CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XTHE FLIGHTThe day before the circus found me at home again. Without delay I set out to find Ed Mason, Charley Carter, and any of the others who could give me the latest information on the topic that absorbed us all.For, since the Fourth of July, there had been nothing so important as the approach of this circus. For two weeks we had studied the posters. Whether the hippopotamus would in very truth have a mouth somewhat larger than the door of the barn to which his portrait was affixed; whether the head of the giraffe would actually soar above the clouds, as represented; and whether abeautiful lady would indeed stand on the tip of an elephant's trunk and airily juggle three baby lions and a Japanese parasol—these problems had vexed us for fourteen long days.Charley Carter stuck out for the literal accuracy of the posters."'Cos if it wasn't so, they wouldn't dare to print 'em—it's against the law."This was his argument. Truth to say, none of us were strongly inclined to oppose him. We were more than willing to accept the pictures as photographic.This point decided without further discussion, we could devote our meditations to the circus itself. We could lay our plans and dream our dreams in all felicity.To hear some of these plans I started toward the Carters', and fell in with Ed Mason on the way. In his garden we found Charley Carter, who told us of his own and other boys' projects.Rob Currier would rise, it seemed, before three o'clock on the morrow, and go with his father to watch the unloading of the circus. Our desire to join in this expedition subsided when Charley related his adventures at a similar treat the year before. It was true that he had observed the dim but mountainous forms of elephants and camels outlined against the dawn, but he had also slipped on the car track and so sprained his ankle that he had to forego, not only the great street parade at 10a.m., but the show itself in the afternoon. The possibility of any such tragic occurrence made Ed Mason and me decide to let the circus unload as best it could without our assistance.But on this, the very day before the circus would exhibit, we were smitten by an unexpected grief. Charley Carter started the ball of trouble rolling."Are you fellers goin' to the side-show?" he asked.And he added, complacently, "Iam."We had not considered the matter. We supposed we were going. The pictures representing the attractions of the side-show recurred to us, and straightway it became an imperative necessity that we find out if we were going to see these wonders.We repaired to our respective homes, but were soon back at the place of meeting with dolorous faces. The parental mind in the House of Edwards was at one with that in the House of Mason. The street parade in the morning we should see, and we should be suitably provided with red or green balloons for the more complete enjoyment of the spectacle. To the afternoon performance we should go, pockets filled with the peanuts of Mr. Mazzoni, who sold much better peanuts than the half-baked things supplied by the circus venders. These wemight share, if we felt so disposed, with the elephants. Pink lemonade we shouldnotimbibe, as it was "miserable stuff." And the side-show we should not enter, as it was "vulgar."Such were the terms of the ultimatum. To article one, concerning the street parade and the balloons, we signified our assent. To the second article, concerning peanuts, we also assented. Article three, which forbade pink lemonade, was accepted with the understanding that we yielded to superior force. But to the final article, prohibiting the side-show, we entered an indignant protest.It was promptly overruled.Can one conceive a more irrational position? What was this thing, vulgarity, which before now had stood in our path? Had the extra cost of admission to the side-show been the cause for the refusal, we could haveunderstood, even while regretting, the parental attitude.But vulgarity—what was it?To us the different exhibits of the show, as portrayed upon the posters, were both curious and wonderful. Were we not men and philosophers, passengers through life, and observers of the human show? Was it not our bounden duty to see all that was strange and marvelous in this great world? Well, then, by what right did our tyrants act? We were of the human race, and held none of its members alien.Though it might be questioned if the dog-faced boy, the genuine mermaid, the lady with a body like a serpent, and the man of india-rubber skin, came unreservedly into the category of human creatures—still such objections were mere quibbles. A golden opportunity for delight and self-improvement wasbeing denied us, and for the flimsiest of reasons, so we straightway raised the standard of revolt and nailed it to the mast."Let's run away!" said Ed Mason.Really, it seemed the only possible suggestion. When you have simply got to reduce your hard-hearted parents to contrition, milk-and-water methods are useless. A blow must be struck—sharp and decisive. Then they will recognize your value, be properly humbled, and come around to a correct view of things.Running away from home is at once the boldest of strokes and the most subtle form of revenge. It asserts your independence at the same time that it reduces your parents to humility.We decided upon it, and then and there fixed the hour of five that afternoon as the time of our departure from home and kindred. We would sever all the tiesthat bound us to civilization, and plunge into the trackless wilds.Prompt to the hour, I met the resolute Mason on the farther side of the frog pond. He was simply yet appropriately equipped with a cap-pistol, and two bananas for provender while crossing the wilderness.I carried a light sling-shot and a package of soda-biscuit. Game—partridges, antelopes, and other creatures—might be slainen route; while our thirst could be slaked at the brooks and streams.We set out in silence, as became our high purpose. In a little over an hour we had penetrated the desert as far as Brown's ice-house, and there we decided to camp for the night. We had encountered no antelopes, buffaloes, nor other animals, except a herd of cows belonging to Mr. Haskell. They were being driven home by a small boy.In a little grove of trees back of the ice-house we sat down and made our supper of bananas and soda-biscuit. The ice-pond provided water to wash down the meal. We faced the west, and received full in our eyes the rays of the sun, now rapidly approaching the earth.For a time we beheld the spectacle of the sunset, though our minds were not upon it. We conversed upon the possibilities of adventure in the Far West, upon the circus which we were leaving behind, and, most of all, of the excitement probably now rife in our homes. Ed Mason, it appeared, had left a note behind him to inform his family of our departure, of the utter folly of any attempt at pursuit, and of the fact that our first stopping-place would be Omaha.Why he fixed upon Omaha, except that it is remote from our home on the Atlantic coast, I am unable to explain.By this time, we agreed, our families had begun to wish that they had treated us better in the matter of that side-show.Some low hills rose upon the western horizon, and the sun disappeared behind them not long after we had finished supper. It cast a golden outline on a strange procession of dark gray clouds which now came out of the north and moved slowly across the place lately occupied by the ball of fire. They followed one after the other like uncouth animals—the dromedary with his hump was there, the elephant, and other figures, longer and lower, like serpents and lizards.We watched them without speaking.A faint breeze moved the branches of the apple tree over our heads. It was perceptibly darker now, and not easy to make out the details of the fields and meadows. Two men passed along the dusty road on the other side of the stonewall. They did not notice us, but we heard them discussing a dog after they had vanished from sight. The sky in the east and north turned rosy, and its colors were reflected in the pond. A man with a lantern moved about Mr. Brown's barnyard for a while, then disappeared indoors, and presently a light shone from one of the windows of the house.The glow in the west; the pageant of clouds, whose fiery edges had grown dimmer; the immensity of the overarching sky, still turquoise-colored—all these, together with the disappearance of the familiar landscape, conspired to make the two outlaws under the apple tree feel rather diminutive. The swallows had ceased their flight and gone to bed. Two or three robins screamed excitedly for a while, and darted in apparent hurry from tree to tree. Finally they became quiet, except for an occasional outburst of twittering.Two bats began to flutter about, with their high, thin, squeaking cries like the opening and shutting of a new pair of scissors.The darkness was far advanced; three or four stars were visible, and the pink tint had faded from the sky. The pond gleamed like silver, but its banks were black and mysterious."We ought to start awful early in the mornin'," said Ed Mason; "p'r'aps we better go to bed now."He began this remark in a voice that sounded fearfully loud, but said the closing words in a whisper."P'r'aps we had," I agreed,—also in a whisper.There was no one within hearing: it seemed strange that we should have to whisper.In another way, however, it appeared quite proper to whisper.I was reflecting that, aside from a night spent in a tent with two or three other boys, in Peter Bailey's garden, I had never slept outdoors. It also occurred to me that we had no bedclothes nor pillows. We had blankets that night in the tent, and made pillows out of piles of hay. The hay tickled the back of your neck somewhat, but otherwise it was all right."We might sleep in Brown's barn," I suggested."That's so," Ed replied.Then an afterthought struck him."No; we couldn't do that.""I don't see why not.""Why, of course we couldn't. There ain't any barns on the prairies!"I had never thought of that.The objection was unanswerable."Besides," pursued Ed, with something like a shudder, "tramps sleep in these barns."I abandoned the plan hastily."Could we get some hay from the barn?" I wondered; "there won't be any tramps in there now, will there?""I guess not. We needn't go all the way in,—we can reach some by just openin' the door."He was on the point of rising when another objection occurred to me."Maybe Mr. Brown wouldn't like it.""He hasn't any right to say anything 'bout it. In time of war they take what they want, don't they? They make a forcedlevi."This subject of the forced "levi" had been discussed amongst us at some length in connection with Mr. Hawkins' cherries. Jimmy Toppan and Rob Currier had the impression that it had something to do with a clothing dealer on Main Street."Anyway," Ed remarked, "we can put the hay back in the morning."This seemed to be a reasonable solution in order to keep our career as outlaws on a moral basis. So we arose and started cautiously for the barn. Before we had taken five steps in that direction, a voice spoke. It was a deep, resonant voice, charged with authority and menace. The word or phrase that it uttered was not, it seemed to us, especially relevant, but there could be no mistaking the import of its accent and tone. It came from the earth, from the sky, from nowhere in particular and from everywhere in general.It said: "Ker-r-rum!"Having said this, it was instantly silent. The final syllable ended suddenly, but yet with a twang as if some giant had touched the string of a great instrument.The hush that ensued was appalling.I had sat down, as if struck to the earth, the moment I heard the awful sound, and now I tried to address Ed Mason, who was leaning faintly against a tree. But I made three efforts before my vocal apparatus responded."Wh-what was it?" I asked.He turned toward me, and said something in a whisper, which I could not make out. I sat still for a moment longer, then hitched myself toward him and repeated my question.But he could not answer me.Neither could he say whence the sound came. That was the horrible part of it—the vague immensity of the note. We remained motionless for what we thought a long time.Then Ed suggested that we move our camp. Immediately the problem arose: in which direction should we move? While we deliberated, in whispers,suddenly again, ominous and terrible:—"K'r-rum!"That sufficed. In three seconds we were over the wall and running at full speed along the highway. At the crossroads, an eighth of a mile away, we saw the lights of a buggy. It contained certain male relatives."Hello, boys! Going home?"We admitted that that was our destination.CHAPTER XIUP LIKE A ROCKETOn the morning following our return from the flight, there was an uncomfortable chill about my house. When I met Ed Mason, I found that he had noticed the same coolness in his home. Nothing was said, no reproaches were cast upon us for our trip towards Omaha and the great West, but I understood, somehow, that I should not be invited to attend the circus in the afternoon. The necessary half-dollar did not make its appearance. Ed reported a similar state of affairs.This was simply tragic.We took counsel, and decided that in Horace Winslow, if anywhere, lay our salvation. He was a person of stratagem,of plans and plots, and he might be able to show us a way out of trouble. Moreover, he had let drop some mysterious hints of influence which he expected to possess with the circus people. More than a week before he had darkly suggested that he might be connected in no inconspicuous position with the coming show.His utterances returned to us now."Let's go over and see him," I suggested."All right," Ed Mason agreed; "or, say, you're goin' over to stand on the bank steps at ten o'clock to see the parade, ain't you?""Yes.""Well, we'll see Horace there, sure,—he always goes."And it was so decided.Before ten o'clock we all set out for Main Street,—Ed Mason, Rob Currier,Peter Bailey, and myself, together with an unavoidable convoy of small sisters and other relatives. The streets had that appearance which circus day and no other always brought. Toy balloon men and sellers of paper whirligigs wandered up and down, and strange looking persons, clutching children with one hand and paper bags of luncheon with the other, stood or sat on the grass bankings, edge-stones, and lawns, in front of the houses.Through a sort of family privilege enjoyed by Peter Bailey, and always exercised on such occasions, we took up our position on the steps of the Merrimack Bank. Mr. Vincent, Horace's uncle, could be seen at his duties inside the bank, but he did not come out. Circus processions did not interest him.Horace was unaccountably absent.There were two or three false alarms, two or three mistaken announcementsby members of the crowd: "Here they come!" Twice we thought we heard in the distance the faint blare of brass instruments, as well as a deeper sound which Ed Mason declared to be the roaring of lions.But at last they did come. Majestically, and with clashing cymbals, they descended Main Street.At the head was a gorgeous wagon carrying a brass band. The men were in red coats, and they blew their trombones and cornets and beat their drums with the utmost vigor. A cavalcade followed, and then came four or five large and gayly painted carts, containing, so the pictures and legends indicated, the blood-sweating behemoth, the laughing hyenas, two Nubian lions, and the man-eating tiger of Bengal. But the carts were all closed, and the blood-sweating behemoth, if he were there, gave no sign.Nor did the other animals. We had to be contented with their painted likenesses on the sides of the carts."Do you suppose they're inside there, now?" asked Rob Currier's small sister in a hushed voice."Of course they are," Ed Mason assured her scornfully; "I saw one of the hyenas through a crack when they went by.""Look!" said Peter Bailey. "Here comes the steam calliope!"Sure enough, there it was. A man in overalls was energetically shovelling coal into the boiler, and a charming lady with very pink cheeks sat at the keys. As the thing came opposite us, she began to play, and every ear in the vicinity was split as with ten thousand steam whistles hooting out "Climbing Up Dem Golden Stairs." The noise was deafening, and each boy of us resolved that if he everbecame rich, the first thing he would buy would be one of those delightful contrivances. Then he had only to hire a man to shovel coal into it, and he might sit all day and dispense music for miles in every direction.The calliope passed, as all beautiful things do, and our attention was distracted by a herd of elephants, who slouched along, dusty and morose. Then came some more carts of animals, and then a brilliant zebra led by a boy in a red coat.This boy looked up at us, grinned joyfully, and waved his hand."Why, it's Horace Winslow!" some one exclaimed.It was indeed Horace. The red coat was evidently intended for a fair-sized man, for it hung below Horace's knees and gave him the appearance of wearing a single garment like a tunic. On hishead was rakishly perched a small red cap, similar to those affected by the monkeys who travel with hand-organs. Horace's face was warm and perspiring, and a good deal of dust, aroused by the elephants and the carts, had adhered to it. But it was plainly the supreme moment of his life, and no fussy considerations of cleanliness annoyed him in the least. Was he not a feature in a genuine circus procession, marching with the clown, with real elephants, and leading a proud and striped zebra with his own hand?He grinned again, and waved his hand to us once more. We were petrified with amazement and envy. At that moment Mr. Vincent, cool and placid in seersucker clothes, stepped out of the bank. He was going down the street on some business errand, and he paused for a moment and gazed indulgently at the procession."There's Horace, Mr. Vincent!" we all shouted.We were determined that he should know of this honor that had come upon his family. It was a fine thing to be cashier of the Merrimack Bank, the trusted guardian of thousands of dollars, but was not this mere dust and ashes compared with leading a zebra in a circus procession? If each generation of his family were to rise in this manner, where might they not end?Mr. Vincent smiled at us, and said: "What?""There's Horace!" we all screamed, pointing our fingers; "don't you see him? Leading the zebra!"By this time Mr. Vincent had adjusted his eye-glasses, and as he looked in the direction of his glorified nephew, that personage turned around for one final grin and wave of the hand. The changein expression on the visage of the bank-cashier was extraordinary. From mild benignity it turned to purple-faced consternation."What?" he gasped; "what?My Horace?"Then he descended the steps swiftly, and plunged into the crowd on the sidewalk. Apparently he was bent on overtaking his nephew, but the throng blocked his way, and Horace had turned the corner of the next street before his uncle could reach him.Ed Mason and I did not waste time watching him, for we were discussing a plan. It seemed to promise success, and we only waited for the end of the procession to pass before putting it into operation. Then we detached ourselves from the others, and hastened through Main Street to Haskell's Field, where the tents were pitched for the great show inthe afternoon. The field was nearly a mile distant, and the leaders of the procession had already begun to arrive when we got there. We wormed ourselves in between carts and piles of hay, amongst horses, venders of lemonade and peanuts, and dozens of boys and men. Horace and his zebra soon arrived and we sought him out in the crowd."I came out here at five o'clock this morning," said he, "an' I helped bring water for the ellerphants, an' hay for the horses, an' then that man over there who took the zebra gave me five cents, an' said if I'd lead the zebra in the parade he'd give me a free ticket for the show this afternoon. Tommy Cheney got inside an' helped a man feed the kangaroos, an'—""Do you s'pose we can water the ellerphants or anything?""I dunno; it's nearly twelve o'clocknow, ain't it? I've got to go home an' get dinner so's to be back here at one, if that man should want anything more, an' you can come back with me then, if you want to, an' p'r'aps you can do something an' get a ticket."We wanted no other invitation than this. We went back to town with Horace, determined to follow his plan. Like him we would demand our dinners early, and return to the circus field at one o'clock, under his guidance. Doubtless his influence with the zebra man would be all that was needed.Horace had given over the red coat and hat (but not the dust on his face) to the circus men, and he arrived excited and dishevelled at his uncle's house. He left us at the gate, but we paused an instant, for Mrs. Vincent stood on the veranda to welcome him."I want dinner right away, Aunt,'cos I've got to get back to the circus by one o'clock, an'—""Horace Winslow, you come into the house this instant, and take off every stitch, and get into the bath-tub. Look at your face! Get up to the bath-room, quick! The tub is all filled—""Oh, Aunt, I can't stop to fool with taking baths,—I want dinner, 'cos I've got to get back there at one o'clock.""Get back there indeed! Not one step out of this house do you go this afternoon. Take off your jacket before you come into the house,—did you have it on under that horrible red thing? Give it to me,—it's going to be burned up as quick as I can do it. Quick!""Oh, Aunt, I've promised the zebra trainer to be back there,—why they're dependin' on me! I've got—""Not one step! Do you hear? Now,upstairs with you, and into that bath-tub!"Horace vanished into the house, followed by his aunt. Ed Mason and I looked disconsolately at each other, and started wearily toward our homes. If any one's influence were going to admit us to the circus, it was not Horace Winslow's.In the parade he had flashed before our eyes like a rocket, and his descent from glory had been as sudden as the stick. He had declined in power; from a magnificent zebra leader he had become an insignificant atom in a bath-tub. Even before we were out of hearing he uttered a loud howl.And this was followed by a monitory voice:—"Horace!"CHAPTER XIISUSYWe passed the afternoon gloomily. There seemed to be no use in returning to the circus field without the once influential Horace. Except for him, we appeared to be almost the only persons who had not gone to the circus.Horace, we presumed, would have to spend the whole afternoon in that bath-tub. We could imagine his misery.The hours wore on, somehow, and about five o'clock the fortunate ones began to return. We saw a group of them go into the Carters' side yard, and so Ed and I strolled over there to increase our suffering by hearing them recount what they had seen.Seven or eight boys and girls were sitting on the steps of the veranda. Both the Carters were there, and Harry Fletcher, Susy and Minnie Kittredge, Ed Mason's sister Florence, and one or two others. Flossie Mason, being fifteen and grown up, had not been to the afternoon performance,—she was going in the evening with her mother.The eyes of all of them were still wide open, for in their vision mingled strange animals, galloping horses, and tumbling clowns, while the fascinating odors of trampled grass, freshly turned earth, sawdust, pop-corn, and rubber balloons lingered in their nostrils.Susy Kittredge, of course, was talking. She was beginning, in retrospect, her tour of the tents."An' it rained just before we got to the circus, an' the rain went through the tent an' washed the stripes all offthe zebra an' he was all pinky-streaked, an' Dan Rolfe said he wasn't nothin' underneath but just a donkey, an'—""Don't say 'wasn't nothin',' Susy," said Susy's older sister, Minnie.Minnie was a prim little girl, with black hair parted in the middle, and drawn into two tight pig-tails."Well, he wasn't," retorted Susy; "an' there were puddles of pink paint all round his feet where the paint washed off, an' Rob Currier touched him, an' got the end of his finger all red, an' Louise Mason said it was zebra blood an' it's deadly poison an' Rob'll have fits an' die!"Susy opened her eyes still wider, and regarded us all with the pleasant feeling that accompanies the disclosure of horrible news."There were a lot of real donkeys next to the zebra, an' one of 'em had on the saddle that the monkey rode on in theprecession,—an' he rode him again in the race, too, an' next to them was a antelope in a cage, an' then a ger-noo—""Awhat?" inquired Ed Mason, in a tone of deep scorn."A ger-noo," said Susy; "but he was asleep—""That ain't ger-noo," Ed returned, "it's 'noo,'—just like that.""It isn't! It said 'Ger-noo or Horned Horse' right on the cage. I guess I saw it, Ed Mason, and you weren't there, so what do you know 'bout it?""I don't care," replied Ed, doggedly, "'tain't 'ger-noo.'"Susy puckered up her face and seemed about to cry, but Flossie Mason remarked hurriedly: "Never mind, Susy. What was in the next cage?""Oh, there was—" and then Susy's mind jumped ahead—"there was a countryman with a big umbreller an' justas the lady was goin' to dive into the water he came along right in front of us an' said he'd give any one three cents for a seat, but of course no one would give him a seat, 'cos they cost seventy-five cents, an' he got into a fight with another countryman who was sittin' in the front row, an' tried to pull him out of his seat, an' a great, big, fat p'liceman came runnin' an' tried to arrest 'em both, an' they grabbedhiman' pulled him over to the tank, an' all three of 'em fell into the water, an' the tank was all full of 'em, swimmin' round, an' they had to stop the circus an' get 'em out!"Susy stopped for breath, and Ed Mason found time to ejaculate:—"Hoh! that was all made up! They were clowns, all of 'em!""They werenotclowns. They were dressed up just likemen!""That's all right," I put in, "they wereclowns just the same. They go round with the circus doin' that. I saw 'em do somethin' like that last summer, only there wasn't but one countryman, an' they drove 'em off in a wagon with donkeys.""They weren't clowns!" Susy stamped her foot. "Clowns have white faces, an' funny clothes, an' there were two real clowns helpin' get these men out, they stopped bein' funny an' were awful scared 'cos the p'liceman couldn't swim, an' he floated round on top of the water, an' when he got hold of the rope he was so heavy the clowns couldn't pull him out an'theyfell in, too.""That's so," said Charley Carter, with a serious countenance, as he recalled the catastrophe; "an' a man that sat in front of me said he knew the first countryman,—the one with the umbreller—he lives over in Rowley."There was a ring of truth about this which made Ed and me subside, and as Charley Carter had attracted the attention of the assemblage, he tried to hold the floor."When they got the perliceman out—" But Susy had no intention to let any one else tell the story. She took it up at that point."—he was all drownded, an' they put him down on the ground, an' begun to roll him round, an' one of the countrymen went an' got a big pop-squirt, oh, ten times bigger than any you ever saw, an' filled it with water, an' squirted it right in the p'liceman's face, an' that made him mad, an' he jumped up an' chased the countryman round the tent with his stick, an' at last the countryman ran out through the place where the horses an' riders come in, an' I don't know whether he caught him or not.""What did the other countryman do?" asked Flossie Mason."I don't know; the chariots came by then, an' I didn't see 'em after that."Joe Carter then made his first offering to the conversation."Ben Spaulding drank eight glasses of lemonade,—four pink and four yellow."The irrelevance of this bit of gossip did not make it any the less interesting to us. Instead, it gave Susy a chance to play once more her favorite rôle of prophetess of woe."Pink lemonade's made of coachyneel, an' that's deadly poison. My mother knew a boy that drank pink lemonade an' died of it.""I don't believe it," put in Harry Fletcher.And he added, in a tremulous tone: "I drank two glasses of it."We all turned and looked at Harry,as at one who would not long be with us."How do you feel?" asked the elder Carter."All right," replied Harry; but he had a sickly expression about the mouth. He turned a little aside, and did not seem to take any further interest in the conversation."I gave two bars of pop-corn to the ellerphants," announced Susy, "but I don't like 'em very well. They're all covered with dust an' they curl their trunks at you. I—""An elephant's trunk is called his bosphorus," said Minnie, anxious to grace the occasion by a little learning.And she added: "My teacher told me so.""I just threw the corn at 'em," continued Susy, "an' they picked it up out of the hay. One of 'em held up his trunk,an' his mouth was right under it, an' a man threw peanuts into his mouth, an' the ellerphant stood that way an' let the man throw peanuts at him ever so long, an' we had to go away then, 'cos the show was goin' to begin.""You have to be careful of elephants," said Minnie. "Last year there was an elephant in the circus, an' he had whiskers on his trunk, an' Billy Mason pulled 'em, an' the elephant didn't say anything, an' didn't do anything for two or three minutes, an' then just as Billy was starting to go he swung his trunk round an' if Billy hadn't dodged quick the elephant would have killed him. An' there was a man there an' he said that if that elephant ever sees Billy again, even if it's a hundred years from now, he'll remember him, an' he'll try to hit him again with his trunk."Cheerful Susy instantly remarked:"Billy's goin' to the circus to-night. Do you s'pose that ellerphant will be there?"Billy's sister tried to take a hopeful view."Oh, this is another circus,—'tisn't the same one that was here last summer."But nothing could discourage Susy."Perhaps they've swapped ellerphants," she suggested.Harry Fletcher rose from the steps at this moment, and observed in a shaky voice, that he guessed he would go home. He walked up the garden path with rather feeble steps. We watched him,—awestruck."Perhaps it's the coachyneel in his insides," whispered Susy.We pondered over this suggestion for a few moments, and it certainly seemed reasonable. When Harry disappeared down the street, walking slowly, andholding to the fence, we decided that it was only a question of a few hours with him. The incident cast a gloom over us, which was not dispelled until Joe Carter said:—"Did you go to the side-show?""No," answered Susy; "my mother says side-shows are horrid.""Theyain't. This was great. There was a lady without any body,—just head and shoulders sitting in a glass plate, an' there was a man that would let you stick pins in him, an' there were some grave-robbing hyenas—""Poo!" said Susy, "I saw some hyenas in the animal tent, an' we stayed to the concert an'—""Yes, I know," persisted Joe Carter, "but those hyenas in the animal tent weren't grave-robbing ones. Now these,—" and he entered into some grewsome details about the hyenas that made Susyregretfully admit that the side-show must have had its good points."But there was a sea-lion," she reflected, "havin' his supper when we came out of the concert, an' he sat up on a board, an' the man tossed him fish, an' he roared lots louder than the lions, an' we saw the giraffes—""That's nothin'" said Joe; "so did I."Susy paid no attention,—she was in full swing of narration."An' there was a Happy Fam'ly of a monkey, an' a armadillo, an' a dog, an' a kangaroo, an' a porcupine, all livin' together in one cage, an' when the monkey would try to tease the kangaroo, he'd just roll himself up in a ball an'—""Who would?" interrupted Ed Mason."The kangaroo, course—just like the picture of South America in the geography."But the cynic voice of Mason was not stilled."Kangaroos don't roll themselves up in balls.""This one did.""No; that was the armadillo you were lookin' at.""My mother said it was a kangaroo, an' itwasa kangaroo, an' you'd better keep quiet an' leave me alone,—I guess my mother knows more'n you do about it."Ed sulkily muttered: "'Twa'n't a kangaroo," but Susy went on with her catalogue of beasts."There was a bore-constrictor there that can crush eight men at once,—one of the circus men told my mother so, an' she said, 'I should think you'd be afraid he might get out,—he could squeeze through the bars, couldn't he?' And the man said he was scared for his life all the time. The bore-constrictordidget out up in Lynn.""Did he crush eight men?" two or three of us asked at once."No; they lassoed him. But he may get out againany time. An' there was a hipperpottermus that you couldn't see, except one eye, 'cos he kept down in a tank of water, an' he was horrid, an,' oh! I forgot! Alice Remick had on a new dress an' she went to give an ellerphant a cookie, an' the ellerphant switched up his trunk and spattered her with mud so it spoiled her dress, an' she got both eyes stuck up with mud so she couldn't see, an' she cried so her father had to go right home without seem' any more of the circus, an'—""Did one of the elephants come in and ride round on a big velocipede?" demanded Ed Mason."No," said Susy; "but—""Did the seals play on drums, an' cymbals, an' sing?" he persisted."No; but they—""Oh, well," replied Ed, "they did at the circus last year. An' this circus only had ten elephants. Last year they had fourteen. An' last year they had a Black Tent of Myst'ries, too. I don't b'lieve this was much of a circus!"With this remark we both thought we might effectively take leave. We departed together, and as we left the garden we could still hear the shrill tones of Susy:—"—an' there was an ejjicated pig that sat up in a chair with a ruffle round his neck, an' they said he could read, but he didn't, an' one man fell out of that swing, an' we thought he was goin' to get killed, but he fell in a net an' jumped up an' kissed his hand, but my mother says theydoget killed,—often, an' there was a cinnamon bear—"As we walked by my house Ed Mason repeated his remark:—"I don't b'lieve 'twas much of a circus."My father looked suddenly over a hedge and said: "Then you couldn't arrange to go with me this evening?"We both jumped. We were startled at his voice, and there was also something in what he said that seemed to make the sun burst out of the clouds.Perhaps it was not well to judge the circus without seeing it."Because I am going," he continued, "and I should be glad of your company,—unless, of course, you are leaving for Omaha?"CHAPTER XIIIARMA PUERUMQUE CANOIn the warfare that raged through the neighborhood it invariably fell on Ed Mason and me to support lost causes.As the two smallest, we were told off to represent the English at Bunker Hill. It was a revised and thoroughly patriotic Bunker Hill, for the English never reached the top, but had to retreat under a galling fire of green apples.As Confederates, we dashed boldly but ineffectually across the valley at Gettysburg.When the honor of the Old Guard at Waterloo was in our keeping, we did not die, but we did surrender ignominiously,and were locked up in a box-stall in Peter Bailey's father's stable.After that, the allied forces, consisting of Peter, Rob Currier, Joe and Charley Carter, and Horace Winslow, basely withdrew to inspect Auntie Merrill's pears (which were nearly ripe) and left us Napoleonic veterans to wither in captivity.It was not only in struggles among ourselves that we had to drink of the bitter cup of defeat. When we banded together against the common enemy, things were not much better. Take, for instance, the time when Peter Bailey decided to turn the stable into a police station. The stalls suggested cells (there were no horses kept in them), and the success with which the Old Guard had been imprisoned after their crushing defeat at Waterloo, showed the desirability of more captives.At first things took their usual course.Ed Mason and I were informed that we were a gang of cutthroats, burglars, highway robbers, pickpockets, counterfeiters, and other kinds of ruffians, and bade to sneak about the streets. We were warned not to run too fast when the police approached to arrest us, and told that it was "no fair" to make any determined resistance.When Peter Bailey, Rob Currier, and the others dashed out of the stable, clad (in their own estimation) in blue coats and brass buttons, we were to submit to arrestad libitum.But after we had been dragged in and confined in cells a dozen or twenty times, it began to pall, even on the policemen.It had long ago become sickeningly familiar to us.To give the thing variety, new victims must be found. We were weary of the business and had ceased to feel any terrorat the prospect of confinement. We never served terms longer than thirty seconds, for we had to be released immediately in order to be arrested once more. With only two criminals in the world, the policeman's lot became a tedious one. Both prisoners and police felt that unless something happened the stable could no longer a prison make, nor wooden stalls a cage.Peter proposed to reform the whole thing. He boldly suggested that we go outside our own circles and arrest the Irish boys,—those who went in the winter to the parochial school. It would have to be done with all the majesty of the law, and that required a billy for each policeman.These were duly made out of broomsticks. With great pains a hole was burned through the top of each with a red-hot poker. Then a cord was passedthrough the hole, so the billy might be dangled and swung.We were now ready for the prisoners, and our first campaign was all that the heart could wish. We waylaid a group of boys, and, without much struggle, soon had a prisoner in each cell. After a little we let them go.They hurried off, remarking that they would get even with us.These wholesale arrests were continued for two or three days, and all went happily. It was not until a week afterward that the reckoning came. Then a crowd of the outraged prisoners found Ed Mason and me alone, fell upon us, and beat us full sore. Without the whole force of police our authority had waned, and once again it became apparent that humiliation was ever our fortune in feats of arms.It was this last straw that led to oursingular revolt on the day of the famous cowboy and Indian raid. We outraged all the proprieties, turned against the white man, and showed a criminal disregard for the cause of civilization. But for once victory rested with us. We plucked success out of failure, and found that it was good. When we had it, we declined to let it go. Force of arms had decided the issue, and we accepted its arbitrament. Argument could not move us. The worm turned, and the turning of him was terrible.A hot and languorous day in August saw the great battle of redskins and palefaces. Nothing in the weather stirred us to mighty deeds. The long afternoon had dragged on to half-past four. For two hours we had roamed the street, the gardens, and back yards. A dulness settled over things. The phœbe-bird who sat on Mr. Hawkins's woodshed reiteratedhis dismal note, as though the weariness of the dog-days had entered his very soul."Phe-e-e—be-e-e-e," he remarked, with that falling inflection on the last syllable that would dampen the spirits of a circus clown."Phe-e-e—be-e-e."Mr. Hawkins himself leaned over his gate and smoked his pipe. An ice-cart came lumbering down the street. That, at least, was interesting. We hurried to meet it, and each possessed himself of a lump of ice. Then we perched, some on my fence and some on the blue box that held the garden hose. We removed the straw and sawdust from the ice, and began to suck it.Mr. Hawkins, having taken his clay pipe from his mouth, engaged in a conversation with the driver of the ice-cart on the prospects of rain. We watchedthem languidly. They debated the question at length, until the dripping water from the ice-cart had formed three dark spots in the dusty street.Peter Bailey said: "Let's go up to Davenport's and see if the raft is there."Davenport's was a general term used to describe a field, and a pond in that field. The pond was a small affair, with no large amount of water, but a great deal of black mud. It was not without certain tremendous fascinations, however, for we believed that in one place it had no bottom.Moreover, leeches abounded.Few, if any of us, had ever seen a leech; but we were aware that if one of them attached himself to the human body, no power under Heaven could drag him off, and he would not stop his infernal work until he had drained away every drop of blood.Ed Mason and I had other reasons than the leeches for not wanting to experiment with the raft at Davenport's. Only a week before we had been capsized from that raft. We had not found the bottomless spot, nor been attacked by leeches; but we had crawled ashore in such a condition of muddiness that our reception at our respective homes had been depressing. Davenport's could get along without us for a while.Peter's suggestion fell flat. Just then Charley Carter caught sight of a spare piece of clothes-line in my side yard. He ran and seized it, shouting "Lassos!"It was a happy idea. The boundless West, the prairies, herds of buffaloes, roving Indians, cowboys—these were the visions that excited us in an instant, especially the cowboys.What a life is theirs—to gallop forever with cracking revolvers and whirlinglassos; to capture the mighty buffalo, and bring down the hated Indian!Why should we not do that?Mr. Hawkins, next door, might continue to smoke his pipe to the monotonous song of the phœbe. For us, the career of danger far beyond the Mississippi; the life that knows no fear on the wind-swept prairie!A lack of any more rope in my yard, and my firm refusal to have the clothes-lines cut down entire, made us depart to Bailey's stable, where desperate enterprises were set on foot.We made the lassos and drew upon our armory for wooden revolvers. These are thoroughly satisfactory weapons if you wave them in the air and shout "Bang!" at frequent intervals.But immediately Peter Bailey's genius for military organization asserted itself. He and Rob Currier, the two Carters,and Horace Winslow would be the cowboys. The hostile Indians must be impersonated, of course, by Ed Mason and myself. What was the sense of having cowboys without Indians for them to destroy?So we should have no lassos, nor yet revolvers, but only tomahawks.Right here I drew the line.Ed backed me up, and we announced our ultimatum. Indians we would be, and lassoless we would go, but to ask us to refrain from carrying revolvers was demanding too much. We stuck out for revolvers, and intimated that a refusal would cause us to withdraw from all operations that afternoon.So the concession was made.Even then we knew that the adventure could end in only one fashion. We should be chased, hunted down, shot, lassoed, scalped, and finally burned at thestake, during an imposing war-dance; for these cowboys were fully enamored of Indian methods of warfare when turned against the Indians themselves.We were to belong to a dangerous tribe, recently discovered by Peter Bailey, and calledSigh-ux. We agreed to start on our barbaric career from the stable. From there to the street corner we should have full license to pillage and destroy. In order to give the avenging cowboys due provocation, we were to commit certain outrages on the way. These might include burning down the Universalist Church on the corner and ringing the door-bell at Miss Whipple's private school.Once we had turned into Oak Street, where I lived, we would have to look to our safety. The cowboys would be on our track.So off we went.In a few moments, ignited by shots from our revolvers, the Universalist Church was wrapped in flames. We rang Miss Whipple's door-bell, and, as an additional atrocity, threatened her cat with tomahawks. Then we turned up Oak Street, and knew in a moment, by the yells that arose, that the cowboys had burst out of their encampment and were after us.I suppose Ed shared my feelings of despair as we ran up the street. The youngest cowboy was two years older than either of us; they were all swifter runners, and they outnumbered us by three. In a few moments it would all be over. Our brief season of bloodshed and destruction was past, and it now only remained for us to be slaughtered at the cowboys' will.It was so tiresome!Our defeats at Bunker Hill, at Gettysburg,at Waterloo, and on countless other stricken fields recurred to us as we panted along. If we could only turn the tables in some way!Instinctively we hurried toward the side yard of my house, climbed the fence, and tumbled over. We landed on the blue box that held the garden hose. The cowboys were approaching rapidly, with loud cries and much banging of revolvers. Already Horace Winslow was shouting that he had shot me five times, and that I must fall dead instantly. In a moment, we knew, they would be over the fence after us.Moved by the same thought, we opened the blue box. The hose was connected with the tap at the side of the house. Ed turned the tap, while I, standing on the edge of the box and looking over the fence into the street, swept the road with a stream of cold water.Horace stopped abruptly in his rush toward the fence, and Joe Carter, who had halted about thirty feet away to pour a volley of bullets after us, executed a swift movement to the rear.The others paused where they were. Tomahawks, scalping-knives, spears, and revolvers—none of these would have checked the bold cowboys for a moment; but this stream of water was another matter.It does not do for any cowboy, however desperate, to go home to his parents with his clothes soaking wet. Such events often mean an enforced retirement for a day from the field of glory."Whatcher doing?" screamed Peter Bailey. "That ain't fair!"We felt that he was right. This garden hose suddenly springing out of the Western prairie was a false note. Artistically it jarred. It was like bringing a school-teacher into fairyland.But we did not stop the stream. For once we saw the militant Peter, his fearless lieutenant, Rob Currier, and all the rest of the ever victorious army held in check. No feeling that we were violating the fitness of things could detract from the sweetness of the moment. If eternal defeat had not embittered us in the past, we might have been more artistic and less human on this occasion. But in an instant, and as by direct intervention of the gods, our retreat had been turned into triumph, and that we did not intend to relinquish.Woe, woe, to the vanquished!"Aw, that's agreatthing to do!" sneered Rob Currier."Youcan'tdo it!" shouted Joe Carter in a state of great excitement; "Indians don't have hose!""That's all right," I replied, "these Indians have got some. They got itfrom a settler's cabin, or—or—orsomehow. Anyhow, they've got it.""But 'tain't fair," reiterated Peter Bailey."'Tain't fair for five of you to be always masserkerin' us," remarked my fellow Indian.Peter was disposed to bitterness. He did not enjoy having his military plans frustrated in such a manner."You're only a couple of babies,—you're afraid to be masserkered," he said.Naturally, the babies invited him to come right on and do his massacring."I will, if you'll turn off that hose,—I don't want to get all wet.""Course we won't turn it off, an' if you're afraid to come, why, you're beaten, an' you must surrender, an' be tomahawked, an' burned at the stake, an' have blazin' pine splinters stuck in your flesh. Will you do it?"They firmly declined to become parties to any such attractive proceedings."Come on," said Joe Carter; "let 'em stay there and play with the hose. They don't know how to be Indians, anyway. We'll go back to the barn, and lasso buffaloes.""Come on," said Peter, and the whole band of cowboys departed.Then the victorious Indians, the two triumphantSigh-ux, danced a short war-dance, and whooped two or three war-whoops,—so loud that Mr. Hawkins opened his gate, and came out to the sidewalk to see what was the matter.

CHAPTER XTHE FLIGHTThe day before the circus found me at home again. Without delay I set out to find Ed Mason, Charley Carter, and any of the others who could give me the latest information on the topic that absorbed us all.For, since the Fourth of July, there had been nothing so important as the approach of this circus. For two weeks we had studied the posters. Whether the hippopotamus would in very truth have a mouth somewhat larger than the door of the barn to which his portrait was affixed; whether the head of the giraffe would actually soar above the clouds, as represented; and whether abeautiful lady would indeed stand on the tip of an elephant's trunk and airily juggle three baby lions and a Japanese parasol—these problems had vexed us for fourteen long days.Charley Carter stuck out for the literal accuracy of the posters."'Cos if it wasn't so, they wouldn't dare to print 'em—it's against the law."This was his argument. Truth to say, none of us were strongly inclined to oppose him. We were more than willing to accept the pictures as photographic.This point decided without further discussion, we could devote our meditations to the circus itself. We could lay our plans and dream our dreams in all felicity.To hear some of these plans I started toward the Carters', and fell in with Ed Mason on the way. In his garden we found Charley Carter, who told us of his own and other boys' projects.Rob Currier would rise, it seemed, before three o'clock on the morrow, and go with his father to watch the unloading of the circus. Our desire to join in this expedition subsided when Charley related his adventures at a similar treat the year before. It was true that he had observed the dim but mountainous forms of elephants and camels outlined against the dawn, but he had also slipped on the car track and so sprained his ankle that he had to forego, not only the great street parade at 10a.m., but the show itself in the afternoon. The possibility of any such tragic occurrence made Ed Mason and me decide to let the circus unload as best it could without our assistance.But on this, the very day before the circus would exhibit, we were smitten by an unexpected grief. Charley Carter started the ball of trouble rolling."Are you fellers goin' to the side-show?" he asked.And he added, complacently, "Iam."We had not considered the matter. We supposed we were going. The pictures representing the attractions of the side-show recurred to us, and straightway it became an imperative necessity that we find out if we were going to see these wonders.We repaired to our respective homes, but were soon back at the place of meeting with dolorous faces. The parental mind in the House of Edwards was at one with that in the House of Mason. The street parade in the morning we should see, and we should be suitably provided with red or green balloons for the more complete enjoyment of the spectacle. To the afternoon performance we should go, pockets filled with the peanuts of Mr. Mazzoni, who sold much better peanuts than the half-baked things supplied by the circus venders. These wemight share, if we felt so disposed, with the elephants. Pink lemonade we shouldnotimbibe, as it was "miserable stuff." And the side-show we should not enter, as it was "vulgar."Such were the terms of the ultimatum. To article one, concerning the street parade and the balloons, we signified our assent. To the second article, concerning peanuts, we also assented. Article three, which forbade pink lemonade, was accepted with the understanding that we yielded to superior force. But to the final article, prohibiting the side-show, we entered an indignant protest.It was promptly overruled.Can one conceive a more irrational position? What was this thing, vulgarity, which before now had stood in our path? Had the extra cost of admission to the side-show been the cause for the refusal, we could haveunderstood, even while regretting, the parental attitude.But vulgarity—what was it?To us the different exhibits of the show, as portrayed upon the posters, were both curious and wonderful. Were we not men and philosophers, passengers through life, and observers of the human show? Was it not our bounden duty to see all that was strange and marvelous in this great world? Well, then, by what right did our tyrants act? We were of the human race, and held none of its members alien.Though it might be questioned if the dog-faced boy, the genuine mermaid, the lady with a body like a serpent, and the man of india-rubber skin, came unreservedly into the category of human creatures—still such objections were mere quibbles. A golden opportunity for delight and self-improvement wasbeing denied us, and for the flimsiest of reasons, so we straightway raised the standard of revolt and nailed it to the mast."Let's run away!" said Ed Mason.Really, it seemed the only possible suggestion. When you have simply got to reduce your hard-hearted parents to contrition, milk-and-water methods are useless. A blow must be struck—sharp and decisive. Then they will recognize your value, be properly humbled, and come around to a correct view of things.Running away from home is at once the boldest of strokes and the most subtle form of revenge. It asserts your independence at the same time that it reduces your parents to humility.We decided upon it, and then and there fixed the hour of five that afternoon as the time of our departure from home and kindred. We would sever all the tiesthat bound us to civilization, and plunge into the trackless wilds.Prompt to the hour, I met the resolute Mason on the farther side of the frog pond. He was simply yet appropriately equipped with a cap-pistol, and two bananas for provender while crossing the wilderness.I carried a light sling-shot and a package of soda-biscuit. Game—partridges, antelopes, and other creatures—might be slainen route; while our thirst could be slaked at the brooks and streams.We set out in silence, as became our high purpose. In a little over an hour we had penetrated the desert as far as Brown's ice-house, and there we decided to camp for the night. We had encountered no antelopes, buffaloes, nor other animals, except a herd of cows belonging to Mr. Haskell. They were being driven home by a small boy.In a little grove of trees back of the ice-house we sat down and made our supper of bananas and soda-biscuit. The ice-pond provided water to wash down the meal. We faced the west, and received full in our eyes the rays of the sun, now rapidly approaching the earth.For a time we beheld the spectacle of the sunset, though our minds were not upon it. We conversed upon the possibilities of adventure in the Far West, upon the circus which we were leaving behind, and, most of all, of the excitement probably now rife in our homes. Ed Mason, it appeared, had left a note behind him to inform his family of our departure, of the utter folly of any attempt at pursuit, and of the fact that our first stopping-place would be Omaha.Why he fixed upon Omaha, except that it is remote from our home on the Atlantic coast, I am unable to explain.By this time, we agreed, our families had begun to wish that they had treated us better in the matter of that side-show.Some low hills rose upon the western horizon, and the sun disappeared behind them not long after we had finished supper. It cast a golden outline on a strange procession of dark gray clouds which now came out of the north and moved slowly across the place lately occupied by the ball of fire. They followed one after the other like uncouth animals—the dromedary with his hump was there, the elephant, and other figures, longer and lower, like serpents and lizards.We watched them without speaking.A faint breeze moved the branches of the apple tree over our heads. It was perceptibly darker now, and not easy to make out the details of the fields and meadows. Two men passed along the dusty road on the other side of the stonewall. They did not notice us, but we heard them discussing a dog after they had vanished from sight. The sky in the east and north turned rosy, and its colors were reflected in the pond. A man with a lantern moved about Mr. Brown's barnyard for a while, then disappeared indoors, and presently a light shone from one of the windows of the house.The glow in the west; the pageant of clouds, whose fiery edges had grown dimmer; the immensity of the overarching sky, still turquoise-colored—all these, together with the disappearance of the familiar landscape, conspired to make the two outlaws under the apple tree feel rather diminutive. The swallows had ceased their flight and gone to bed. Two or three robins screamed excitedly for a while, and darted in apparent hurry from tree to tree. Finally they became quiet, except for an occasional outburst of twittering.Two bats began to flutter about, with their high, thin, squeaking cries like the opening and shutting of a new pair of scissors.The darkness was far advanced; three or four stars were visible, and the pink tint had faded from the sky. The pond gleamed like silver, but its banks were black and mysterious."We ought to start awful early in the mornin'," said Ed Mason; "p'r'aps we better go to bed now."He began this remark in a voice that sounded fearfully loud, but said the closing words in a whisper."P'r'aps we had," I agreed,—also in a whisper.There was no one within hearing: it seemed strange that we should have to whisper.In another way, however, it appeared quite proper to whisper.I was reflecting that, aside from a night spent in a tent with two or three other boys, in Peter Bailey's garden, I had never slept outdoors. It also occurred to me that we had no bedclothes nor pillows. We had blankets that night in the tent, and made pillows out of piles of hay. The hay tickled the back of your neck somewhat, but otherwise it was all right."We might sleep in Brown's barn," I suggested."That's so," Ed replied.Then an afterthought struck him."No; we couldn't do that.""I don't see why not.""Why, of course we couldn't. There ain't any barns on the prairies!"I had never thought of that.The objection was unanswerable."Besides," pursued Ed, with something like a shudder, "tramps sleep in these barns."I abandoned the plan hastily."Could we get some hay from the barn?" I wondered; "there won't be any tramps in there now, will there?""I guess not. We needn't go all the way in,—we can reach some by just openin' the door."He was on the point of rising when another objection occurred to me."Maybe Mr. Brown wouldn't like it.""He hasn't any right to say anything 'bout it. In time of war they take what they want, don't they? They make a forcedlevi."This subject of the forced "levi" had been discussed amongst us at some length in connection with Mr. Hawkins' cherries. Jimmy Toppan and Rob Currier had the impression that it had something to do with a clothing dealer on Main Street."Anyway," Ed remarked, "we can put the hay back in the morning."This seemed to be a reasonable solution in order to keep our career as outlaws on a moral basis. So we arose and started cautiously for the barn. Before we had taken five steps in that direction, a voice spoke. It was a deep, resonant voice, charged with authority and menace. The word or phrase that it uttered was not, it seemed to us, especially relevant, but there could be no mistaking the import of its accent and tone. It came from the earth, from the sky, from nowhere in particular and from everywhere in general.It said: "Ker-r-rum!"Having said this, it was instantly silent. The final syllable ended suddenly, but yet with a twang as if some giant had touched the string of a great instrument.The hush that ensued was appalling.I had sat down, as if struck to the earth, the moment I heard the awful sound, and now I tried to address Ed Mason, who was leaning faintly against a tree. But I made three efforts before my vocal apparatus responded."Wh-what was it?" I asked.He turned toward me, and said something in a whisper, which I could not make out. I sat still for a moment longer, then hitched myself toward him and repeated my question.But he could not answer me.Neither could he say whence the sound came. That was the horrible part of it—the vague immensity of the note. We remained motionless for what we thought a long time.Then Ed suggested that we move our camp. Immediately the problem arose: in which direction should we move? While we deliberated, in whispers,suddenly again, ominous and terrible:—"K'r-rum!"That sufficed. In three seconds we were over the wall and running at full speed along the highway. At the crossroads, an eighth of a mile away, we saw the lights of a buggy. It contained certain male relatives."Hello, boys! Going home?"We admitted that that was our destination.CHAPTER XIUP LIKE A ROCKETOn the morning following our return from the flight, there was an uncomfortable chill about my house. When I met Ed Mason, I found that he had noticed the same coolness in his home. Nothing was said, no reproaches were cast upon us for our trip towards Omaha and the great West, but I understood, somehow, that I should not be invited to attend the circus in the afternoon. The necessary half-dollar did not make its appearance. Ed reported a similar state of affairs.This was simply tragic.We took counsel, and decided that in Horace Winslow, if anywhere, lay our salvation. He was a person of stratagem,of plans and plots, and he might be able to show us a way out of trouble. Moreover, he had let drop some mysterious hints of influence which he expected to possess with the circus people. More than a week before he had darkly suggested that he might be connected in no inconspicuous position with the coming show.His utterances returned to us now."Let's go over and see him," I suggested."All right," Ed Mason agreed; "or, say, you're goin' over to stand on the bank steps at ten o'clock to see the parade, ain't you?""Yes.""Well, we'll see Horace there, sure,—he always goes."And it was so decided.Before ten o'clock we all set out for Main Street,—Ed Mason, Rob Currier,Peter Bailey, and myself, together with an unavoidable convoy of small sisters and other relatives. The streets had that appearance which circus day and no other always brought. Toy balloon men and sellers of paper whirligigs wandered up and down, and strange looking persons, clutching children with one hand and paper bags of luncheon with the other, stood or sat on the grass bankings, edge-stones, and lawns, in front of the houses.Through a sort of family privilege enjoyed by Peter Bailey, and always exercised on such occasions, we took up our position on the steps of the Merrimack Bank. Mr. Vincent, Horace's uncle, could be seen at his duties inside the bank, but he did not come out. Circus processions did not interest him.Horace was unaccountably absent.There were two or three false alarms, two or three mistaken announcementsby members of the crowd: "Here they come!" Twice we thought we heard in the distance the faint blare of brass instruments, as well as a deeper sound which Ed Mason declared to be the roaring of lions.But at last they did come. Majestically, and with clashing cymbals, they descended Main Street.At the head was a gorgeous wagon carrying a brass band. The men were in red coats, and they blew their trombones and cornets and beat their drums with the utmost vigor. A cavalcade followed, and then came four or five large and gayly painted carts, containing, so the pictures and legends indicated, the blood-sweating behemoth, the laughing hyenas, two Nubian lions, and the man-eating tiger of Bengal. But the carts were all closed, and the blood-sweating behemoth, if he were there, gave no sign.Nor did the other animals. We had to be contented with their painted likenesses on the sides of the carts."Do you suppose they're inside there, now?" asked Rob Currier's small sister in a hushed voice."Of course they are," Ed Mason assured her scornfully; "I saw one of the hyenas through a crack when they went by.""Look!" said Peter Bailey. "Here comes the steam calliope!"Sure enough, there it was. A man in overalls was energetically shovelling coal into the boiler, and a charming lady with very pink cheeks sat at the keys. As the thing came opposite us, she began to play, and every ear in the vicinity was split as with ten thousand steam whistles hooting out "Climbing Up Dem Golden Stairs." The noise was deafening, and each boy of us resolved that if he everbecame rich, the first thing he would buy would be one of those delightful contrivances. Then he had only to hire a man to shovel coal into it, and he might sit all day and dispense music for miles in every direction.The calliope passed, as all beautiful things do, and our attention was distracted by a herd of elephants, who slouched along, dusty and morose. Then came some more carts of animals, and then a brilliant zebra led by a boy in a red coat.This boy looked up at us, grinned joyfully, and waved his hand."Why, it's Horace Winslow!" some one exclaimed.It was indeed Horace. The red coat was evidently intended for a fair-sized man, for it hung below Horace's knees and gave him the appearance of wearing a single garment like a tunic. On hishead was rakishly perched a small red cap, similar to those affected by the monkeys who travel with hand-organs. Horace's face was warm and perspiring, and a good deal of dust, aroused by the elephants and the carts, had adhered to it. But it was plainly the supreme moment of his life, and no fussy considerations of cleanliness annoyed him in the least. Was he not a feature in a genuine circus procession, marching with the clown, with real elephants, and leading a proud and striped zebra with his own hand?He grinned again, and waved his hand to us once more. We were petrified with amazement and envy. At that moment Mr. Vincent, cool and placid in seersucker clothes, stepped out of the bank. He was going down the street on some business errand, and he paused for a moment and gazed indulgently at the procession."There's Horace, Mr. Vincent!" we all shouted.We were determined that he should know of this honor that had come upon his family. It was a fine thing to be cashier of the Merrimack Bank, the trusted guardian of thousands of dollars, but was not this mere dust and ashes compared with leading a zebra in a circus procession? If each generation of his family were to rise in this manner, where might they not end?Mr. Vincent smiled at us, and said: "What?""There's Horace!" we all screamed, pointing our fingers; "don't you see him? Leading the zebra!"By this time Mr. Vincent had adjusted his eye-glasses, and as he looked in the direction of his glorified nephew, that personage turned around for one final grin and wave of the hand. The changein expression on the visage of the bank-cashier was extraordinary. From mild benignity it turned to purple-faced consternation."What?" he gasped; "what?My Horace?"Then he descended the steps swiftly, and plunged into the crowd on the sidewalk. Apparently he was bent on overtaking his nephew, but the throng blocked his way, and Horace had turned the corner of the next street before his uncle could reach him.Ed Mason and I did not waste time watching him, for we were discussing a plan. It seemed to promise success, and we only waited for the end of the procession to pass before putting it into operation. Then we detached ourselves from the others, and hastened through Main Street to Haskell's Field, where the tents were pitched for the great show inthe afternoon. The field was nearly a mile distant, and the leaders of the procession had already begun to arrive when we got there. We wormed ourselves in between carts and piles of hay, amongst horses, venders of lemonade and peanuts, and dozens of boys and men. Horace and his zebra soon arrived and we sought him out in the crowd."I came out here at five o'clock this morning," said he, "an' I helped bring water for the ellerphants, an' hay for the horses, an' then that man over there who took the zebra gave me five cents, an' said if I'd lead the zebra in the parade he'd give me a free ticket for the show this afternoon. Tommy Cheney got inside an' helped a man feed the kangaroos, an'—""Do you s'pose we can water the ellerphants or anything?""I dunno; it's nearly twelve o'clocknow, ain't it? I've got to go home an' get dinner so's to be back here at one, if that man should want anything more, an' you can come back with me then, if you want to, an' p'r'aps you can do something an' get a ticket."We wanted no other invitation than this. We went back to town with Horace, determined to follow his plan. Like him we would demand our dinners early, and return to the circus field at one o'clock, under his guidance. Doubtless his influence with the zebra man would be all that was needed.Horace had given over the red coat and hat (but not the dust on his face) to the circus men, and he arrived excited and dishevelled at his uncle's house. He left us at the gate, but we paused an instant, for Mrs. Vincent stood on the veranda to welcome him."I want dinner right away, Aunt,'cos I've got to get back to the circus by one o'clock, an'—""Horace Winslow, you come into the house this instant, and take off every stitch, and get into the bath-tub. Look at your face! Get up to the bath-room, quick! The tub is all filled—""Oh, Aunt, I can't stop to fool with taking baths,—I want dinner, 'cos I've got to get back there at one o'clock.""Get back there indeed! Not one step out of this house do you go this afternoon. Take off your jacket before you come into the house,—did you have it on under that horrible red thing? Give it to me,—it's going to be burned up as quick as I can do it. Quick!""Oh, Aunt, I've promised the zebra trainer to be back there,—why they're dependin' on me! I've got—""Not one step! Do you hear? Now,upstairs with you, and into that bath-tub!"Horace vanished into the house, followed by his aunt. Ed Mason and I looked disconsolately at each other, and started wearily toward our homes. If any one's influence were going to admit us to the circus, it was not Horace Winslow's.In the parade he had flashed before our eyes like a rocket, and his descent from glory had been as sudden as the stick. He had declined in power; from a magnificent zebra leader he had become an insignificant atom in a bath-tub. Even before we were out of hearing he uttered a loud howl.And this was followed by a monitory voice:—"Horace!"CHAPTER XIISUSYWe passed the afternoon gloomily. There seemed to be no use in returning to the circus field without the once influential Horace. Except for him, we appeared to be almost the only persons who had not gone to the circus.Horace, we presumed, would have to spend the whole afternoon in that bath-tub. We could imagine his misery.The hours wore on, somehow, and about five o'clock the fortunate ones began to return. We saw a group of them go into the Carters' side yard, and so Ed and I strolled over there to increase our suffering by hearing them recount what they had seen.Seven or eight boys and girls were sitting on the steps of the veranda. Both the Carters were there, and Harry Fletcher, Susy and Minnie Kittredge, Ed Mason's sister Florence, and one or two others. Flossie Mason, being fifteen and grown up, had not been to the afternoon performance,—she was going in the evening with her mother.The eyes of all of them were still wide open, for in their vision mingled strange animals, galloping horses, and tumbling clowns, while the fascinating odors of trampled grass, freshly turned earth, sawdust, pop-corn, and rubber balloons lingered in their nostrils.Susy Kittredge, of course, was talking. She was beginning, in retrospect, her tour of the tents."An' it rained just before we got to the circus, an' the rain went through the tent an' washed the stripes all offthe zebra an' he was all pinky-streaked, an' Dan Rolfe said he wasn't nothin' underneath but just a donkey, an'—""Don't say 'wasn't nothin',' Susy," said Susy's older sister, Minnie.Minnie was a prim little girl, with black hair parted in the middle, and drawn into two tight pig-tails."Well, he wasn't," retorted Susy; "an' there were puddles of pink paint all round his feet where the paint washed off, an' Rob Currier touched him, an' got the end of his finger all red, an' Louise Mason said it was zebra blood an' it's deadly poison an' Rob'll have fits an' die!"Susy opened her eyes still wider, and regarded us all with the pleasant feeling that accompanies the disclosure of horrible news."There were a lot of real donkeys next to the zebra, an' one of 'em had on the saddle that the monkey rode on in theprecession,—an' he rode him again in the race, too, an' next to them was a antelope in a cage, an' then a ger-noo—""Awhat?" inquired Ed Mason, in a tone of deep scorn."A ger-noo," said Susy; "but he was asleep—""That ain't ger-noo," Ed returned, "it's 'noo,'—just like that.""It isn't! It said 'Ger-noo or Horned Horse' right on the cage. I guess I saw it, Ed Mason, and you weren't there, so what do you know 'bout it?""I don't care," replied Ed, doggedly, "'tain't 'ger-noo.'"Susy puckered up her face and seemed about to cry, but Flossie Mason remarked hurriedly: "Never mind, Susy. What was in the next cage?""Oh, there was—" and then Susy's mind jumped ahead—"there was a countryman with a big umbreller an' justas the lady was goin' to dive into the water he came along right in front of us an' said he'd give any one three cents for a seat, but of course no one would give him a seat, 'cos they cost seventy-five cents, an' he got into a fight with another countryman who was sittin' in the front row, an' tried to pull him out of his seat, an' a great, big, fat p'liceman came runnin' an' tried to arrest 'em both, an' they grabbedhiman' pulled him over to the tank, an' all three of 'em fell into the water, an' the tank was all full of 'em, swimmin' round, an' they had to stop the circus an' get 'em out!"Susy stopped for breath, and Ed Mason found time to ejaculate:—"Hoh! that was all made up! They were clowns, all of 'em!""They werenotclowns. They were dressed up just likemen!""That's all right," I put in, "they wereclowns just the same. They go round with the circus doin' that. I saw 'em do somethin' like that last summer, only there wasn't but one countryman, an' they drove 'em off in a wagon with donkeys.""They weren't clowns!" Susy stamped her foot. "Clowns have white faces, an' funny clothes, an' there were two real clowns helpin' get these men out, they stopped bein' funny an' were awful scared 'cos the p'liceman couldn't swim, an' he floated round on top of the water, an' when he got hold of the rope he was so heavy the clowns couldn't pull him out an'theyfell in, too.""That's so," said Charley Carter, with a serious countenance, as he recalled the catastrophe; "an' a man that sat in front of me said he knew the first countryman,—the one with the umbreller—he lives over in Rowley."There was a ring of truth about this which made Ed and me subside, and as Charley Carter had attracted the attention of the assemblage, he tried to hold the floor."When they got the perliceman out—" But Susy had no intention to let any one else tell the story. She took it up at that point."—he was all drownded, an' they put him down on the ground, an' begun to roll him round, an' one of the countrymen went an' got a big pop-squirt, oh, ten times bigger than any you ever saw, an' filled it with water, an' squirted it right in the p'liceman's face, an' that made him mad, an' he jumped up an' chased the countryman round the tent with his stick, an' at last the countryman ran out through the place where the horses an' riders come in, an' I don't know whether he caught him or not.""What did the other countryman do?" asked Flossie Mason."I don't know; the chariots came by then, an' I didn't see 'em after that."Joe Carter then made his first offering to the conversation."Ben Spaulding drank eight glasses of lemonade,—four pink and four yellow."The irrelevance of this bit of gossip did not make it any the less interesting to us. Instead, it gave Susy a chance to play once more her favorite rôle of prophetess of woe."Pink lemonade's made of coachyneel, an' that's deadly poison. My mother knew a boy that drank pink lemonade an' died of it.""I don't believe it," put in Harry Fletcher.And he added, in a tremulous tone: "I drank two glasses of it."We all turned and looked at Harry,as at one who would not long be with us."How do you feel?" asked the elder Carter."All right," replied Harry; but he had a sickly expression about the mouth. He turned a little aside, and did not seem to take any further interest in the conversation."I gave two bars of pop-corn to the ellerphants," announced Susy, "but I don't like 'em very well. They're all covered with dust an' they curl their trunks at you. I—""An elephant's trunk is called his bosphorus," said Minnie, anxious to grace the occasion by a little learning.And she added: "My teacher told me so.""I just threw the corn at 'em," continued Susy, "an' they picked it up out of the hay. One of 'em held up his trunk,an' his mouth was right under it, an' a man threw peanuts into his mouth, an' the ellerphant stood that way an' let the man throw peanuts at him ever so long, an' we had to go away then, 'cos the show was goin' to begin.""You have to be careful of elephants," said Minnie. "Last year there was an elephant in the circus, an' he had whiskers on his trunk, an' Billy Mason pulled 'em, an' the elephant didn't say anything, an' didn't do anything for two or three minutes, an' then just as Billy was starting to go he swung his trunk round an' if Billy hadn't dodged quick the elephant would have killed him. An' there was a man there an' he said that if that elephant ever sees Billy again, even if it's a hundred years from now, he'll remember him, an' he'll try to hit him again with his trunk."Cheerful Susy instantly remarked:"Billy's goin' to the circus to-night. Do you s'pose that ellerphant will be there?"Billy's sister tried to take a hopeful view."Oh, this is another circus,—'tisn't the same one that was here last summer."But nothing could discourage Susy."Perhaps they've swapped ellerphants," she suggested.Harry Fletcher rose from the steps at this moment, and observed in a shaky voice, that he guessed he would go home. He walked up the garden path with rather feeble steps. We watched him,—awestruck."Perhaps it's the coachyneel in his insides," whispered Susy.We pondered over this suggestion for a few moments, and it certainly seemed reasonable. When Harry disappeared down the street, walking slowly, andholding to the fence, we decided that it was only a question of a few hours with him. The incident cast a gloom over us, which was not dispelled until Joe Carter said:—"Did you go to the side-show?""No," answered Susy; "my mother says side-shows are horrid.""Theyain't. This was great. There was a lady without any body,—just head and shoulders sitting in a glass plate, an' there was a man that would let you stick pins in him, an' there were some grave-robbing hyenas—""Poo!" said Susy, "I saw some hyenas in the animal tent, an' we stayed to the concert an'—""Yes, I know," persisted Joe Carter, "but those hyenas in the animal tent weren't grave-robbing ones. Now these,—" and he entered into some grewsome details about the hyenas that made Susyregretfully admit that the side-show must have had its good points."But there was a sea-lion," she reflected, "havin' his supper when we came out of the concert, an' he sat up on a board, an' the man tossed him fish, an' he roared lots louder than the lions, an' we saw the giraffes—""That's nothin'" said Joe; "so did I."Susy paid no attention,—she was in full swing of narration."An' there was a Happy Fam'ly of a monkey, an' a armadillo, an' a dog, an' a kangaroo, an' a porcupine, all livin' together in one cage, an' when the monkey would try to tease the kangaroo, he'd just roll himself up in a ball an'—""Who would?" interrupted Ed Mason."The kangaroo, course—just like the picture of South America in the geography."But the cynic voice of Mason was not stilled."Kangaroos don't roll themselves up in balls.""This one did.""No; that was the armadillo you were lookin' at.""My mother said it was a kangaroo, an' itwasa kangaroo, an' you'd better keep quiet an' leave me alone,—I guess my mother knows more'n you do about it."Ed sulkily muttered: "'Twa'n't a kangaroo," but Susy went on with her catalogue of beasts."There was a bore-constrictor there that can crush eight men at once,—one of the circus men told my mother so, an' she said, 'I should think you'd be afraid he might get out,—he could squeeze through the bars, couldn't he?' And the man said he was scared for his life all the time. The bore-constrictordidget out up in Lynn.""Did he crush eight men?" two or three of us asked at once."No; they lassoed him. But he may get out againany time. An' there was a hipperpottermus that you couldn't see, except one eye, 'cos he kept down in a tank of water, an' he was horrid, an,' oh! I forgot! Alice Remick had on a new dress an' she went to give an ellerphant a cookie, an' the ellerphant switched up his trunk and spattered her with mud so it spoiled her dress, an' she got both eyes stuck up with mud so she couldn't see, an' she cried so her father had to go right home without seem' any more of the circus, an'—""Did one of the elephants come in and ride round on a big velocipede?" demanded Ed Mason."No," said Susy; "but—""Did the seals play on drums, an' cymbals, an' sing?" he persisted."No; but they—""Oh, well," replied Ed, "they did at the circus last year. An' this circus only had ten elephants. Last year they had fourteen. An' last year they had a Black Tent of Myst'ries, too. I don't b'lieve this was much of a circus!"With this remark we both thought we might effectively take leave. We departed together, and as we left the garden we could still hear the shrill tones of Susy:—"—an' there was an ejjicated pig that sat up in a chair with a ruffle round his neck, an' they said he could read, but he didn't, an' one man fell out of that swing, an' we thought he was goin' to get killed, but he fell in a net an' jumped up an' kissed his hand, but my mother says theydoget killed,—often, an' there was a cinnamon bear—"As we walked by my house Ed Mason repeated his remark:—"I don't b'lieve 'twas much of a circus."My father looked suddenly over a hedge and said: "Then you couldn't arrange to go with me this evening?"We both jumped. We were startled at his voice, and there was also something in what he said that seemed to make the sun burst out of the clouds.Perhaps it was not well to judge the circus without seeing it."Because I am going," he continued, "and I should be glad of your company,—unless, of course, you are leaving for Omaha?"CHAPTER XIIIARMA PUERUMQUE CANOIn the warfare that raged through the neighborhood it invariably fell on Ed Mason and me to support lost causes.As the two smallest, we were told off to represent the English at Bunker Hill. It was a revised and thoroughly patriotic Bunker Hill, for the English never reached the top, but had to retreat under a galling fire of green apples.As Confederates, we dashed boldly but ineffectually across the valley at Gettysburg.When the honor of the Old Guard at Waterloo was in our keeping, we did not die, but we did surrender ignominiously,and were locked up in a box-stall in Peter Bailey's father's stable.After that, the allied forces, consisting of Peter, Rob Currier, Joe and Charley Carter, and Horace Winslow, basely withdrew to inspect Auntie Merrill's pears (which were nearly ripe) and left us Napoleonic veterans to wither in captivity.It was not only in struggles among ourselves that we had to drink of the bitter cup of defeat. When we banded together against the common enemy, things were not much better. Take, for instance, the time when Peter Bailey decided to turn the stable into a police station. The stalls suggested cells (there were no horses kept in them), and the success with which the Old Guard had been imprisoned after their crushing defeat at Waterloo, showed the desirability of more captives.At first things took their usual course.Ed Mason and I were informed that we were a gang of cutthroats, burglars, highway robbers, pickpockets, counterfeiters, and other kinds of ruffians, and bade to sneak about the streets. We were warned not to run too fast when the police approached to arrest us, and told that it was "no fair" to make any determined resistance.When Peter Bailey, Rob Currier, and the others dashed out of the stable, clad (in their own estimation) in blue coats and brass buttons, we were to submit to arrestad libitum.But after we had been dragged in and confined in cells a dozen or twenty times, it began to pall, even on the policemen.It had long ago become sickeningly familiar to us.To give the thing variety, new victims must be found. We were weary of the business and had ceased to feel any terrorat the prospect of confinement. We never served terms longer than thirty seconds, for we had to be released immediately in order to be arrested once more. With only two criminals in the world, the policeman's lot became a tedious one. Both prisoners and police felt that unless something happened the stable could no longer a prison make, nor wooden stalls a cage.Peter proposed to reform the whole thing. He boldly suggested that we go outside our own circles and arrest the Irish boys,—those who went in the winter to the parochial school. It would have to be done with all the majesty of the law, and that required a billy for each policeman.These were duly made out of broomsticks. With great pains a hole was burned through the top of each with a red-hot poker. Then a cord was passedthrough the hole, so the billy might be dangled and swung.We were now ready for the prisoners, and our first campaign was all that the heart could wish. We waylaid a group of boys, and, without much struggle, soon had a prisoner in each cell. After a little we let them go.They hurried off, remarking that they would get even with us.These wholesale arrests were continued for two or three days, and all went happily. It was not until a week afterward that the reckoning came. Then a crowd of the outraged prisoners found Ed Mason and me alone, fell upon us, and beat us full sore. Without the whole force of police our authority had waned, and once again it became apparent that humiliation was ever our fortune in feats of arms.It was this last straw that led to oursingular revolt on the day of the famous cowboy and Indian raid. We outraged all the proprieties, turned against the white man, and showed a criminal disregard for the cause of civilization. But for once victory rested with us. We plucked success out of failure, and found that it was good. When we had it, we declined to let it go. Force of arms had decided the issue, and we accepted its arbitrament. Argument could not move us. The worm turned, and the turning of him was terrible.A hot and languorous day in August saw the great battle of redskins and palefaces. Nothing in the weather stirred us to mighty deeds. The long afternoon had dragged on to half-past four. For two hours we had roamed the street, the gardens, and back yards. A dulness settled over things. The phœbe-bird who sat on Mr. Hawkins's woodshed reiteratedhis dismal note, as though the weariness of the dog-days had entered his very soul."Phe-e-e—be-e-e-e," he remarked, with that falling inflection on the last syllable that would dampen the spirits of a circus clown."Phe-e-e—be-e-e."Mr. Hawkins himself leaned over his gate and smoked his pipe. An ice-cart came lumbering down the street. That, at least, was interesting. We hurried to meet it, and each possessed himself of a lump of ice. Then we perched, some on my fence and some on the blue box that held the garden hose. We removed the straw and sawdust from the ice, and began to suck it.Mr. Hawkins, having taken his clay pipe from his mouth, engaged in a conversation with the driver of the ice-cart on the prospects of rain. We watchedthem languidly. They debated the question at length, until the dripping water from the ice-cart had formed three dark spots in the dusty street.Peter Bailey said: "Let's go up to Davenport's and see if the raft is there."Davenport's was a general term used to describe a field, and a pond in that field. The pond was a small affair, with no large amount of water, but a great deal of black mud. It was not without certain tremendous fascinations, however, for we believed that in one place it had no bottom.Moreover, leeches abounded.Few, if any of us, had ever seen a leech; but we were aware that if one of them attached himself to the human body, no power under Heaven could drag him off, and he would not stop his infernal work until he had drained away every drop of blood.Ed Mason and I had other reasons than the leeches for not wanting to experiment with the raft at Davenport's. Only a week before we had been capsized from that raft. We had not found the bottomless spot, nor been attacked by leeches; but we had crawled ashore in such a condition of muddiness that our reception at our respective homes had been depressing. Davenport's could get along without us for a while.Peter's suggestion fell flat. Just then Charley Carter caught sight of a spare piece of clothes-line in my side yard. He ran and seized it, shouting "Lassos!"It was a happy idea. The boundless West, the prairies, herds of buffaloes, roving Indians, cowboys—these were the visions that excited us in an instant, especially the cowboys.What a life is theirs—to gallop forever with cracking revolvers and whirlinglassos; to capture the mighty buffalo, and bring down the hated Indian!Why should we not do that?Mr. Hawkins, next door, might continue to smoke his pipe to the monotonous song of the phœbe. For us, the career of danger far beyond the Mississippi; the life that knows no fear on the wind-swept prairie!A lack of any more rope in my yard, and my firm refusal to have the clothes-lines cut down entire, made us depart to Bailey's stable, where desperate enterprises were set on foot.We made the lassos and drew upon our armory for wooden revolvers. These are thoroughly satisfactory weapons if you wave them in the air and shout "Bang!" at frequent intervals.But immediately Peter Bailey's genius for military organization asserted itself. He and Rob Currier, the two Carters,and Horace Winslow would be the cowboys. The hostile Indians must be impersonated, of course, by Ed Mason and myself. What was the sense of having cowboys without Indians for them to destroy?So we should have no lassos, nor yet revolvers, but only tomahawks.Right here I drew the line.Ed backed me up, and we announced our ultimatum. Indians we would be, and lassoless we would go, but to ask us to refrain from carrying revolvers was demanding too much. We stuck out for revolvers, and intimated that a refusal would cause us to withdraw from all operations that afternoon.So the concession was made.Even then we knew that the adventure could end in only one fashion. We should be chased, hunted down, shot, lassoed, scalped, and finally burned at thestake, during an imposing war-dance; for these cowboys were fully enamored of Indian methods of warfare when turned against the Indians themselves.We were to belong to a dangerous tribe, recently discovered by Peter Bailey, and calledSigh-ux. We agreed to start on our barbaric career from the stable. From there to the street corner we should have full license to pillage and destroy. In order to give the avenging cowboys due provocation, we were to commit certain outrages on the way. These might include burning down the Universalist Church on the corner and ringing the door-bell at Miss Whipple's private school.Once we had turned into Oak Street, where I lived, we would have to look to our safety. The cowboys would be on our track.So off we went.In a few moments, ignited by shots from our revolvers, the Universalist Church was wrapped in flames. We rang Miss Whipple's door-bell, and, as an additional atrocity, threatened her cat with tomahawks. Then we turned up Oak Street, and knew in a moment, by the yells that arose, that the cowboys had burst out of their encampment and were after us.I suppose Ed shared my feelings of despair as we ran up the street. The youngest cowboy was two years older than either of us; they were all swifter runners, and they outnumbered us by three. In a few moments it would all be over. Our brief season of bloodshed and destruction was past, and it now only remained for us to be slaughtered at the cowboys' will.It was so tiresome!Our defeats at Bunker Hill, at Gettysburg,at Waterloo, and on countless other stricken fields recurred to us as we panted along. If we could only turn the tables in some way!Instinctively we hurried toward the side yard of my house, climbed the fence, and tumbled over. We landed on the blue box that held the garden hose. The cowboys were approaching rapidly, with loud cries and much banging of revolvers. Already Horace Winslow was shouting that he had shot me five times, and that I must fall dead instantly. In a moment, we knew, they would be over the fence after us.Moved by the same thought, we opened the blue box. The hose was connected with the tap at the side of the house. Ed turned the tap, while I, standing on the edge of the box and looking over the fence into the street, swept the road with a stream of cold water.Horace stopped abruptly in his rush toward the fence, and Joe Carter, who had halted about thirty feet away to pour a volley of bullets after us, executed a swift movement to the rear.The others paused where they were. Tomahawks, scalping-knives, spears, and revolvers—none of these would have checked the bold cowboys for a moment; but this stream of water was another matter.It does not do for any cowboy, however desperate, to go home to his parents with his clothes soaking wet. Such events often mean an enforced retirement for a day from the field of glory."Whatcher doing?" screamed Peter Bailey. "That ain't fair!"We felt that he was right. This garden hose suddenly springing out of the Western prairie was a false note. Artistically it jarred. It was like bringing a school-teacher into fairyland.But we did not stop the stream. For once we saw the militant Peter, his fearless lieutenant, Rob Currier, and all the rest of the ever victorious army held in check. No feeling that we were violating the fitness of things could detract from the sweetness of the moment. If eternal defeat had not embittered us in the past, we might have been more artistic and less human on this occasion. But in an instant, and as by direct intervention of the gods, our retreat had been turned into triumph, and that we did not intend to relinquish.Woe, woe, to the vanquished!"Aw, that's agreatthing to do!" sneered Rob Currier."Youcan'tdo it!" shouted Joe Carter in a state of great excitement; "Indians don't have hose!""That's all right," I replied, "these Indians have got some. They got itfrom a settler's cabin, or—or—orsomehow. Anyhow, they've got it.""But 'tain't fair," reiterated Peter Bailey."'Tain't fair for five of you to be always masserkerin' us," remarked my fellow Indian.Peter was disposed to bitterness. He did not enjoy having his military plans frustrated in such a manner."You're only a couple of babies,—you're afraid to be masserkered," he said.Naturally, the babies invited him to come right on and do his massacring."I will, if you'll turn off that hose,—I don't want to get all wet.""Course we won't turn it off, an' if you're afraid to come, why, you're beaten, an' you must surrender, an' be tomahawked, an' burned at the stake, an' have blazin' pine splinters stuck in your flesh. Will you do it?"They firmly declined to become parties to any such attractive proceedings."Come on," said Joe Carter; "let 'em stay there and play with the hose. They don't know how to be Indians, anyway. We'll go back to the barn, and lasso buffaloes.""Come on," said Peter, and the whole band of cowboys departed.Then the victorious Indians, the two triumphantSigh-ux, danced a short war-dance, and whooped two or three war-whoops,—so loud that Mr. Hawkins opened his gate, and came out to the sidewalk to see what was the matter.

CHAPTER XTHE FLIGHTThe day before the circus found me at home again. Without delay I set out to find Ed Mason, Charley Carter, and any of the others who could give me the latest information on the topic that absorbed us all.For, since the Fourth of July, there had been nothing so important as the approach of this circus. For two weeks we had studied the posters. Whether the hippopotamus would in very truth have a mouth somewhat larger than the door of the barn to which his portrait was affixed; whether the head of the giraffe would actually soar above the clouds, as represented; and whether abeautiful lady would indeed stand on the tip of an elephant's trunk and airily juggle three baby lions and a Japanese parasol—these problems had vexed us for fourteen long days.Charley Carter stuck out for the literal accuracy of the posters."'Cos if it wasn't so, they wouldn't dare to print 'em—it's against the law."This was his argument. Truth to say, none of us were strongly inclined to oppose him. We were more than willing to accept the pictures as photographic.This point decided without further discussion, we could devote our meditations to the circus itself. We could lay our plans and dream our dreams in all felicity.To hear some of these plans I started toward the Carters', and fell in with Ed Mason on the way. In his garden we found Charley Carter, who told us of his own and other boys' projects.Rob Currier would rise, it seemed, before three o'clock on the morrow, and go with his father to watch the unloading of the circus. Our desire to join in this expedition subsided when Charley related his adventures at a similar treat the year before. It was true that he had observed the dim but mountainous forms of elephants and camels outlined against the dawn, but he had also slipped on the car track and so sprained his ankle that he had to forego, not only the great street parade at 10a.m., but the show itself in the afternoon. The possibility of any such tragic occurrence made Ed Mason and me decide to let the circus unload as best it could without our assistance.But on this, the very day before the circus would exhibit, we were smitten by an unexpected grief. Charley Carter started the ball of trouble rolling."Are you fellers goin' to the side-show?" he asked.And he added, complacently, "Iam."We had not considered the matter. We supposed we were going. The pictures representing the attractions of the side-show recurred to us, and straightway it became an imperative necessity that we find out if we were going to see these wonders.We repaired to our respective homes, but were soon back at the place of meeting with dolorous faces. The parental mind in the House of Edwards was at one with that in the House of Mason. The street parade in the morning we should see, and we should be suitably provided with red or green balloons for the more complete enjoyment of the spectacle. To the afternoon performance we should go, pockets filled with the peanuts of Mr. Mazzoni, who sold much better peanuts than the half-baked things supplied by the circus venders. These wemight share, if we felt so disposed, with the elephants. Pink lemonade we shouldnotimbibe, as it was "miserable stuff." And the side-show we should not enter, as it was "vulgar."Such were the terms of the ultimatum. To article one, concerning the street parade and the balloons, we signified our assent. To the second article, concerning peanuts, we also assented. Article three, which forbade pink lemonade, was accepted with the understanding that we yielded to superior force. But to the final article, prohibiting the side-show, we entered an indignant protest.It was promptly overruled.Can one conceive a more irrational position? What was this thing, vulgarity, which before now had stood in our path? Had the extra cost of admission to the side-show been the cause for the refusal, we could haveunderstood, even while regretting, the parental attitude.But vulgarity—what was it?To us the different exhibits of the show, as portrayed upon the posters, were both curious and wonderful. Were we not men and philosophers, passengers through life, and observers of the human show? Was it not our bounden duty to see all that was strange and marvelous in this great world? Well, then, by what right did our tyrants act? We were of the human race, and held none of its members alien.Though it might be questioned if the dog-faced boy, the genuine mermaid, the lady with a body like a serpent, and the man of india-rubber skin, came unreservedly into the category of human creatures—still such objections were mere quibbles. A golden opportunity for delight and self-improvement wasbeing denied us, and for the flimsiest of reasons, so we straightway raised the standard of revolt and nailed it to the mast."Let's run away!" said Ed Mason.Really, it seemed the only possible suggestion. When you have simply got to reduce your hard-hearted parents to contrition, milk-and-water methods are useless. A blow must be struck—sharp and decisive. Then they will recognize your value, be properly humbled, and come around to a correct view of things.Running away from home is at once the boldest of strokes and the most subtle form of revenge. It asserts your independence at the same time that it reduces your parents to humility.We decided upon it, and then and there fixed the hour of five that afternoon as the time of our departure from home and kindred. We would sever all the tiesthat bound us to civilization, and plunge into the trackless wilds.Prompt to the hour, I met the resolute Mason on the farther side of the frog pond. He was simply yet appropriately equipped with a cap-pistol, and two bananas for provender while crossing the wilderness.I carried a light sling-shot and a package of soda-biscuit. Game—partridges, antelopes, and other creatures—might be slainen route; while our thirst could be slaked at the brooks and streams.We set out in silence, as became our high purpose. In a little over an hour we had penetrated the desert as far as Brown's ice-house, and there we decided to camp for the night. We had encountered no antelopes, buffaloes, nor other animals, except a herd of cows belonging to Mr. Haskell. They were being driven home by a small boy.In a little grove of trees back of the ice-house we sat down and made our supper of bananas and soda-biscuit. The ice-pond provided water to wash down the meal. We faced the west, and received full in our eyes the rays of the sun, now rapidly approaching the earth.For a time we beheld the spectacle of the sunset, though our minds were not upon it. We conversed upon the possibilities of adventure in the Far West, upon the circus which we were leaving behind, and, most of all, of the excitement probably now rife in our homes. Ed Mason, it appeared, had left a note behind him to inform his family of our departure, of the utter folly of any attempt at pursuit, and of the fact that our first stopping-place would be Omaha.Why he fixed upon Omaha, except that it is remote from our home on the Atlantic coast, I am unable to explain.By this time, we agreed, our families had begun to wish that they had treated us better in the matter of that side-show.Some low hills rose upon the western horizon, and the sun disappeared behind them not long after we had finished supper. It cast a golden outline on a strange procession of dark gray clouds which now came out of the north and moved slowly across the place lately occupied by the ball of fire. They followed one after the other like uncouth animals—the dromedary with his hump was there, the elephant, and other figures, longer and lower, like serpents and lizards.We watched them without speaking.A faint breeze moved the branches of the apple tree over our heads. It was perceptibly darker now, and not easy to make out the details of the fields and meadows. Two men passed along the dusty road on the other side of the stonewall. They did not notice us, but we heard them discussing a dog after they had vanished from sight. The sky in the east and north turned rosy, and its colors were reflected in the pond. A man with a lantern moved about Mr. Brown's barnyard for a while, then disappeared indoors, and presently a light shone from one of the windows of the house.The glow in the west; the pageant of clouds, whose fiery edges had grown dimmer; the immensity of the overarching sky, still turquoise-colored—all these, together with the disappearance of the familiar landscape, conspired to make the two outlaws under the apple tree feel rather diminutive. The swallows had ceased their flight and gone to bed. Two or three robins screamed excitedly for a while, and darted in apparent hurry from tree to tree. Finally they became quiet, except for an occasional outburst of twittering.Two bats began to flutter about, with their high, thin, squeaking cries like the opening and shutting of a new pair of scissors.The darkness was far advanced; three or four stars were visible, and the pink tint had faded from the sky. The pond gleamed like silver, but its banks were black and mysterious."We ought to start awful early in the mornin'," said Ed Mason; "p'r'aps we better go to bed now."He began this remark in a voice that sounded fearfully loud, but said the closing words in a whisper."P'r'aps we had," I agreed,—also in a whisper.There was no one within hearing: it seemed strange that we should have to whisper.In another way, however, it appeared quite proper to whisper.I was reflecting that, aside from a night spent in a tent with two or three other boys, in Peter Bailey's garden, I had never slept outdoors. It also occurred to me that we had no bedclothes nor pillows. We had blankets that night in the tent, and made pillows out of piles of hay. The hay tickled the back of your neck somewhat, but otherwise it was all right."We might sleep in Brown's barn," I suggested."That's so," Ed replied.Then an afterthought struck him."No; we couldn't do that.""I don't see why not.""Why, of course we couldn't. There ain't any barns on the prairies!"I had never thought of that.The objection was unanswerable."Besides," pursued Ed, with something like a shudder, "tramps sleep in these barns."I abandoned the plan hastily."Could we get some hay from the barn?" I wondered; "there won't be any tramps in there now, will there?""I guess not. We needn't go all the way in,—we can reach some by just openin' the door."He was on the point of rising when another objection occurred to me."Maybe Mr. Brown wouldn't like it.""He hasn't any right to say anything 'bout it. In time of war they take what they want, don't they? They make a forcedlevi."This subject of the forced "levi" had been discussed amongst us at some length in connection with Mr. Hawkins' cherries. Jimmy Toppan and Rob Currier had the impression that it had something to do with a clothing dealer on Main Street."Anyway," Ed remarked, "we can put the hay back in the morning."This seemed to be a reasonable solution in order to keep our career as outlaws on a moral basis. So we arose and started cautiously for the barn. Before we had taken five steps in that direction, a voice spoke. It was a deep, resonant voice, charged with authority and menace. The word or phrase that it uttered was not, it seemed to us, especially relevant, but there could be no mistaking the import of its accent and tone. It came from the earth, from the sky, from nowhere in particular and from everywhere in general.It said: "Ker-r-rum!"Having said this, it was instantly silent. The final syllable ended suddenly, but yet with a twang as if some giant had touched the string of a great instrument.The hush that ensued was appalling.I had sat down, as if struck to the earth, the moment I heard the awful sound, and now I tried to address Ed Mason, who was leaning faintly against a tree. But I made three efforts before my vocal apparatus responded."Wh-what was it?" I asked.He turned toward me, and said something in a whisper, which I could not make out. I sat still for a moment longer, then hitched myself toward him and repeated my question.But he could not answer me.Neither could he say whence the sound came. That was the horrible part of it—the vague immensity of the note. We remained motionless for what we thought a long time.Then Ed suggested that we move our camp. Immediately the problem arose: in which direction should we move? While we deliberated, in whispers,suddenly again, ominous and terrible:—"K'r-rum!"That sufficed. In three seconds we were over the wall and running at full speed along the highway. At the crossroads, an eighth of a mile away, we saw the lights of a buggy. It contained certain male relatives."Hello, boys! Going home?"We admitted that that was our destination.

THE FLIGHT

The day before the circus found me at home again. Without delay I set out to find Ed Mason, Charley Carter, and any of the others who could give me the latest information on the topic that absorbed us all.

For, since the Fourth of July, there had been nothing so important as the approach of this circus. For two weeks we had studied the posters. Whether the hippopotamus would in very truth have a mouth somewhat larger than the door of the barn to which his portrait was affixed; whether the head of the giraffe would actually soar above the clouds, as represented; and whether abeautiful lady would indeed stand on the tip of an elephant's trunk and airily juggle three baby lions and a Japanese parasol—these problems had vexed us for fourteen long days.

Charley Carter stuck out for the literal accuracy of the posters.

"'Cos if it wasn't so, they wouldn't dare to print 'em—it's against the law."

This was his argument. Truth to say, none of us were strongly inclined to oppose him. We were more than willing to accept the pictures as photographic.

This point decided without further discussion, we could devote our meditations to the circus itself. We could lay our plans and dream our dreams in all felicity.

To hear some of these plans I started toward the Carters', and fell in with Ed Mason on the way. In his garden we found Charley Carter, who told us of his own and other boys' projects.

Rob Currier would rise, it seemed, before three o'clock on the morrow, and go with his father to watch the unloading of the circus. Our desire to join in this expedition subsided when Charley related his adventures at a similar treat the year before. It was true that he had observed the dim but mountainous forms of elephants and camels outlined against the dawn, but he had also slipped on the car track and so sprained his ankle that he had to forego, not only the great street parade at 10a.m., but the show itself in the afternoon. The possibility of any such tragic occurrence made Ed Mason and me decide to let the circus unload as best it could without our assistance.

But on this, the very day before the circus would exhibit, we were smitten by an unexpected grief. Charley Carter started the ball of trouble rolling.

"Are you fellers goin' to the side-show?" he asked.

And he added, complacently, "Iam."

We had not considered the matter. We supposed we were going. The pictures representing the attractions of the side-show recurred to us, and straightway it became an imperative necessity that we find out if we were going to see these wonders.

We repaired to our respective homes, but were soon back at the place of meeting with dolorous faces. The parental mind in the House of Edwards was at one with that in the House of Mason. The street parade in the morning we should see, and we should be suitably provided with red or green balloons for the more complete enjoyment of the spectacle. To the afternoon performance we should go, pockets filled with the peanuts of Mr. Mazzoni, who sold much better peanuts than the half-baked things supplied by the circus venders. These wemight share, if we felt so disposed, with the elephants. Pink lemonade we shouldnotimbibe, as it was "miserable stuff." And the side-show we should not enter, as it was "vulgar."

Such were the terms of the ultimatum. To article one, concerning the street parade and the balloons, we signified our assent. To the second article, concerning peanuts, we also assented. Article three, which forbade pink lemonade, was accepted with the understanding that we yielded to superior force. But to the final article, prohibiting the side-show, we entered an indignant protest.

It was promptly overruled.

Can one conceive a more irrational position? What was this thing, vulgarity, which before now had stood in our path? Had the extra cost of admission to the side-show been the cause for the refusal, we could haveunderstood, even while regretting, the parental attitude.

But vulgarity—what was it?

To us the different exhibits of the show, as portrayed upon the posters, were both curious and wonderful. Were we not men and philosophers, passengers through life, and observers of the human show? Was it not our bounden duty to see all that was strange and marvelous in this great world? Well, then, by what right did our tyrants act? We were of the human race, and held none of its members alien.

Though it might be questioned if the dog-faced boy, the genuine mermaid, the lady with a body like a serpent, and the man of india-rubber skin, came unreservedly into the category of human creatures—still such objections were mere quibbles. A golden opportunity for delight and self-improvement wasbeing denied us, and for the flimsiest of reasons, so we straightway raised the standard of revolt and nailed it to the mast.

"Let's run away!" said Ed Mason.

Really, it seemed the only possible suggestion. When you have simply got to reduce your hard-hearted parents to contrition, milk-and-water methods are useless. A blow must be struck—sharp and decisive. Then they will recognize your value, be properly humbled, and come around to a correct view of things.

Running away from home is at once the boldest of strokes and the most subtle form of revenge. It asserts your independence at the same time that it reduces your parents to humility.

We decided upon it, and then and there fixed the hour of five that afternoon as the time of our departure from home and kindred. We would sever all the tiesthat bound us to civilization, and plunge into the trackless wilds.

Prompt to the hour, I met the resolute Mason on the farther side of the frog pond. He was simply yet appropriately equipped with a cap-pistol, and two bananas for provender while crossing the wilderness.

I carried a light sling-shot and a package of soda-biscuit. Game—partridges, antelopes, and other creatures—might be slainen route; while our thirst could be slaked at the brooks and streams.

We set out in silence, as became our high purpose. In a little over an hour we had penetrated the desert as far as Brown's ice-house, and there we decided to camp for the night. We had encountered no antelopes, buffaloes, nor other animals, except a herd of cows belonging to Mr. Haskell. They were being driven home by a small boy.

In a little grove of trees back of the ice-house we sat down and made our supper of bananas and soda-biscuit. The ice-pond provided water to wash down the meal. We faced the west, and received full in our eyes the rays of the sun, now rapidly approaching the earth.

For a time we beheld the spectacle of the sunset, though our minds were not upon it. We conversed upon the possibilities of adventure in the Far West, upon the circus which we were leaving behind, and, most of all, of the excitement probably now rife in our homes. Ed Mason, it appeared, had left a note behind him to inform his family of our departure, of the utter folly of any attempt at pursuit, and of the fact that our first stopping-place would be Omaha.

Why he fixed upon Omaha, except that it is remote from our home on the Atlantic coast, I am unable to explain.

By this time, we agreed, our families had begun to wish that they had treated us better in the matter of that side-show.

Some low hills rose upon the western horizon, and the sun disappeared behind them not long after we had finished supper. It cast a golden outline on a strange procession of dark gray clouds which now came out of the north and moved slowly across the place lately occupied by the ball of fire. They followed one after the other like uncouth animals—the dromedary with his hump was there, the elephant, and other figures, longer and lower, like serpents and lizards.

We watched them without speaking.

A faint breeze moved the branches of the apple tree over our heads. It was perceptibly darker now, and not easy to make out the details of the fields and meadows. Two men passed along the dusty road on the other side of the stonewall. They did not notice us, but we heard them discussing a dog after they had vanished from sight. The sky in the east and north turned rosy, and its colors were reflected in the pond. A man with a lantern moved about Mr. Brown's barnyard for a while, then disappeared indoors, and presently a light shone from one of the windows of the house.

The glow in the west; the pageant of clouds, whose fiery edges had grown dimmer; the immensity of the overarching sky, still turquoise-colored—all these, together with the disappearance of the familiar landscape, conspired to make the two outlaws under the apple tree feel rather diminutive. The swallows had ceased their flight and gone to bed. Two or three robins screamed excitedly for a while, and darted in apparent hurry from tree to tree. Finally they became quiet, except for an occasional outburst of twittering.Two bats began to flutter about, with their high, thin, squeaking cries like the opening and shutting of a new pair of scissors.

The darkness was far advanced; three or four stars were visible, and the pink tint had faded from the sky. The pond gleamed like silver, but its banks were black and mysterious.

"We ought to start awful early in the mornin'," said Ed Mason; "p'r'aps we better go to bed now."

He began this remark in a voice that sounded fearfully loud, but said the closing words in a whisper.

"P'r'aps we had," I agreed,—also in a whisper.

There was no one within hearing: it seemed strange that we should have to whisper.

In another way, however, it appeared quite proper to whisper.

I was reflecting that, aside from a night spent in a tent with two or three other boys, in Peter Bailey's garden, I had never slept outdoors. It also occurred to me that we had no bedclothes nor pillows. We had blankets that night in the tent, and made pillows out of piles of hay. The hay tickled the back of your neck somewhat, but otherwise it was all right.

"We might sleep in Brown's barn," I suggested.

"That's so," Ed replied.

Then an afterthought struck him.

"No; we couldn't do that."

"I don't see why not."

"Why, of course we couldn't. There ain't any barns on the prairies!"

I had never thought of that.

The objection was unanswerable.

"Besides," pursued Ed, with something like a shudder, "tramps sleep in these barns."

I abandoned the plan hastily.

"Could we get some hay from the barn?" I wondered; "there won't be any tramps in there now, will there?"

"I guess not. We needn't go all the way in,—we can reach some by just openin' the door."

He was on the point of rising when another objection occurred to me.

"Maybe Mr. Brown wouldn't like it."

"He hasn't any right to say anything 'bout it. In time of war they take what they want, don't they? They make a forcedlevi."

This subject of the forced "levi" had been discussed amongst us at some length in connection with Mr. Hawkins' cherries. Jimmy Toppan and Rob Currier had the impression that it had something to do with a clothing dealer on Main Street.

"Anyway," Ed remarked, "we can put the hay back in the morning."

This seemed to be a reasonable solution in order to keep our career as outlaws on a moral basis. So we arose and started cautiously for the barn. Before we had taken five steps in that direction, a voice spoke. It was a deep, resonant voice, charged with authority and menace. The word or phrase that it uttered was not, it seemed to us, especially relevant, but there could be no mistaking the import of its accent and tone. It came from the earth, from the sky, from nowhere in particular and from everywhere in general.

It said: "Ker-r-rum!"

Having said this, it was instantly silent. The final syllable ended suddenly, but yet with a twang as if some giant had touched the string of a great instrument.

The hush that ensued was appalling.I had sat down, as if struck to the earth, the moment I heard the awful sound, and now I tried to address Ed Mason, who was leaning faintly against a tree. But I made three efforts before my vocal apparatus responded.

"Wh-what was it?" I asked.

He turned toward me, and said something in a whisper, which I could not make out. I sat still for a moment longer, then hitched myself toward him and repeated my question.

But he could not answer me.

Neither could he say whence the sound came. That was the horrible part of it—the vague immensity of the note. We remained motionless for what we thought a long time.

Then Ed suggested that we move our camp. Immediately the problem arose: in which direction should we move? While we deliberated, in whispers,suddenly again, ominous and terrible:—

"K'r-rum!"

That sufficed. In three seconds we were over the wall and running at full speed along the highway. At the crossroads, an eighth of a mile away, we saw the lights of a buggy. It contained certain male relatives.

"Hello, boys! Going home?"

We admitted that that was our destination.

CHAPTER XIUP LIKE A ROCKETOn the morning following our return from the flight, there was an uncomfortable chill about my house. When I met Ed Mason, I found that he had noticed the same coolness in his home. Nothing was said, no reproaches were cast upon us for our trip towards Omaha and the great West, but I understood, somehow, that I should not be invited to attend the circus in the afternoon. The necessary half-dollar did not make its appearance. Ed reported a similar state of affairs.This was simply tragic.We took counsel, and decided that in Horace Winslow, if anywhere, lay our salvation. He was a person of stratagem,of plans and plots, and he might be able to show us a way out of trouble. Moreover, he had let drop some mysterious hints of influence which he expected to possess with the circus people. More than a week before he had darkly suggested that he might be connected in no inconspicuous position with the coming show.His utterances returned to us now."Let's go over and see him," I suggested."All right," Ed Mason agreed; "or, say, you're goin' over to stand on the bank steps at ten o'clock to see the parade, ain't you?""Yes.""Well, we'll see Horace there, sure,—he always goes."And it was so decided.Before ten o'clock we all set out for Main Street,—Ed Mason, Rob Currier,Peter Bailey, and myself, together with an unavoidable convoy of small sisters and other relatives. The streets had that appearance which circus day and no other always brought. Toy balloon men and sellers of paper whirligigs wandered up and down, and strange looking persons, clutching children with one hand and paper bags of luncheon with the other, stood or sat on the grass bankings, edge-stones, and lawns, in front of the houses.Through a sort of family privilege enjoyed by Peter Bailey, and always exercised on such occasions, we took up our position on the steps of the Merrimack Bank. Mr. Vincent, Horace's uncle, could be seen at his duties inside the bank, but he did not come out. Circus processions did not interest him.Horace was unaccountably absent.There were two or three false alarms, two or three mistaken announcementsby members of the crowd: "Here they come!" Twice we thought we heard in the distance the faint blare of brass instruments, as well as a deeper sound which Ed Mason declared to be the roaring of lions.But at last they did come. Majestically, and with clashing cymbals, they descended Main Street.At the head was a gorgeous wagon carrying a brass band. The men were in red coats, and they blew their trombones and cornets and beat their drums with the utmost vigor. A cavalcade followed, and then came four or five large and gayly painted carts, containing, so the pictures and legends indicated, the blood-sweating behemoth, the laughing hyenas, two Nubian lions, and the man-eating tiger of Bengal. But the carts were all closed, and the blood-sweating behemoth, if he were there, gave no sign.Nor did the other animals. We had to be contented with their painted likenesses on the sides of the carts."Do you suppose they're inside there, now?" asked Rob Currier's small sister in a hushed voice."Of course they are," Ed Mason assured her scornfully; "I saw one of the hyenas through a crack when they went by.""Look!" said Peter Bailey. "Here comes the steam calliope!"Sure enough, there it was. A man in overalls was energetically shovelling coal into the boiler, and a charming lady with very pink cheeks sat at the keys. As the thing came opposite us, she began to play, and every ear in the vicinity was split as with ten thousand steam whistles hooting out "Climbing Up Dem Golden Stairs." The noise was deafening, and each boy of us resolved that if he everbecame rich, the first thing he would buy would be one of those delightful contrivances. Then he had only to hire a man to shovel coal into it, and he might sit all day and dispense music for miles in every direction.The calliope passed, as all beautiful things do, and our attention was distracted by a herd of elephants, who slouched along, dusty and morose. Then came some more carts of animals, and then a brilliant zebra led by a boy in a red coat.This boy looked up at us, grinned joyfully, and waved his hand."Why, it's Horace Winslow!" some one exclaimed.It was indeed Horace. The red coat was evidently intended for a fair-sized man, for it hung below Horace's knees and gave him the appearance of wearing a single garment like a tunic. On hishead was rakishly perched a small red cap, similar to those affected by the monkeys who travel with hand-organs. Horace's face was warm and perspiring, and a good deal of dust, aroused by the elephants and the carts, had adhered to it. But it was plainly the supreme moment of his life, and no fussy considerations of cleanliness annoyed him in the least. Was he not a feature in a genuine circus procession, marching with the clown, with real elephants, and leading a proud and striped zebra with his own hand?He grinned again, and waved his hand to us once more. We were petrified with amazement and envy. At that moment Mr. Vincent, cool and placid in seersucker clothes, stepped out of the bank. He was going down the street on some business errand, and he paused for a moment and gazed indulgently at the procession."There's Horace, Mr. Vincent!" we all shouted.We were determined that he should know of this honor that had come upon his family. It was a fine thing to be cashier of the Merrimack Bank, the trusted guardian of thousands of dollars, but was not this mere dust and ashes compared with leading a zebra in a circus procession? If each generation of his family were to rise in this manner, where might they not end?Mr. Vincent smiled at us, and said: "What?""There's Horace!" we all screamed, pointing our fingers; "don't you see him? Leading the zebra!"By this time Mr. Vincent had adjusted his eye-glasses, and as he looked in the direction of his glorified nephew, that personage turned around for one final grin and wave of the hand. The changein expression on the visage of the bank-cashier was extraordinary. From mild benignity it turned to purple-faced consternation."What?" he gasped; "what?My Horace?"Then he descended the steps swiftly, and plunged into the crowd on the sidewalk. Apparently he was bent on overtaking his nephew, but the throng blocked his way, and Horace had turned the corner of the next street before his uncle could reach him.Ed Mason and I did not waste time watching him, for we were discussing a plan. It seemed to promise success, and we only waited for the end of the procession to pass before putting it into operation. Then we detached ourselves from the others, and hastened through Main Street to Haskell's Field, where the tents were pitched for the great show inthe afternoon. The field was nearly a mile distant, and the leaders of the procession had already begun to arrive when we got there. We wormed ourselves in between carts and piles of hay, amongst horses, venders of lemonade and peanuts, and dozens of boys and men. Horace and his zebra soon arrived and we sought him out in the crowd."I came out here at five o'clock this morning," said he, "an' I helped bring water for the ellerphants, an' hay for the horses, an' then that man over there who took the zebra gave me five cents, an' said if I'd lead the zebra in the parade he'd give me a free ticket for the show this afternoon. Tommy Cheney got inside an' helped a man feed the kangaroos, an'—""Do you s'pose we can water the ellerphants or anything?""I dunno; it's nearly twelve o'clocknow, ain't it? I've got to go home an' get dinner so's to be back here at one, if that man should want anything more, an' you can come back with me then, if you want to, an' p'r'aps you can do something an' get a ticket."We wanted no other invitation than this. We went back to town with Horace, determined to follow his plan. Like him we would demand our dinners early, and return to the circus field at one o'clock, under his guidance. Doubtless his influence with the zebra man would be all that was needed.Horace had given over the red coat and hat (but not the dust on his face) to the circus men, and he arrived excited and dishevelled at his uncle's house. He left us at the gate, but we paused an instant, for Mrs. Vincent stood on the veranda to welcome him."I want dinner right away, Aunt,'cos I've got to get back to the circus by one o'clock, an'—""Horace Winslow, you come into the house this instant, and take off every stitch, and get into the bath-tub. Look at your face! Get up to the bath-room, quick! The tub is all filled—""Oh, Aunt, I can't stop to fool with taking baths,—I want dinner, 'cos I've got to get back there at one o'clock.""Get back there indeed! Not one step out of this house do you go this afternoon. Take off your jacket before you come into the house,—did you have it on under that horrible red thing? Give it to me,—it's going to be burned up as quick as I can do it. Quick!""Oh, Aunt, I've promised the zebra trainer to be back there,—why they're dependin' on me! I've got—""Not one step! Do you hear? Now,upstairs with you, and into that bath-tub!"Horace vanished into the house, followed by his aunt. Ed Mason and I looked disconsolately at each other, and started wearily toward our homes. If any one's influence were going to admit us to the circus, it was not Horace Winslow's.In the parade he had flashed before our eyes like a rocket, and his descent from glory had been as sudden as the stick. He had declined in power; from a magnificent zebra leader he had become an insignificant atom in a bath-tub. Even before we were out of hearing he uttered a loud howl.And this was followed by a monitory voice:—"Horace!"

UP LIKE A ROCKET

On the morning following our return from the flight, there was an uncomfortable chill about my house. When I met Ed Mason, I found that he had noticed the same coolness in his home. Nothing was said, no reproaches were cast upon us for our trip towards Omaha and the great West, but I understood, somehow, that I should not be invited to attend the circus in the afternoon. The necessary half-dollar did not make its appearance. Ed reported a similar state of affairs.

This was simply tragic.

We took counsel, and decided that in Horace Winslow, if anywhere, lay our salvation. He was a person of stratagem,of plans and plots, and he might be able to show us a way out of trouble. Moreover, he had let drop some mysterious hints of influence which he expected to possess with the circus people. More than a week before he had darkly suggested that he might be connected in no inconspicuous position with the coming show.

His utterances returned to us now.

"Let's go over and see him," I suggested.

"All right," Ed Mason agreed; "or, say, you're goin' over to stand on the bank steps at ten o'clock to see the parade, ain't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, we'll see Horace there, sure,—he always goes."

And it was so decided.

Before ten o'clock we all set out for Main Street,—Ed Mason, Rob Currier,Peter Bailey, and myself, together with an unavoidable convoy of small sisters and other relatives. The streets had that appearance which circus day and no other always brought. Toy balloon men and sellers of paper whirligigs wandered up and down, and strange looking persons, clutching children with one hand and paper bags of luncheon with the other, stood or sat on the grass bankings, edge-stones, and lawns, in front of the houses.

Through a sort of family privilege enjoyed by Peter Bailey, and always exercised on such occasions, we took up our position on the steps of the Merrimack Bank. Mr. Vincent, Horace's uncle, could be seen at his duties inside the bank, but he did not come out. Circus processions did not interest him.

Horace was unaccountably absent.

There were two or three false alarms, two or three mistaken announcementsby members of the crowd: "Here they come!" Twice we thought we heard in the distance the faint blare of brass instruments, as well as a deeper sound which Ed Mason declared to be the roaring of lions.

But at last they did come. Majestically, and with clashing cymbals, they descended Main Street.

At the head was a gorgeous wagon carrying a brass band. The men were in red coats, and they blew their trombones and cornets and beat their drums with the utmost vigor. A cavalcade followed, and then came four or five large and gayly painted carts, containing, so the pictures and legends indicated, the blood-sweating behemoth, the laughing hyenas, two Nubian lions, and the man-eating tiger of Bengal. But the carts were all closed, and the blood-sweating behemoth, if he were there, gave no sign.Nor did the other animals. We had to be contented with their painted likenesses on the sides of the carts.

"Do you suppose they're inside there, now?" asked Rob Currier's small sister in a hushed voice.

"Of course they are," Ed Mason assured her scornfully; "I saw one of the hyenas through a crack when they went by."

"Look!" said Peter Bailey. "Here comes the steam calliope!"

Sure enough, there it was. A man in overalls was energetically shovelling coal into the boiler, and a charming lady with very pink cheeks sat at the keys. As the thing came opposite us, she began to play, and every ear in the vicinity was split as with ten thousand steam whistles hooting out "Climbing Up Dem Golden Stairs." The noise was deafening, and each boy of us resolved that if he everbecame rich, the first thing he would buy would be one of those delightful contrivances. Then he had only to hire a man to shovel coal into it, and he might sit all day and dispense music for miles in every direction.

The calliope passed, as all beautiful things do, and our attention was distracted by a herd of elephants, who slouched along, dusty and morose. Then came some more carts of animals, and then a brilliant zebra led by a boy in a red coat.

This boy looked up at us, grinned joyfully, and waved his hand.

"Why, it's Horace Winslow!" some one exclaimed.

It was indeed Horace. The red coat was evidently intended for a fair-sized man, for it hung below Horace's knees and gave him the appearance of wearing a single garment like a tunic. On hishead was rakishly perched a small red cap, similar to those affected by the monkeys who travel with hand-organs. Horace's face was warm and perspiring, and a good deal of dust, aroused by the elephants and the carts, had adhered to it. But it was plainly the supreme moment of his life, and no fussy considerations of cleanliness annoyed him in the least. Was he not a feature in a genuine circus procession, marching with the clown, with real elephants, and leading a proud and striped zebra with his own hand?

He grinned again, and waved his hand to us once more. We were petrified with amazement and envy. At that moment Mr. Vincent, cool and placid in seersucker clothes, stepped out of the bank. He was going down the street on some business errand, and he paused for a moment and gazed indulgently at the procession.

"There's Horace, Mr. Vincent!" we all shouted.

We were determined that he should know of this honor that had come upon his family. It was a fine thing to be cashier of the Merrimack Bank, the trusted guardian of thousands of dollars, but was not this mere dust and ashes compared with leading a zebra in a circus procession? If each generation of his family were to rise in this manner, where might they not end?

Mr. Vincent smiled at us, and said: "What?"

"There's Horace!" we all screamed, pointing our fingers; "don't you see him? Leading the zebra!"

By this time Mr. Vincent had adjusted his eye-glasses, and as he looked in the direction of his glorified nephew, that personage turned around for one final grin and wave of the hand. The changein expression on the visage of the bank-cashier was extraordinary. From mild benignity it turned to purple-faced consternation.

"What?" he gasped; "what?My Horace?"

Then he descended the steps swiftly, and plunged into the crowd on the sidewalk. Apparently he was bent on overtaking his nephew, but the throng blocked his way, and Horace had turned the corner of the next street before his uncle could reach him.

Ed Mason and I did not waste time watching him, for we were discussing a plan. It seemed to promise success, and we only waited for the end of the procession to pass before putting it into operation. Then we detached ourselves from the others, and hastened through Main Street to Haskell's Field, where the tents were pitched for the great show inthe afternoon. The field was nearly a mile distant, and the leaders of the procession had already begun to arrive when we got there. We wormed ourselves in between carts and piles of hay, amongst horses, venders of lemonade and peanuts, and dozens of boys and men. Horace and his zebra soon arrived and we sought him out in the crowd.

"I came out here at five o'clock this morning," said he, "an' I helped bring water for the ellerphants, an' hay for the horses, an' then that man over there who took the zebra gave me five cents, an' said if I'd lead the zebra in the parade he'd give me a free ticket for the show this afternoon. Tommy Cheney got inside an' helped a man feed the kangaroos, an'—"

"Do you s'pose we can water the ellerphants or anything?"

"I dunno; it's nearly twelve o'clocknow, ain't it? I've got to go home an' get dinner so's to be back here at one, if that man should want anything more, an' you can come back with me then, if you want to, an' p'r'aps you can do something an' get a ticket."

We wanted no other invitation than this. We went back to town with Horace, determined to follow his plan. Like him we would demand our dinners early, and return to the circus field at one o'clock, under his guidance. Doubtless his influence with the zebra man would be all that was needed.

Horace had given over the red coat and hat (but not the dust on his face) to the circus men, and he arrived excited and dishevelled at his uncle's house. He left us at the gate, but we paused an instant, for Mrs. Vincent stood on the veranda to welcome him.

"I want dinner right away, Aunt,'cos I've got to get back to the circus by one o'clock, an'—"

"Horace Winslow, you come into the house this instant, and take off every stitch, and get into the bath-tub. Look at your face! Get up to the bath-room, quick! The tub is all filled—"

"Oh, Aunt, I can't stop to fool with taking baths,—I want dinner, 'cos I've got to get back there at one o'clock."

"Get back there indeed! Not one step out of this house do you go this afternoon. Take off your jacket before you come into the house,—did you have it on under that horrible red thing? Give it to me,—it's going to be burned up as quick as I can do it. Quick!"

"Oh, Aunt, I've promised the zebra trainer to be back there,—why they're dependin' on me! I've got—"

"Not one step! Do you hear? Now,upstairs with you, and into that bath-tub!"

Horace vanished into the house, followed by his aunt. Ed Mason and I looked disconsolately at each other, and started wearily toward our homes. If any one's influence were going to admit us to the circus, it was not Horace Winslow's.

In the parade he had flashed before our eyes like a rocket, and his descent from glory had been as sudden as the stick. He had declined in power; from a magnificent zebra leader he had become an insignificant atom in a bath-tub. Even before we were out of hearing he uttered a loud howl.

And this was followed by a monitory voice:—

"Horace!"

CHAPTER XIISUSYWe passed the afternoon gloomily. There seemed to be no use in returning to the circus field without the once influential Horace. Except for him, we appeared to be almost the only persons who had not gone to the circus.Horace, we presumed, would have to spend the whole afternoon in that bath-tub. We could imagine his misery.The hours wore on, somehow, and about five o'clock the fortunate ones began to return. We saw a group of them go into the Carters' side yard, and so Ed and I strolled over there to increase our suffering by hearing them recount what they had seen.Seven or eight boys and girls were sitting on the steps of the veranda. Both the Carters were there, and Harry Fletcher, Susy and Minnie Kittredge, Ed Mason's sister Florence, and one or two others. Flossie Mason, being fifteen and grown up, had not been to the afternoon performance,—she was going in the evening with her mother.The eyes of all of them were still wide open, for in their vision mingled strange animals, galloping horses, and tumbling clowns, while the fascinating odors of trampled grass, freshly turned earth, sawdust, pop-corn, and rubber balloons lingered in their nostrils.Susy Kittredge, of course, was talking. She was beginning, in retrospect, her tour of the tents."An' it rained just before we got to the circus, an' the rain went through the tent an' washed the stripes all offthe zebra an' he was all pinky-streaked, an' Dan Rolfe said he wasn't nothin' underneath but just a donkey, an'—""Don't say 'wasn't nothin',' Susy," said Susy's older sister, Minnie.Minnie was a prim little girl, with black hair parted in the middle, and drawn into two tight pig-tails."Well, he wasn't," retorted Susy; "an' there were puddles of pink paint all round his feet where the paint washed off, an' Rob Currier touched him, an' got the end of his finger all red, an' Louise Mason said it was zebra blood an' it's deadly poison an' Rob'll have fits an' die!"Susy opened her eyes still wider, and regarded us all with the pleasant feeling that accompanies the disclosure of horrible news."There were a lot of real donkeys next to the zebra, an' one of 'em had on the saddle that the monkey rode on in theprecession,—an' he rode him again in the race, too, an' next to them was a antelope in a cage, an' then a ger-noo—""Awhat?" inquired Ed Mason, in a tone of deep scorn."A ger-noo," said Susy; "but he was asleep—""That ain't ger-noo," Ed returned, "it's 'noo,'—just like that.""It isn't! It said 'Ger-noo or Horned Horse' right on the cage. I guess I saw it, Ed Mason, and you weren't there, so what do you know 'bout it?""I don't care," replied Ed, doggedly, "'tain't 'ger-noo.'"Susy puckered up her face and seemed about to cry, but Flossie Mason remarked hurriedly: "Never mind, Susy. What was in the next cage?""Oh, there was—" and then Susy's mind jumped ahead—"there was a countryman with a big umbreller an' justas the lady was goin' to dive into the water he came along right in front of us an' said he'd give any one three cents for a seat, but of course no one would give him a seat, 'cos they cost seventy-five cents, an' he got into a fight with another countryman who was sittin' in the front row, an' tried to pull him out of his seat, an' a great, big, fat p'liceman came runnin' an' tried to arrest 'em both, an' they grabbedhiman' pulled him over to the tank, an' all three of 'em fell into the water, an' the tank was all full of 'em, swimmin' round, an' they had to stop the circus an' get 'em out!"Susy stopped for breath, and Ed Mason found time to ejaculate:—"Hoh! that was all made up! They were clowns, all of 'em!""They werenotclowns. They were dressed up just likemen!""That's all right," I put in, "they wereclowns just the same. They go round with the circus doin' that. I saw 'em do somethin' like that last summer, only there wasn't but one countryman, an' they drove 'em off in a wagon with donkeys.""They weren't clowns!" Susy stamped her foot. "Clowns have white faces, an' funny clothes, an' there were two real clowns helpin' get these men out, they stopped bein' funny an' were awful scared 'cos the p'liceman couldn't swim, an' he floated round on top of the water, an' when he got hold of the rope he was so heavy the clowns couldn't pull him out an'theyfell in, too.""That's so," said Charley Carter, with a serious countenance, as he recalled the catastrophe; "an' a man that sat in front of me said he knew the first countryman,—the one with the umbreller—he lives over in Rowley."There was a ring of truth about this which made Ed and me subside, and as Charley Carter had attracted the attention of the assemblage, he tried to hold the floor."When they got the perliceman out—" But Susy had no intention to let any one else tell the story. She took it up at that point."—he was all drownded, an' they put him down on the ground, an' begun to roll him round, an' one of the countrymen went an' got a big pop-squirt, oh, ten times bigger than any you ever saw, an' filled it with water, an' squirted it right in the p'liceman's face, an' that made him mad, an' he jumped up an' chased the countryman round the tent with his stick, an' at last the countryman ran out through the place where the horses an' riders come in, an' I don't know whether he caught him or not.""What did the other countryman do?" asked Flossie Mason."I don't know; the chariots came by then, an' I didn't see 'em after that."Joe Carter then made his first offering to the conversation."Ben Spaulding drank eight glasses of lemonade,—four pink and four yellow."The irrelevance of this bit of gossip did not make it any the less interesting to us. Instead, it gave Susy a chance to play once more her favorite rôle of prophetess of woe."Pink lemonade's made of coachyneel, an' that's deadly poison. My mother knew a boy that drank pink lemonade an' died of it.""I don't believe it," put in Harry Fletcher.And he added, in a tremulous tone: "I drank two glasses of it."We all turned and looked at Harry,as at one who would not long be with us."How do you feel?" asked the elder Carter."All right," replied Harry; but he had a sickly expression about the mouth. He turned a little aside, and did not seem to take any further interest in the conversation."I gave two bars of pop-corn to the ellerphants," announced Susy, "but I don't like 'em very well. They're all covered with dust an' they curl their trunks at you. I—""An elephant's trunk is called his bosphorus," said Minnie, anxious to grace the occasion by a little learning.And she added: "My teacher told me so.""I just threw the corn at 'em," continued Susy, "an' they picked it up out of the hay. One of 'em held up his trunk,an' his mouth was right under it, an' a man threw peanuts into his mouth, an' the ellerphant stood that way an' let the man throw peanuts at him ever so long, an' we had to go away then, 'cos the show was goin' to begin.""You have to be careful of elephants," said Minnie. "Last year there was an elephant in the circus, an' he had whiskers on his trunk, an' Billy Mason pulled 'em, an' the elephant didn't say anything, an' didn't do anything for two or three minutes, an' then just as Billy was starting to go he swung his trunk round an' if Billy hadn't dodged quick the elephant would have killed him. An' there was a man there an' he said that if that elephant ever sees Billy again, even if it's a hundred years from now, he'll remember him, an' he'll try to hit him again with his trunk."Cheerful Susy instantly remarked:"Billy's goin' to the circus to-night. Do you s'pose that ellerphant will be there?"Billy's sister tried to take a hopeful view."Oh, this is another circus,—'tisn't the same one that was here last summer."But nothing could discourage Susy."Perhaps they've swapped ellerphants," she suggested.Harry Fletcher rose from the steps at this moment, and observed in a shaky voice, that he guessed he would go home. He walked up the garden path with rather feeble steps. We watched him,—awestruck."Perhaps it's the coachyneel in his insides," whispered Susy.We pondered over this suggestion for a few moments, and it certainly seemed reasonable. When Harry disappeared down the street, walking slowly, andholding to the fence, we decided that it was only a question of a few hours with him. The incident cast a gloom over us, which was not dispelled until Joe Carter said:—"Did you go to the side-show?""No," answered Susy; "my mother says side-shows are horrid.""Theyain't. This was great. There was a lady without any body,—just head and shoulders sitting in a glass plate, an' there was a man that would let you stick pins in him, an' there were some grave-robbing hyenas—""Poo!" said Susy, "I saw some hyenas in the animal tent, an' we stayed to the concert an'—""Yes, I know," persisted Joe Carter, "but those hyenas in the animal tent weren't grave-robbing ones. Now these,—" and he entered into some grewsome details about the hyenas that made Susyregretfully admit that the side-show must have had its good points."But there was a sea-lion," she reflected, "havin' his supper when we came out of the concert, an' he sat up on a board, an' the man tossed him fish, an' he roared lots louder than the lions, an' we saw the giraffes—""That's nothin'" said Joe; "so did I."Susy paid no attention,—she was in full swing of narration."An' there was a Happy Fam'ly of a monkey, an' a armadillo, an' a dog, an' a kangaroo, an' a porcupine, all livin' together in one cage, an' when the monkey would try to tease the kangaroo, he'd just roll himself up in a ball an'—""Who would?" interrupted Ed Mason."The kangaroo, course—just like the picture of South America in the geography."But the cynic voice of Mason was not stilled."Kangaroos don't roll themselves up in balls.""This one did.""No; that was the armadillo you were lookin' at.""My mother said it was a kangaroo, an' itwasa kangaroo, an' you'd better keep quiet an' leave me alone,—I guess my mother knows more'n you do about it."Ed sulkily muttered: "'Twa'n't a kangaroo," but Susy went on with her catalogue of beasts."There was a bore-constrictor there that can crush eight men at once,—one of the circus men told my mother so, an' she said, 'I should think you'd be afraid he might get out,—he could squeeze through the bars, couldn't he?' And the man said he was scared for his life all the time. The bore-constrictordidget out up in Lynn.""Did he crush eight men?" two or three of us asked at once."No; they lassoed him. But he may get out againany time. An' there was a hipperpottermus that you couldn't see, except one eye, 'cos he kept down in a tank of water, an' he was horrid, an,' oh! I forgot! Alice Remick had on a new dress an' she went to give an ellerphant a cookie, an' the ellerphant switched up his trunk and spattered her with mud so it spoiled her dress, an' she got both eyes stuck up with mud so she couldn't see, an' she cried so her father had to go right home without seem' any more of the circus, an'—""Did one of the elephants come in and ride round on a big velocipede?" demanded Ed Mason."No," said Susy; "but—""Did the seals play on drums, an' cymbals, an' sing?" he persisted."No; but they—""Oh, well," replied Ed, "they did at the circus last year. An' this circus only had ten elephants. Last year they had fourteen. An' last year they had a Black Tent of Myst'ries, too. I don't b'lieve this was much of a circus!"With this remark we both thought we might effectively take leave. We departed together, and as we left the garden we could still hear the shrill tones of Susy:—"—an' there was an ejjicated pig that sat up in a chair with a ruffle round his neck, an' they said he could read, but he didn't, an' one man fell out of that swing, an' we thought he was goin' to get killed, but he fell in a net an' jumped up an' kissed his hand, but my mother says theydoget killed,—often, an' there was a cinnamon bear—"As we walked by my house Ed Mason repeated his remark:—"I don't b'lieve 'twas much of a circus."My father looked suddenly over a hedge and said: "Then you couldn't arrange to go with me this evening?"We both jumped. We were startled at his voice, and there was also something in what he said that seemed to make the sun burst out of the clouds.Perhaps it was not well to judge the circus without seeing it."Because I am going," he continued, "and I should be glad of your company,—unless, of course, you are leaving for Omaha?"

SUSY

We passed the afternoon gloomily. There seemed to be no use in returning to the circus field without the once influential Horace. Except for him, we appeared to be almost the only persons who had not gone to the circus.

Horace, we presumed, would have to spend the whole afternoon in that bath-tub. We could imagine his misery.

The hours wore on, somehow, and about five o'clock the fortunate ones began to return. We saw a group of them go into the Carters' side yard, and so Ed and I strolled over there to increase our suffering by hearing them recount what they had seen.

Seven or eight boys and girls were sitting on the steps of the veranda. Both the Carters were there, and Harry Fletcher, Susy and Minnie Kittredge, Ed Mason's sister Florence, and one or two others. Flossie Mason, being fifteen and grown up, had not been to the afternoon performance,—she was going in the evening with her mother.

The eyes of all of them were still wide open, for in their vision mingled strange animals, galloping horses, and tumbling clowns, while the fascinating odors of trampled grass, freshly turned earth, sawdust, pop-corn, and rubber balloons lingered in their nostrils.

Susy Kittredge, of course, was talking. She was beginning, in retrospect, her tour of the tents.

"An' it rained just before we got to the circus, an' the rain went through the tent an' washed the stripes all offthe zebra an' he was all pinky-streaked, an' Dan Rolfe said he wasn't nothin' underneath but just a donkey, an'—"

"Don't say 'wasn't nothin',' Susy," said Susy's older sister, Minnie.

Minnie was a prim little girl, with black hair parted in the middle, and drawn into two tight pig-tails.

"Well, he wasn't," retorted Susy; "an' there were puddles of pink paint all round his feet where the paint washed off, an' Rob Currier touched him, an' got the end of his finger all red, an' Louise Mason said it was zebra blood an' it's deadly poison an' Rob'll have fits an' die!"

Susy opened her eyes still wider, and regarded us all with the pleasant feeling that accompanies the disclosure of horrible news.

"There were a lot of real donkeys next to the zebra, an' one of 'em had on the saddle that the monkey rode on in theprecession,—an' he rode him again in the race, too, an' next to them was a antelope in a cage, an' then a ger-noo—"

"Awhat?" inquired Ed Mason, in a tone of deep scorn.

"A ger-noo," said Susy; "but he was asleep—"

"That ain't ger-noo," Ed returned, "it's 'noo,'—just like that."

"It isn't! It said 'Ger-noo or Horned Horse' right on the cage. I guess I saw it, Ed Mason, and you weren't there, so what do you know 'bout it?"

"I don't care," replied Ed, doggedly, "'tain't 'ger-noo.'"

Susy puckered up her face and seemed about to cry, but Flossie Mason remarked hurriedly: "Never mind, Susy. What was in the next cage?"

"Oh, there was—" and then Susy's mind jumped ahead—"there was a countryman with a big umbreller an' justas the lady was goin' to dive into the water he came along right in front of us an' said he'd give any one three cents for a seat, but of course no one would give him a seat, 'cos they cost seventy-five cents, an' he got into a fight with another countryman who was sittin' in the front row, an' tried to pull him out of his seat, an' a great, big, fat p'liceman came runnin' an' tried to arrest 'em both, an' they grabbedhiman' pulled him over to the tank, an' all three of 'em fell into the water, an' the tank was all full of 'em, swimmin' round, an' they had to stop the circus an' get 'em out!"

Susy stopped for breath, and Ed Mason found time to ejaculate:—

"Hoh! that was all made up! They were clowns, all of 'em!"

"They werenotclowns. They were dressed up just likemen!"

"That's all right," I put in, "they wereclowns just the same. They go round with the circus doin' that. I saw 'em do somethin' like that last summer, only there wasn't but one countryman, an' they drove 'em off in a wagon with donkeys."

"They weren't clowns!" Susy stamped her foot. "Clowns have white faces, an' funny clothes, an' there were two real clowns helpin' get these men out, they stopped bein' funny an' were awful scared 'cos the p'liceman couldn't swim, an' he floated round on top of the water, an' when he got hold of the rope he was so heavy the clowns couldn't pull him out an'theyfell in, too."

"That's so," said Charley Carter, with a serious countenance, as he recalled the catastrophe; "an' a man that sat in front of me said he knew the first countryman,—the one with the umbreller—he lives over in Rowley."

There was a ring of truth about this which made Ed and me subside, and as Charley Carter had attracted the attention of the assemblage, he tried to hold the floor.

"When they got the perliceman out—" But Susy had no intention to let any one else tell the story. She took it up at that point.

"—he was all drownded, an' they put him down on the ground, an' begun to roll him round, an' one of the countrymen went an' got a big pop-squirt, oh, ten times bigger than any you ever saw, an' filled it with water, an' squirted it right in the p'liceman's face, an' that made him mad, an' he jumped up an' chased the countryman round the tent with his stick, an' at last the countryman ran out through the place where the horses an' riders come in, an' I don't know whether he caught him or not."

"What did the other countryman do?" asked Flossie Mason.

"I don't know; the chariots came by then, an' I didn't see 'em after that."

Joe Carter then made his first offering to the conversation.

"Ben Spaulding drank eight glasses of lemonade,—four pink and four yellow."

The irrelevance of this bit of gossip did not make it any the less interesting to us. Instead, it gave Susy a chance to play once more her favorite rôle of prophetess of woe.

"Pink lemonade's made of coachyneel, an' that's deadly poison. My mother knew a boy that drank pink lemonade an' died of it."

"I don't believe it," put in Harry Fletcher.

And he added, in a tremulous tone: "I drank two glasses of it."

We all turned and looked at Harry,as at one who would not long be with us.

"How do you feel?" asked the elder Carter.

"All right," replied Harry; but he had a sickly expression about the mouth. He turned a little aside, and did not seem to take any further interest in the conversation.

"I gave two bars of pop-corn to the ellerphants," announced Susy, "but I don't like 'em very well. They're all covered with dust an' they curl their trunks at you. I—"

"An elephant's trunk is called his bosphorus," said Minnie, anxious to grace the occasion by a little learning.

And she added: "My teacher told me so."

"I just threw the corn at 'em," continued Susy, "an' they picked it up out of the hay. One of 'em held up his trunk,an' his mouth was right under it, an' a man threw peanuts into his mouth, an' the ellerphant stood that way an' let the man throw peanuts at him ever so long, an' we had to go away then, 'cos the show was goin' to begin."

"You have to be careful of elephants," said Minnie. "Last year there was an elephant in the circus, an' he had whiskers on his trunk, an' Billy Mason pulled 'em, an' the elephant didn't say anything, an' didn't do anything for two or three minutes, an' then just as Billy was starting to go he swung his trunk round an' if Billy hadn't dodged quick the elephant would have killed him. An' there was a man there an' he said that if that elephant ever sees Billy again, even if it's a hundred years from now, he'll remember him, an' he'll try to hit him again with his trunk."

Cheerful Susy instantly remarked:"Billy's goin' to the circus to-night. Do you s'pose that ellerphant will be there?"

Billy's sister tried to take a hopeful view.

"Oh, this is another circus,—'tisn't the same one that was here last summer."

But nothing could discourage Susy.

"Perhaps they've swapped ellerphants," she suggested.

Harry Fletcher rose from the steps at this moment, and observed in a shaky voice, that he guessed he would go home. He walked up the garden path with rather feeble steps. We watched him,—awestruck.

"Perhaps it's the coachyneel in his insides," whispered Susy.

We pondered over this suggestion for a few moments, and it certainly seemed reasonable. When Harry disappeared down the street, walking slowly, andholding to the fence, we decided that it was only a question of a few hours with him. The incident cast a gloom over us, which was not dispelled until Joe Carter said:—

"Did you go to the side-show?"

"No," answered Susy; "my mother says side-shows are horrid."

"Theyain't. This was great. There was a lady without any body,—just head and shoulders sitting in a glass plate, an' there was a man that would let you stick pins in him, an' there were some grave-robbing hyenas—"

"Poo!" said Susy, "I saw some hyenas in the animal tent, an' we stayed to the concert an'—"

"Yes, I know," persisted Joe Carter, "but those hyenas in the animal tent weren't grave-robbing ones. Now these,—" and he entered into some grewsome details about the hyenas that made Susyregretfully admit that the side-show must have had its good points.

"But there was a sea-lion," she reflected, "havin' his supper when we came out of the concert, an' he sat up on a board, an' the man tossed him fish, an' he roared lots louder than the lions, an' we saw the giraffes—"

"That's nothin'" said Joe; "so did I."

Susy paid no attention,—she was in full swing of narration.

"An' there was a Happy Fam'ly of a monkey, an' a armadillo, an' a dog, an' a kangaroo, an' a porcupine, all livin' together in one cage, an' when the monkey would try to tease the kangaroo, he'd just roll himself up in a ball an'—"

"Who would?" interrupted Ed Mason.

"The kangaroo, course—just like the picture of South America in the geography."

But the cynic voice of Mason was not stilled.

"Kangaroos don't roll themselves up in balls."

"This one did."

"No; that was the armadillo you were lookin' at."

"My mother said it was a kangaroo, an' itwasa kangaroo, an' you'd better keep quiet an' leave me alone,—I guess my mother knows more'n you do about it."

Ed sulkily muttered: "'Twa'n't a kangaroo," but Susy went on with her catalogue of beasts.

"There was a bore-constrictor there that can crush eight men at once,—one of the circus men told my mother so, an' she said, 'I should think you'd be afraid he might get out,—he could squeeze through the bars, couldn't he?' And the man said he was scared for his life all the time. The bore-constrictordidget out up in Lynn."

"Did he crush eight men?" two or three of us asked at once.

"No; they lassoed him. But he may get out againany time. An' there was a hipperpottermus that you couldn't see, except one eye, 'cos he kept down in a tank of water, an' he was horrid, an,' oh! I forgot! Alice Remick had on a new dress an' she went to give an ellerphant a cookie, an' the ellerphant switched up his trunk and spattered her with mud so it spoiled her dress, an' she got both eyes stuck up with mud so she couldn't see, an' she cried so her father had to go right home without seem' any more of the circus, an'—"

"Did one of the elephants come in and ride round on a big velocipede?" demanded Ed Mason.

"No," said Susy; "but—"

"Did the seals play on drums, an' cymbals, an' sing?" he persisted.

"No; but they—"

"Oh, well," replied Ed, "they did at the circus last year. An' this circus only had ten elephants. Last year they had fourteen. An' last year they had a Black Tent of Myst'ries, too. I don't b'lieve this was much of a circus!"

With this remark we both thought we might effectively take leave. We departed together, and as we left the garden we could still hear the shrill tones of Susy:—

"—an' there was an ejjicated pig that sat up in a chair with a ruffle round his neck, an' they said he could read, but he didn't, an' one man fell out of that swing, an' we thought he was goin' to get killed, but he fell in a net an' jumped up an' kissed his hand, but my mother says theydoget killed,—often, an' there was a cinnamon bear—"

As we walked by my house Ed Mason repeated his remark:—

"I don't b'lieve 'twas much of a circus."

My father looked suddenly over a hedge and said: "Then you couldn't arrange to go with me this evening?"

We both jumped. We were startled at his voice, and there was also something in what he said that seemed to make the sun burst out of the clouds.

Perhaps it was not well to judge the circus without seeing it.

"Because I am going," he continued, "and I should be glad of your company,—unless, of course, you are leaving for Omaha?"

CHAPTER XIIIARMA PUERUMQUE CANOIn the warfare that raged through the neighborhood it invariably fell on Ed Mason and me to support lost causes.As the two smallest, we were told off to represent the English at Bunker Hill. It was a revised and thoroughly patriotic Bunker Hill, for the English never reached the top, but had to retreat under a galling fire of green apples.As Confederates, we dashed boldly but ineffectually across the valley at Gettysburg.When the honor of the Old Guard at Waterloo was in our keeping, we did not die, but we did surrender ignominiously,and were locked up in a box-stall in Peter Bailey's father's stable.After that, the allied forces, consisting of Peter, Rob Currier, Joe and Charley Carter, and Horace Winslow, basely withdrew to inspect Auntie Merrill's pears (which were nearly ripe) and left us Napoleonic veterans to wither in captivity.It was not only in struggles among ourselves that we had to drink of the bitter cup of defeat. When we banded together against the common enemy, things were not much better. Take, for instance, the time when Peter Bailey decided to turn the stable into a police station. The stalls suggested cells (there were no horses kept in them), and the success with which the Old Guard had been imprisoned after their crushing defeat at Waterloo, showed the desirability of more captives.At first things took their usual course.Ed Mason and I were informed that we were a gang of cutthroats, burglars, highway robbers, pickpockets, counterfeiters, and other kinds of ruffians, and bade to sneak about the streets. We were warned not to run too fast when the police approached to arrest us, and told that it was "no fair" to make any determined resistance.When Peter Bailey, Rob Currier, and the others dashed out of the stable, clad (in their own estimation) in blue coats and brass buttons, we were to submit to arrestad libitum.But after we had been dragged in and confined in cells a dozen or twenty times, it began to pall, even on the policemen.It had long ago become sickeningly familiar to us.To give the thing variety, new victims must be found. We were weary of the business and had ceased to feel any terrorat the prospect of confinement. We never served terms longer than thirty seconds, for we had to be released immediately in order to be arrested once more. With only two criminals in the world, the policeman's lot became a tedious one. Both prisoners and police felt that unless something happened the stable could no longer a prison make, nor wooden stalls a cage.Peter proposed to reform the whole thing. He boldly suggested that we go outside our own circles and arrest the Irish boys,—those who went in the winter to the parochial school. It would have to be done with all the majesty of the law, and that required a billy for each policeman.These were duly made out of broomsticks. With great pains a hole was burned through the top of each with a red-hot poker. Then a cord was passedthrough the hole, so the billy might be dangled and swung.We were now ready for the prisoners, and our first campaign was all that the heart could wish. We waylaid a group of boys, and, without much struggle, soon had a prisoner in each cell. After a little we let them go.They hurried off, remarking that they would get even with us.These wholesale arrests were continued for two or three days, and all went happily. It was not until a week afterward that the reckoning came. Then a crowd of the outraged prisoners found Ed Mason and me alone, fell upon us, and beat us full sore. Without the whole force of police our authority had waned, and once again it became apparent that humiliation was ever our fortune in feats of arms.It was this last straw that led to oursingular revolt on the day of the famous cowboy and Indian raid. We outraged all the proprieties, turned against the white man, and showed a criminal disregard for the cause of civilization. But for once victory rested with us. We plucked success out of failure, and found that it was good. When we had it, we declined to let it go. Force of arms had decided the issue, and we accepted its arbitrament. Argument could not move us. The worm turned, and the turning of him was terrible.A hot and languorous day in August saw the great battle of redskins and palefaces. Nothing in the weather stirred us to mighty deeds. The long afternoon had dragged on to half-past four. For two hours we had roamed the street, the gardens, and back yards. A dulness settled over things. The phœbe-bird who sat on Mr. Hawkins's woodshed reiteratedhis dismal note, as though the weariness of the dog-days had entered his very soul."Phe-e-e—be-e-e-e," he remarked, with that falling inflection on the last syllable that would dampen the spirits of a circus clown."Phe-e-e—be-e-e."Mr. Hawkins himself leaned over his gate and smoked his pipe. An ice-cart came lumbering down the street. That, at least, was interesting. We hurried to meet it, and each possessed himself of a lump of ice. Then we perched, some on my fence and some on the blue box that held the garden hose. We removed the straw and sawdust from the ice, and began to suck it.Mr. Hawkins, having taken his clay pipe from his mouth, engaged in a conversation with the driver of the ice-cart on the prospects of rain. We watchedthem languidly. They debated the question at length, until the dripping water from the ice-cart had formed three dark spots in the dusty street.Peter Bailey said: "Let's go up to Davenport's and see if the raft is there."Davenport's was a general term used to describe a field, and a pond in that field. The pond was a small affair, with no large amount of water, but a great deal of black mud. It was not without certain tremendous fascinations, however, for we believed that in one place it had no bottom.Moreover, leeches abounded.Few, if any of us, had ever seen a leech; but we were aware that if one of them attached himself to the human body, no power under Heaven could drag him off, and he would not stop his infernal work until he had drained away every drop of blood.Ed Mason and I had other reasons than the leeches for not wanting to experiment with the raft at Davenport's. Only a week before we had been capsized from that raft. We had not found the bottomless spot, nor been attacked by leeches; but we had crawled ashore in such a condition of muddiness that our reception at our respective homes had been depressing. Davenport's could get along without us for a while.Peter's suggestion fell flat. Just then Charley Carter caught sight of a spare piece of clothes-line in my side yard. He ran and seized it, shouting "Lassos!"It was a happy idea. The boundless West, the prairies, herds of buffaloes, roving Indians, cowboys—these were the visions that excited us in an instant, especially the cowboys.What a life is theirs—to gallop forever with cracking revolvers and whirlinglassos; to capture the mighty buffalo, and bring down the hated Indian!Why should we not do that?Mr. Hawkins, next door, might continue to smoke his pipe to the monotonous song of the phœbe. For us, the career of danger far beyond the Mississippi; the life that knows no fear on the wind-swept prairie!A lack of any more rope in my yard, and my firm refusal to have the clothes-lines cut down entire, made us depart to Bailey's stable, where desperate enterprises were set on foot.We made the lassos and drew upon our armory for wooden revolvers. These are thoroughly satisfactory weapons if you wave them in the air and shout "Bang!" at frequent intervals.But immediately Peter Bailey's genius for military organization asserted itself. He and Rob Currier, the two Carters,and Horace Winslow would be the cowboys. The hostile Indians must be impersonated, of course, by Ed Mason and myself. What was the sense of having cowboys without Indians for them to destroy?So we should have no lassos, nor yet revolvers, but only tomahawks.Right here I drew the line.Ed backed me up, and we announced our ultimatum. Indians we would be, and lassoless we would go, but to ask us to refrain from carrying revolvers was demanding too much. We stuck out for revolvers, and intimated that a refusal would cause us to withdraw from all operations that afternoon.So the concession was made.Even then we knew that the adventure could end in only one fashion. We should be chased, hunted down, shot, lassoed, scalped, and finally burned at thestake, during an imposing war-dance; for these cowboys were fully enamored of Indian methods of warfare when turned against the Indians themselves.We were to belong to a dangerous tribe, recently discovered by Peter Bailey, and calledSigh-ux. We agreed to start on our barbaric career from the stable. From there to the street corner we should have full license to pillage and destroy. In order to give the avenging cowboys due provocation, we were to commit certain outrages on the way. These might include burning down the Universalist Church on the corner and ringing the door-bell at Miss Whipple's private school.Once we had turned into Oak Street, where I lived, we would have to look to our safety. The cowboys would be on our track.So off we went.In a few moments, ignited by shots from our revolvers, the Universalist Church was wrapped in flames. We rang Miss Whipple's door-bell, and, as an additional atrocity, threatened her cat with tomahawks. Then we turned up Oak Street, and knew in a moment, by the yells that arose, that the cowboys had burst out of their encampment and were after us.I suppose Ed shared my feelings of despair as we ran up the street. The youngest cowboy was two years older than either of us; they were all swifter runners, and they outnumbered us by three. In a few moments it would all be over. Our brief season of bloodshed and destruction was past, and it now only remained for us to be slaughtered at the cowboys' will.It was so tiresome!Our defeats at Bunker Hill, at Gettysburg,at Waterloo, and on countless other stricken fields recurred to us as we panted along. If we could only turn the tables in some way!Instinctively we hurried toward the side yard of my house, climbed the fence, and tumbled over. We landed on the blue box that held the garden hose. The cowboys were approaching rapidly, with loud cries and much banging of revolvers. Already Horace Winslow was shouting that he had shot me five times, and that I must fall dead instantly. In a moment, we knew, they would be over the fence after us.Moved by the same thought, we opened the blue box. The hose was connected with the tap at the side of the house. Ed turned the tap, while I, standing on the edge of the box and looking over the fence into the street, swept the road with a stream of cold water.Horace stopped abruptly in his rush toward the fence, and Joe Carter, who had halted about thirty feet away to pour a volley of bullets after us, executed a swift movement to the rear.The others paused where they were. Tomahawks, scalping-knives, spears, and revolvers—none of these would have checked the bold cowboys for a moment; but this stream of water was another matter.It does not do for any cowboy, however desperate, to go home to his parents with his clothes soaking wet. Such events often mean an enforced retirement for a day from the field of glory."Whatcher doing?" screamed Peter Bailey. "That ain't fair!"We felt that he was right. This garden hose suddenly springing out of the Western prairie was a false note. Artistically it jarred. It was like bringing a school-teacher into fairyland.But we did not stop the stream. For once we saw the militant Peter, his fearless lieutenant, Rob Currier, and all the rest of the ever victorious army held in check. No feeling that we were violating the fitness of things could detract from the sweetness of the moment. If eternal defeat had not embittered us in the past, we might have been more artistic and less human on this occasion. But in an instant, and as by direct intervention of the gods, our retreat had been turned into triumph, and that we did not intend to relinquish.Woe, woe, to the vanquished!"Aw, that's agreatthing to do!" sneered Rob Currier."Youcan'tdo it!" shouted Joe Carter in a state of great excitement; "Indians don't have hose!""That's all right," I replied, "these Indians have got some. They got itfrom a settler's cabin, or—or—orsomehow. Anyhow, they've got it.""But 'tain't fair," reiterated Peter Bailey."'Tain't fair for five of you to be always masserkerin' us," remarked my fellow Indian.Peter was disposed to bitterness. He did not enjoy having his military plans frustrated in such a manner."You're only a couple of babies,—you're afraid to be masserkered," he said.Naturally, the babies invited him to come right on and do his massacring."I will, if you'll turn off that hose,—I don't want to get all wet.""Course we won't turn it off, an' if you're afraid to come, why, you're beaten, an' you must surrender, an' be tomahawked, an' burned at the stake, an' have blazin' pine splinters stuck in your flesh. Will you do it?"They firmly declined to become parties to any such attractive proceedings."Come on," said Joe Carter; "let 'em stay there and play with the hose. They don't know how to be Indians, anyway. We'll go back to the barn, and lasso buffaloes.""Come on," said Peter, and the whole band of cowboys departed.Then the victorious Indians, the two triumphantSigh-ux, danced a short war-dance, and whooped two or three war-whoops,—so loud that Mr. Hawkins opened his gate, and came out to the sidewalk to see what was the matter.

ARMA PUERUMQUE CANO

In the warfare that raged through the neighborhood it invariably fell on Ed Mason and me to support lost causes.

As the two smallest, we were told off to represent the English at Bunker Hill. It was a revised and thoroughly patriotic Bunker Hill, for the English never reached the top, but had to retreat under a galling fire of green apples.

As Confederates, we dashed boldly but ineffectually across the valley at Gettysburg.

When the honor of the Old Guard at Waterloo was in our keeping, we did not die, but we did surrender ignominiously,and were locked up in a box-stall in Peter Bailey's father's stable.

After that, the allied forces, consisting of Peter, Rob Currier, Joe and Charley Carter, and Horace Winslow, basely withdrew to inspect Auntie Merrill's pears (which were nearly ripe) and left us Napoleonic veterans to wither in captivity.

It was not only in struggles among ourselves that we had to drink of the bitter cup of defeat. When we banded together against the common enemy, things were not much better. Take, for instance, the time when Peter Bailey decided to turn the stable into a police station. The stalls suggested cells (there were no horses kept in them), and the success with which the Old Guard had been imprisoned after their crushing defeat at Waterloo, showed the desirability of more captives.

At first things took their usual course.Ed Mason and I were informed that we were a gang of cutthroats, burglars, highway robbers, pickpockets, counterfeiters, and other kinds of ruffians, and bade to sneak about the streets. We were warned not to run too fast when the police approached to arrest us, and told that it was "no fair" to make any determined resistance.

When Peter Bailey, Rob Currier, and the others dashed out of the stable, clad (in their own estimation) in blue coats and brass buttons, we were to submit to arrestad libitum.

But after we had been dragged in and confined in cells a dozen or twenty times, it began to pall, even on the policemen.

It had long ago become sickeningly familiar to us.

To give the thing variety, new victims must be found. We were weary of the business and had ceased to feel any terrorat the prospect of confinement. We never served terms longer than thirty seconds, for we had to be released immediately in order to be arrested once more. With only two criminals in the world, the policeman's lot became a tedious one. Both prisoners and police felt that unless something happened the stable could no longer a prison make, nor wooden stalls a cage.

Peter proposed to reform the whole thing. He boldly suggested that we go outside our own circles and arrest the Irish boys,—those who went in the winter to the parochial school. It would have to be done with all the majesty of the law, and that required a billy for each policeman.

These were duly made out of broomsticks. With great pains a hole was burned through the top of each with a red-hot poker. Then a cord was passedthrough the hole, so the billy might be dangled and swung.

We were now ready for the prisoners, and our first campaign was all that the heart could wish. We waylaid a group of boys, and, without much struggle, soon had a prisoner in each cell. After a little we let them go.

They hurried off, remarking that they would get even with us.

These wholesale arrests were continued for two or three days, and all went happily. It was not until a week afterward that the reckoning came. Then a crowd of the outraged prisoners found Ed Mason and me alone, fell upon us, and beat us full sore. Without the whole force of police our authority had waned, and once again it became apparent that humiliation was ever our fortune in feats of arms.

It was this last straw that led to oursingular revolt on the day of the famous cowboy and Indian raid. We outraged all the proprieties, turned against the white man, and showed a criminal disregard for the cause of civilization. But for once victory rested with us. We plucked success out of failure, and found that it was good. When we had it, we declined to let it go. Force of arms had decided the issue, and we accepted its arbitrament. Argument could not move us. The worm turned, and the turning of him was terrible.

A hot and languorous day in August saw the great battle of redskins and palefaces. Nothing in the weather stirred us to mighty deeds. The long afternoon had dragged on to half-past four. For two hours we had roamed the street, the gardens, and back yards. A dulness settled over things. The phœbe-bird who sat on Mr. Hawkins's woodshed reiteratedhis dismal note, as though the weariness of the dog-days had entered his very soul.

"Phe-e-e—be-e-e-e," he remarked, with that falling inflection on the last syllable that would dampen the spirits of a circus clown.

"Phe-e-e—be-e-e."

Mr. Hawkins himself leaned over his gate and smoked his pipe. An ice-cart came lumbering down the street. That, at least, was interesting. We hurried to meet it, and each possessed himself of a lump of ice. Then we perched, some on my fence and some on the blue box that held the garden hose. We removed the straw and sawdust from the ice, and began to suck it.

Mr. Hawkins, having taken his clay pipe from his mouth, engaged in a conversation with the driver of the ice-cart on the prospects of rain. We watchedthem languidly. They debated the question at length, until the dripping water from the ice-cart had formed three dark spots in the dusty street.

Peter Bailey said: "Let's go up to Davenport's and see if the raft is there."

Davenport's was a general term used to describe a field, and a pond in that field. The pond was a small affair, with no large amount of water, but a great deal of black mud. It was not without certain tremendous fascinations, however, for we believed that in one place it had no bottom.

Moreover, leeches abounded.

Few, if any of us, had ever seen a leech; but we were aware that if one of them attached himself to the human body, no power under Heaven could drag him off, and he would not stop his infernal work until he had drained away every drop of blood.

Ed Mason and I had other reasons than the leeches for not wanting to experiment with the raft at Davenport's. Only a week before we had been capsized from that raft. We had not found the bottomless spot, nor been attacked by leeches; but we had crawled ashore in such a condition of muddiness that our reception at our respective homes had been depressing. Davenport's could get along without us for a while.

Peter's suggestion fell flat. Just then Charley Carter caught sight of a spare piece of clothes-line in my side yard. He ran and seized it, shouting "Lassos!"

It was a happy idea. The boundless West, the prairies, herds of buffaloes, roving Indians, cowboys—these were the visions that excited us in an instant, especially the cowboys.

What a life is theirs—to gallop forever with cracking revolvers and whirlinglassos; to capture the mighty buffalo, and bring down the hated Indian!

Why should we not do that?

Mr. Hawkins, next door, might continue to smoke his pipe to the monotonous song of the phœbe. For us, the career of danger far beyond the Mississippi; the life that knows no fear on the wind-swept prairie!

A lack of any more rope in my yard, and my firm refusal to have the clothes-lines cut down entire, made us depart to Bailey's stable, where desperate enterprises were set on foot.

We made the lassos and drew upon our armory for wooden revolvers. These are thoroughly satisfactory weapons if you wave them in the air and shout "Bang!" at frequent intervals.

But immediately Peter Bailey's genius for military organization asserted itself. He and Rob Currier, the two Carters,and Horace Winslow would be the cowboys. The hostile Indians must be impersonated, of course, by Ed Mason and myself. What was the sense of having cowboys without Indians for them to destroy?

So we should have no lassos, nor yet revolvers, but only tomahawks.

Right here I drew the line.

Ed backed me up, and we announced our ultimatum. Indians we would be, and lassoless we would go, but to ask us to refrain from carrying revolvers was demanding too much. We stuck out for revolvers, and intimated that a refusal would cause us to withdraw from all operations that afternoon.

So the concession was made.

Even then we knew that the adventure could end in only one fashion. We should be chased, hunted down, shot, lassoed, scalped, and finally burned at thestake, during an imposing war-dance; for these cowboys were fully enamored of Indian methods of warfare when turned against the Indians themselves.

We were to belong to a dangerous tribe, recently discovered by Peter Bailey, and calledSigh-ux. We agreed to start on our barbaric career from the stable. From there to the street corner we should have full license to pillage and destroy. In order to give the avenging cowboys due provocation, we were to commit certain outrages on the way. These might include burning down the Universalist Church on the corner and ringing the door-bell at Miss Whipple's private school.

Once we had turned into Oak Street, where I lived, we would have to look to our safety. The cowboys would be on our track.

So off we went.

In a few moments, ignited by shots from our revolvers, the Universalist Church was wrapped in flames. We rang Miss Whipple's door-bell, and, as an additional atrocity, threatened her cat with tomahawks. Then we turned up Oak Street, and knew in a moment, by the yells that arose, that the cowboys had burst out of their encampment and were after us.

I suppose Ed shared my feelings of despair as we ran up the street. The youngest cowboy was two years older than either of us; they were all swifter runners, and they outnumbered us by three. In a few moments it would all be over. Our brief season of bloodshed and destruction was past, and it now only remained for us to be slaughtered at the cowboys' will.

It was so tiresome!

Our defeats at Bunker Hill, at Gettysburg,at Waterloo, and on countless other stricken fields recurred to us as we panted along. If we could only turn the tables in some way!

Instinctively we hurried toward the side yard of my house, climbed the fence, and tumbled over. We landed on the blue box that held the garden hose. The cowboys were approaching rapidly, with loud cries and much banging of revolvers. Already Horace Winslow was shouting that he had shot me five times, and that I must fall dead instantly. In a moment, we knew, they would be over the fence after us.

Moved by the same thought, we opened the blue box. The hose was connected with the tap at the side of the house. Ed turned the tap, while I, standing on the edge of the box and looking over the fence into the street, swept the road with a stream of cold water.

Horace stopped abruptly in his rush toward the fence, and Joe Carter, who had halted about thirty feet away to pour a volley of bullets after us, executed a swift movement to the rear.

The others paused where they were. Tomahawks, scalping-knives, spears, and revolvers—none of these would have checked the bold cowboys for a moment; but this stream of water was another matter.

It does not do for any cowboy, however desperate, to go home to his parents with his clothes soaking wet. Such events often mean an enforced retirement for a day from the field of glory.

"Whatcher doing?" screamed Peter Bailey. "That ain't fair!"

We felt that he was right. This garden hose suddenly springing out of the Western prairie was a false note. Artistically it jarred. It was like bringing a school-teacher into fairyland.

But we did not stop the stream. For once we saw the militant Peter, his fearless lieutenant, Rob Currier, and all the rest of the ever victorious army held in check. No feeling that we were violating the fitness of things could detract from the sweetness of the moment. If eternal defeat had not embittered us in the past, we might have been more artistic and less human on this occasion. But in an instant, and as by direct intervention of the gods, our retreat had been turned into triumph, and that we did not intend to relinquish.

Woe, woe, to the vanquished!

"Aw, that's agreatthing to do!" sneered Rob Currier.

"Youcan'tdo it!" shouted Joe Carter in a state of great excitement; "Indians don't have hose!"

"That's all right," I replied, "these Indians have got some. They got itfrom a settler's cabin, or—or—orsomehow. Anyhow, they've got it."

"But 'tain't fair," reiterated Peter Bailey.

"'Tain't fair for five of you to be always masserkerin' us," remarked my fellow Indian.

Peter was disposed to bitterness. He did not enjoy having his military plans frustrated in such a manner.

"You're only a couple of babies,—you're afraid to be masserkered," he said.

Naturally, the babies invited him to come right on and do his massacring.

"I will, if you'll turn off that hose,—I don't want to get all wet."

"Course we won't turn it off, an' if you're afraid to come, why, you're beaten, an' you must surrender, an' be tomahawked, an' burned at the stake, an' have blazin' pine splinters stuck in your flesh. Will you do it?"

They firmly declined to become parties to any such attractive proceedings.

"Come on," said Joe Carter; "let 'em stay there and play with the hose. They don't know how to be Indians, anyway. We'll go back to the barn, and lasso buffaloes."

"Come on," said Peter, and the whole band of cowboys departed.

Then the victorious Indians, the two triumphantSigh-ux, danced a short war-dance, and whooped two or three war-whoops,—so loud that Mr. Hawkins opened his gate, and came out to the sidewalk to see what was the matter.

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