. There were two routes to the top of it. One, the common everyday path, was obvious and easy, almost like climbing a ladder. You took hold of the large limb nearest the ground, curled one leg and then the other around it, and so wriggled upon its upper side. From that point you could climb from one branch to another, without any difficulty, till you had reached the top of the tree. That was the prosaic method for ordinary occasions.But when hard pressed by enemies, when the shrieking Indians were at ourvery heels, or a Bengal tiger with dripping jaws uttered his frightful snarls only three feet behind us, then the circumstances called for a different route. It must be something not only quick, but risky. Time must be saved, seconds were precious. More than that, the fitness of things called for an element of danger in the ascent. There was no honor in the adventure if we climbed by the slow, safe path—the highroad, so to speak, of commerce and trade.Blood was up; the blast of war blew in our ears.So, at such times, we approached the tree from the other side, leaped high in the air to a branch above our heads, and, by a deal of swarming, shinning, pulling, and straining, reached the top.Then, from amid the leaves, we could pour down a murderous fire from our trusty rifles, till every Indian lay stretchedon the ground, or the Bengal tiger gave one last bellow and expired.It must not be thought, however, that these exciting moments, when the apple tree was an island of refuge, made it altogether a tame and profitless retreat in quieter times. It was enjoyable for rest and recreation, and it formed an excellent watch-tower from which to spy out the land. In May the pink and white blossoms turned it into an exquisite bouquet. Later in the summer the big green fruit—though not agreeable if eaten raw—could be transformed into the highest triumph cooks ever achieved—the apple-pie.Near the top an almost horizontal branch made a tolerable seat. At about the level of our eyes, as we sat there, another branch stretched its smooth surface. The bark on it was new, and so plainly adapted to the use of a jack-knifethat the symbols "E. M.," "J. R. T.," and "S. E.," deeply carven, indicated that Edward Mason, James Rogers Toppan, and Samuel Edwards had left their signs manual upon it.On the day of which I speak these gentlemen sat on the horizontal branch and devoured the contents of a roll of peppermint lozenges. I had had a cent that afternoon, and had expended it in this highly satisfactory form of pleasure.You got twelve tiny lozenges for a cent, and that made four apiece all round. In buying them you had to make serious choice between peppermint in yellow wrappers, checkerberry in green wrappers, cinnamon in pink wrappers, clove in brown wrappers (especially alluring because reputed to be dangerous—cloves having the well-known habit of "drying your blood"), and rose in purple wrappers—a particularly insipid flavor, oftentried in the hope that it would taste different this time.The fun was not all over when you had eaten the lozenges (by a slow process of suction), for there still remained the paper wrapper. This had always printed upon it some legend of more or less interest. The yellow one, that inclosed these peppermint lozenges, bore a few moral and patriotic sentiments concerning the Father of Our Country.The three personages in the apple tree thereupon engaged in a discussion on the subject: Who was the greatest man that ever lived? Jimmy Toppan and I declared for George Washington, but Ed Mason, for some unexplained reason, brought in a minority report for Amerigo Vespucci.Then Jimmy Toppan was moved to relate an anecdote."I heard somewhere that George Washington,or p'r'aps 'twas Daniel Webster, but anyhow it wassome one, when he was a boy, once put a coin in the bark of a tree in his father's orchard. Then, a long time afterward, when he was President of the United States, he came back there, and went right up to the tree and took out his jack-knife and cut away the bark, and there was the piece of money! You see, the bark had grown over it, and covered it up all those years."This was an interesting bit of information!All of us were instantly filled with a desire to follow in the footsteps of the great. Here was the tree, and here was the bark. But the coins were lacking. The only one we had possessed that afternoon had gone for peppermint lozenges. Fourth of July money must not be touched. Perhaps, however, a special appeal to the authorities would be successful. Weagreed to make application to the lords of the treasuries, and each to come to-morrow provided with a cent.The agreement was kept, and the following morning saw us at work on the bark of the apple tree. Three incisions were made (each one working at that part of the branch nearest his initials) and three copper cents were duly deposited. Then we descended the tree, and left our treasure to the silent years."How long do you suppose it will take the bark to grow over them?" inquired Ed Mason."Oh, I don't know. Years and years. Washington, or whoever it was, didn't come back till he was an old man.""Well, then, we ought not. They ought to be left there for sixty or seventy years, anyhow."It was unanimously agreed that not less than seventy years must elapse before the coins should be disturbed.We wandered out of the garden, down the street, and through the grounds of the Universalist Church. Drippings from the eaves of that building had unearthed hundreds of pebbles, and Ed Mason began selecting round ones for his sling-shot. Then he took that instrument out of his pocket and discharged the pebbles at a distant fence. But the sling-shot worked indifferently, and Ed pronounced the elastic worn out."You can get a dandy piece for a cent down at Higginson's," I observed.Then the significance of the remark struck me, and I glanced guiltily away. There was a pause in the conversation, until the sound of a horn suggested the approaching Fourth of July."Only nine days till the Fourth," declared Jimmy Toppan. "How many bunches you fellers goin' to have?"We counted on at least fifteen apiece."So do I," said Jimmy; "and torpedoes, and a horn.""Horns are foolish," remarked Ed Mason; "girls and babies always have horns.""That's all right," retorted Jimmy; "theylast. You'll prob'ly be round Fourth of July afternoon, when you've fired off all your fifteen bunches of fire-crackers, wantin' to blow on my horn."I put in a remark here."I'm goin' to have six sticks of slow-match, an' five boxes of Ajax torpedoes."But it did not impress Ed Mason."Ajax ain't half as good as Ironclad," he announced.Jimmy Toppan also had preferences."Have you seen those Chinese Aërial Bombs down at Johnson's? They're the biggest torpedoes you ever saw—each one as big as your fist! Gee! I'd liketo hear one of 'em go off! They cost a cent apiece, an'—"He stopped.Somehow the conversation would get around to the subject of things costing a cent. It was most embarrassing. We had invested our capital for seventy years, and were already feeling the pinch.The morning wore on, and though I observed both Ed and Jimmy to cast surreptitious glances toward the apple tree, there were no more references to the subject of cents.In the afternoon I went over to Rob Currier's house, and found him engaged with the most fascinating weapon imaginable. It was a pop-gun made from a goose-quill. It shot small pieces of raw potato to a great distance, and did so with a loud and soul-satisfying pop.His uncle had made it for him, said Rob.He willingly let me experiment with it, but he was not interested to watch me very long."Let's go down and look at the fire-crackers in Johnson's window," he suggested."I'd rather stay here and shoot this pop-gun," I declared."I'm tired of it," he rejoined. "Sell it to you for a cent."Again the cent!I put down the pop-gun and accompanied Rob to Johnson's shop, where we spent twenty minutes with our noses flattened against the pane, choosing what we would take if Mr. Johnson should come out and invite us to help ourselves.Mr. Johnson did nothing of the sort, however.We agreed that our first choice would be a mine, which was described as "sendingto an enormous height nine colored stars, alternately green, purple, and carmine, and then exploding with a rain of golden serpents."This point decided, we repaired to the Curriers' and spent the afternoon perfecting our skill with the lasso.In the interval that evening, between supper and bedtime, I suffered much uneasiness.Some member of my family read from the evening paper that thieves were reported in town. Instantly, I thought of the three cents in the apple tree. Surely it had been rash to leave them exposed. There was nothing in the story about Washington to tell what he did to protect his coin from thieves. How would he have felt if he had come back, President of the United States, and found that some one had stolen his cent?Moreover, there was always the chancethat I might never become President. In all fairness, I had to consider that.Suddenly the thought of Rob Currier's pop-gun recurred to me. I needed that pop-gun.Once during the night I got up and looked out of my bedroom window to see if the apple tree were safe. It seemed to be standing serene enough in the moonlight, but who could tell what marauders might besiege it?In the morning my mind was made up. As soon as I finished breakfast I hurried out, climbed the tree by the emergency route, and began to cut at the bark where my cent was concealed.I had it in an instant.As I was working I noticed that the other two cents were gone already. I turned around and looked down Oak Street. Jimmy Toppan, with one fist tightly clutched, was running at full speedtoward Johnson's and the Chinese Aërial Bomb.Ed Mason was nowhere in sight. Apparently he had withdrawn his deposit even earlier.

A RUN ON THE BANK

In the garden, at the side of our house, there was an apple tree. There were two routes to the top of it. One, the common everyday path, was obvious and easy, almost like climbing a ladder. You took hold of the large limb nearest the ground, curled one leg and then the other around it, and so wriggled upon its upper side. From that point you could climb from one branch to another, without any difficulty, till you had reached the top of the tree. That was the prosaic method for ordinary occasions.

But when hard pressed by enemies, when the shrieking Indians were at ourvery heels, or a Bengal tiger with dripping jaws uttered his frightful snarls only three feet behind us, then the circumstances called for a different route. It must be something not only quick, but risky. Time must be saved, seconds were precious. More than that, the fitness of things called for an element of danger in the ascent. There was no honor in the adventure if we climbed by the slow, safe path—the highroad, so to speak, of commerce and trade.

Blood was up; the blast of war blew in our ears.

So, at such times, we approached the tree from the other side, leaped high in the air to a branch above our heads, and, by a deal of swarming, shinning, pulling, and straining, reached the top.

Then, from amid the leaves, we could pour down a murderous fire from our trusty rifles, till every Indian lay stretchedon the ground, or the Bengal tiger gave one last bellow and expired.

It must not be thought, however, that these exciting moments, when the apple tree was an island of refuge, made it altogether a tame and profitless retreat in quieter times. It was enjoyable for rest and recreation, and it formed an excellent watch-tower from which to spy out the land. In May the pink and white blossoms turned it into an exquisite bouquet. Later in the summer the big green fruit—though not agreeable if eaten raw—could be transformed into the highest triumph cooks ever achieved—the apple-pie.

Near the top an almost horizontal branch made a tolerable seat. At about the level of our eyes, as we sat there, another branch stretched its smooth surface. The bark on it was new, and so plainly adapted to the use of a jack-knifethat the symbols "E. M.," "J. R. T.," and "S. E.," deeply carven, indicated that Edward Mason, James Rogers Toppan, and Samuel Edwards had left their signs manual upon it.

On the day of which I speak these gentlemen sat on the horizontal branch and devoured the contents of a roll of peppermint lozenges. I had had a cent that afternoon, and had expended it in this highly satisfactory form of pleasure.

You got twelve tiny lozenges for a cent, and that made four apiece all round. In buying them you had to make serious choice between peppermint in yellow wrappers, checkerberry in green wrappers, cinnamon in pink wrappers, clove in brown wrappers (especially alluring because reputed to be dangerous—cloves having the well-known habit of "drying your blood"), and rose in purple wrappers—a particularly insipid flavor, oftentried in the hope that it would taste different this time.

The fun was not all over when you had eaten the lozenges (by a slow process of suction), for there still remained the paper wrapper. This had always printed upon it some legend of more or less interest. The yellow one, that inclosed these peppermint lozenges, bore a few moral and patriotic sentiments concerning the Father of Our Country.

The three personages in the apple tree thereupon engaged in a discussion on the subject: Who was the greatest man that ever lived? Jimmy Toppan and I declared for George Washington, but Ed Mason, for some unexplained reason, brought in a minority report for Amerigo Vespucci.

Then Jimmy Toppan was moved to relate an anecdote.

"I heard somewhere that George Washington,or p'r'aps 'twas Daniel Webster, but anyhow it wassome one, when he was a boy, once put a coin in the bark of a tree in his father's orchard. Then, a long time afterward, when he was President of the United States, he came back there, and went right up to the tree and took out his jack-knife and cut away the bark, and there was the piece of money! You see, the bark had grown over it, and covered it up all those years."

This was an interesting bit of information!

All of us were instantly filled with a desire to follow in the footsteps of the great. Here was the tree, and here was the bark. But the coins were lacking. The only one we had possessed that afternoon had gone for peppermint lozenges. Fourth of July money must not be touched. Perhaps, however, a special appeal to the authorities would be successful. Weagreed to make application to the lords of the treasuries, and each to come to-morrow provided with a cent.

The agreement was kept, and the following morning saw us at work on the bark of the apple tree. Three incisions were made (each one working at that part of the branch nearest his initials) and three copper cents were duly deposited. Then we descended the tree, and left our treasure to the silent years.

"How long do you suppose it will take the bark to grow over them?" inquired Ed Mason.

"Oh, I don't know. Years and years. Washington, or whoever it was, didn't come back till he was an old man."

"Well, then, we ought not. They ought to be left there for sixty or seventy years, anyhow."

It was unanimously agreed that not less than seventy years must elapse before the coins should be disturbed.

We wandered out of the garden, down the street, and through the grounds of the Universalist Church. Drippings from the eaves of that building had unearthed hundreds of pebbles, and Ed Mason began selecting round ones for his sling-shot. Then he took that instrument out of his pocket and discharged the pebbles at a distant fence. But the sling-shot worked indifferently, and Ed pronounced the elastic worn out.

"You can get a dandy piece for a cent down at Higginson's," I observed.

Then the significance of the remark struck me, and I glanced guiltily away. There was a pause in the conversation, until the sound of a horn suggested the approaching Fourth of July.

"Only nine days till the Fourth," declared Jimmy Toppan. "How many bunches you fellers goin' to have?"

We counted on at least fifteen apiece.

"So do I," said Jimmy; "and torpedoes, and a horn."

"Horns are foolish," remarked Ed Mason; "girls and babies always have horns."

"That's all right," retorted Jimmy; "theylast. You'll prob'ly be round Fourth of July afternoon, when you've fired off all your fifteen bunches of fire-crackers, wantin' to blow on my horn."

I put in a remark here.

"I'm goin' to have six sticks of slow-match, an' five boxes of Ajax torpedoes."

But it did not impress Ed Mason.

"Ajax ain't half as good as Ironclad," he announced.

Jimmy Toppan also had preferences.

"Have you seen those Chinese Aërial Bombs down at Johnson's? They're the biggest torpedoes you ever saw—each one as big as your fist! Gee! I'd liketo hear one of 'em go off! They cost a cent apiece, an'—"

He stopped.

Somehow the conversation would get around to the subject of things costing a cent. It was most embarrassing. We had invested our capital for seventy years, and were already feeling the pinch.

The morning wore on, and though I observed both Ed and Jimmy to cast surreptitious glances toward the apple tree, there were no more references to the subject of cents.

In the afternoon I went over to Rob Currier's house, and found him engaged with the most fascinating weapon imaginable. It was a pop-gun made from a goose-quill. It shot small pieces of raw potato to a great distance, and did so with a loud and soul-satisfying pop.

His uncle had made it for him, said Rob.

He willingly let me experiment with it, but he was not interested to watch me very long.

"Let's go down and look at the fire-crackers in Johnson's window," he suggested.

"I'd rather stay here and shoot this pop-gun," I declared.

"I'm tired of it," he rejoined. "Sell it to you for a cent."

Again the cent!

I put down the pop-gun and accompanied Rob to Johnson's shop, where we spent twenty minutes with our noses flattened against the pane, choosing what we would take if Mr. Johnson should come out and invite us to help ourselves.

Mr. Johnson did nothing of the sort, however.

We agreed that our first choice would be a mine, which was described as "sendingto an enormous height nine colored stars, alternately green, purple, and carmine, and then exploding with a rain of golden serpents."

This point decided, we repaired to the Curriers' and spent the afternoon perfecting our skill with the lasso.

In the interval that evening, between supper and bedtime, I suffered much uneasiness.

Some member of my family read from the evening paper that thieves were reported in town. Instantly, I thought of the three cents in the apple tree. Surely it had been rash to leave them exposed. There was nothing in the story about Washington to tell what he did to protect his coin from thieves. How would he have felt if he had come back, President of the United States, and found that some one had stolen his cent?

Moreover, there was always the chancethat I might never become President. In all fairness, I had to consider that.

Suddenly the thought of Rob Currier's pop-gun recurred to me. I needed that pop-gun.

Once during the night I got up and looked out of my bedroom window to see if the apple tree were safe. It seemed to be standing serene enough in the moonlight, but who could tell what marauders might besiege it?

In the morning my mind was made up. As soon as I finished breakfast I hurried out, climbed the tree by the emergency route, and began to cut at the bark where my cent was concealed.

I had it in an instant.

As I was working I noticed that the other two cents were gone already. I turned around and looked down Oak Street. Jimmy Toppan, with one fist tightly clutched, was running at full speedtoward Johnson's and the Chinese Aërial Bomb.

Ed Mason was nowhere in sight. Apparently he had withdrawn his deposit even earlier.

CHAPTER VIHORACEDuring that week before the Fourth of July the days passed with incredible slowness. One afternoon, to beguile the time, I went over to Horace Winslow's house.Horace, from the standpoint of most of us, was entitled to sympathy,—he was being "brought up" with so much care.Not that any of us were neglected. School was our portion, Mr. Colburn's and other improving but uncomfortable books were our fare through nine months of the year. On Sundays we were duly despatched to the school appropriate to that day. We each carried the traditional cent for the contribution box. And, as in the story-books (which aresometimes faithful transcripts from life), it was with difficulty that we passed the traditional drug shop, which displayed the traditional peppermint lozenges and "coltsfoot."And, still in the traditional manner, the Tempter's voice was loud sometimes in our ears,—so loud that we turned and entered Dr. Dibden's shop, and spent that cent for a roll of lozenges, or a piece of coltsfoot, or of "stick lickrish."But if we did this thing, so did Horace Winslow. And if, occasionally, we had to be sent from the dinner-table to remove a few burrs from our coat collars, or to make another attempt with the hair-brush, so had Horace. In such matters his experiences were not different from those of the other boys in the neighborhood.His mind was being improved,—that was all.It had not injured his health to any extent. He presented, on that afternoon, his usual round countenance, and red cheeks. A pleasing plumpness was his most noticeable characteristic,—not the lean air of the scholar.I found him making a suitable home for his turtles, and I joined in the work with enthusiasm. The turtles had been straying lately, and it was clear that something had to be done. It is distressing, after you have lavished any amount of attention on a turtle, and have tied him by a long string so as to give him wide liberty, to find in the morning that he has twisted and tangled the string amongst the grass, and then departed, leaving one end of the string buried, as if in derision, in the ground.We set out to construct a turtle-proof pen from boards and shingles."I came pretty near losin' all the turtles," said Horace."Did they break the strings?" I asked."No,—only one of 'em. But Aunt said she didn't know but I'd have to put 'em all back in the pond.""What for?""'Cos I took one of 'em to bed with me night 'fore last.""Which one?""That big one, with the yuller spots.""Did she mind?""Who,—Aunt Cora? You bet she did! I put him in the bath-tub to give him a swim in the mornin', an' I forgot him when I went to breakfast, an' then right after breakfast I had to go down town to get a yeast-cake, an' Aunt found him swimmin' round in the tub, an' she said 'twas horrid to have turtles in the tub, an' she wanted to know when I put him there, an' so she found out I'd had him under the pillow all night, an' she was awful mad! I thought she was goin'to lick me, but she didn't. I didn't dare tell her I'd had another one up there the night before,—the little black one. He's a jim-dandy,—the best turtle I've got. His name is Pete."I agreed that Pete was a very desirable turtle. And I put in a request."Tell me if your Aunt makes you put 'em back in the pond, will you?""She won't. She said I could keep 'em, but I can't bring 'em inside the house. Gee! She's been awful cross lately, though. Last night again. An' Uncle, too. We went in swimmin' out to Four Rocks,—I mean I did, an' Ben Spauldin', an' Harry Fletcher, an'—""How'd you go?" I interrupted; "out the railroad?""No, we got a ride on Dole's wagon to the green, an' then went out the middle road. While we were in the water, two fellers came along, an' grabbed most ofmy clothes, an' Ben's, an' run up across the track, an' chucked 'em into Mr. Harris' shanty, an' then run off laughin'; an' I run up to get 'em, an' just as I got up on the road Aunt an' Uncle came drivin' along with Mr. Benton, an' they were mad as hops 'cos I didn't have anythin' on, an' Uncle was goin' to make me get into the carriage an' get under a robe, till I told him my clothes were in the shanty.""What did he say?""He said I'd ought to have taken better care of my clothes, an' Aunt said it was disgraceful runnin' round stark naked on the road, an' she was mortified to death, an' I couldn't go in swimmin' any more if I didn't behave, an'—oh, darn it all, is that two o'clock?"It was certainly two. The North Church clock struck the hour distinctly."I s'pose I'll have to go in, now," he announced sorrowfully.I was about to ask the reason, when the voice of Mrs. Vincent, Horace's aunt, came from behind the closed shutters of a window."Horace!""Oh, I don't want to come in now!""Horace!""Well, I don't, Aunt. Sam Edwards is here, and we've got to build this turtle-pen.""HORACE!""I can't leave Sam here all alone, Aunt. 'Twouldn't be polite.""Horace, come in the house instantly. You may bring Samuel with you.""Oh, he don't want to come.""Doesn'twant to come, you mean. Wouldn't you like to hear me read to Horace, Samuel?"I was greatly interested in the turtles,but I was also fond of being read to. Apparently I was going to lose the company of Horace, anyhow. Moreover, I was afraid of Horace's aunt. So I meekly said:—"Yes'm."But Horace still raised objections."We can't leave the turtles like this Aunt,—they'll all get away.""Horace, mind what I say this minute. You can make the turtles safe enough. I will give you three minutes longer, and if you are not indoors then, your uncle will punish you this evening."We collected the wayward turtles and put them in a garden basket. A few seconds later we presented ourselves before Mrs. Vincent, who looked at us ominously over the top of a book. Horace sat down in one stiff-backed chair, and I in another. He began to screw his face into knots as soon as he saw the book.It was unknown to me, and fifteen or twenty years were to elapse before I should know its title. Then, one day, reading Guizot's "History of France," I recognized a passage, and realized with what work we had been regaled,—when we wished to build a turtle-pen."Oh, Aunt—""Horace, be quiet. Sit up straight in your chair. Put your hand down."She looked Horace over critically, and then began to read."'The old parliamentarians were triumphant; at the same time as Abbé Terray, Chancellor Maupeou was disgraced, and the judicial system he had founded fell with him. Unpopular from the first, the Maupeou Parliament had remained in the nation's eyes the image of absolute power corrupted and corrupting. The suit between Beaumarchais and Councillor Goëzman—'""Oh, Aunt, I don't want—""Horace, if you are not still this instant, I will put you to bed!"Horace's articulations dissolved into snuffles and whines; we both hitched and wriggled in our chairs, and the reading went on. We heard what Chancellor Maupeou said to the Duke de La Vrillière, and what M. Turgot wrote to Louis XVI,—if a process in which the brain took almost no part can be called hearing. These personages were strangers to me, but Horace greeted them as familiar enemies. I judged that he knew and hated them of old time.An hour passed, a long hot hour. M. de Malesherbes had gone the way of Turgot, and Horace and I were reduced to a mere coma. Then the book was closed, and we were told that we might return to our turtles.We did so with profound joy, andHorace, seeing the Tiltons' cat hurrying over the fence, remarked that she was Chancellor Maupeou, and threw a green apple at her.

HORACE

During that week before the Fourth of July the days passed with incredible slowness. One afternoon, to beguile the time, I went over to Horace Winslow's house.

Horace, from the standpoint of most of us, was entitled to sympathy,—he was being "brought up" with so much care.

Not that any of us were neglected. School was our portion, Mr. Colburn's and other improving but uncomfortable books were our fare through nine months of the year. On Sundays we were duly despatched to the school appropriate to that day. We each carried the traditional cent for the contribution box. And, as in the story-books (which aresometimes faithful transcripts from life), it was with difficulty that we passed the traditional drug shop, which displayed the traditional peppermint lozenges and "coltsfoot."

And, still in the traditional manner, the Tempter's voice was loud sometimes in our ears,—so loud that we turned and entered Dr. Dibden's shop, and spent that cent for a roll of lozenges, or a piece of coltsfoot, or of "stick lickrish."

But if we did this thing, so did Horace Winslow. And if, occasionally, we had to be sent from the dinner-table to remove a few burrs from our coat collars, or to make another attempt with the hair-brush, so had Horace. In such matters his experiences were not different from those of the other boys in the neighborhood.

His mind was being improved,—that was all.

It had not injured his health to any extent. He presented, on that afternoon, his usual round countenance, and red cheeks. A pleasing plumpness was his most noticeable characteristic,—not the lean air of the scholar.

I found him making a suitable home for his turtles, and I joined in the work with enthusiasm. The turtles had been straying lately, and it was clear that something had to be done. It is distressing, after you have lavished any amount of attention on a turtle, and have tied him by a long string so as to give him wide liberty, to find in the morning that he has twisted and tangled the string amongst the grass, and then departed, leaving one end of the string buried, as if in derision, in the ground.

We set out to construct a turtle-proof pen from boards and shingles.

"I came pretty near losin' all the turtles," said Horace.

"Did they break the strings?" I asked.

"No,—only one of 'em. But Aunt said she didn't know but I'd have to put 'em all back in the pond."

"What for?"

"'Cos I took one of 'em to bed with me night 'fore last."

"Which one?"

"That big one, with the yuller spots."

"Did she mind?"

"Who,—Aunt Cora? You bet she did! I put him in the bath-tub to give him a swim in the mornin', an' I forgot him when I went to breakfast, an' then right after breakfast I had to go down town to get a yeast-cake, an' Aunt found him swimmin' round in the tub, an' she said 'twas horrid to have turtles in the tub, an' she wanted to know when I put him there, an' so she found out I'd had him under the pillow all night, an' she was awful mad! I thought she was goin'to lick me, but she didn't. I didn't dare tell her I'd had another one up there the night before,—the little black one. He's a jim-dandy,—the best turtle I've got. His name is Pete."

I agreed that Pete was a very desirable turtle. And I put in a request.

"Tell me if your Aunt makes you put 'em back in the pond, will you?"

"She won't. She said I could keep 'em, but I can't bring 'em inside the house. Gee! She's been awful cross lately, though. Last night again. An' Uncle, too. We went in swimmin' out to Four Rocks,—I mean I did, an' Ben Spauldin', an' Harry Fletcher, an'—"

"How'd you go?" I interrupted; "out the railroad?"

"No, we got a ride on Dole's wagon to the green, an' then went out the middle road. While we were in the water, two fellers came along, an' grabbed most ofmy clothes, an' Ben's, an' run up across the track, an' chucked 'em into Mr. Harris' shanty, an' then run off laughin'; an' I run up to get 'em, an' just as I got up on the road Aunt an' Uncle came drivin' along with Mr. Benton, an' they were mad as hops 'cos I didn't have anythin' on, an' Uncle was goin' to make me get into the carriage an' get under a robe, till I told him my clothes were in the shanty."

"What did he say?"

"He said I'd ought to have taken better care of my clothes, an' Aunt said it was disgraceful runnin' round stark naked on the road, an' she was mortified to death, an' I couldn't go in swimmin' any more if I didn't behave, an'—oh, darn it all, is that two o'clock?"

It was certainly two. The North Church clock struck the hour distinctly.

"I s'pose I'll have to go in, now," he announced sorrowfully.

I was about to ask the reason, when the voice of Mrs. Vincent, Horace's aunt, came from behind the closed shutters of a window.

"Horace!"

"Oh, I don't want to come in now!"

"Horace!"

"Well, I don't, Aunt. Sam Edwards is here, and we've got to build this turtle-pen."

"HORACE!"

"I can't leave Sam here all alone, Aunt. 'Twouldn't be polite."

"Horace, come in the house instantly. You may bring Samuel with you."

"Oh, he don't want to come."

"Doesn'twant to come, you mean. Wouldn't you like to hear me read to Horace, Samuel?"

I was greatly interested in the turtles,but I was also fond of being read to. Apparently I was going to lose the company of Horace, anyhow. Moreover, I was afraid of Horace's aunt. So I meekly said:—

"Yes'm."

But Horace still raised objections.

"We can't leave the turtles like this Aunt,—they'll all get away."

"Horace, mind what I say this minute. You can make the turtles safe enough. I will give you three minutes longer, and if you are not indoors then, your uncle will punish you this evening."

We collected the wayward turtles and put them in a garden basket. A few seconds later we presented ourselves before Mrs. Vincent, who looked at us ominously over the top of a book. Horace sat down in one stiff-backed chair, and I in another. He began to screw his face into knots as soon as he saw the book.

It was unknown to me, and fifteen or twenty years were to elapse before I should know its title. Then, one day, reading Guizot's "History of France," I recognized a passage, and realized with what work we had been regaled,—when we wished to build a turtle-pen.

"Oh, Aunt—"

"Horace, be quiet. Sit up straight in your chair. Put your hand down."

She looked Horace over critically, and then began to read.

"'The old parliamentarians were triumphant; at the same time as Abbé Terray, Chancellor Maupeou was disgraced, and the judicial system he had founded fell with him. Unpopular from the first, the Maupeou Parliament had remained in the nation's eyes the image of absolute power corrupted and corrupting. The suit between Beaumarchais and Councillor Goëzman—'"

"Oh, Aunt, I don't want—"

"Horace, if you are not still this instant, I will put you to bed!"

Horace's articulations dissolved into snuffles and whines; we both hitched and wriggled in our chairs, and the reading went on. We heard what Chancellor Maupeou said to the Duke de La Vrillière, and what M. Turgot wrote to Louis XVI,—if a process in which the brain took almost no part can be called hearing. These personages were strangers to me, but Horace greeted them as familiar enemies. I judged that he knew and hated them of old time.

An hour passed, a long hot hour. M. de Malesherbes had gone the way of Turgot, and Horace and I were reduced to a mere coma. Then the book was closed, and we were told that we might return to our turtles.

We did so with profound joy, andHorace, seeing the Tiltons' cat hurrying over the fence, remarked that she was Chancellor Maupeou, and threw a green apple at her.

CHAPTER VIITHE GREAT DAYFrom far off came a sound of popping and snapping,—some boy, unable to wait, was trying a few fire-crackers. It still lacked a day or two of the Fourth of July, and the strain was telling on us.A door that was slammed or a whip that was cracked took on a new significance, while the fish-pedlers' horns seemed to have an altogether unusual note.Underneath my bed was a box containing fifteen bunches of fire-crackers, ordinary size; three bunches of cannon crackers; two single gigantic fellows; and some sticks of slow-match. There were also the five boxes of Ajax torpedoes,twisted tight in their red paper, and slumbering now in sawdust, but all ready to explode delightfully when the time came.Jimmy Toppan had taken the wrappers from his fire-crackers, and separated the crackers. Slowly and painfully he had disentangled the fuses which some Chinese workman had skilfully braided together. It had taken a whole afternoon to do it, but now he had no one knew how many thousands of crackers, neatly piled in a large cigar-box.He was prepared for the morning of the Fourth, when he could sit down in some convenient place,—the curb-stone, for instance, with a stick of lighted slow-match in one hand, and the cigar-box full of fire-crackers beside him.Then, with due deliberation, he could choose a fire-cracker, bring the glowing end of the slow-match to the fuse of thecracker, throw the latter into the street as soon as it began to spit out sparks, and wait ecstatically for the explosion.As soon as this had occurred he could repeat the whole operation,—for hours.Untangling the fire-crackers had pulled the fuses out of some of them. These unfortunates were carefully put aside for "cat and dog fights."There were one or two green fire-crackers in every bunch, and occasionally ayellowone. These he herded by themselves, for use at especially important moments. That they make a louder noise than the red ones is a scientific fact well known to all experts.I had not separated my crackers. It was a joy I decided to defer until the great day. There was a pleasure in seeing the bunches intact, and in observing the red wrappers with their gorgeous gilt dragons. You could smell the gunpowdery smell aswell as if the packages had been opened. But I counted those eighteen bunches of crackers every night and every morning, and sometimes during the day. And I had broken the top of one of the torpedo boxes and explored with my fingers in the sawdust.There were twelve fat torpedoes in the box, and five boxes, and that made—that made—(oh! Mr. Colburn!) it made sixty! yes, sixty great, big, lovely torpedoes. Sixty beautiful bangs!But one must be careful with torpedoes. They must be fired with care, one at a time, for the proper enjoyment of them. There had been accidents,—I had seen one the year before. Little Larry Paine had fired all his crackers before ten o'clock in the morning. He went into the house to get the last of his stock of explosives,—a box of torpedoes. The sawdust had been taken out, and he cameforth again with a dozen torpedoes loose in the box. As he reached the sidewalk the box slipped, and fell on the bricks with one terrifying crash. All the torpedoes had gone off together.It was magnificent, but it was not war. It filled us with joy, but it filled Larry with woe. He lifted up his voice and mourned because they were not. With loud wails he retreated into the house, and his agonized family knew no peace for an hour."My brother Billy's goin' to the bonfire at midnight," announced Ed Mason, conscious of the glory reflected upon him by this fact.But I was not to be outdone."Poo! that's nothin'.Mybrother's goin' to stay upallnight; he an' Phil Coombs an' Arthur Monroe are goin' to sleep in Arthur Monroe's barn an' they're goin' to the bonfire an' they ain't goin'to bed at all. Last Fourth he nearly got arrested for ringin' the High School bell!"I was determined to leave Ed Mason not a leg to stand on."Well," he remarked weakly, "I'm goin' to get up at half-past three, anyway."He had me there. I had parental permission to get up at four o'clock, and I had not expected to be surpassed in this important achievement by my own familiar friend.It rankled with me all day, and in the evening I laid the case before my father and mother. For the honor of the family, as well as for my own self-respect, I simply had to get up at half-past three.They were in doubt. It was going to be a long and exciting day for me. Aside from the exertion of firing my own supply of crackers and torpedoes, I was going atnoon to see "Gunner Hunt" fire his annual salute at the foot of River Street. Then there was the flag-raising on the mall at two o'clock, and the fireworks at March's Hill in the evening.But they finally consented, and once more I could look Ed Mason in the face.When the evening of the 3d of July came, I went cheerfully to bed at seven o'clock, in order to prepare for the labors of the next day. I counted my fire-crackers, and found their number complete. It was rather hard to get to sleep on account of the uproarious sounds from Main Street,—cannon crackers, muskets, revolvers, cow-bells, and horns. But finally I dropped off,—only to be disturbed by a dream that Auntie Merrill had come into the room and was making a raid on my fire-crackers.It was a hideous nightmare,—she vanished out the door with her arms fullof my precious possessions, and I could not do a thing to stop her. When I woke I had to get up and count those fire-crackers again.Then I climbed back in bed once more and listened to the distant noise. Somebody came down our street, dragging a string of cow-bells. The national holiday was being celebrated with diligence.Suddenly it struck me that perhaps the morning had already come. In a panic I jumped up, lighted a match, and looked at the clock. It was eight o'clock,—I had been asleep less than an hour. Listening at the open window I could hear my family talking in the garden below. I remembered that I was to meet Ed Mason and Jimmy Toppan in that garden at half-past three, and that I had better get to sleep again.I lay in bed once more, trying not to hear the din. All at once I becameaware that some one—my father—was standing at the side of the bed, shaking me."Sam! Sam! I thought you were going to get up. It's quarter of four.""What?"I jumped out, confused. There was a dim light outside,—not daylight, by any means. I began to dress, and fumble for the fire-crackers. Things seemed very different, somehow, from what I had expected.As I went downstairs I heard my father say:—"It's raining, I think,—put on your rubber coat."Rain! How would the fire-crackers like that?Outside I found Ed and Jimmy. They were rather silent, but inclined to be contemptuous because I was late. They had been fiddling around in the gardenfor some minutes, waiting for me. Jimmy had an umbrella, and did not look very happy.We went out to the front of the house, and sat down on the door-steps. Jimmy had his box of fire-crackers (which he managed with difficulty on account of the umbrella), while Ed Mason had his crackers in a canvas bag. Owing to the breeze, which was rather brisk, we had some trouble in lighting the slow-match. Just as we got it going the rain began to fall in a smart shower.There was nothing for it but to retreat inside the house once more. This was a pretty sort of Fourth of July! The possibility of such an inconsiderate act on the part of Heaven had never occurred to us. Could it be that they did not know, up there, what day this was?It was a little dull in the house. Jimmy and I both fell asleep, and so, Ithink, did Ed Mason, though he denied it. Fortunately I found some raspberry turnovers in the pantry, and they helped alleviate our sufferings.Shortly before breakfast the rain stopped, and the sun came feebly out. We were soon in the street once more, creating a racket that left nothing to be desired. Joe and Charley Carter joined us, and so did Rob Currier and Peter Bailey. Peter had a revolver, and he scorned fire-crackers. The Rev. Mr. Dimmick, who lived across the street, stood on the steps of his dwelling and beamed upon us. He looked as if he would like to celebrate, too.Mr. Dimmick was a minister, which was too bad, because he was such a good ball-player. Charley Carter had an enormous cannon cracker, and when he started to touch it off, Mr. Dimmick called out:—"Wait a minute,—you ought to have something to put over that,—a box, or a can, or something.""I wish I had!" said Charley; "let me take that cigar-box, Jimmy?""I've got just the thing," shouted the minister; "I'll get it."And he vanished into the house. Presently he came out again with a shining tin box. They lighted the cannon cracker, clapped the box over it, and ran.Bang! went the cracker, and the box shot straight up in the air."Jiminy!" said Joe Carter, "'twon't never come down!"It looked as if it wouldn't. It went up above the houses, above the trees, even. Then it started to fall, and as it did so a funny thing happened. For the seams of the box had all been blown apart, and only its swift upward rush had kept them together. As soon as it started on itsdownward trip, they flew apart, and the box struck the earth, a flat sheet of tin,—flat as a fritter.Just then Mrs. Dimmick came to the door."James," she said, "I can't find my new cake tin,—have you seen it?""Er—oh, what, my dear? Yes, Harold has just strayed off,—up the street, I think,—I'll find him all right."And Mr. Dimmick hurried away.We spent the morning, after breakfast, in the midst of a delicious cloud of powder smoke. "Dynamite" crackers had not been invented then, and nobody got hurt at all,—except Rob Currier, who burned his thumb slightly on a piece of slow-match. Charley Carter's father, a man of untold wealth, bought a dozen bunches of fire-crackers, and fired thema whole bunch at a time!We stood around in awe at the delightfulnoise and the princely extravagance of it.At noon all the church bells rang for an hour, and we went down to the foot of River Street to hear "Gunner Hunt" and his assistants fire a salute. Mr. Jones was there, leaning on his Napoleon cane, and regarding the spectacle with a sarcastic grin. It probably seemed a pretty small business to him, compared with his famous battle.We had ice-cream for dinner, and strawberry shortcake, and ginger-ale. There were other things,—lamb and green peas, I believe, in which the grown-ups were interested.In the afternoon we saw the flag-raising on the Mall. The Mayor made a speech, and so did General Cogswell, but the speeches did not appeal to us especially. Luckily a horse ran away, so we found some entertainment. ThenDr. Macey treated us all to lemonade, and more ice-cream.If we had had any doubts of what the Mayor said about the Declaration of Independence being the most important event in the history of mankind, such doubts would have been removed.In the evening, as soon as it began to get dark, we joined the crowds wending down Elm Street toward March's Hill.People who lived in that neighborhood, people whose back yards afforded a good view of the fireworks, found themselves suddenly popular. It was astonishing how many friends they had. Acquaintances whom they had not seen for a year began to invade their gardens, shake hands cordially, and show themselves perfectly willing to sit on their chairs and camp-stools, or even their back door-steps.The fireworks passed off in the usual blaze of glory, and about half-past nineI walked wearily home with my father and mother. Even then, we could see, through the trees of Elm Street, distant rockets streaming up the sky, pausing for an instant, and then vanishing with a far-off "T'lock!"A shower of sparks hung for a while in the sky, disappeared, and left all quiet and black, except for the twinkling stars.

THE GREAT DAY

From far off came a sound of popping and snapping,—some boy, unable to wait, was trying a few fire-crackers. It still lacked a day or two of the Fourth of July, and the strain was telling on us.

A door that was slammed or a whip that was cracked took on a new significance, while the fish-pedlers' horns seemed to have an altogether unusual note.

Underneath my bed was a box containing fifteen bunches of fire-crackers, ordinary size; three bunches of cannon crackers; two single gigantic fellows; and some sticks of slow-match. There were also the five boxes of Ajax torpedoes,twisted tight in their red paper, and slumbering now in sawdust, but all ready to explode delightfully when the time came.

Jimmy Toppan had taken the wrappers from his fire-crackers, and separated the crackers. Slowly and painfully he had disentangled the fuses which some Chinese workman had skilfully braided together. It had taken a whole afternoon to do it, but now he had no one knew how many thousands of crackers, neatly piled in a large cigar-box.

He was prepared for the morning of the Fourth, when he could sit down in some convenient place,—the curb-stone, for instance, with a stick of lighted slow-match in one hand, and the cigar-box full of fire-crackers beside him.

Then, with due deliberation, he could choose a fire-cracker, bring the glowing end of the slow-match to the fuse of thecracker, throw the latter into the street as soon as it began to spit out sparks, and wait ecstatically for the explosion.

As soon as this had occurred he could repeat the whole operation,—for hours.

Untangling the fire-crackers had pulled the fuses out of some of them. These unfortunates were carefully put aside for "cat and dog fights."

There were one or two green fire-crackers in every bunch, and occasionally ayellowone. These he herded by themselves, for use at especially important moments. That they make a louder noise than the red ones is a scientific fact well known to all experts.

I had not separated my crackers. It was a joy I decided to defer until the great day. There was a pleasure in seeing the bunches intact, and in observing the red wrappers with their gorgeous gilt dragons. You could smell the gunpowdery smell aswell as if the packages had been opened. But I counted those eighteen bunches of crackers every night and every morning, and sometimes during the day. And I had broken the top of one of the torpedo boxes and explored with my fingers in the sawdust.

There were twelve fat torpedoes in the box, and five boxes, and that made—that made—(oh! Mr. Colburn!) it made sixty! yes, sixty great, big, lovely torpedoes. Sixty beautiful bangs!

But one must be careful with torpedoes. They must be fired with care, one at a time, for the proper enjoyment of them. There had been accidents,—I had seen one the year before. Little Larry Paine had fired all his crackers before ten o'clock in the morning. He went into the house to get the last of his stock of explosives,—a box of torpedoes. The sawdust had been taken out, and he cameforth again with a dozen torpedoes loose in the box. As he reached the sidewalk the box slipped, and fell on the bricks with one terrifying crash. All the torpedoes had gone off together.

It was magnificent, but it was not war. It filled us with joy, but it filled Larry with woe. He lifted up his voice and mourned because they were not. With loud wails he retreated into the house, and his agonized family knew no peace for an hour.

"My brother Billy's goin' to the bonfire at midnight," announced Ed Mason, conscious of the glory reflected upon him by this fact.

But I was not to be outdone.

"Poo! that's nothin'.Mybrother's goin' to stay upallnight; he an' Phil Coombs an' Arthur Monroe are goin' to sleep in Arthur Monroe's barn an' they're goin' to the bonfire an' they ain't goin'to bed at all. Last Fourth he nearly got arrested for ringin' the High School bell!"

I was determined to leave Ed Mason not a leg to stand on.

"Well," he remarked weakly, "I'm goin' to get up at half-past three, anyway."

He had me there. I had parental permission to get up at four o'clock, and I had not expected to be surpassed in this important achievement by my own familiar friend.

It rankled with me all day, and in the evening I laid the case before my father and mother. For the honor of the family, as well as for my own self-respect, I simply had to get up at half-past three.

They were in doubt. It was going to be a long and exciting day for me. Aside from the exertion of firing my own supply of crackers and torpedoes, I was going atnoon to see "Gunner Hunt" fire his annual salute at the foot of River Street. Then there was the flag-raising on the mall at two o'clock, and the fireworks at March's Hill in the evening.

But they finally consented, and once more I could look Ed Mason in the face.

When the evening of the 3d of July came, I went cheerfully to bed at seven o'clock, in order to prepare for the labors of the next day. I counted my fire-crackers, and found their number complete. It was rather hard to get to sleep on account of the uproarious sounds from Main Street,—cannon crackers, muskets, revolvers, cow-bells, and horns. But finally I dropped off,—only to be disturbed by a dream that Auntie Merrill had come into the room and was making a raid on my fire-crackers.

It was a hideous nightmare,—she vanished out the door with her arms fullof my precious possessions, and I could not do a thing to stop her. When I woke I had to get up and count those fire-crackers again.

Then I climbed back in bed once more and listened to the distant noise. Somebody came down our street, dragging a string of cow-bells. The national holiday was being celebrated with diligence.

Suddenly it struck me that perhaps the morning had already come. In a panic I jumped up, lighted a match, and looked at the clock. It was eight o'clock,—I had been asleep less than an hour. Listening at the open window I could hear my family talking in the garden below. I remembered that I was to meet Ed Mason and Jimmy Toppan in that garden at half-past three, and that I had better get to sleep again.

I lay in bed once more, trying not to hear the din. All at once I becameaware that some one—my father—was standing at the side of the bed, shaking me.

"Sam! Sam! I thought you were going to get up. It's quarter of four."

"What?"

I jumped out, confused. There was a dim light outside,—not daylight, by any means. I began to dress, and fumble for the fire-crackers. Things seemed very different, somehow, from what I had expected.

As I went downstairs I heard my father say:—

"It's raining, I think,—put on your rubber coat."

Rain! How would the fire-crackers like that?

Outside I found Ed and Jimmy. They were rather silent, but inclined to be contemptuous because I was late. They had been fiddling around in the gardenfor some minutes, waiting for me. Jimmy had an umbrella, and did not look very happy.

We went out to the front of the house, and sat down on the door-steps. Jimmy had his box of fire-crackers (which he managed with difficulty on account of the umbrella), while Ed Mason had his crackers in a canvas bag. Owing to the breeze, which was rather brisk, we had some trouble in lighting the slow-match. Just as we got it going the rain began to fall in a smart shower.

There was nothing for it but to retreat inside the house once more. This was a pretty sort of Fourth of July! The possibility of such an inconsiderate act on the part of Heaven had never occurred to us. Could it be that they did not know, up there, what day this was?

It was a little dull in the house. Jimmy and I both fell asleep, and so, Ithink, did Ed Mason, though he denied it. Fortunately I found some raspberry turnovers in the pantry, and they helped alleviate our sufferings.

Shortly before breakfast the rain stopped, and the sun came feebly out. We were soon in the street once more, creating a racket that left nothing to be desired. Joe and Charley Carter joined us, and so did Rob Currier and Peter Bailey. Peter had a revolver, and he scorned fire-crackers. The Rev. Mr. Dimmick, who lived across the street, stood on the steps of his dwelling and beamed upon us. He looked as if he would like to celebrate, too.

Mr. Dimmick was a minister, which was too bad, because he was such a good ball-player. Charley Carter had an enormous cannon cracker, and when he started to touch it off, Mr. Dimmick called out:—

"Wait a minute,—you ought to have something to put over that,—a box, or a can, or something."

"I wish I had!" said Charley; "let me take that cigar-box, Jimmy?"

"I've got just the thing," shouted the minister; "I'll get it."

And he vanished into the house. Presently he came out again with a shining tin box. They lighted the cannon cracker, clapped the box over it, and ran.

Bang! went the cracker, and the box shot straight up in the air.

"Jiminy!" said Joe Carter, "'twon't never come down!"

It looked as if it wouldn't. It went up above the houses, above the trees, even. Then it started to fall, and as it did so a funny thing happened. For the seams of the box had all been blown apart, and only its swift upward rush had kept them together. As soon as it started on itsdownward trip, they flew apart, and the box struck the earth, a flat sheet of tin,—flat as a fritter.

Just then Mrs. Dimmick came to the door.

"James," she said, "I can't find my new cake tin,—have you seen it?"

"Er—oh, what, my dear? Yes, Harold has just strayed off,—up the street, I think,—I'll find him all right."

And Mr. Dimmick hurried away.

We spent the morning, after breakfast, in the midst of a delicious cloud of powder smoke. "Dynamite" crackers had not been invented then, and nobody got hurt at all,—except Rob Currier, who burned his thumb slightly on a piece of slow-match. Charley Carter's father, a man of untold wealth, bought a dozen bunches of fire-crackers, and fired thema whole bunch at a time!

We stood around in awe at the delightfulnoise and the princely extravagance of it.

At noon all the church bells rang for an hour, and we went down to the foot of River Street to hear "Gunner Hunt" and his assistants fire a salute. Mr. Jones was there, leaning on his Napoleon cane, and regarding the spectacle with a sarcastic grin. It probably seemed a pretty small business to him, compared with his famous battle.

We had ice-cream for dinner, and strawberry shortcake, and ginger-ale. There were other things,—lamb and green peas, I believe, in which the grown-ups were interested.

In the afternoon we saw the flag-raising on the Mall. The Mayor made a speech, and so did General Cogswell, but the speeches did not appeal to us especially. Luckily a horse ran away, so we found some entertainment. ThenDr. Macey treated us all to lemonade, and more ice-cream.

If we had had any doubts of what the Mayor said about the Declaration of Independence being the most important event in the history of mankind, such doubts would have been removed.

In the evening, as soon as it began to get dark, we joined the crowds wending down Elm Street toward March's Hill.

People who lived in that neighborhood, people whose back yards afforded a good view of the fireworks, found themselves suddenly popular. It was astonishing how many friends they had. Acquaintances whom they had not seen for a year began to invade their gardens, shake hands cordially, and show themselves perfectly willing to sit on their chairs and camp-stools, or even their back door-steps.

The fireworks passed off in the usual blaze of glory, and about half-past nineI walked wearily home with my father and mother. Even then, we could see, through the trees of Elm Street, distant rockets streaming up the sky, pausing for an instant, and then vanishing with a far-off "T'lock!"

A shower of sparks hung for a while in the sky, disappeared, and left all quiet and black, except for the twinkling stars.

CHAPTER VIIITHE GREEN CHESTJimmy Toppan was worth knowing for the sake of his grandmothers, if for no other reason. He had two of them. With one, and a great-aunt, he lived on Elm Street.The other grandmother was mistress of a farm in the country, to which we often went. There were uncles and aunts there, too, but it was Grandmother Toppan who seemed best to understand our needs. When we were at the farm she knew the exact hours (about eleven in the morning, and again about half-past four in the afternoon) when a large slice of apple pie is most useful.Tactfully and unfailingly she administered it at those times.Grandmother Bradley, with whom Jimmy lived, ran Grandmother Toppan a very close race. Her favorite remedy for our troubles (certain hollow feelings which often afflicted us) was sugar-gingerbread. I will leave it to any one if it is possible to choose between two such excellent women.The farm was, of course, a centre of attractions. Grandmother Bradley's domain, on a principal street of the town, was naturally circumscribed. Yet it contained one object of overwhelming interest.In the basement stood a green chest. It was bumped and scarred, and, worse than all, it was locked.Lovely things dwelt within it, so Jimmy said.It had come across the seas with somefar-off great-uncle, and it was never opened. But if the cover should ever be raised, he who stood by should be envied of all boys. For inside was a large tank, filled with some liquid, the exact nature of which Jimmy never explained. In this silvery fluid swam or floated all manner of fairy shapes. There were mermaids, tiny golden fishes, and other strange inhabitants of the ocean. Enormous turtles reposed on the sands at the bottom, and gay little ships with bright rigging sailed overhead.All of these delectable objects were made, by the cunning of some foreign workman, out of glass. The golden hair of the mermaids, the scales of the fish, the sand, the sea-shells, the monstrous whales, the sword of the swordfish, the flippers of the turtles, the little lighthouse that stood on the shore, the beautifully colored seaweeds that clustered about therocks, all of these—even the thread-like ropes and shrouds of the bobbing vessels—all were fashioned from brittle glass.Did a boy ever have a more tantalizing vision dancing before his eyes?I stood and gazed at that green chest. A more stolid, unyielding affair cannot be imagined. It was dusty, and the corners of it were worn and rounded. The green paint which had covered it was faded, and in many spots knocked off altogether. Sailors' boots had kicked it, perhaps, or it had rocked about some cabin or hold when the waves of the real ocean had started a miniature tempest on the little sea within. What, then, had prevented collisions between the glass ships, or kept the mermaids from being shivered to bits on the reef?Some glass sailor must have steered the ships to safety, while the mermaids hadplunged beneath the waves to find calmer water below.The solution seemed to fit the case, but how was I to prove it? How was I to look at any of these charming things? The chest was locked, and locked it was likely to remain. A sort of decree had issued from Jimmy Toppan's great-aunt: no one was to see the inside of the chest. Nay, more, one must not even ask about it. It was locked tight, and there was an end of it. I never heard Jimmy's great-aunt say this; I never mentioned the chest in her presence. Nor did Jimmy say that the unlocking of the chest was forbidden. He described its contents in a way to set my imagination aflame. He did not say definitely that he had ever looked in it. But he let it be known that it held such glories that a glimpse therein was a vision of fairyland. And he somehow cast an air ofmystery and awe about it, till I would no more have asked to have the cover raised than I would have presented myself, snub-nosed and with holes in the knees of my stockings, at the gates of Paradise with a request to be enrolled in the cherubs' chorus.I never knew why there was such a curse upon the chest. But I gathered, somehow, that the great-uncle, or grandfather, or whoever he was, who had brought it from foreign parts, had uttered, with his dying breath, a solemn injunction that it was to stay closed. The opening of Pandora's box was to be a holiday recreation compared to opening that green chest. It was no more to be disturbed than Shakespeare's bones. Why he should have transported it such a distance, with such infinite care, and then sealed it up forever, passed my understanding. Did the prohibition extendto grown-ups, or was it only for boys? That, also, I never could find out.I used to fancy that Jimmy's great-aunt stole down to the basement in the dark hours of night to gloat over the silver sea and its delicate inhabitants. Once, in the late afternoon, I detected her going chestwards, and I followed with beating heart. I got behind an apple barrel and watched her movements. But she only went to an ice-box, from which she took out a plate of mutton chops.The intolerable curiosity aroused in me by Jimmy's account of the chest was equalled only by the fear I had to make any inquiries about it. I was convinced that a painful family secret overhung that green chest.Night after night I dreamed that I had been permitted to look within. Sometimes it was all I had imagined, and more. The ships, the mermaids, the turtles,and all the rest were there indeed. And others, new and indescribable forms, floated or swam in that enchanted ocean, glittering, fragile, wonderful. I could take them in my hand, play with them, and set them again in their element.They did not merely act the lifeless part of china figures in an aquarium. They moved about with an intelligence of their own; the ships spread gauzy sails to catch a magic wind, and flew before it. The whales rose to the surface, disported themselves heavily, like true whales, and blew jets of spray into the air.In the midst of my rapture I would wake; all the glass toys vanished, and I could have cried to find them gone. In the morning it would be impossible to recall these new figures. I remembered them dimly and more dimly as the hours of the day blurred my dream. The iridescent creatures turned to formless thingsof gray and drab, and then lost themselves, to be found again only in another dream.But not all my sleeping experiences were so happy. Sometimes I would seem to approach the chest only to have Jimmy's great-aunt rise from behind it, shaking a broom. At other times I would lift the lid and find inside the chest the crouching figure of the long-departed great-uncle. He would jump out, gibbering frightfully, and I would scream and wake up. Thus the chest became surrounded by terrors even when viewed by daylight. Jimmy's great-aunt was like another dragon set over the golden apples. She kept watch by day, while at night the goblin uncle came on duty.So we began to steer clear of the green chest and to confine our activities to other parts of the basement. Much has been written of the joy that dwells in old garrets.The basement is neglected. Yet, if dry and well lighted, it may have its points.In this one much importance was attached to a plate of sand set on a table. This, so Jimmy solemnly averred, was for the purpose of discovering the presence of mice in the basement. If they ran over the sand, their footprints would betray them, and traps might be set. It did not occur to me to marvel at the obliging nature of mice who should be at such great pains to record their arrival. Observing that Jimmy's great-aunt often inspected the plate of sand and smoothed its surface over after each inspection, we looked to it that she should never be disappointed.It is not hard to counterfeit small footprints, such as might be made by a scurrying mouse.In an adjoining room there was asteam-boiler—part of the heating apparatus of the house. The existence of this boiler, the discovery of clay in Davenport's field, and the always present need of marbles, these conditions led to the foundation of an enterprise that occupied a number of days.The clay was brought from "Davenport's," and rolled into balls of the proper size. These were placed on shingles and set to bake beneath the boiler.Visions of revolutionizing the marble industry spurred us on. We calculated that we could undersell the regular dealers and that profits would accrue. But although the clay balls were duly left beneath the boiler all night, there were defects in the finished product. The part that had rested on the shingle obstinately remained flat. We found no way of giving our marbles the glaze necessary to the real thing; so the dealers continuedto ask the exorbitant sum of a cent for ten, and did not have to break prices to meet our competition.It is possible that the fact that there was no heat in the boiler had something to do with this fiasco.After this, to keep our minds from wandering toward the green chest, we started the manufacture of gunpowder on a large scale. The raw material, rotting stone, could be procured from the sand heap and dump, which at that date (before the rise of city improvement associations) adorned the banking at the end of the frog pond. This dump had many attractions, not the least of which were the squash vines which trailed over it. They never got beyond the blossoming stage, but that did not trouble us. The possession of raw squashes would have availed us little. The flowers were interesting, and I scarcely need to point outthe value of the stems. We cut a slit near one end, and they became in our hands trumpets with which to blow soul-animating strains. It is, of course, necessary to scrape off the prickles with a jack-knife, or the lips of the performer are apt to suffer.But these were by the way. The rotting stone, red, gray, brown, and black, was the most valuable product of the dump. We carried it to a broad, flat piece of slate which covered a cistern just outside the basement windows. Here, with hard rocks, we ground it fine. It then became, by the chemistry which worked so quickly in those days, gunpowder. The black dust was the ordinary article. Mixed with red or other colors, it was transformed into various high explosives. Then we stored it in packets in the basement, where it might be drawn upon in case of need—anysudden attacks by Indians or pirates, for instance.The day on which we stored the powder was not long after the Fourth of July. Our operations in the basement had to come to an end on that day, for Grandmother Bradley and Aunt Josephine were going away for a week. The house was to be closed, and Jimmy would stay with his Grandmother Toppan in the country.The last time we entered the basement our eyes wandered toward the green chest. But neither of us spoke about it. I wondered if the chest would be stolen, or be burned up, or should I die and never look inside it? Already the little glass ships and fishes had become less real, though more beautiful, than the folks of elf-land. What small hope I had ever entertained of seeing them was dwindling to a pin-point.I was never troubled by any suspicionthat the tank, the ocean, and the glass creatures existed only in Jimmy's imagination. Such doubts did not fret me then, nor afterwards. The green chest remained one of the mysteries of the believing years.

THE GREEN CHEST

Jimmy Toppan was worth knowing for the sake of his grandmothers, if for no other reason. He had two of them. With one, and a great-aunt, he lived on Elm Street.

The other grandmother was mistress of a farm in the country, to which we often went. There were uncles and aunts there, too, but it was Grandmother Toppan who seemed best to understand our needs. When we were at the farm she knew the exact hours (about eleven in the morning, and again about half-past four in the afternoon) when a large slice of apple pie is most useful.

Tactfully and unfailingly she administered it at those times.

Grandmother Bradley, with whom Jimmy lived, ran Grandmother Toppan a very close race. Her favorite remedy for our troubles (certain hollow feelings which often afflicted us) was sugar-gingerbread. I will leave it to any one if it is possible to choose between two such excellent women.

The farm was, of course, a centre of attractions. Grandmother Bradley's domain, on a principal street of the town, was naturally circumscribed. Yet it contained one object of overwhelming interest.

In the basement stood a green chest. It was bumped and scarred, and, worse than all, it was locked.

Lovely things dwelt within it, so Jimmy said.

It had come across the seas with somefar-off great-uncle, and it was never opened. But if the cover should ever be raised, he who stood by should be envied of all boys. For inside was a large tank, filled with some liquid, the exact nature of which Jimmy never explained. In this silvery fluid swam or floated all manner of fairy shapes. There were mermaids, tiny golden fishes, and other strange inhabitants of the ocean. Enormous turtles reposed on the sands at the bottom, and gay little ships with bright rigging sailed overhead.

All of these delectable objects were made, by the cunning of some foreign workman, out of glass. The golden hair of the mermaids, the scales of the fish, the sand, the sea-shells, the monstrous whales, the sword of the swordfish, the flippers of the turtles, the little lighthouse that stood on the shore, the beautifully colored seaweeds that clustered about therocks, all of these—even the thread-like ropes and shrouds of the bobbing vessels—all were fashioned from brittle glass.

Did a boy ever have a more tantalizing vision dancing before his eyes?

I stood and gazed at that green chest. A more stolid, unyielding affair cannot be imagined. It was dusty, and the corners of it were worn and rounded. The green paint which had covered it was faded, and in many spots knocked off altogether. Sailors' boots had kicked it, perhaps, or it had rocked about some cabin or hold when the waves of the real ocean had started a miniature tempest on the little sea within. What, then, had prevented collisions between the glass ships, or kept the mermaids from being shivered to bits on the reef?

Some glass sailor must have steered the ships to safety, while the mermaids hadplunged beneath the waves to find calmer water below.

The solution seemed to fit the case, but how was I to prove it? How was I to look at any of these charming things? The chest was locked, and locked it was likely to remain. A sort of decree had issued from Jimmy Toppan's great-aunt: no one was to see the inside of the chest. Nay, more, one must not even ask about it. It was locked tight, and there was an end of it. I never heard Jimmy's great-aunt say this; I never mentioned the chest in her presence. Nor did Jimmy say that the unlocking of the chest was forbidden. He described its contents in a way to set my imagination aflame. He did not say definitely that he had ever looked in it. But he let it be known that it held such glories that a glimpse therein was a vision of fairyland. And he somehow cast an air ofmystery and awe about it, till I would no more have asked to have the cover raised than I would have presented myself, snub-nosed and with holes in the knees of my stockings, at the gates of Paradise with a request to be enrolled in the cherubs' chorus.

I never knew why there was such a curse upon the chest. But I gathered, somehow, that the great-uncle, or grandfather, or whoever he was, who had brought it from foreign parts, had uttered, with his dying breath, a solemn injunction that it was to stay closed. The opening of Pandora's box was to be a holiday recreation compared to opening that green chest. It was no more to be disturbed than Shakespeare's bones. Why he should have transported it such a distance, with such infinite care, and then sealed it up forever, passed my understanding. Did the prohibition extendto grown-ups, or was it only for boys? That, also, I never could find out.

I used to fancy that Jimmy's great-aunt stole down to the basement in the dark hours of night to gloat over the silver sea and its delicate inhabitants. Once, in the late afternoon, I detected her going chestwards, and I followed with beating heart. I got behind an apple barrel and watched her movements. But she only went to an ice-box, from which she took out a plate of mutton chops.

The intolerable curiosity aroused in me by Jimmy's account of the chest was equalled only by the fear I had to make any inquiries about it. I was convinced that a painful family secret overhung that green chest.

Night after night I dreamed that I had been permitted to look within. Sometimes it was all I had imagined, and more. The ships, the mermaids, the turtles,and all the rest were there indeed. And others, new and indescribable forms, floated or swam in that enchanted ocean, glittering, fragile, wonderful. I could take them in my hand, play with them, and set them again in their element.

They did not merely act the lifeless part of china figures in an aquarium. They moved about with an intelligence of their own; the ships spread gauzy sails to catch a magic wind, and flew before it. The whales rose to the surface, disported themselves heavily, like true whales, and blew jets of spray into the air.

In the midst of my rapture I would wake; all the glass toys vanished, and I could have cried to find them gone. In the morning it would be impossible to recall these new figures. I remembered them dimly and more dimly as the hours of the day blurred my dream. The iridescent creatures turned to formless thingsof gray and drab, and then lost themselves, to be found again only in another dream.

But not all my sleeping experiences were so happy. Sometimes I would seem to approach the chest only to have Jimmy's great-aunt rise from behind it, shaking a broom. At other times I would lift the lid and find inside the chest the crouching figure of the long-departed great-uncle. He would jump out, gibbering frightfully, and I would scream and wake up. Thus the chest became surrounded by terrors even when viewed by daylight. Jimmy's great-aunt was like another dragon set over the golden apples. She kept watch by day, while at night the goblin uncle came on duty.

So we began to steer clear of the green chest and to confine our activities to other parts of the basement. Much has been written of the joy that dwells in old garrets.The basement is neglected. Yet, if dry and well lighted, it may have its points.

In this one much importance was attached to a plate of sand set on a table. This, so Jimmy solemnly averred, was for the purpose of discovering the presence of mice in the basement. If they ran over the sand, their footprints would betray them, and traps might be set. It did not occur to me to marvel at the obliging nature of mice who should be at such great pains to record their arrival. Observing that Jimmy's great-aunt often inspected the plate of sand and smoothed its surface over after each inspection, we looked to it that she should never be disappointed.

It is not hard to counterfeit small footprints, such as might be made by a scurrying mouse.

In an adjoining room there was asteam-boiler—part of the heating apparatus of the house. The existence of this boiler, the discovery of clay in Davenport's field, and the always present need of marbles, these conditions led to the foundation of an enterprise that occupied a number of days.

The clay was brought from "Davenport's," and rolled into balls of the proper size. These were placed on shingles and set to bake beneath the boiler.

Visions of revolutionizing the marble industry spurred us on. We calculated that we could undersell the regular dealers and that profits would accrue. But although the clay balls were duly left beneath the boiler all night, there were defects in the finished product. The part that had rested on the shingle obstinately remained flat. We found no way of giving our marbles the glaze necessary to the real thing; so the dealers continuedto ask the exorbitant sum of a cent for ten, and did not have to break prices to meet our competition.

It is possible that the fact that there was no heat in the boiler had something to do with this fiasco.

After this, to keep our minds from wandering toward the green chest, we started the manufacture of gunpowder on a large scale. The raw material, rotting stone, could be procured from the sand heap and dump, which at that date (before the rise of city improvement associations) adorned the banking at the end of the frog pond. This dump had many attractions, not the least of which were the squash vines which trailed over it. They never got beyond the blossoming stage, but that did not trouble us. The possession of raw squashes would have availed us little. The flowers were interesting, and I scarcely need to point outthe value of the stems. We cut a slit near one end, and they became in our hands trumpets with which to blow soul-animating strains. It is, of course, necessary to scrape off the prickles with a jack-knife, or the lips of the performer are apt to suffer.

But these were by the way. The rotting stone, red, gray, brown, and black, was the most valuable product of the dump. We carried it to a broad, flat piece of slate which covered a cistern just outside the basement windows. Here, with hard rocks, we ground it fine. It then became, by the chemistry which worked so quickly in those days, gunpowder. The black dust was the ordinary article. Mixed with red or other colors, it was transformed into various high explosives. Then we stored it in packets in the basement, where it might be drawn upon in case of need—anysudden attacks by Indians or pirates, for instance.

The day on which we stored the powder was not long after the Fourth of July. Our operations in the basement had to come to an end on that day, for Grandmother Bradley and Aunt Josephine were going away for a week. The house was to be closed, and Jimmy would stay with his Grandmother Toppan in the country.

The last time we entered the basement our eyes wandered toward the green chest. But neither of us spoke about it. I wondered if the chest would be stolen, or be burned up, or should I die and never look inside it? Already the little glass ships and fishes had become less real, though more beautiful, than the folks of elf-land. What small hope I had ever entertained of seeing them was dwindling to a pin-point.

I was never troubled by any suspicionthat the tank, the ocean, and the glass creatures existed only in Jimmy's imagination. Such doubts did not fret me then, nor afterwards. The green chest remained one of the mysteries of the believing years.

CHAPTER IXWHITE PEACOCKSDuring the time that Jimmy stayed at his grandmother's farm—a period that was lengthened to more than two weeks—we were all agitated by the approach of a circus. Excitement had reached such a pitch that when, three days before circus-day, Jimmy invited me to make him a visit, I was in some doubt whether I ought to venture so far afield.But on a solemn promise from Jimmy's Uncle Will that he would personally convey me home, behind one of his own horses, at least twenty-four hours before the great event, I thought it might be safe to risk it. Jimmy could stay at thefarm (fully two miles away) until the very morning, if he liked. I preferred to be nearer at hand. So to the farm I went.Certainly, no other place would have tempted me. It was, to our fancies, perhaps the most fortunate spot on earth. Historians and antiquaries might deny that it had been the scene of a proper Indian raid.Wecould see the loopholes from which the flintlocks had been fired, and mark the small window whence a dipperful of molten lead was poured, to discourage an Indian whose anxiety to come inside the house made him indiscreet. I have never heard any of the slaves to fact assert that the farm-house might not have seen the tomahawk flashing about its walls and heard the war-whoop ring out.It was there in the days of tomahawks and war-whoops.If the Indians had been so inconsiderateas to pass it by, we were not going to let that trouble us. Certainly, a plough seldom turned the earth of the adjoining meadow without bringing to light a flint arrow-tip or the head of a stone axe—weapons which even the scientific historian might hesitate to attribute to the ministers and deacons of Puritan times.There was the meadow itself, an enormous tract of land, as it appeared to us. In it, somewhere, dwelt the lord of the herd, a legendary bull whose uncertain temper might be aroused by the sight of a small boy wearing a plaid necktie with a single spot of red in it. He could detect this spot at half a mile, and the boy had better make for the nearest fence, and affect blue neckties exclusively henceforth. Thus the crossing of the meadow had that spice of danger without which life is tasteless.There were other reasons for crossingthe meadow besides the mere braving of the bull. At its foot was a pond, rich in mud of primeval blackness, and well stocked with turtles and "green-leapers." Farther on was a bog and wood, deep and gloomy as the magic forest of Broceliande, and not less pleasing to us because it went by the more homely name of Pettingell's Swamp. Crows built their nests in its trees, and without its borders jack-in-the-pulpit held his springtime services. Beyond this, more meadows—salt ones this time; then the river, the sand-dunes, and the ocean.The barns about the farm-house were full of sweet-smelling hay. You could bore long tunnels through this, and come out with your hair full of dust and spiders' webs. Certain cocks of salt hay stood outside. By climbing to the top of one of them, sitting down, and sliding to the bottom you could enjoy an exhilaratingexercise. It is only fair to say, however, that the salt water and occasional bit of mud which gave the hay its slipperiness had an evil effect upon knickerbockers, and furnished relatives with a subject for wearisome jest which dieth never.Yet with all these methods of entertainment, Jimmy and I considered the peacocks chief among the attractions of his grandmother's farm. They did not really belong on the farm, but were the property of Mr. Bartlett, who lived at some distance. We judged that the owner of such exotic fowls must possess the wealth of Ormus and of Ind. The birds themselves were indifferent in the matter of domicile, and spent most of the day and all the night on the Toppans' land.Their bedtime was an hour of unusual interest. They gathered about sunset around a large apple tree which stood near one corner of the farm-house. Therewas much strutting and spreading of tails among the gentlemen of the party; the peahens moved about nervously, but with less ostentation. Both sexes raised discordant shrieks from time to time, for no purpose that we could discover.When, one by one, they had taken up their roosting-places in the tree, they made an impressive spectacle, especially after night had fallen, and seemed to bring the jungles of Hindustan to our very doors.They inspired a feeling of awe and mystery because of their radiant plumage and reputed value. It was the veneration which we felt toward the whole tribe that turned so quickly to terror in the matter of the white peacock.The adventure flashed on us suddenly the morning after my arrival at the farm.In a sand-pit beyond the orchard it was the immemorial custom to build fires and roast potatoes and other eatables. Marksof fires long dead showed us that the practice extended far back, perhaps to the boys of prehistoric times, or to those whose fathers had shot the arrows whereof the flint heads lay beneath the surface of the meadow. Potatoes and apples were placed in the hot embers, and removed at the end of about twenty minutes. The apples were, by this time, roasted not wisely but too well. The potatoes had an outer region of softness, but at heart were firm and unyielding. Both were so covered with wood ashes that their consumption left streaks of soot all about the vicinity of the mouth, extending back even to the ears.Potatoes and apples, thus prepared, had palled upon us. We sought for variety in the bill of fare, and this morning Jimmy proposed eggs."At clam-bakes they roast eggs in hot seaweed," declared Jimmy.The idea was worthy, but eggs were not so easy to procure. A visit to the hen-house proved that the day's supply had already been gathered. Then, though Robinson Crusoe would hardly have done it, we applied at the kitchen. But Grandmother Toppan, who might have humored our whim, was away from home. The Power temporarily in command dismissed our request brusquely:—"Ye byes git outer here, now, or I'll be afther takin' the paddle to yez."We did not know what paddle was referred to, but we understood that we had leave to withdraw. We wondered if Robinson Crusoe ever met with humiliating rebuffs like that. It was impossible; no tyrannous cook could lord it over him while he carried that long gun.But we had no gun, so, in dejection and despair, we wandered again toward the sand-pit. As we crossed the orchard,a startling event occurred. Some large bird rustled off through the grass, and in the little round hollow where she had been sitting gleamed four white objects. It was enough to renew our trust in the gods who favor the romantic in their everlasting encounters with the practical folk of the world.For here were eggs!And eggs obtained under conditions that our friend Crusoe need not have scorned. To us the adventure said in no unmistakable tones: Abase yourself not before cooks when your spoil is at hand. Trust Providence, as did the Swiss Family Robinson.We hurried to the sand-pit, kindled the fire, and put in the eggs. I refuse to dwell upon their condition when we took them out, or on the difficulty attendant upon eating the two that remained unbroken, or what these tasted like.People who think that the carnal joy of eating is of much importance at these camp-fires have vulgar, prosaic minds.We heard the dinner-bell ringing just as we disposed of the second egg, and we hurried toward the house.Ten minutes later (for it takes some time to remove from one's face and hands the evidences of a feast of roasted eggs) we appeared at the dinner-table. It was a long one, with Uncle Will at one end, Uncle Charley at the other. The eggs had not spoiled our appetites, and we ate, with nothing to disturb our pleasure, up to the point when blueberry pie came on. Then Uncle Will, his carving duties over, and his own share of the dinner consumed, leaned back in his chair and addressed Uncle Charley:—"I was over at Bartlett's last night.""That so?" returned Uncle Charley. "Did you speak about the peacocks?""About the peahen that's setting in the orchard? Yes. He knew she had been setting there on nothing for three days. The eggs came from New York yesterday, and he said he was going to send Foley over with them this morning."Aunt Ellen showed an interest in the conversation. "Eggs from New York?" she queried."Yes," replied Uncle Will; "from the Zoo. They're peacocks' eggs.Whitepeacocks, too. They cost him ten dollars apiece—forty dollars for the four. I told him 'twas a risky thing to leave them out in the orchard. SaidIwouldn't be responsible. Bartlett said the peahen wouldn't set anywhere else. He'd have to take the chance. What are you going to do with a man like that?"I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Jimmy Toppan. He was trying to insert a piece of blueberry pie in hismouth. Three times he made the attempt, and each time his aim was poor. I had a feeling as if my chair were sinking beneath me. The dining-room and the whole family of Toppans revolved about me in a blur.Peacocks' eggs! Forty dollars!I have no recollection of the rest of the meal. The elder Toppans talked together, I believe, but on what subject I have not the faintest notion.In five or six minutes Jimmy and I were safely over the fence and running across the meadow. We had to stop once or twice for breath, but we covered the distance to the wooded swamp in record time. Back of a large oak, where we were nearly covered by ferns, we stopped and panted.Jimmy spoke first."They don't hang people under sixteen years old," he said."Are you sure?""I'm sure," he replied."They put 'em in prison, though," I remarked, "for life!""What'll we do?" asked Jimmy.We debated the question from every point of view. Of one thing we were determined: we would never be taken alive."There's the circus," I suggested. "Don't you suppose we could join that?""Like Toby Tyler? He had a horrible time!""It's better than stayin' all your life in a dungeon on bread and water hollowed out of the living rock," I reminded him."I'd have to go home first and get my decalcomania book," Jimmy stipulated."Well, that will be all right; I'll get my punch."About my most cherished possession was a discarded punch, formerly used by a real conductor on a train. It seemed that I ought not present myself to the circus people empty-handed if Jimmy were going to bring his book of decalcomanias. It struck me that I might be especially welcome, as a ticket-taker, if I had a punch. I could work in that capacity while I was learning to ride bareback, or qualifying for the position of ring-master, or perhaps—so high do one's air-castles tower—that of clown!Why not? Others had achieved it.We decided to leave our refuge in the swamp, sneak up the meadow, pass the farm by a back route, and so to the highroad and home. Then, separating long enough to get the decalcomania book and the punch, we could camp for a night or two in Davenport's field, and join thecircus in the morning. By the time the peacocks' eggs were missed we would be far away.The first part of the plan was carried out. We crossed the meadow stealthily, creeping a greater part of the way on our hands and knees. Once in a while, when this got tiresome, we would rise and walk in the normal fashion, which was probably just as safe, for there was no one within half a mile.As we slunk by the rear of the barn we came suddenly on Mr. Bartlett and his man, Foley. There was no time to run. Mr. Bartlett addressed us genially."Hullo, boys! Want to see something? Look in this box. Peacocks' eggs—white peacocks, too. Very rare. We're going to set them under that peahen in the orchard. I suppose she's there all right, Foley?""Yis, sorr. She was at foive o'clockthis marning, sorr. Oi give her four ducks' eggs to kape her continted-loike.""All right, then. Come on, boys. We'll see how she's getting on. We'll have to set a guard around her while she hatches these out. They're too valuable to risk. Do you suppose she'd stand for it if we put up a little tent around her, Foley? Big nuisance she won't set in some convenient place."Mr. Bartlett and Foley walked on ahead, discussing ways and means for protecting the peahen against marauders. We followed, a dozen steps behind. The shadow of the dungeon fell no longer upon our path, and there was no necessity for joining the circus. We did not admit it to each other, but we felt it to be a happy release.In a moment we heard Foley's voice."Here she is, sorr. An' settin' on nothin' again. Phwhere's thim ducks'eggs gone, Oi dunno. Somebody's shtole thim, fir the birrd niver ate thim, shills an' all. 'Twill niver do to lave thim ixpinsive eggs here, sorr!"Jimmy Toppan and I maintained expressions of innocent wonder.

WHITE PEACOCKS

During the time that Jimmy stayed at his grandmother's farm—a period that was lengthened to more than two weeks—we were all agitated by the approach of a circus. Excitement had reached such a pitch that when, three days before circus-day, Jimmy invited me to make him a visit, I was in some doubt whether I ought to venture so far afield.

But on a solemn promise from Jimmy's Uncle Will that he would personally convey me home, behind one of his own horses, at least twenty-four hours before the great event, I thought it might be safe to risk it. Jimmy could stay at thefarm (fully two miles away) until the very morning, if he liked. I preferred to be nearer at hand. So to the farm I went.

Certainly, no other place would have tempted me. It was, to our fancies, perhaps the most fortunate spot on earth. Historians and antiquaries might deny that it had been the scene of a proper Indian raid.Wecould see the loopholes from which the flintlocks had been fired, and mark the small window whence a dipperful of molten lead was poured, to discourage an Indian whose anxiety to come inside the house made him indiscreet. I have never heard any of the slaves to fact assert that the farm-house might not have seen the tomahawk flashing about its walls and heard the war-whoop ring out.

It was there in the days of tomahawks and war-whoops.

If the Indians had been so inconsiderateas to pass it by, we were not going to let that trouble us. Certainly, a plough seldom turned the earth of the adjoining meadow without bringing to light a flint arrow-tip or the head of a stone axe—weapons which even the scientific historian might hesitate to attribute to the ministers and deacons of Puritan times.

There was the meadow itself, an enormous tract of land, as it appeared to us. In it, somewhere, dwelt the lord of the herd, a legendary bull whose uncertain temper might be aroused by the sight of a small boy wearing a plaid necktie with a single spot of red in it. He could detect this spot at half a mile, and the boy had better make for the nearest fence, and affect blue neckties exclusively henceforth. Thus the crossing of the meadow had that spice of danger without which life is tasteless.

There were other reasons for crossingthe meadow besides the mere braving of the bull. At its foot was a pond, rich in mud of primeval blackness, and well stocked with turtles and "green-leapers." Farther on was a bog and wood, deep and gloomy as the magic forest of Broceliande, and not less pleasing to us because it went by the more homely name of Pettingell's Swamp. Crows built their nests in its trees, and without its borders jack-in-the-pulpit held his springtime services. Beyond this, more meadows—salt ones this time; then the river, the sand-dunes, and the ocean.

The barns about the farm-house were full of sweet-smelling hay. You could bore long tunnels through this, and come out with your hair full of dust and spiders' webs. Certain cocks of salt hay stood outside. By climbing to the top of one of them, sitting down, and sliding to the bottom you could enjoy an exhilaratingexercise. It is only fair to say, however, that the salt water and occasional bit of mud which gave the hay its slipperiness had an evil effect upon knickerbockers, and furnished relatives with a subject for wearisome jest which dieth never.

Yet with all these methods of entertainment, Jimmy and I considered the peacocks chief among the attractions of his grandmother's farm. They did not really belong on the farm, but were the property of Mr. Bartlett, who lived at some distance. We judged that the owner of such exotic fowls must possess the wealth of Ormus and of Ind. The birds themselves were indifferent in the matter of domicile, and spent most of the day and all the night on the Toppans' land.

Their bedtime was an hour of unusual interest. They gathered about sunset around a large apple tree which stood near one corner of the farm-house. Therewas much strutting and spreading of tails among the gentlemen of the party; the peahens moved about nervously, but with less ostentation. Both sexes raised discordant shrieks from time to time, for no purpose that we could discover.

When, one by one, they had taken up their roosting-places in the tree, they made an impressive spectacle, especially after night had fallen, and seemed to bring the jungles of Hindustan to our very doors.

They inspired a feeling of awe and mystery because of their radiant plumage and reputed value. It was the veneration which we felt toward the whole tribe that turned so quickly to terror in the matter of the white peacock.

The adventure flashed on us suddenly the morning after my arrival at the farm.

In a sand-pit beyond the orchard it was the immemorial custom to build fires and roast potatoes and other eatables. Marksof fires long dead showed us that the practice extended far back, perhaps to the boys of prehistoric times, or to those whose fathers had shot the arrows whereof the flint heads lay beneath the surface of the meadow. Potatoes and apples were placed in the hot embers, and removed at the end of about twenty minutes. The apples were, by this time, roasted not wisely but too well. The potatoes had an outer region of softness, but at heart were firm and unyielding. Both were so covered with wood ashes that their consumption left streaks of soot all about the vicinity of the mouth, extending back even to the ears.

Potatoes and apples, thus prepared, had palled upon us. We sought for variety in the bill of fare, and this morning Jimmy proposed eggs.

"At clam-bakes they roast eggs in hot seaweed," declared Jimmy.

The idea was worthy, but eggs were not so easy to procure. A visit to the hen-house proved that the day's supply had already been gathered. Then, though Robinson Crusoe would hardly have done it, we applied at the kitchen. But Grandmother Toppan, who might have humored our whim, was away from home. The Power temporarily in command dismissed our request brusquely:—

"Ye byes git outer here, now, or I'll be afther takin' the paddle to yez."

We did not know what paddle was referred to, but we understood that we had leave to withdraw. We wondered if Robinson Crusoe ever met with humiliating rebuffs like that. It was impossible; no tyrannous cook could lord it over him while he carried that long gun.

But we had no gun, so, in dejection and despair, we wandered again toward the sand-pit. As we crossed the orchard,a startling event occurred. Some large bird rustled off through the grass, and in the little round hollow where she had been sitting gleamed four white objects. It was enough to renew our trust in the gods who favor the romantic in their everlasting encounters with the practical folk of the world.

For here were eggs!

And eggs obtained under conditions that our friend Crusoe need not have scorned. To us the adventure said in no unmistakable tones: Abase yourself not before cooks when your spoil is at hand. Trust Providence, as did the Swiss Family Robinson.

We hurried to the sand-pit, kindled the fire, and put in the eggs. I refuse to dwell upon their condition when we took them out, or on the difficulty attendant upon eating the two that remained unbroken, or what these tasted like.

People who think that the carnal joy of eating is of much importance at these camp-fires have vulgar, prosaic minds.

We heard the dinner-bell ringing just as we disposed of the second egg, and we hurried toward the house.

Ten minutes later (for it takes some time to remove from one's face and hands the evidences of a feast of roasted eggs) we appeared at the dinner-table. It was a long one, with Uncle Will at one end, Uncle Charley at the other. The eggs had not spoiled our appetites, and we ate, with nothing to disturb our pleasure, up to the point when blueberry pie came on. Then Uncle Will, his carving duties over, and his own share of the dinner consumed, leaned back in his chair and addressed Uncle Charley:—

"I was over at Bartlett's last night."

"That so?" returned Uncle Charley. "Did you speak about the peacocks?"

"About the peahen that's setting in the orchard? Yes. He knew she had been setting there on nothing for three days. The eggs came from New York yesterday, and he said he was going to send Foley over with them this morning."

Aunt Ellen showed an interest in the conversation. "Eggs from New York?" she queried.

"Yes," replied Uncle Will; "from the Zoo. They're peacocks' eggs.Whitepeacocks, too. They cost him ten dollars apiece—forty dollars for the four. I told him 'twas a risky thing to leave them out in the orchard. SaidIwouldn't be responsible. Bartlett said the peahen wouldn't set anywhere else. He'd have to take the chance. What are you going to do with a man like that?"

I glanced out of the corner of my eye at Jimmy Toppan. He was trying to insert a piece of blueberry pie in hismouth. Three times he made the attempt, and each time his aim was poor. I had a feeling as if my chair were sinking beneath me. The dining-room and the whole family of Toppans revolved about me in a blur.

Peacocks' eggs! Forty dollars!

I have no recollection of the rest of the meal. The elder Toppans talked together, I believe, but on what subject I have not the faintest notion.

In five or six minutes Jimmy and I were safely over the fence and running across the meadow. We had to stop once or twice for breath, but we covered the distance to the wooded swamp in record time. Back of a large oak, where we were nearly covered by ferns, we stopped and panted.

Jimmy spoke first.

"They don't hang people under sixteen years old," he said.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure," he replied.

"They put 'em in prison, though," I remarked, "for life!"

"What'll we do?" asked Jimmy.

We debated the question from every point of view. Of one thing we were determined: we would never be taken alive.

"There's the circus," I suggested. "Don't you suppose we could join that?"

"Like Toby Tyler? He had a horrible time!"

"It's better than stayin' all your life in a dungeon on bread and water hollowed out of the living rock," I reminded him.

"I'd have to go home first and get my decalcomania book," Jimmy stipulated.

"Well, that will be all right; I'll get my punch."

About my most cherished possession was a discarded punch, formerly used by a real conductor on a train. It seemed that I ought not present myself to the circus people empty-handed if Jimmy were going to bring his book of decalcomanias. It struck me that I might be especially welcome, as a ticket-taker, if I had a punch. I could work in that capacity while I was learning to ride bareback, or qualifying for the position of ring-master, or perhaps—so high do one's air-castles tower—that of clown!

Why not? Others had achieved it.

We decided to leave our refuge in the swamp, sneak up the meadow, pass the farm by a back route, and so to the highroad and home. Then, separating long enough to get the decalcomania book and the punch, we could camp for a night or two in Davenport's field, and join thecircus in the morning. By the time the peacocks' eggs were missed we would be far away.

The first part of the plan was carried out. We crossed the meadow stealthily, creeping a greater part of the way on our hands and knees. Once in a while, when this got tiresome, we would rise and walk in the normal fashion, which was probably just as safe, for there was no one within half a mile.

As we slunk by the rear of the barn we came suddenly on Mr. Bartlett and his man, Foley. There was no time to run. Mr. Bartlett addressed us genially.

"Hullo, boys! Want to see something? Look in this box. Peacocks' eggs—white peacocks, too. Very rare. We're going to set them under that peahen in the orchard. I suppose she's there all right, Foley?"

"Yis, sorr. She was at foive o'clockthis marning, sorr. Oi give her four ducks' eggs to kape her continted-loike."

"All right, then. Come on, boys. We'll see how she's getting on. We'll have to set a guard around her while she hatches these out. They're too valuable to risk. Do you suppose she'd stand for it if we put up a little tent around her, Foley? Big nuisance she won't set in some convenient place."

Mr. Bartlett and Foley walked on ahead, discussing ways and means for protecting the peahen against marauders. We followed, a dozen steps behind. The shadow of the dungeon fell no longer upon our path, and there was no necessity for joining the circus. We did not admit it to each other, but we felt it to be a happy release.

In a moment we heard Foley's voice.

"Here she is, sorr. An' settin' on nothin' again. Phwhere's thim ducks'eggs gone, Oi dunno. Somebody's shtole thim, fir the birrd niver ate thim, shills an' all. 'Twill niver do to lave thim ixpinsive eggs here, sorr!"

Jimmy Toppan and I maintained expressions of innocent wonder.

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