CHAPTER XVIII

CHAPTER XVIIITHE SIEGE OF AUNTIE MERRILLIt was Peter Bailey who organized the siege. We had long ago made up the quarrel that arose on the day of the Indian raid. He still maintained that Ed's and my conduct had been contrary to all rules of warfare, but we noticed that we were not expected, since that day, to impersonate the under dog in every combat.Peter's reputation for generalship was a little tarnished, and for that reason he got up this grand military movement against the property and person of Auntie Merrill.That lady had, so Peter said, certain"distressed damsels" closely immured in dungeons beneath her house."Distressedwhat?" asked Ed Mason."Damsels," replied Peter."What d'ye mean,—girls?""Well,—yes.""I don't want 'em," rejoined the practical Ed; "let 'em stay there."Peter was exasperated."Why, we'vegotto get them out," he asserted, "or they'll starve to death.""How'd they get in there?" Ed Mason wished to know."What difference does that make? She captured 'em, I s'pose."I thought I could throw a little light on this dark subject. It was Monday morning, and I had been looking over the fence into the Merrill garden only half an hour before."There ain't any distressed damsels there, Peter," I said earnestly; "I saw'em. One of 'em's Katie Clancy,—an' she lives there all the time, an' the other is Mrs. Muldoon, an' she's hangin' out the wash."But I was unmercifully snubbed for my pains."You make me perfectly tired," he retorted. "I don't mean Katie, nor Mrs. Muldoon. I know them. The—er—damsels are in dungeons below the ground."I turned to Rob Currier, Jimmy Toppan, and Horace Winslow, who had come into the Masons' back yard with Peter. But they had been under the influence of Peter's warlike mind and persuasive tongue for an hour or more. They seemed to believe in the damsels, and their confidence tended to shake my doubts.Ed Mason was not so easily moved from scepticism."What are they doin' there?" he inquired."Doin'? They ain't doin' anything, you chump! They're chained hand an' foot to the rock. How could they do anything? They're waitin' for us to rescue 'em.""Why don't they call a p'liceman?""'Cos they can't! How could they call so he'd hear through the rock?""Did Auntie Merrill put 'em in there?""Yes; she did,—or some of her mur-murmurdons.""Her what?"Horace Winslow broke into the conversation."Don't you know what murmidons are? They're big woolly elephants with long tusks.""Oh, get out! Auntie Merrill hasn't got any. You think you're stuffin' me, but you ain't!"Peter seemed to be willing to change the subject, and get on to the main issue."We'll divide into two regiments,—I'll take command of one, and Rob of the other. I'll take Horace and Sam, and Rob can take Ed Mason and Jimmy. We'll stay here, an' you can go down into Sam's yard an' climb over the fence, an' go up by the path next the Nortons' house. Then we'll attack the house from two sides at once. Now, go on, Rob."But this was going altogether too fast for me."How'll we get by Mrs. Muldoon? She's out there on the clothes-jack now.""That'll be all right," Peter assured me; "if she says anything, just knock her down!"But I could not imagine myself knocking Mrs. Muldoon down under any circumstances. In the first place, she weighed over two hundred pounds."An' say," continued Ed Mason, "how are we goin' to attack the house when we get there? What'll we do?"Even Jimmy Toppan was wavering."Where are the murmidons? What'll we do if we meet them?" he asked.Such questions were quite appropriate. We had long been accustomed to scout on Auntie Merrill, as well as other more formidable persons. We had tracked her up and down her garden many times, peered at her from behind bushes, and observed her from the tops of trees. But Peter, filled with a longing for military glory and daring deeds, was proposing an exploit altogether more hazardous than anything we had ever attempted. Thirsting for conquest, he overlooked all obstacles. He had, however, failed to infect us with his enthusiasm.For one thing, this inhuman treatmentof the damsels seemed rather foreign to Auntie Merrill's character, as I knew it. It was true she had spoken to me with severity on one occasion,—something about running across her new grass plot, and she had warned me against throwing stones at the statue of George Washington near her house. The latter warning had been totally unnecessary,—I had never dreamed of doing such a thing. I never had, that is, until she put the idea into my head,—after that it appealed to me with the fearful fascination of a deadly crime.I was somewhat afraid of her, but it was nevertheless hard to think of her keeping these unfortunate creatures chained up and starving. Moreover, to make an open attack upon her house by force of arms (Peter had served out wooden revolvers to us, and had a sword for himself) was a serious business. Itstruck me that we might get involved with the police. In the first place, the attack carried with it the possible necessity of an assault and battery upon Mrs. Muldoon, a perfectly respectable and very muscular washerwoman.Then, supposing that we had overcome that difficulty, there was the house to enter.Who could say that the doors might not be locked?Finally, there were these mysterious and terrible "murmidons." No one, not even Peter, seemed to be able to say exactly what they were, or tell at what moment we might be confronted by them.Altogether, I have seldom engaged in any military enterprise where the obstacles seemed so overwhelming, and the chances of success so slight.But Peter would hear of no objections.If we did not wish to embroil ourselveswith Mrs. Muldoon, it would be a simple matter to keep behind the hedge until we were between her and the house. Then it would be too late for her to make any effective resistance.As for the locked doors,—beat 'em down!He would take care of the "murmidons" himself,—leave them to him.We were quite willing to do so.But even at this last moment, when our general thought he had arranged everything, and as he was about to issue his orders once more to Colonel Currier, there came a hitch."Well, say, look here. What are we goin' to do with these damsels when we get 'em?"It was still Mason, the unconvinced, who spoke."Don't be such a jay! We'll send 'em home, of course!""Where do they live?"Peter fairly danced with rage."How do I know where they live? We can ask 'em, can't we?""I s'pose we can. But how are you goin' to get their chains off? You said they were chained to the rock."The general had to assume more responsibility for himself."I'll get 'em off all right. Now, I do wish you'd go ahead an' start, an' shut up your talkin'. Rob, you whistle as soon as you get back of the quince bush, an' we'll come right over the fence here, an' both regiments must charge up to the house at the same time. But don't start till I give the order to charge."Rob Currier, Ed, and Jimmy disappeared behind Mr. Hawkins's woodshed. They had scarcely done so when Peter called them back."You must be sure to take Auntie Merrilla prisoner," he commanded; "take heralive."They promised not to let her escape. Then they set out once more. We climbed upon the fence, and watched for them to appear at the foot of the Merrill garden. Soon we saw them crossing my yard in Indian file. Rob mounted the fence, and looked over.No enemy in sight.Then all three climbed the fence, crouched behind the hedge, and crept up the path to the quince bush. Rob whistled.As soon as he heard this signal, Peter ordered us into the hostile territory. We dropped silently over the fence, and lay flat on our stomachs in the grass. Peter raised himself slightly on his arms and gazed at the stronghold.Mrs. Muldoon had gone into the house for more clothes-pins.Now was our chance!Peter rose, waved his sword, and was just opening his mouth to order the charge, when an unexpected thing happened.Auntie Merrill opened a side door of her house, walked out on the veranda, descended two steps, and proceeded slowly up the side path to the street. She was dressed in black as usual, with a lavender bonnet, and she carried a little parasol. She opened the garden gate, crossed the sidewalk, stepped into a carriage that was standing by the curb, and drove quietly away.The enemy had escaped.We had been baffled without having a chance to strike a blow. But there were still the house and the damsels. Ought we not continue on our expedition?While we were considering this question, Katie Clancy appeared at a basement door, with a broom in her hand."Now, thin, clear outer here, ye little divils, or I'll be takin' the broom to ye!"And she started on a frontal attack.Peter was over the fence again in two seconds. Horace and I, like well-disciplined troops, did not let him precede us by more than an inch.In a few moments the detachment under Rob Currier returned to headquarters.Jimmy Toppan said:—"Let's go down to Plumbush an' go in swimmin'.""What's the matter with Four Rocks?" suggested Peter."Oh, come on to Plumbush," Jimmy insisted,—"my uncle's goin' to drive down to the farm in the buckboard, an' we can get a ride with him, part way."The question was put and carried without dissent, and the meeting stood adjourned.CHAPTER XIXENTERTAINING ALICEIt was sprung on me without any pretence of a fair warning. Rob Currier, Ed Mason, and I had just rounded up a herd of buffaloes in the back of my garden, and we were busily engaged in lassoing separate members of the herd before they should slip through the fence into Mr. Tilton's vegetable patch. Once let them get there and it would be well-nigh impossible, among the lettuce and tomatoes, ever to reduce them to submission. Your buffalo is tractable and decent on even turf, but when he gets all mixed up with vegetables he becomes a perfect nuisance.At the most exciting moment came a voice which had to be obeyed:—"Sam!"I ran, with my lasso in my hand, toward the house."Sam, go right upstairs and wash your hands and face, and brush your hair. Leave that old rope outside,—don't bring it in here."That old rope!Before I could make any inquiries, any explanations, I was hustled in, rushed upstairs, forcibly cleaned, lacerated with Dr. Kaltblut's steel-pronged tomahawk (falsely called a hair-brush) and shoved downstairs again.Here, I was dragged—a whited sepulchre—into a front room, where sat a lady,—a perfect stranger to me, anda little girl.Toward the smaller and younger of these beings I was propelled."Here, Alice, this is Sam. Sam, this is little Alice Remick, who is going to beyour neighbor. I want you to be nice to her, and play with her this afternoon, and entertain her."The concentrated perfidy of it! The unmitigated baseness! What more could Lucrezia Borgia have contrived?Entertain her! Entertain this spindle-legged, pig-tailed creature who was sucking her thumb in lively embarrassment! Was I a dancing bear, or a mountebank, that I should be called upon to furnish amusement tothis? Reflect that I had been called from high and mighty pursuits, that I was roping a gigantic and ferocious bull buffalo at the very moment when I was interrupted. That even as I stood there in the house the blackberry bushes were in danger from the rest of the herd, since the band of hunters had been deprived of one unerring hand and bold spirit. And all for the purpose of "entertaining" this hopeless product of civilization!There was just one thing to do, and that was to bolt out of the room without an instant's delay.I did so, but only succeeded in getting to the front door. This was locked, and in a second I had been recaptured. Then I was taken back to the room, where I had to stand the humiliation of hearing myself apologized for, in the presence of the little girl."Why, I do not know what made him behave so! I never knew him to do anything like it before. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Sam? Now, you must be polite to Alice, for she is a stranger. You'll do it to please me, Sam."This was certainly playing it pretty low down. I had been trapped by a combination of force and guile, and now an appeal was uttered in terms that made a refusal difficult, as well as useless.But what could I do with her? I hadno experience with them, except very seldom, and then in groups. To have a lone specimen like this thrust upon me was simply preposterous. Many of the boys had sisters,—both Rob and Ed were provided for in that respect. Very little profit, that I could see, did they ever get out of them. When the sisters were older, they were simply additions to the household tyrants who thronged in every family. They assumed an air of authority; gave orders, administered punishments, and reported to higher quarters what they were pleased to consider serious misdemeanors.As for the younger ones,—they were so many millstones about the neck. Sadie Currier and Louise Mason were always tagging on behind, spying here and interfering there. The two Kittredges,—Susy and Minnie,—were worse than all the rest. Minnie's spotless behavior,clean hands, correct pronunciation, and generally immaculate existence was a continual reproach to all of us who were merely human. Susy's tongue was never quiet, and she divided her time between chanting her own merits, and predicting woe for the rest of the world.So it was with a not altogether unprejudiced eye that I gazed on this small interloper, and wondered what I had done that I should be treated like this. Doubtless she reciprocated the feeling heartily, but I had no means of knowing that. I could not go forth again to the buffalo hunt, carrying this bit of impedimenta with me. When I even suggested taking her outdoors, a veto was pronounced promptly.Alice was dressed too nicely to go and play outdoors.Dressed indeed she was,—starched and cleaned and combed distressingly."Perhaps Alice would like to see some of the things in your playroom, Sam,—why don't you take her out there?"I had expected it. There only remained this final blow, and I knew it would fall. Admit this girl to my inner sanctum,—oh, well, the world was turned upside down this afternoon. What had to be, had to be, and there was an end to it."Come on!" I said, in a tone that mingled resignation and gruffness.Alice did not evince any great amount of eagerness to follow me. Instead, she hung back,—exactly like a girl! Here was I, putting myself out to be pleasant and courteous, giving up my afternoon, in fact, for her amusement, and at my very first invitation she pretended reluctance.Her mother urged her to accompany me, however, and pretty soon we reached my especial room."Do you like polliwogs?" I demanded, walking toward a glass jar in which several hundred of them swam about like animated quotation marks."Ugh! I hate 'em! Nathty squiggly things!" and she turned away abruptly.Here was a nice beginning for you! My prized polliwogs, gathered at no small trouble, and already beginning to show the most interesting signs of froggishness, were dismissed as "nathty squiggly things!"But I let the matter pass. I was determined to be polite,—polite and patient. I picked up a little box, covered with wire."Here is my snake box,—I've only got two now,—one green one and—"I had no time to finish about the red one, nor to exhibit the snakes themselves. They were really the most harmlesslittle fellows in the world,—neither of them over five inches long. One I had found under a fallen headstone in the old burying-ground, and the other I had obtained by swapping with Ed Mason,—giving a sinker, two fish-hooks, a turtle, and a piece of rock candy in exchange.But as soon as I mentioned the snakes, this perverse female backed across the room, her eyes closed, and both ears stopped with the tips of her forefingers, as if she thought my pets might utter some fearful screech."Oh,snakth! Take 'em away! I don't want to thee 'em! I hate 'em. What do you have suchnathtypetth for? Why don't you have nice ones?"This was insulting. I was far fonder of my pets than of this fussy little person. Moreover, I was doing my best to amuse her."I do have nice ones," I rejoined indignantly, "an' I've got a dog, an' a white rabbit, an' two guinea pigs out in the barn. Do you like any of those?""Not very much."She was hopeless,—simply hopeless. Under the circumstances it seemed hardly worth while to show her my June bugs,—although I had seven or eight which I had caught the night before. They were of the superior golden-yellow variety, too,—not the common brown ones."Haven't you any pets?" I asked."Yeth; I've got a kitten."A kitten! I might have known as much. Ordinarily I would have refrained from any comment on kittens, but now, "Kittens are no good," I announced."They aretoo; they're lovely.""No, they ain't, either,—they grow up into cats.""Catth are nice.""They catch birds, and torture 'em," I remarked.The little girl began to whimper.I couldn't stand blubbering, at any rate. I must do something to stop that. What would appeal to her? There was the engine which would puff out steam when you lighted the lamp under its boiler. Instinctively I knew she would not care for that.There was my bag of marbles,—including two "alleys," one of which had some beautiful substance that looked like checkerberry candy inside it.I brought the marbles forward; she remained passive.My railroad punch (which had once belonged to a real conductor on a train)—she might look at that. Nay, more, she might punch fascinating little holes in a piece of paper with it. In mydetermination to be hospitable I would leave no stone unturned.But she laid the punch down, and wandered listlessly toward the door, her thumb once more in her mouth.There was nothing for it but to play my highest trump; she should see my white mice! They were prosperous and interesting, and there were five new ones since last week."Come here," I said, and I took her to their box. We looked down into their home, and as we did so, an elder mouse poked his head above the straw, and sniffed the air curiously, his little eyes twinkling, and his whiskers quivering with excitement.Miss Alice uttered a loud squeal, and dashed out of the room. I could hear her all along the passage:—"Oh, mamma, mamma,—amouth! amouth!"Well, I gave it up. I had made every effort,—there was no pleasing the creature. My conscience was clear at all events,—and that was the principal thing.CHAPTER XXWHILE THE EVIL DAYS COME NOTSeptember was horribly near. And worse,—there was coming that 5th day of September when a certain bell should ring again, and we trudge up Elm Street, fidgeting uneasily about in our new "fall" clothes.The spectre of that man, that arithmetic-man, whose name during the days of vacation it were almost profanation to speak, arose before us with a hateful leer.The nights and mornings had grown cooler, and where daisies and buttercups had blossomed at the roadside, the golden-rod and frost-flowers had it all their own way.But one last adventure we must have, one last protest in the name of liberty. And so we organized, on the third day of September, an extensive expedition for the morrow, and I went to spend the night with Ed Mason, to be ready to make an early start.I fell asleep, wondering if we might not discover some unknown countries during the next day. When I woke, a small, dim figure stood beside me, repeating the words, "It's half-past four."It took me a number of seconds to comprehend their meaning, and to recognize their speaker. Then I knew, of course,—this was the hour of rising for the great expedition into the backwoods, and here was Ed Mason telling me of that fact.By day, Mason stalked the earth, compelling and terrible, in all the majesty of nine years. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and none looked uponhim without reverence. With his own strong right arm he had slain the musk-rat in its lair, and he had explored the fastnesses of "Second Woods,"—which, as everybody knew, were at least three-quarters of a mile beyond "First Woods."But now, in the chilly twilight before dawn, and clad in a single white garment, which hung from his shoulders angelwise, there lacked something of the awe which usually invested the Terror of the Neighborhood.Moreover, the nearly complete darkness which surrounded us, and eight solid hours of sleep from which I had just emerged, tended to make me slow of understanding. Only the afternoon before, and the world which had stretched beyond the borders of the town lay at our feet, awaiting our conquering footsteps. Now, the world seemed not only cold and dark, but immeasurably vast,and we no longer a pair of relentless Columbuses. Rather small, in fact, we seemed, and not wholly equipped to tame the jungle, and bring the desert to acknowledge its masters.However, I said nothing of this to Ed Mason, but arose and dressed. He was making ready in another room, and in a few minutes we tiptoed down the stairs. At five o'clock we were to meet other bold travellers at a rendezvous near the frog pond, and there was no time to be lost.Luncheons, a day's supply of food, had been prepared and put in boxes the evening before.With these under our arms, we hurried out into the faint light and through the side yard, our spirits and our clothes a trifle dampened on the way, by means of a glass of water thoughtfully poured upon us from a window by Ed's sisterFlorence. This attention was by way of reciprocating our act of the previous week, when we had locked her for a while in the hen-house,—a bit of humor which we had long ago forgotten, but which, it appeared, she still held in lively recollection.As we approached the pond, three other personages came into sight. These were Rob Currier, Jimmy Toppan, and Joe Carter. Charley Carter had been one of the organizers of the expedition, but a too intimate association with Mr. Hawkins's Bartlett pear tree and the fruit thereof, late on the previous afternoon, had rendered his absence unavoidable.From his elder brother we gathered that Charles had passed the darkling hours in a manner not altogether agreeable, and that his parents, and even Dr. Macey, had been in consultation overthe matter. Indeed, it was a narrow escape for Joe that he was not made to suffer vicarious punishment, and be kept at home on this day of days, but luckily he had been able to prove an alibi.Peter Bailey would not accompany us.This was not on account of illness, but, as we had all been made aware, because he disapproved of our methods. It was absurd, he had pointed out, to go on such an excursion without a compass. The military instinct which already made Peter regard himself as a future ornament to the United States Army, and which is doubtless of supreme value to him to-day in a stock-broker's office,—this instinct demanded a compass in order to find our path through the wilds.None of us had a compass, and Peter's was broken, and could not be replaced until his birthday,—six months hence.We must either postpone our trip for six months or go without Peter. He would not trust himself so far from civilization unless at any moment he might satisfy his passion for knowing where lay the north.Some little delicacy made us refrain from suggesting that at the farthest point which we should probably reach, the spires of most of the churches in town would undoubtedly be visible, and that we might take our bearings from these.Jimmy Toppan, then, as now, a navigator of deep seas, was one on whom the compass argument had made a profound impression. He described an ingenious but complicated recipe (which had once proved the salvation of certain mariners) whereby the hands of a watch,—if directed toward the sun, or away from the sun, I forget which, at noon, might serve in place of the magnetic needle.But, as Rob Currier observed, we might be hopelessly lost long before noon, and Ed Mason supplemented this gloomy prophecy by recalling the fact that Peter Bailey's Waterbury watch (the only time-piece amongst us) was never going, through Peter's constant neglect to spend the fifteen minutes necessary to wind it up.The plan for the day had nearly fallen through, but we finally decided to take our lives in our hands, and go without a compass. Peter, after treating us to a few sarcasms on our unscientific venture, refused absolutely to have anything to do with the trip. So there were but five of us who set out at last.On one thing we were determined. This was an all-day expedition. The necessary amount of exploration, of hunting and fishing, could not be accomplished in a few hours. We carried foodfor three full meals, and our families had been warned that they must get along without us until night began to gather in.Ed Mason had a light air-rifle, and Joe Carter, by virtue of his seniority and experience (he was thirteen that week) carried a small but pernicious revolver. The rest of us had fishing-poles and lines, and I was further equipped with a burning-glass,—without which no one should venture into the wilderness, where matches may fail, and camp-fires have to be kindled.We had not gone far when the suitability of breakfast occurred to us. We paused by the road,—not far from the brickyard (where Ed Mason had once beaten off an attack by tramps) and ate one third of our provision.Rob Currier's box proved to contain, among other things, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, and to find a third part oftwo eggs was not only puzzling, but unpleasantly reminiscent of Mr. Colburn's Arithmetic,—a book which we did not care to have accompany us, even in spirit.Rob solved the problem by eating both eggs then and there.A short walk brought us to a spot on Little River where the fishing was good, and here Jimmy Toppan and I promptly unlimbered our rods. Ed Mason wandered across the meadow to look for a legendary owl, which he claimed once to have seen in a tree near the centre of the meadow.An owl-haunted tree it certainly looked, but at that hour of the day there was little surprise that Ed saw nothing of him. The hunter soon returned to the river bank, where Jimmy and I were pulling in hornpouts at a great rate.The others, scornful of hornpouts, had departed to a small pool, farther up theriver, where nobler game was reported. Before the end of an hour they returned, bringing two very small and skinny pickerel. Now your pickerel, be he ever so meagre, is of course a nobler fish than your hornpout, and there is more glory in his capture. So Joe Carter and Rob were fain to look with loathing upon the dozen fat hornpouts which lay on the grass, and to consider that Jimmy and I had spent our time in but a trifling fashion.Not content with vaunting the superiority of their two dusty pickerel, they reduced us to deeper humiliation by recounting their adventures. Joe Carter had lost bait, hook, and float from his fishing tackle, through the agency of the enormous turtle who had lived for many a year under the bridge at the head of the pool, and Rob Currier had fallen into the water and come out wet to theknees. So it was evident that there was nothing for Jimmy and me but to hide our diminished heads.We said little, but suggested that as the morning was apparently far advanced, it would be well to have a swim and our midday meal. By the railroad track,—a short cut, we reached the swimming place, Four Rocks. It was probably the poorest swimming pool ever prescribed by an iron tradition. Passing trains made it necessary modestly to seek deeper water, and grazing cows threatened to devour our clothes; but here, and at no other place, did every boy learn to swim.Tradition is a tyrant; during the believing years it is the worst of despots.In a few minutes we were all in the water,—all except Rob Currier, who, under threat of dire punishment, had been eternally charged by his mother to keepout of the water until he was a complete master of the art of swimming.As he had not yet learned on land, he sat on the bank, threw pebbles at the cows, and from time to time remarked monotonously: "Oh, come on!"The process of dressing was slow,—the use of towels, or any serious attempt to dry oneself, being tabooed as a sign of the most degrading effeminacy. When we were ready to depart, the position of the sun, and a hollow sensation in our interiors, showed beyond question that we must once more draw upon our commissariat.Guided by three gaunt poplars, we advanced to the Devil's Den,—an ancient limestone quarry, which had some of the appearance, and many of the advantages, of a natural cave. Curious mineral substances were found there,—asbestos might be dug from the rockwith a jack-knife, and green veins of serpentine decorated the side of the cliff.It was a recognized spot for picnics, and we should have scarcely thought of eating our principal meal anywhere else. In the deepest part of the cleft was an unwholesome-looking puddle into which dripped the moisture from the roof of the cave. It was rather gloomy, and made visitors lower their voices a little, until they were in the sunlight once more.We built a fire,—for what purpose it would be difficult to say, as sandwiches, cake, and fruit do not need a great deal of cooking, and the fish which we had captured had been left with old Mr. Harris, the railroad-crossing tender, to be claimed on our return trip.It was pleasant, although a trifle hot and smoky on a warm day, to sit arounda fire and refresh our wearied frames with food. Joe Carter had a clay pipe, and after he had eaten, tried the experiment of smoking dried leaves in it. He coughed a good deal, and did not seem to derive that joy from the process which we had all heard arose from the use of a pipe.After a little time we set out once more, climbed to the top of Devil's Pulpit, and then took the road toward the Devil's Basin. In that region, the Devil seems to have had a large interest in the scenery. The road is of the pleasantest, however. Here, before the snow has hardly left the woods, the spring "peepers" sing insistently from a little bog, while, a few weeks later, the gentle blossoms of the hepatica emerge shyly from the dead leaves, and the anemone springs up on the hillside.Now, although the tide of summerebbed, the woods were crammed with things of interest. We investigated the Basin,—another deserted quarry. We explored the edges of the bog, and stalked a flock of crows who had gathered in the top of an oak. The afternoon passed at first pleasantly, but finally with some tedium,—the day seemed interminably long. Yet we grudged every moment, for we realized that the hours of vacation were numbered.We rambled about till we became aware that we were very tired, that the day was waning, and that three or four long miles lay between us and home.So we hurried through our suppers, and started on the return trip. Joe Carter walked a little in advance, calling out from time to time:—"You fellers better hurry up, unless you want to camp all night in the woods."Then he would casually take out hisrevolver and look mysteriously toward the deep undergrowth on each side of the road, as if to signify that he could not hold himself responsible for what manner of thing might beset us after the powers of darkness should be exalted.We did not want to camp all night in the woods (Ed Mason and I had not forgotten a certain experience!) and we hastened our steps.When we reached Mr. Harris's little shanty, it was closed and locked, and the old gentleman had gone,—whither we knew not. Our fish he had kindly preserved for us in a pail of water. We gathered them up, and hurried on.We debated what was the exact hour, and both Ed Mason and Rob Currier thought that sunset was close upon us. Ed remarked that he had seen one or two bats fluttering about, as we came through the woods. Evidently thecreatures of the night were beginning to make their appearance.Tired we were,—we knew that,—and a little moody at the thought of approaching school. I had a small, sharp pebble in my shoe, which made walking very painful. So I had to delay the party until I could rid myself of it.Finally we left the railroad track, and started on the home stretch over the old turnpike. We felt more at ease now, since houses were in plain sight, and the town distant only a matter of thirty minutes' walking.Here we met a man driving a sorrel horse in a wagon.Joe Carter hailed him."Say, mister, do you know what time it is?" asked Joe.The man pulled up the horse, and took a watch out of his pocket. He lookedat the dial, and then held the watch to his ear."Well," he remarked leisurely, "guess my watch has stopped again. But I can tell yer pretty close. It was quarter to nine when I came by Moulton's, an' that wa'n't more'n fifteen minutes ago. It's 'bout nine o'clock now,—I guess you young fellers better be gettin' home pretty quick, or you won't get no breakfast!""What?"We all shouted at once.The man looked at us bewildered."What are you talkin' about?" Joe Carter asked him; "quarter of nine—in the evening?""Evening?" said the man; "you crazy? No,—quarter to nine in the mornin', of course. What do you—oh! I see! Been spendin' the night in the woods, an' got lost, ain't yer?""No," Joe replied; "we been out all day,—we started 'fore daylight this morning, an' we thought it was night."The man still stared, but gradually he began to grasp the situation. His mouth slowly opened, a grin began to creep round to his ears, and he cackled. Cackled offensively and long.We could not stand that, and we hurried along the road. The man stood up in his wagon, looking after us, and still uttering that idiotic cackle."Well, we're a lot of numb-heads," remarked Rob Currier.Apparently we all agreed, but no one said so. We stubbed along in the dust, silent and ashamed. The fiasco had taken the life out of us. We did not want to go back to the woods and we did not want to return home. The jeers that might greet us there would be worsethan the laughter of the man in the wagon.Out for an all-day expedition on the last day before school opened, out for a grand exploration of the wild country,—and we had eaten all three of our meals and come home at nine o'clock in the morning! What were these bats and night-birds that we had seen? Where was the sunset and all the rest of it? This last day of vacation to be spoiled—Suddenly Joe Carter stopped in the middle of the road.His mouth opened, and then a grin spread over his face."By Jings!" he shouted.We stopped and gazed at him.Then he began to jump about excitedly on one leg."Don't you see?" he cried."What? See what?""Why, don't you see? What do we care for that old hayseed in the wagon? Or for any one? We've still got a whole day of vacation left!"The following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan novels.ByE. B. DEWINGOTHER PEOPLE'S HOUSESCloth, 12mo, $1.50SOME OPINIONS OF THE WORK"An acute study—acute at times to the point of painfulness—of a phase of life especially aggressive in our own time, but peculiar to no single period ... there is an underlying power in the book that definitely conveys a promise of better things."—New York Evening Post."It is a remarkable story, with plenty of ingenuity in it, and some startling developments. Any story so plainly out of the beaten path deserves the attention of the reading public."—Cleveland Plain Dealer."'Other People's Houses' is a striking and absorbing study of character, and is an effective introduction to a writer whose ability will doubtless place her among the very few American novelists of importance."—New York Times.ByMARY S. WATTSTHE LEGACYCloth, 12mo, $1.50"It is a good story and at the same time good literature. Its plot is handled with a sure hand, its occasional touches of emotion are genuine, its spirit is wholesome and buoyant. It belongs in the select company of the best American novels."—Record-Herald."In 'Nathan Burke' and in 'The Legacy,' Mrs. Watts has reached a high-water mark in American fiction, has told two stories of genuine Americanism. Every page shows her truly remarkable gift of observation—observation shrewd but not unkind—and her power to probe the hearts of weak and erring mortals. Those who would keep in touch with the best product of story-telling in America must not miss 'The Legacy.'"—New York Globe."It is a story exceptionally well told, reaching and maintaining a rare pitch of interest."—New York World."It is a masterful novel throughout, and places the writer in the very highest rank of modern authors."—Salt Lake Tribune.Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL'S NOVELSEach, cloth, gilt tops and titles, $1.50A Modern ChronicleIllustratedThis, Mr. Churchill's first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. It is frankly a modern love story."The most thorough and artistic work the author has yet turned out. A very interesting story and a faithful picture of character ... one that will give rise to much discussion."—New York Sun.Mr. Crewe's CareerIllustrated"It is an honest and fair story.... It is very interesting; and the heroine is a type of woman as fresh, original, and captivating as any that has appeared in American novels for a long time past."—The Outlook.The CelebrityAn Episode"No such piece of inimitable comedy in a literary way has appeared for years.... It is the purest, keenest fun."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.Richard CarvelIllustrated"In breadth, massing of dramatic effect, depth of feeling, and rare wholesomeness of spirit, it has seldom, if ever, been surpassed by an American romance."—Chicago Tribune.The CrossingIllustrated"A thoroughly interesting book, packed with exciting adventure and sentimental incident, yet faithful to historical fact both in detail and in spirit."—The Dial.The CrisisIllustrated"A charming love story that never loses its interest.... The intense political bitterness, the intense patriotism of both parties, are shown understandingly."—Evening Telegraph, Philadelphia.ConistonIllustrated"A lighter, gayer spirit and a deeper, tenderer touch than Mr. Churchill has ever achieved before.... One of the truest and finest transcripts of modern American life thus far achieved in our fiction."—Chicago Record-Herald.IMPORTANT FICTIONGERTRUDE ATHERTON'STower of IvoryCloth, 12mo, $1.50"The 'Tower of Ivory' provides the closest study of certain phases of English high life at home and abroad that has been given us by any novelist in a great many years. Mrs. Atherton has her readers grappled to her soul by some of the most solid merits of the novelist and these she repays generously."—Chicago Evening Post.CLARA E. LAUGHLIN'SJust FolksCloth, 12mo, $1.50"This work does for readers of fiction the very real service of humanizing the slums."—Philadelphia Press."A most readable story, and one that warms the heart toward others."—Christian Advocate, New York.MABEL O. WRIGHT'SPrincess Flower HatCloth, 12mo, $1.50"The tale is charming, the reading throughout is delightful, and no lover of a garden will pass the book unnoticed."—San Francisco Call.E. V. LUCAS'Mr. InglesideCloth, 12mo, $1.35 net"'Mr. Ingleside' is a literary man's novel. The story itself is the least of Mr. Ingleside'; it is the way it is told, the keen observation of men and things and life in general, the excellent characterization, the drollery and whimsey that bring delight from page to page.... It is rich with allusions and memories, ready with knowledge of life, and quickened with a love for quirks and oddities in character wherever they are to be found."—Argus, Albany, N.Y.RICHARD WASHBURN CHILD'SJim HandsCloth, 12mo, $1.20 net"This is an excellent story. It treats of simple people, of a noble-hearted girl who saw her duty, and of the man she loved. There are scenes of real dramatic power. The interest is sustained. The kind of book that works the heart chords every now and then."—News and Courier, Charleston, S.C."Mr. Child gives us a novel of uncommon interest, but what marks it at once for attention is its purely human quality, its knowledge of the fundamental traits of men and women, its atmosphere of truth to daily life."—New York Tribune.JAMES LANE ALLEN'SThe Doctor's Christmas EveCloth, 12mo, $1.50"Kentucky in its rural aspects and with its noble men and women forms the scenery for this romance of quaintness and homeliness which lovingly interprets the career of a country doctor who has lost faith in life but not in ideals. Incidentally the author has interpreted the new spirit of American childhood in its relation to the miracles and legends and lore of other lands and older times, which have through the centuries gathered about the great Christmas festival of the Nativity."—New York Times."What so many have so long hoped Mr. Allen would do he has accomplished in this work, namely, a description of Kentucky and the bluegrass farms as seen by a youngster."—New York American.MARY S. WATTS'Nathan BurkeCloth, 12mo, $1.50"It is sometimes said that one of the best tests of a good novel, as it is of a well-planned meal, is how you feel at the end. Are you satisfied or do you wish that at some time the performance may be repeated? When one is through with 'Nathan Burke,' one thinks, I'd like to read it right over again."—Columbia Dispatch.WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE'SA Certain Rich ManCloth, 12mo, $1.50"This novel has a message for to-day, and for its brilliant character drawing, and that gossipy desultory style of writing that stamps Mr. White's literary work, will earn a high place in fiction. It is good and clean and provides a vacation from the cares of the hour. It resembles a Chinese play, because it begins with the hero's boyhood, describes his long, busy life, and ends with his death. Its tone is often religious, never flippant, and one of its best assets is its glowing descriptions of the calm, serene beauties of nature. Its moral is that a magnate never did any real good with money."—Oregonian, Portland, Ore.Mr. OWEN WISTER'S NOVELSMembers of the FamilyDecorated cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net"Thrilling and unusual tales of life on the Western prairies. Mr. Wister has shown himself a master in this class of fiction."—Critic.The VirginianDecorated cloth, 12mo, $1.50 net"The vanished West is made to live again by Owen Wister in a manner which makes his book easily the best that deals with the cowboy and the cattle country.... It is picturesque, racy, and above all it is original."—The Philadelphia Press.Lady BaltimoreCloth, 12mo, $1.50"After cowboy stories innumerable, 'the Virginian' came as the last and definite word on that romantic subject in our fiction. 'Lady Baltimore' will serve in much the same way as the most subtly drawn picture of the old-world dignity of the vanished South."—The New York Evening Mail.Mr. EDEN PHILPOTTS' NOVELSEach, in decorated cloth, $1.50The American PrisonerIllustrated"Intensely readable ... perfectly admirable in its elemental humor and racy turns of speech."—The Spectator, London.The Secret Woman"There cannot be two opinions as to the interest and the power of 'The Secret Woman.' It is not only its author's masterpiece, but it is far in advance of anything he has yet written—and that is to give it higher praise than almost any other comparison with contemporary fiction could afford."—Times Saturday Review.Knock at a VentureSketches of the rustic life of Devon, rich in racy, quaint, and humorous touches.The PortreevePUBLISHED BYTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York

CHAPTER XVIIITHE SIEGE OF AUNTIE MERRILLIt was Peter Bailey who organized the siege. We had long ago made up the quarrel that arose on the day of the Indian raid. He still maintained that Ed's and my conduct had been contrary to all rules of warfare, but we noticed that we were not expected, since that day, to impersonate the under dog in every combat.Peter's reputation for generalship was a little tarnished, and for that reason he got up this grand military movement against the property and person of Auntie Merrill.That lady had, so Peter said, certain"distressed damsels" closely immured in dungeons beneath her house."Distressedwhat?" asked Ed Mason."Damsels," replied Peter."What d'ye mean,—girls?""Well,—yes.""I don't want 'em," rejoined the practical Ed; "let 'em stay there."Peter was exasperated."Why, we'vegotto get them out," he asserted, "or they'll starve to death.""How'd they get in there?" Ed Mason wished to know."What difference does that make? She captured 'em, I s'pose."I thought I could throw a little light on this dark subject. It was Monday morning, and I had been looking over the fence into the Merrill garden only half an hour before."There ain't any distressed damsels there, Peter," I said earnestly; "I saw'em. One of 'em's Katie Clancy,—an' she lives there all the time, an' the other is Mrs. Muldoon, an' she's hangin' out the wash."But I was unmercifully snubbed for my pains."You make me perfectly tired," he retorted. "I don't mean Katie, nor Mrs. Muldoon. I know them. The—er—damsels are in dungeons below the ground."I turned to Rob Currier, Jimmy Toppan, and Horace Winslow, who had come into the Masons' back yard with Peter. But they had been under the influence of Peter's warlike mind and persuasive tongue for an hour or more. They seemed to believe in the damsels, and their confidence tended to shake my doubts.Ed Mason was not so easily moved from scepticism."What are they doin' there?" he inquired."Doin'? They ain't doin' anything, you chump! They're chained hand an' foot to the rock. How could they do anything? They're waitin' for us to rescue 'em.""Why don't they call a p'liceman?""'Cos they can't! How could they call so he'd hear through the rock?""Did Auntie Merrill put 'em in there?""Yes; she did,—or some of her mur-murmurdons.""Her what?"Horace Winslow broke into the conversation."Don't you know what murmidons are? They're big woolly elephants with long tusks.""Oh, get out! Auntie Merrill hasn't got any. You think you're stuffin' me, but you ain't!"Peter seemed to be willing to change the subject, and get on to the main issue."We'll divide into two regiments,—I'll take command of one, and Rob of the other. I'll take Horace and Sam, and Rob can take Ed Mason and Jimmy. We'll stay here, an' you can go down into Sam's yard an' climb over the fence, an' go up by the path next the Nortons' house. Then we'll attack the house from two sides at once. Now, go on, Rob."But this was going altogether too fast for me."How'll we get by Mrs. Muldoon? She's out there on the clothes-jack now.""That'll be all right," Peter assured me; "if she says anything, just knock her down!"But I could not imagine myself knocking Mrs. Muldoon down under any circumstances. In the first place, she weighed over two hundred pounds."An' say," continued Ed Mason, "how are we goin' to attack the house when we get there? What'll we do?"Even Jimmy Toppan was wavering."Where are the murmidons? What'll we do if we meet them?" he asked.Such questions were quite appropriate. We had long been accustomed to scout on Auntie Merrill, as well as other more formidable persons. We had tracked her up and down her garden many times, peered at her from behind bushes, and observed her from the tops of trees. But Peter, filled with a longing for military glory and daring deeds, was proposing an exploit altogether more hazardous than anything we had ever attempted. Thirsting for conquest, he overlooked all obstacles. He had, however, failed to infect us with his enthusiasm.For one thing, this inhuman treatmentof the damsels seemed rather foreign to Auntie Merrill's character, as I knew it. It was true she had spoken to me with severity on one occasion,—something about running across her new grass plot, and she had warned me against throwing stones at the statue of George Washington near her house. The latter warning had been totally unnecessary,—I had never dreamed of doing such a thing. I never had, that is, until she put the idea into my head,—after that it appealed to me with the fearful fascination of a deadly crime.I was somewhat afraid of her, but it was nevertheless hard to think of her keeping these unfortunate creatures chained up and starving. Moreover, to make an open attack upon her house by force of arms (Peter had served out wooden revolvers to us, and had a sword for himself) was a serious business. Itstruck me that we might get involved with the police. In the first place, the attack carried with it the possible necessity of an assault and battery upon Mrs. Muldoon, a perfectly respectable and very muscular washerwoman.Then, supposing that we had overcome that difficulty, there was the house to enter.Who could say that the doors might not be locked?Finally, there were these mysterious and terrible "murmidons." No one, not even Peter, seemed to be able to say exactly what they were, or tell at what moment we might be confronted by them.Altogether, I have seldom engaged in any military enterprise where the obstacles seemed so overwhelming, and the chances of success so slight.But Peter would hear of no objections.If we did not wish to embroil ourselveswith Mrs. Muldoon, it would be a simple matter to keep behind the hedge until we were between her and the house. Then it would be too late for her to make any effective resistance.As for the locked doors,—beat 'em down!He would take care of the "murmidons" himself,—leave them to him.We were quite willing to do so.But even at this last moment, when our general thought he had arranged everything, and as he was about to issue his orders once more to Colonel Currier, there came a hitch."Well, say, look here. What are we goin' to do with these damsels when we get 'em?"It was still Mason, the unconvinced, who spoke."Don't be such a jay! We'll send 'em home, of course!""Where do they live?"Peter fairly danced with rage."How do I know where they live? We can ask 'em, can't we?""I s'pose we can. But how are you goin' to get their chains off? You said they were chained to the rock."The general had to assume more responsibility for himself."I'll get 'em off all right. Now, I do wish you'd go ahead an' start, an' shut up your talkin'. Rob, you whistle as soon as you get back of the quince bush, an' we'll come right over the fence here, an' both regiments must charge up to the house at the same time. But don't start till I give the order to charge."Rob Currier, Ed, and Jimmy disappeared behind Mr. Hawkins's woodshed. They had scarcely done so when Peter called them back."You must be sure to take Auntie Merrilla prisoner," he commanded; "take heralive."They promised not to let her escape. Then they set out once more. We climbed upon the fence, and watched for them to appear at the foot of the Merrill garden. Soon we saw them crossing my yard in Indian file. Rob mounted the fence, and looked over.No enemy in sight.Then all three climbed the fence, crouched behind the hedge, and crept up the path to the quince bush. Rob whistled.As soon as he heard this signal, Peter ordered us into the hostile territory. We dropped silently over the fence, and lay flat on our stomachs in the grass. Peter raised himself slightly on his arms and gazed at the stronghold.Mrs. Muldoon had gone into the house for more clothes-pins.Now was our chance!Peter rose, waved his sword, and was just opening his mouth to order the charge, when an unexpected thing happened.Auntie Merrill opened a side door of her house, walked out on the veranda, descended two steps, and proceeded slowly up the side path to the street. She was dressed in black as usual, with a lavender bonnet, and she carried a little parasol. She opened the garden gate, crossed the sidewalk, stepped into a carriage that was standing by the curb, and drove quietly away.The enemy had escaped.We had been baffled without having a chance to strike a blow. But there were still the house and the damsels. Ought we not continue on our expedition?While we were considering this question, Katie Clancy appeared at a basement door, with a broom in her hand."Now, thin, clear outer here, ye little divils, or I'll be takin' the broom to ye!"And she started on a frontal attack.Peter was over the fence again in two seconds. Horace and I, like well-disciplined troops, did not let him precede us by more than an inch.In a few moments the detachment under Rob Currier returned to headquarters.Jimmy Toppan said:—"Let's go down to Plumbush an' go in swimmin'.""What's the matter with Four Rocks?" suggested Peter."Oh, come on to Plumbush," Jimmy insisted,—"my uncle's goin' to drive down to the farm in the buckboard, an' we can get a ride with him, part way."The question was put and carried without dissent, and the meeting stood adjourned.CHAPTER XIXENTERTAINING ALICEIt was sprung on me without any pretence of a fair warning. Rob Currier, Ed Mason, and I had just rounded up a herd of buffaloes in the back of my garden, and we were busily engaged in lassoing separate members of the herd before they should slip through the fence into Mr. Tilton's vegetable patch. Once let them get there and it would be well-nigh impossible, among the lettuce and tomatoes, ever to reduce them to submission. Your buffalo is tractable and decent on even turf, but when he gets all mixed up with vegetables he becomes a perfect nuisance.At the most exciting moment came a voice which had to be obeyed:—"Sam!"I ran, with my lasso in my hand, toward the house."Sam, go right upstairs and wash your hands and face, and brush your hair. Leave that old rope outside,—don't bring it in here."That old rope!Before I could make any inquiries, any explanations, I was hustled in, rushed upstairs, forcibly cleaned, lacerated with Dr. Kaltblut's steel-pronged tomahawk (falsely called a hair-brush) and shoved downstairs again.Here, I was dragged—a whited sepulchre—into a front room, where sat a lady,—a perfect stranger to me, anda little girl.Toward the smaller and younger of these beings I was propelled."Here, Alice, this is Sam. Sam, this is little Alice Remick, who is going to beyour neighbor. I want you to be nice to her, and play with her this afternoon, and entertain her."The concentrated perfidy of it! The unmitigated baseness! What more could Lucrezia Borgia have contrived?Entertain her! Entertain this spindle-legged, pig-tailed creature who was sucking her thumb in lively embarrassment! Was I a dancing bear, or a mountebank, that I should be called upon to furnish amusement tothis? Reflect that I had been called from high and mighty pursuits, that I was roping a gigantic and ferocious bull buffalo at the very moment when I was interrupted. That even as I stood there in the house the blackberry bushes were in danger from the rest of the herd, since the band of hunters had been deprived of one unerring hand and bold spirit. And all for the purpose of "entertaining" this hopeless product of civilization!There was just one thing to do, and that was to bolt out of the room without an instant's delay.I did so, but only succeeded in getting to the front door. This was locked, and in a second I had been recaptured. Then I was taken back to the room, where I had to stand the humiliation of hearing myself apologized for, in the presence of the little girl."Why, I do not know what made him behave so! I never knew him to do anything like it before. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Sam? Now, you must be polite to Alice, for she is a stranger. You'll do it to please me, Sam."This was certainly playing it pretty low down. I had been trapped by a combination of force and guile, and now an appeal was uttered in terms that made a refusal difficult, as well as useless.But what could I do with her? I hadno experience with them, except very seldom, and then in groups. To have a lone specimen like this thrust upon me was simply preposterous. Many of the boys had sisters,—both Rob and Ed were provided for in that respect. Very little profit, that I could see, did they ever get out of them. When the sisters were older, they were simply additions to the household tyrants who thronged in every family. They assumed an air of authority; gave orders, administered punishments, and reported to higher quarters what they were pleased to consider serious misdemeanors.As for the younger ones,—they were so many millstones about the neck. Sadie Currier and Louise Mason were always tagging on behind, spying here and interfering there. The two Kittredges,—Susy and Minnie,—were worse than all the rest. Minnie's spotless behavior,clean hands, correct pronunciation, and generally immaculate existence was a continual reproach to all of us who were merely human. Susy's tongue was never quiet, and she divided her time between chanting her own merits, and predicting woe for the rest of the world.So it was with a not altogether unprejudiced eye that I gazed on this small interloper, and wondered what I had done that I should be treated like this. Doubtless she reciprocated the feeling heartily, but I had no means of knowing that. I could not go forth again to the buffalo hunt, carrying this bit of impedimenta with me. When I even suggested taking her outdoors, a veto was pronounced promptly.Alice was dressed too nicely to go and play outdoors.Dressed indeed she was,—starched and cleaned and combed distressingly."Perhaps Alice would like to see some of the things in your playroom, Sam,—why don't you take her out there?"I had expected it. There only remained this final blow, and I knew it would fall. Admit this girl to my inner sanctum,—oh, well, the world was turned upside down this afternoon. What had to be, had to be, and there was an end to it."Come on!" I said, in a tone that mingled resignation and gruffness.Alice did not evince any great amount of eagerness to follow me. Instead, she hung back,—exactly like a girl! Here was I, putting myself out to be pleasant and courteous, giving up my afternoon, in fact, for her amusement, and at my very first invitation she pretended reluctance.Her mother urged her to accompany me, however, and pretty soon we reached my especial room."Do you like polliwogs?" I demanded, walking toward a glass jar in which several hundred of them swam about like animated quotation marks."Ugh! I hate 'em! Nathty squiggly things!" and she turned away abruptly.Here was a nice beginning for you! My prized polliwogs, gathered at no small trouble, and already beginning to show the most interesting signs of froggishness, were dismissed as "nathty squiggly things!"But I let the matter pass. I was determined to be polite,—polite and patient. I picked up a little box, covered with wire."Here is my snake box,—I've only got two now,—one green one and—"I had no time to finish about the red one, nor to exhibit the snakes themselves. They were really the most harmlesslittle fellows in the world,—neither of them over five inches long. One I had found under a fallen headstone in the old burying-ground, and the other I had obtained by swapping with Ed Mason,—giving a sinker, two fish-hooks, a turtle, and a piece of rock candy in exchange.But as soon as I mentioned the snakes, this perverse female backed across the room, her eyes closed, and both ears stopped with the tips of her forefingers, as if she thought my pets might utter some fearful screech."Oh,snakth! Take 'em away! I don't want to thee 'em! I hate 'em. What do you have suchnathtypetth for? Why don't you have nice ones?"This was insulting. I was far fonder of my pets than of this fussy little person. Moreover, I was doing my best to amuse her."I do have nice ones," I rejoined indignantly, "an' I've got a dog, an' a white rabbit, an' two guinea pigs out in the barn. Do you like any of those?""Not very much."She was hopeless,—simply hopeless. Under the circumstances it seemed hardly worth while to show her my June bugs,—although I had seven or eight which I had caught the night before. They were of the superior golden-yellow variety, too,—not the common brown ones."Haven't you any pets?" I asked."Yeth; I've got a kitten."A kitten! I might have known as much. Ordinarily I would have refrained from any comment on kittens, but now, "Kittens are no good," I announced."They aretoo; they're lovely.""No, they ain't, either,—they grow up into cats.""Catth are nice.""They catch birds, and torture 'em," I remarked.The little girl began to whimper.I couldn't stand blubbering, at any rate. I must do something to stop that. What would appeal to her? There was the engine which would puff out steam when you lighted the lamp under its boiler. Instinctively I knew she would not care for that.There was my bag of marbles,—including two "alleys," one of which had some beautiful substance that looked like checkerberry candy inside it.I brought the marbles forward; she remained passive.My railroad punch (which had once belonged to a real conductor on a train)—she might look at that. Nay, more, she might punch fascinating little holes in a piece of paper with it. In mydetermination to be hospitable I would leave no stone unturned.But she laid the punch down, and wandered listlessly toward the door, her thumb once more in her mouth.There was nothing for it but to play my highest trump; she should see my white mice! They were prosperous and interesting, and there were five new ones since last week."Come here," I said, and I took her to their box. We looked down into their home, and as we did so, an elder mouse poked his head above the straw, and sniffed the air curiously, his little eyes twinkling, and his whiskers quivering with excitement.Miss Alice uttered a loud squeal, and dashed out of the room. I could hear her all along the passage:—"Oh, mamma, mamma,—amouth! amouth!"Well, I gave it up. I had made every effort,—there was no pleasing the creature. My conscience was clear at all events,—and that was the principal thing.CHAPTER XXWHILE THE EVIL DAYS COME NOTSeptember was horribly near. And worse,—there was coming that 5th day of September when a certain bell should ring again, and we trudge up Elm Street, fidgeting uneasily about in our new "fall" clothes.The spectre of that man, that arithmetic-man, whose name during the days of vacation it were almost profanation to speak, arose before us with a hateful leer.The nights and mornings had grown cooler, and where daisies and buttercups had blossomed at the roadside, the golden-rod and frost-flowers had it all their own way.But one last adventure we must have, one last protest in the name of liberty. And so we organized, on the third day of September, an extensive expedition for the morrow, and I went to spend the night with Ed Mason, to be ready to make an early start.I fell asleep, wondering if we might not discover some unknown countries during the next day. When I woke, a small, dim figure stood beside me, repeating the words, "It's half-past four."It took me a number of seconds to comprehend their meaning, and to recognize their speaker. Then I knew, of course,—this was the hour of rising for the great expedition into the backwoods, and here was Ed Mason telling me of that fact.By day, Mason stalked the earth, compelling and terrible, in all the majesty of nine years. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and none looked uponhim without reverence. With his own strong right arm he had slain the musk-rat in its lair, and he had explored the fastnesses of "Second Woods,"—which, as everybody knew, were at least three-quarters of a mile beyond "First Woods."But now, in the chilly twilight before dawn, and clad in a single white garment, which hung from his shoulders angelwise, there lacked something of the awe which usually invested the Terror of the Neighborhood.Moreover, the nearly complete darkness which surrounded us, and eight solid hours of sleep from which I had just emerged, tended to make me slow of understanding. Only the afternoon before, and the world which had stretched beyond the borders of the town lay at our feet, awaiting our conquering footsteps. Now, the world seemed not only cold and dark, but immeasurably vast,and we no longer a pair of relentless Columbuses. Rather small, in fact, we seemed, and not wholly equipped to tame the jungle, and bring the desert to acknowledge its masters.However, I said nothing of this to Ed Mason, but arose and dressed. He was making ready in another room, and in a few minutes we tiptoed down the stairs. At five o'clock we were to meet other bold travellers at a rendezvous near the frog pond, and there was no time to be lost.Luncheons, a day's supply of food, had been prepared and put in boxes the evening before.With these under our arms, we hurried out into the faint light and through the side yard, our spirits and our clothes a trifle dampened on the way, by means of a glass of water thoughtfully poured upon us from a window by Ed's sisterFlorence. This attention was by way of reciprocating our act of the previous week, when we had locked her for a while in the hen-house,—a bit of humor which we had long ago forgotten, but which, it appeared, she still held in lively recollection.As we approached the pond, three other personages came into sight. These were Rob Currier, Jimmy Toppan, and Joe Carter. Charley Carter had been one of the organizers of the expedition, but a too intimate association with Mr. Hawkins's Bartlett pear tree and the fruit thereof, late on the previous afternoon, had rendered his absence unavoidable.From his elder brother we gathered that Charles had passed the darkling hours in a manner not altogether agreeable, and that his parents, and even Dr. Macey, had been in consultation overthe matter. Indeed, it was a narrow escape for Joe that he was not made to suffer vicarious punishment, and be kept at home on this day of days, but luckily he had been able to prove an alibi.Peter Bailey would not accompany us.This was not on account of illness, but, as we had all been made aware, because he disapproved of our methods. It was absurd, he had pointed out, to go on such an excursion without a compass. The military instinct which already made Peter regard himself as a future ornament to the United States Army, and which is doubtless of supreme value to him to-day in a stock-broker's office,—this instinct demanded a compass in order to find our path through the wilds.None of us had a compass, and Peter's was broken, and could not be replaced until his birthday,—six months hence.We must either postpone our trip for six months or go without Peter. He would not trust himself so far from civilization unless at any moment he might satisfy his passion for knowing where lay the north.Some little delicacy made us refrain from suggesting that at the farthest point which we should probably reach, the spires of most of the churches in town would undoubtedly be visible, and that we might take our bearings from these.Jimmy Toppan, then, as now, a navigator of deep seas, was one on whom the compass argument had made a profound impression. He described an ingenious but complicated recipe (which had once proved the salvation of certain mariners) whereby the hands of a watch,—if directed toward the sun, or away from the sun, I forget which, at noon, might serve in place of the magnetic needle.But, as Rob Currier observed, we might be hopelessly lost long before noon, and Ed Mason supplemented this gloomy prophecy by recalling the fact that Peter Bailey's Waterbury watch (the only time-piece amongst us) was never going, through Peter's constant neglect to spend the fifteen minutes necessary to wind it up.The plan for the day had nearly fallen through, but we finally decided to take our lives in our hands, and go without a compass. Peter, after treating us to a few sarcasms on our unscientific venture, refused absolutely to have anything to do with the trip. So there were but five of us who set out at last.On one thing we were determined. This was an all-day expedition. The necessary amount of exploration, of hunting and fishing, could not be accomplished in a few hours. We carried foodfor three full meals, and our families had been warned that they must get along without us until night began to gather in.Ed Mason had a light air-rifle, and Joe Carter, by virtue of his seniority and experience (he was thirteen that week) carried a small but pernicious revolver. The rest of us had fishing-poles and lines, and I was further equipped with a burning-glass,—without which no one should venture into the wilderness, where matches may fail, and camp-fires have to be kindled.We had not gone far when the suitability of breakfast occurred to us. We paused by the road,—not far from the brickyard (where Ed Mason had once beaten off an attack by tramps) and ate one third of our provision.Rob Currier's box proved to contain, among other things, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, and to find a third part oftwo eggs was not only puzzling, but unpleasantly reminiscent of Mr. Colburn's Arithmetic,—a book which we did not care to have accompany us, even in spirit.Rob solved the problem by eating both eggs then and there.A short walk brought us to a spot on Little River where the fishing was good, and here Jimmy Toppan and I promptly unlimbered our rods. Ed Mason wandered across the meadow to look for a legendary owl, which he claimed once to have seen in a tree near the centre of the meadow.An owl-haunted tree it certainly looked, but at that hour of the day there was little surprise that Ed saw nothing of him. The hunter soon returned to the river bank, where Jimmy and I were pulling in hornpouts at a great rate.The others, scornful of hornpouts, had departed to a small pool, farther up theriver, where nobler game was reported. Before the end of an hour they returned, bringing two very small and skinny pickerel. Now your pickerel, be he ever so meagre, is of course a nobler fish than your hornpout, and there is more glory in his capture. So Joe Carter and Rob were fain to look with loathing upon the dozen fat hornpouts which lay on the grass, and to consider that Jimmy and I had spent our time in but a trifling fashion.Not content with vaunting the superiority of their two dusty pickerel, they reduced us to deeper humiliation by recounting their adventures. Joe Carter had lost bait, hook, and float from his fishing tackle, through the agency of the enormous turtle who had lived for many a year under the bridge at the head of the pool, and Rob Currier had fallen into the water and come out wet to theknees. So it was evident that there was nothing for Jimmy and me but to hide our diminished heads.We said little, but suggested that as the morning was apparently far advanced, it would be well to have a swim and our midday meal. By the railroad track,—a short cut, we reached the swimming place, Four Rocks. It was probably the poorest swimming pool ever prescribed by an iron tradition. Passing trains made it necessary modestly to seek deeper water, and grazing cows threatened to devour our clothes; but here, and at no other place, did every boy learn to swim.Tradition is a tyrant; during the believing years it is the worst of despots.In a few minutes we were all in the water,—all except Rob Currier, who, under threat of dire punishment, had been eternally charged by his mother to keepout of the water until he was a complete master of the art of swimming.As he had not yet learned on land, he sat on the bank, threw pebbles at the cows, and from time to time remarked monotonously: "Oh, come on!"The process of dressing was slow,—the use of towels, or any serious attempt to dry oneself, being tabooed as a sign of the most degrading effeminacy. When we were ready to depart, the position of the sun, and a hollow sensation in our interiors, showed beyond question that we must once more draw upon our commissariat.Guided by three gaunt poplars, we advanced to the Devil's Den,—an ancient limestone quarry, which had some of the appearance, and many of the advantages, of a natural cave. Curious mineral substances were found there,—asbestos might be dug from the rockwith a jack-knife, and green veins of serpentine decorated the side of the cliff.It was a recognized spot for picnics, and we should have scarcely thought of eating our principal meal anywhere else. In the deepest part of the cleft was an unwholesome-looking puddle into which dripped the moisture from the roof of the cave. It was rather gloomy, and made visitors lower their voices a little, until they were in the sunlight once more.We built a fire,—for what purpose it would be difficult to say, as sandwiches, cake, and fruit do not need a great deal of cooking, and the fish which we had captured had been left with old Mr. Harris, the railroad-crossing tender, to be claimed on our return trip.It was pleasant, although a trifle hot and smoky on a warm day, to sit arounda fire and refresh our wearied frames with food. Joe Carter had a clay pipe, and after he had eaten, tried the experiment of smoking dried leaves in it. He coughed a good deal, and did not seem to derive that joy from the process which we had all heard arose from the use of a pipe.After a little time we set out once more, climbed to the top of Devil's Pulpit, and then took the road toward the Devil's Basin. In that region, the Devil seems to have had a large interest in the scenery. The road is of the pleasantest, however. Here, before the snow has hardly left the woods, the spring "peepers" sing insistently from a little bog, while, a few weeks later, the gentle blossoms of the hepatica emerge shyly from the dead leaves, and the anemone springs up on the hillside.Now, although the tide of summerebbed, the woods were crammed with things of interest. We investigated the Basin,—another deserted quarry. We explored the edges of the bog, and stalked a flock of crows who had gathered in the top of an oak. The afternoon passed at first pleasantly, but finally with some tedium,—the day seemed interminably long. Yet we grudged every moment, for we realized that the hours of vacation were numbered.We rambled about till we became aware that we were very tired, that the day was waning, and that three or four long miles lay between us and home.So we hurried through our suppers, and started on the return trip. Joe Carter walked a little in advance, calling out from time to time:—"You fellers better hurry up, unless you want to camp all night in the woods."Then he would casually take out hisrevolver and look mysteriously toward the deep undergrowth on each side of the road, as if to signify that he could not hold himself responsible for what manner of thing might beset us after the powers of darkness should be exalted.We did not want to camp all night in the woods (Ed Mason and I had not forgotten a certain experience!) and we hastened our steps.When we reached Mr. Harris's little shanty, it was closed and locked, and the old gentleman had gone,—whither we knew not. Our fish he had kindly preserved for us in a pail of water. We gathered them up, and hurried on.We debated what was the exact hour, and both Ed Mason and Rob Currier thought that sunset was close upon us. Ed remarked that he had seen one or two bats fluttering about, as we came through the woods. Evidently thecreatures of the night were beginning to make their appearance.Tired we were,—we knew that,—and a little moody at the thought of approaching school. I had a small, sharp pebble in my shoe, which made walking very painful. So I had to delay the party until I could rid myself of it.Finally we left the railroad track, and started on the home stretch over the old turnpike. We felt more at ease now, since houses were in plain sight, and the town distant only a matter of thirty minutes' walking.Here we met a man driving a sorrel horse in a wagon.Joe Carter hailed him."Say, mister, do you know what time it is?" asked Joe.The man pulled up the horse, and took a watch out of his pocket. He lookedat the dial, and then held the watch to his ear."Well," he remarked leisurely, "guess my watch has stopped again. But I can tell yer pretty close. It was quarter to nine when I came by Moulton's, an' that wa'n't more'n fifteen minutes ago. It's 'bout nine o'clock now,—I guess you young fellers better be gettin' home pretty quick, or you won't get no breakfast!""What?"We all shouted at once.The man looked at us bewildered."What are you talkin' about?" Joe Carter asked him; "quarter of nine—in the evening?""Evening?" said the man; "you crazy? No,—quarter to nine in the mornin', of course. What do you—oh! I see! Been spendin' the night in the woods, an' got lost, ain't yer?""No," Joe replied; "we been out all day,—we started 'fore daylight this morning, an' we thought it was night."The man still stared, but gradually he began to grasp the situation. His mouth slowly opened, a grin began to creep round to his ears, and he cackled. Cackled offensively and long.We could not stand that, and we hurried along the road. The man stood up in his wagon, looking after us, and still uttering that idiotic cackle."Well, we're a lot of numb-heads," remarked Rob Currier.Apparently we all agreed, but no one said so. We stubbed along in the dust, silent and ashamed. The fiasco had taken the life out of us. We did not want to go back to the woods and we did not want to return home. The jeers that might greet us there would be worsethan the laughter of the man in the wagon.Out for an all-day expedition on the last day before school opened, out for a grand exploration of the wild country,—and we had eaten all three of our meals and come home at nine o'clock in the morning! What were these bats and night-birds that we had seen? Where was the sunset and all the rest of it? This last day of vacation to be spoiled—Suddenly Joe Carter stopped in the middle of the road.His mouth opened, and then a grin spread over his face."By Jings!" he shouted.We stopped and gazed at him.Then he began to jump about excitedly on one leg."Don't you see?" he cried."What? See what?""Why, don't you see? What do we care for that old hayseed in the wagon? Or for any one? We've still got a whole day of vacation left!"The following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan novels.ByE. B. DEWINGOTHER PEOPLE'S HOUSESCloth, 12mo, $1.50SOME OPINIONS OF THE WORK"An acute study—acute at times to the point of painfulness—of a phase of life especially aggressive in our own time, but peculiar to no single period ... there is an underlying power in the book that definitely conveys a promise of better things."—New York Evening Post."It is a remarkable story, with plenty of ingenuity in it, and some startling developments. Any story so plainly out of the beaten path deserves the attention of the reading public."—Cleveland Plain Dealer."'Other People's Houses' is a striking and absorbing study of character, and is an effective introduction to a writer whose ability will doubtless place her among the very few American novelists of importance."—New York Times.ByMARY S. WATTSTHE LEGACYCloth, 12mo, $1.50"It is a good story and at the same time good literature. Its plot is handled with a sure hand, its occasional touches of emotion are genuine, its spirit is wholesome and buoyant. It belongs in the select company of the best American novels."—Record-Herald."In 'Nathan Burke' and in 'The Legacy,' Mrs. Watts has reached a high-water mark in American fiction, has told two stories of genuine Americanism. Every page shows her truly remarkable gift of observation—observation shrewd but not unkind—and her power to probe the hearts of weak and erring mortals. Those who would keep in touch with the best product of story-telling in America must not miss 'The Legacy.'"—New York Globe."It is a story exceptionally well told, reaching and maintaining a rare pitch of interest."—New York World."It is a masterful novel throughout, and places the writer in the very highest rank of modern authors."—Salt Lake Tribune.Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL'S NOVELSEach, cloth, gilt tops and titles, $1.50A Modern ChronicleIllustratedThis, Mr. Churchill's first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. It is frankly a modern love story."The most thorough and artistic work the author has yet turned out. A very interesting story and a faithful picture of character ... one that will give rise to much discussion."—New York Sun.Mr. Crewe's CareerIllustrated"It is an honest and fair story.... It is very interesting; and the heroine is a type of woman as fresh, original, and captivating as any that has appeared in American novels for a long time past."—The Outlook.The CelebrityAn Episode"No such piece of inimitable comedy in a literary way has appeared for years.... It is the purest, keenest fun."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.Richard CarvelIllustrated"In breadth, massing of dramatic effect, depth of feeling, and rare wholesomeness of spirit, it has seldom, if ever, been surpassed by an American romance."—Chicago Tribune.The CrossingIllustrated"A thoroughly interesting book, packed with exciting adventure and sentimental incident, yet faithful to historical fact both in detail and in spirit."—The Dial.The CrisisIllustrated"A charming love story that never loses its interest.... The intense political bitterness, the intense patriotism of both parties, are shown understandingly."—Evening Telegraph, Philadelphia.ConistonIllustrated"A lighter, gayer spirit and a deeper, tenderer touch than Mr. Churchill has ever achieved before.... One of the truest and finest transcripts of modern American life thus far achieved in our fiction."—Chicago Record-Herald.IMPORTANT FICTIONGERTRUDE ATHERTON'STower of IvoryCloth, 12mo, $1.50"The 'Tower of Ivory' provides the closest study of certain phases of English high life at home and abroad that has been given us by any novelist in a great many years. Mrs. Atherton has her readers grappled to her soul by some of the most solid merits of the novelist and these she repays generously."—Chicago Evening Post.CLARA E. LAUGHLIN'SJust FolksCloth, 12mo, $1.50"This work does for readers of fiction the very real service of humanizing the slums."—Philadelphia Press."A most readable story, and one that warms the heart toward others."—Christian Advocate, New York.MABEL O. WRIGHT'SPrincess Flower HatCloth, 12mo, $1.50"The tale is charming, the reading throughout is delightful, and no lover of a garden will pass the book unnoticed."—San Francisco Call.E. V. LUCAS'Mr. InglesideCloth, 12mo, $1.35 net"'Mr. Ingleside' is a literary man's novel. The story itself is the least of Mr. Ingleside'; it is the way it is told, the keen observation of men and things and life in general, the excellent characterization, the drollery and whimsey that bring delight from page to page.... It is rich with allusions and memories, ready with knowledge of life, and quickened with a love for quirks and oddities in character wherever they are to be found."—Argus, Albany, N.Y.RICHARD WASHBURN CHILD'SJim HandsCloth, 12mo, $1.20 net"This is an excellent story. It treats of simple people, of a noble-hearted girl who saw her duty, and of the man she loved. There are scenes of real dramatic power. The interest is sustained. The kind of book that works the heart chords every now and then."—News and Courier, Charleston, S.C."Mr. Child gives us a novel of uncommon interest, but what marks it at once for attention is its purely human quality, its knowledge of the fundamental traits of men and women, its atmosphere of truth to daily life."—New York Tribune.JAMES LANE ALLEN'SThe Doctor's Christmas EveCloth, 12mo, $1.50"Kentucky in its rural aspects and with its noble men and women forms the scenery for this romance of quaintness and homeliness which lovingly interprets the career of a country doctor who has lost faith in life but not in ideals. Incidentally the author has interpreted the new spirit of American childhood in its relation to the miracles and legends and lore of other lands and older times, which have through the centuries gathered about the great Christmas festival of the Nativity."—New York Times."What so many have so long hoped Mr. Allen would do he has accomplished in this work, namely, a description of Kentucky and the bluegrass farms as seen by a youngster."—New York American.MARY S. WATTS'Nathan BurkeCloth, 12mo, $1.50"It is sometimes said that one of the best tests of a good novel, as it is of a well-planned meal, is how you feel at the end. Are you satisfied or do you wish that at some time the performance may be repeated? When one is through with 'Nathan Burke,' one thinks, I'd like to read it right over again."—Columbia Dispatch.WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE'SA Certain Rich ManCloth, 12mo, $1.50"This novel has a message for to-day, and for its brilliant character drawing, and that gossipy desultory style of writing that stamps Mr. White's literary work, will earn a high place in fiction. It is good and clean and provides a vacation from the cares of the hour. It resembles a Chinese play, because it begins with the hero's boyhood, describes his long, busy life, and ends with his death. Its tone is often religious, never flippant, and one of its best assets is its glowing descriptions of the calm, serene beauties of nature. Its moral is that a magnate never did any real good with money."—Oregonian, Portland, Ore.Mr. OWEN WISTER'S NOVELSMembers of the FamilyDecorated cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net"Thrilling and unusual tales of life on the Western prairies. Mr. Wister has shown himself a master in this class of fiction."—Critic.The VirginianDecorated cloth, 12mo, $1.50 net"The vanished West is made to live again by Owen Wister in a manner which makes his book easily the best that deals with the cowboy and the cattle country.... It is picturesque, racy, and above all it is original."—The Philadelphia Press.Lady BaltimoreCloth, 12mo, $1.50"After cowboy stories innumerable, 'the Virginian' came as the last and definite word on that romantic subject in our fiction. 'Lady Baltimore' will serve in much the same way as the most subtly drawn picture of the old-world dignity of the vanished South."—The New York Evening Mail.Mr. EDEN PHILPOTTS' NOVELSEach, in decorated cloth, $1.50The American PrisonerIllustrated"Intensely readable ... perfectly admirable in its elemental humor and racy turns of speech."—The Spectator, London.The Secret Woman"There cannot be two opinions as to the interest and the power of 'The Secret Woman.' It is not only its author's masterpiece, but it is far in advance of anything he has yet written—and that is to give it higher praise than almost any other comparison with contemporary fiction could afford."—Times Saturday Review.Knock at a VentureSketches of the rustic life of Devon, rich in racy, quaint, and humorous touches.The PortreevePUBLISHED BYTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York

CHAPTER XVIIITHE SIEGE OF AUNTIE MERRILLIt was Peter Bailey who organized the siege. We had long ago made up the quarrel that arose on the day of the Indian raid. He still maintained that Ed's and my conduct had been contrary to all rules of warfare, but we noticed that we were not expected, since that day, to impersonate the under dog in every combat.Peter's reputation for generalship was a little tarnished, and for that reason he got up this grand military movement against the property and person of Auntie Merrill.That lady had, so Peter said, certain"distressed damsels" closely immured in dungeons beneath her house."Distressedwhat?" asked Ed Mason."Damsels," replied Peter."What d'ye mean,—girls?""Well,—yes.""I don't want 'em," rejoined the practical Ed; "let 'em stay there."Peter was exasperated."Why, we'vegotto get them out," he asserted, "or they'll starve to death.""How'd they get in there?" Ed Mason wished to know."What difference does that make? She captured 'em, I s'pose."I thought I could throw a little light on this dark subject. It was Monday morning, and I had been looking over the fence into the Merrill garden only half an hour before."There ain't any distressed damsels there, Peter," I said earnestly; "I saw'em. One of 'em's Katie Clancy,—an' she lives there all the time, an' the other is Mrs. Muldoon, an' she's hangin' out the wash."But I was unmercifully snubbed for my pains."You make me perfectly tired," he retorted. "I don't mean Katie, nor Mrs. Muldoon. I know them. The—er—damsels are in dungeons below the ground."I turned to Rob Currier, Jimmy Toppan, and Horace Winslow, who had come into the Masons' back yard with Peter. But they had been under the influence of Peter's warlike mind and persuasive tongue for an hour or more. They seemed to believe in the damsels, and their confidence tended to shake my doubts.Ed Mason was not so easily moved from scepticism."What are they doin' there?" he inquired."Doin'? They ain't doin' anything, you chump! They're chained hand an' foot to the rock. How could they do anything? They're waitin' for us to rescue 'em.""Why don't they call a p'liceman?""'Cos they can't! How could they call so he'd hear through the rock?""Did Auntie Merrill put 'em in there?""Yes; she did,—or some of her mur-murmurdons.""Her what?"Horace Winslow broke into the conversation."Don't you know what murmidons are? They're big woolly elephants with long tusks.""Oh, get out! Auntie Merrill hasn't got any. You think you're stuffin' me, but you ain't!"Peter seemed to be willing to change the subject, and get on to the main issue."We'll divide into two regiments,—I'll take command of one, and Rob of the other. I'll take Horace and Sam, and Rob can take Ed Mason and Jimmy. We'll stay here, an' you can go down into Sam's yard an' climb over the fence, an' go up by the path next the Nortons' house. Then we'll attack the house from two sides at once. Now, go on, Rob."But this was going altogether too fast for me."How'll we get by Mrs. Muldoon? She's out there on the clothes-jack now.""That'll be all right," Peter assured me; "if she says anything, just knock her down!"But I could not imagine myself knocking Mrs. Muldoon down under any circumstances. In the first place, she weighed over two hundred pounds."An' say," continued Ed Mason, "how are we goin' to attack the house when we get there? What'll we do?"Even Jimmy Toppan was wavering."Where are the murmidons? What'll we do if we meet them?" he asked.Such questions were quite appropriate. We had long been accustomed to scout on Auntie Merrill, as well as other more formidable persons. We had tracked her up and down her garden many times, peered at her from behind bushes, and observed her from the tops of trees. But Peter, filled with a longing for military glory and daring deeds, was proposing an exploit altogether more hazardous than anything we had ever attempted. Thirsting for conquest, he overlooked all obstacles. He had, however, failed to infect us with his enthusiasm.For one thing, this inhuman treatmentof the damsels seemed rather foreign to Auntie Merrill's character, as I knew it. It was true she had spoken to me with severity on one occasion,—something about running across her new grass plot, and she had warned me against throwing stones at the statue of George Washington near her house. The latter warning had been totally unnecessary,—I had never dreamed of doing such a thing. I never had, that is, until she put the idea into my head,—after that it appealed to me with the fearful fascination of a deadly crime.I was somewhat afraid of her, but it was nevertheless hard to think of her keeping these unfortunate creatures chained up and starving. Moreover, to make an open attack upon her house by force of arms (Peter had served out wooden revolvers to us, and had a sword for himself) was a serious business. Itstruck me that we might get involved with the police. In the first place, the attack carried with it the possible necessity of an assault and battery upon Mrs. Muldoon, a perfectly respectable and very muscular washerwoman.Then, supposing that we had overcome that difficulty, there was the house to enter.Who could say that the doors might not be locked?Finally, there were these mysterious and terrible "murmidons." No one, not even Peter, seemed to be able to say exactly what they were, or tell at what moment we might be confronted by them.Altogether, I have seldom engaged in any military enterprise where the obstacles seemed so overwhelming, and the chances of success so slight.But Peter would hear of no objections.If we did not wish to embroil ourselveswith Mrs. Muldoon, it would be a simple matter to keep behind the hedge until we were between her and the house. Then it would be too late for her to make any effective resistance.As for the locked doors,—beat 'em down!He would take care of the "murmidons" himself,—leave them to him.We were quite willing to do so.But even at this last moment, when our general thought he had arranged everything, and as he was about to issue his orders once more to Colonel Currier, there came a hitch."Well, say, look here. What are we goin' to do with these damsels when we get 'em?"It was still Mason, the unconvinced, who spoke."Don't be such a jay! We'll send 'em home, of course!""Where do they live?"Peter fairly danced with rage."How do I know where they live? We can ask 'em, can't we?""I s'pose we can. But how are you goin' to get their chains off? You said they were chained to the rock."The general had to assume more responsibility for himself."I'll get 'em off all right. Now, I do wish you'd go ahead an' start, an' shut up your talkin'. Rob, you whistle as soon as you get back of the quince bush, an' we'll come right over the fence here, an' both regiments must charge up to the house at the same time. But don't start till I give the order to charge."Rob Currier, Ed, and Jimmy disappeared behind Mr. Hawkins's woodshed. They had scarcely done so when Peter called them back."You must be sure to take Auntie Merrilla prisoner," he commanded; "take heralive."They promised not to let her escape. Then they set out once more. We climbed upon the fence, and watched for them to appear at the foot of the Merrill garden. Soon we saw them crossing my yard in Indian file. Rob mounted the fence, and looked over.No enemy in sight.Then all three climbed the fence, crouched behind the hedge, and crept up the path to the quince bush. Rob whistled.As soon as he heard this signal, Peter ordered us into the hostile territory. We dropped silently over the fence, and lay flat on our stomachs in the grass. Peter raised himself slightly on his arms and gazed at the stronghold.Mrs. Muldoon had gone into the house for more clothes-pins.Now was our chance!Peter rose, waved his sword, and was just opening his mouth to order the charge, when an unexpected thing happened.Auntie Merrill opened a side door of her house, walked out on the veranda, descended two steps, and proceeded slowly up the side path to the street. She was dressed in black as usual, with a lavender bonnet, and she carried a little parasol. She opened the garden gate, crossed the sidewalk, stepped into a carriage that was standing by the curb, and drove quietly away.The enemy had escaped.We had been baffled without having a chance to strike a blow. But there were still the house and the damsels. Ought we not continue on our expedition?While we were considering this question, Katie Clancy appeared at a basement door, with a broom in her hand."Now, thin, clear outer here, ye little divils, or I'll be takin' the broom to ye!"And she started on a frontal attack.Peter was over the fence again in two seconds. Horace and I, like well-disciplined troops, did not let him precede us by more than an inch.In a few moments the detachment under Rob Currier returned to headquarters.Jimmy Toppan said:—"Let's go down to Plumbush an' go in swimmin'.""What's the matter with Four Rocks?" suggested Peter."Oh, come on to Plumbush," Jimmy insisted,—"my uncle's goin' to drive down to the farm in the buckboard, an' we can get a ride with him, part way."The question was put and carried without dissent, and the meeting stood adjourned.

THE SIEGE OF AUNTIE MERRILL

It was Peter Bailey who organized the siege. We had long ago made up the quarrel that arose on the day of the Indian raid. He still maintained that Ed's and my conduct had been contrary to all rules of warfare, but we noticed that we were not expected, since that day, to impersonate the under dog in every combat.

Peter's reputation for generalship was a little tarnished, and for that reason he got up this grand military movement against the property and person of Auntie Merrill.

That lady had, so Peter said, certain"distressed damsels" closely immured in dungeons beneath her house.

"Distressedwhat?" asked Ed Mason.

"Damsels," replied Peter.

"What d'ye mean,—girls?"

"Well,—yes."

"I don't want 'em," rejoined the practical Ed; "let 'em stay there."

Peter was exasperated.

"Why, we'vegotto get them out," he asserted, "or they'll starve to death."

"How'd they get in there?" Ed Mason wished to know.

"What difference does that make? She captured 'em, I s'pose."

I thought I could throw a little light on this dark subject. It was Monday morning, and I had been looking over the fence into the Merrill garden only half an hour before.

"There ain't any distressed damsels there, Peter," I said earnestly; "I saw'em. One of 'em's Katie Clancy,—an' she lives there all the time, an' the other is Mrs. Muldoon, an' she's hangin' out the wash."

But I was unmercifully snubbed for my pains.

"You make me perfectly tired," he retorted. "I don't mean Katie, nor Mrs. Muldoon. I know them. The—er—damsels are in dungeons below the ground."

I turned to Rob Currier, Jimmy Toppan, and Horace Winslow, who had come into the Masons' back yard with Peter. But they had been under the influence of Peter's warlike mind and persuasive tongue for an hour or more. They seemed to believe in the damsels, and their confidence tended to shake my doubts.

Ed Mason was not so easily moved from scepticism.

"What are they doin' there?" he inquired.

"Doin'? They ain't doin' anything, you chump! They're chained hand an' foot to the rock. How could they do anything? They're waitin' for us to rescue 'em."

"Why don't they call a p'liceman?"

"'Cos they can't! How could they call so he'd hear through the rock?"

"Did Auntie Merrill put 'em in there?"

"Yes; she did,—or some of her mur-murmurdons."

"Her what?"

Horace Winslow broke into the conversation.

"Don't you know what murmidons are? They're big woolly elephants with long tusks."

"Oh, get out! Auntie Merrill hasn't got any. You think you're stuffin' me, but you ain't!"

Peter seemed to be willing to change the subject, and get on to the main issue.

"We'll divide into two regiments,—I'll take command of one, and Rob of the other. I'll take Horace and Sam, and Rob can take Ed Mason and Jimmy. We'll stay here, an' you can go down into Sam's yard an' climb over the fence, an' go up by the path next the Nortons' house. Then we'll attack the house from two sides at once. Now, go on, Rob."

But this was going altogether too fast for me.

"How'll we get by Mrs. Muldoon? She's out there on the clothes-jack now."

"That'll be all right," Peter assured me; "if she says anything, just knock her down!"

But I could not imagine myself knocking Mrs. Muldoon down under any circumstances. In the first place, she weighed over two hundred pounds.

"An' say," continued Ed Mason, "how are we goin' to attack the house when we get there? What'll we do?"

Even Jimmy Toppan was wavering.

"Where are the murmidons? What'll we do if we meet them?" he asked.

Such questions were quite appropriate. We had long been accustomed to scout on Auntie Merrill, as well as other more formidable persons. We had tracked her up and down her garden many times, peered at her from behind bushes, and observed her from the tops of trees. But Peter, filled with a longing for military glory and daring deeds, was proposing an exploit altogether more hazardous than anything we had ever attempted. Thirsting for conquest, he overlooked all obstacles. He had, however, failed to infect us with his enthusiasm.

For one thing, this inhuman treatmentof the damsels seemed rather foreign to Auntie Merrill's character, as I knew it. It was true she had spoken to me with severity on one occasion,—something about running across her new grass plot, and she had warned me against throwing stones at the statue of George Washington near her house. The latter warning had been totally unnecessary,—I had never dreamed of doing such a thing. I never had, that is, until she put the idea into my head,—after that it appealed to me with the fearful fascination of a deadly crime.

I was somewhat afraid of her, but it was nevertheless hard to think of her keeping these unfortunate creatures chained up and starving. Moreover, to make an open attack upon her house by force of arms (Peter had served out wooden revolvers to us, and had a sword for himself) was a serious business. Itstruck me that we might get involved with the police. In the first place, the attack carried with it the possible necessity of an assault and battery upon Mrs. Muldoon, a perfectly respectable and very muscular washerwoman.

Then, supposing that we had overcome that difficulty, there was the house to enter.

Who could say that the doors might not be locked?

Finally, there were these mysterious and terrible "murmidons." No one, not even Peter, seemed to be able to say exactly what they were, or tell at what moment we might be confronted by them.

Altogether, I have seldom engaged in any military enterprise where the obstacles seemed so overwhelming, and the chances of success so slight.

But Peter would hear of no objections.

If we did not wish to embroil ourselveswith Mrs. Muldoon, it would be a simple matter to keep behind the hedge until we were between her and the house. Then it would be too late for her to make any effective resistance.

As for the locked doors,—beat 'em down!

He would take care of the "murmidons" himself,—leave them to him.

We were quite willing to do so.

But even at this last moment, when our general thought he had arranged everything, and as he was about to issue his orders once more to Colonel Currier, there came a hitch.

"Well, say, look here. What are we goin' to do with these damsels when we get 'em?"

It was still Mason, the unconvinced, who spoke.

"Don't be such a jay! We'll send 'em home, of course!"

"Where do they live?"

Peter fairly danced with rage.

"How do I know where they live? We can ask 'em, can't we?"

"I s'pose we can. But how are you goin' to get their chains off? You said they were chained to the rock."

The general had to assume more responsibility for himself.

"I'll get 'em off all right. Now, I do wish you'd go ahead an' start, an' shut up your talkin'. Rob, you whistle as soon as you get back of the quince bush, an' we'll come right over the fence here, an' both regiments must charge up to the house at the same time. But don't start till I give the order to charge."

Rob Currier, Ed, and Jimmy disappeared behind Mr. Hawkins's woodshed. They had scarcely done so when Peter called them back.

"You must be sure to take Auntie Merrilla prisoner," he commanded; "take heralive."

They promised not to let her escape. Then they set out once more. We climbed upon the fence, and watched for them to appear at the foot of the Merrill garden. Soon we saw them crossing my yard in Indian file. Rob mounted the fence, and looked over.

No enemy in sight.

Then all three climbed the fence, crouched behind the hedge, and crept up the path to the quince bush. Rob whistled.

As soon as he heard this signal, Peter ordered us into the hostile territory. We dropped silently over the fence, and lay flat on our stomachs in the grass. Peter raised himself slightly on his arms and gazed at the stronghold.

Mrs. Muldoon had gone into the house for more clothes-pins.

Now was our chance!

Peter rose, waved his sword, and was just opening his mouth to order the charge, when an unexpected thing happened.

Auntie Merrill opened a side door of her house, walked out on the veranda, descended two steps, and proceeded slowly up the side path to the street. She was dressed in black as usual, with a lavender bonnet, and she carried a little parasol. She opened the garden gate, crossed the sidewalk, stepped into a carriage that was standing by the curb, and drove quietly away.

The enemy had escaped.

We had been baffled without having a chance to strike a blow. But there were still the house and the damsels. Ought we not continue on our expedition?

While we were considering this question, Katie Clancy appeared at a basement door, with a broom in her hand.

"Now, thin, clear outer here, ye little divils, or I'll be takin' the broom to ye!"

And she started on a frontal attack.

Peter was over the fence again in two seconds. Horace and I, like well-disciplined troops, did not let him precede us by more than an inch.

In a few moments the detachment under Rob Currier returned to headquarters.

Jimmy Toppan said:—

"Let's go down to Plumbush an' go in swimmin'."

"What's the matter with Four Rocks?" suggested Peter.

"Oh, come on to Plumbush," Jimmy insisted,—"my uncle's goin' to drive down to the farm in the buckboard, an' we can get a ride with him, part way."

The question was put and carried without dissent, and the meeting stood adjourned.

CHAPTER XIXENTERTAINING ALICEIt was sprung on me without any pretence of a fair warning. Rob Currier, Ed Mason, and I had just rounded up a herd of buffaloes in the back of my garden, and we were busily engaged in lassoing separate members of the herd before they should slip through the fence into Mr. Tilton's vegetable patch. Once let them get there and it would be well-nigh impossible, among the lettuce and tomatoes, ever to reduce them to submission. Your buffalo is tractable and decent on even turf, but when he gets all mixed up with vegetables he becomes a perfect nuisance.At the most exciting moment came a voice which had to be obeyed:—"Sam!"I ran, with my lasso in my hand, toward the house."Sam, go right upstairs and wash your hands and face, and brush your hair. Leave that old rope outside,—don't bring it in here."That old rope!Before I could make any inquiries, any explanations, I was hustled in, rushed upstairs, forcibly cleaned, lacerated with Dr. Kaltblut's steel-pronged tomahawk (falsely called a hair-brush) and shoved downstairs again.Here, I was dragged—a whited sepulchre—into a front room, where sat a lady,—a perfect stranger to me, anda little girl.Toward the smaller and younger of these beings I was propelled."Here, Alice, this is Sam. Sam, this is little Alice Remick, who is going to beyour neighbor. I want you to be nice to her, and play with her this afternoon, and entertain her."The concentrated perfidy of it! The unmitigated baseness! What more could Lucrezia Borgia have contrived?Entertain her! Entertain this spindle-legged, pig-tailed creature who was sucking her thumb in lively embarrassment! Was I a dancing bear, or a mountebank, that I should be called upon to furnish amusement tothis? Reflect that I had been called from high and mighty pursuits, that I was roping a gigantic and ferocious bull buffalo at the very moment when I was interrupted. That even as I stood there in the house the blackberry bushes were in danger from the rest of the herd, since the band of hunters had been deprived of one unerring hand and bold spirit. And all for the purpose of "entertaining" this hopeless product of civilization!There was just one thing to do, and that was to bolt out of the room without an instant's delay.I did so, but only succeeded in getting to the front door. This was locked, and in a second I had been recaptured. Then I was taken back to the room, where I had to stand the humiliation of hearing myself apologized for, in the presence of the little girl."Why, I do not know what made him behave so! I never knew him to do anything like it before. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Sam? Now, you must be polite to Alice, for she is a stranger. You'll do it to please me, Sam."This was certainly playing it pretty low down. I had been trapped by a combination of force and guile, and now an appeal was uttered in terms that made a refusal difficult, as well as useless.But what could I do with her? I hadno experience with them, except very seldom, and then in groups. To have a lone specimen like this thrust upon me was simply preposterous. Many of the boys had sisters,—both Rob and Ed were provided for in that respect. Very little profit, that I could see, did they ever get out of them. When the sisters were older, they were simply additions to the household tyrants who thronged in every family. They assumed an air of authority; gave orders, administered punishments, and reported to higher quarters what they were pleased to consider serious misdemeanors.As for the younger ones,—they were so many millstones about the neck. Sadie Currier and Louise Mason were always tagging on behind, spying here and interfering there. The two Kittredges,—Susy and Minnie,—were worse than all the rest. Minnie's spotless behavior,clean hands, correct pronunciation, and generally immaculate existence was a continual reproach to all of us who were merely human. Susy's tongue was never quiet, and she divided her time between chanting her own merits, and predicting woe for the rest of the world.So it was with a not altogether unprejudiced eye that I gazed on this small interloper, and wondered what I had done that I should be treated like this. Doubtless she reciprocated the feeling heartily, but I had no means of knowing that. I could not go forth again to the buffalo hunt, carrying this bit of impedimenta with me. When I even suggested taking her outdoors, a veto was pronounced promptly.Alice was dressed too nicely to go and play outdoors.Dressed indeed she was,—starched and cleaned and combed distressingly."Perhaps Alice would like to see some of the things in your playroom, Sam,—why don't you take her out there?"I had expected it. There only remained this final blow, and I knew it would fall. Admit this girl to my inner sanctum,—oh, well, the world was turned upside down this afternoon. What had to be, had to be, and there was an end to it."Come on!" I said, in a tone that mingled resignation and gruffness.Alice did not evince any great amount of eagerness to follow me. Instead, she hung back,—exactly like a girl! Here was I, putting myself out to be pleasant and courteous, giving up my afternoon, in fact, for her amusement, and at my very first invitation she pretended reluctance.Her mother urged her to accompany me, however, and pretty soon we reached my especial room."Do you like polliwogs?" I demanded, walking toward a glass jar in which several hundred of them swam about like animated quotation marks."Ugh! I hate 'em! Nathty squiggly things!" and she turned away abruptly.Here was a nice beginning for you! My prized polliwogs, gathered at no small trouble, and already beginning to show the most interesting signs of froggishness, were dismissed as "nathty squiggly things!"But I let the matter pass. I was determined to be polite,—polite and patient. I picked up a little box, covered with wire."Here is my snake box,—I've only got two now,—one green one and—"I had no time to finish about the red one, nor to exhibit the snakes themselves. They were really the most harmlesslittle fellows in the world,—neither of them over five inches long. One I had found under a fallen headstone in the old burying-ground, and the other I had obtained by swapping with Ed Mason,—giving a sinker, two fish-hooks, a turtle, and a piece of rock candy in exchange.But as soon as I mentioned the snakes, this perverse female backed across the room, her eyes closed, and both ears stopped with the tips of her forefingers, as if she thought my pets might utter some fearful screech."Oh,snakth! Take 'em away! I don't want to thee 'em! I hate 'em. What do you have suchnathtypetth for? Why don't you have nice ones?"This was insulting. I was far fonder of my pets than of this fussy little person. Moreover, I was doing my best to amuse her."I do have nice ones," I rejoined indignantly, "an' I've got a dog, an' a white rabbit, an' two guinea pigs out in the barn. Do you like any of those?""Not very much."She was hopeless,—simply hopeless. Under the circumstances it seemed hardly worth while to show her my June bugs,—although I had seven or eight which I had caught the night before. They were of the superior golden-yellow variety, too,—not the common brown ones."Haven't you any pets?" I asked."Yeth; I've got a kitten."A kitten! I might have known as much. Ordinarily I would have refrained from any comment on kittens, but now, "Kittens are no good," I announced."They aretoo; they're lovely.""No, they ain't, either,—they grow up into cats.""Catth are nice.""They catch birds, and torture 'em," I remarked.The little girl began to whimper.I couldn't stand blubbering, at any rate. I must do something to stop that. What would appeal to her? There was the engine which would puff out steam when you lighted the lamp under its boiler. Instinctively I knew she would not care for that.There was my bag of marbles,—including two "alleys," one of which had some beautiful substance that looked like checkerberry candy inside it.I brought the marbles forward; she remained passive.My railroad punch (which had once belonged to a real conductor on a train)—she might look at that. Nay, more, she might punch fascinating little holes in a piece of paper with it. In mydetermination to be hospitable I would leave no stone unturned.But she laid the punch down, and wandered listlessly toward the door, her thumb once more in her mouth.There was nothing for it but to play my highest trump; she should see my white mice! They were prosperous and interesting, and there were five new ones since last week."Come here," I said, and I took her to their box. We looked down into their home, and as we did so, an elder mouse poked his head above the straw, and sniffed the air curiously, his little eyes twinkling, and his whiskers quivering with excitement.Miss Alice uttered a loud squeal, and dashed out of the room. I could hear her all along the passage:—"Oh, mamma, mamma,—amouth! amouth!"Well, I gave it up. I had made every effort,—there was no pleasing the creature. My conscience was clear at all events,—and that was the principal thing.

ENTERTAINING ALICE

It was sprung on me without any pretence of a fair warning. Rob Currier, Ed Mason, and I had just rounded up a herd of buffaloes in the back of my garden, and we were busily engaged in lassoing separate members of the herd before they should slip through the fence into Mr. Tilton's vegetable patch. Once let them get there and it would be well-nigh impossible, among the lettuce and tomatoes, ever to reduce them to submission. Your buffalo is tractable and decent on even turf, but when he gets all mixed up with vegetables he becomes a perfect nuisance.

At the most exciting moment came a voice which had to be obeyed:—

"Sam!"

I ran, with my lasso in my hand, toward the house.

"Sam, go right upstairs and wash your hands and face, and brush your hair. Leave that old rope outside,—don't bring it in here."

That old rope!

Before I could make any inquiries, any explanations, I was hustled in, rushed upstairs, forcibly cleaned, lacerated with Dr. Kaltblut's steel-pronged tomahawk (falsely called a hair-brush) and shoved downstairs again.

Here, I was dragged—a whited sepulchre—into a front room, where sat a lady,—a perfect stranger to me, anda little girl.

Toward the smaller and younger of these beings I was propelled.

"Here, Alice, this is Sam. Sam, this is little Alice Remick, who is going to beyour neighbor. I want you to be nice to her, and play with her this afternoon, and entertain her."

The concentrated perfidy of it! The unmitigated baseness! What more could Lucrezia Borgia have contrived?

Entertain her! Entertain this spindle-legged, pig-tailed creature who was sucking her thumb in lively embarrassment! Was I a dancing bear, or a mountebank, that I should be called upon to furnish amusement tothis? Reflect that I had been called from high and mighty pursuits, that I was roping a gigantic and ferocious bull buffalo at the very moment when I was interrupted. That even as I stood there in the house the blackberry bushes were in danger from the rest of the herd, since the band of hunters had been deprived of one unerring hand and bold spirit. And all for the purpose of "entertaining" this hopeless product of civilization!

There was just one thing to do, and that was to bolt out of the room without an instant's delay.

I did so, but only succeeded in getting to the front door. This was locked, and in a second I had been recaptured. Then I was taken back to the room, where I had to stand the humiliation of hearing myself apologized for, in the presence of the little girl.

"Why, I do not know what made him behave so! I never knew him to do anything like it before. Aren't you ashamed of yourself, Sam? Now, you must be polite to Alice, for she is a stranger. You'll do it to please me, Sam."

This was certainly playing it pretty low down. I had been trapped by a combination of force and guile, and now an appeal was uttered in terms that made a refusal difficult, as well as useless.

But what could I do with her? I hadno experience with them, except very seldom, and then in groups. To have a lone specimen like this thrust upon me was simply preposterous. Many of the boys had sisters,—both Rob and Ed were provided for in that respect. Very little profit, that I could see, did they ever get out of them. When the sisters were older, they were simply additions to the household tyrants who thronged in every family. They assumed an air of authority; gave orders, administered punishments, and reported to higher quarters what they were pleased to consider serious misdemeanors.

As for the younger ones,—they were so many millstones about the neck. Sadie Currier and Louise Mason were always tagging on behind, spying here and interfering there. The two Kittredges,—Susy and Minnie,—were worse than all the rest. Minnie's spotless behavior,clean hands, correct pronunciation, and generally immaculate existence was a continual reproach to all of us who were merely human. Susy's tongue was never quiet, and she divided her time between chanting her own merits, and predicting woe for the rest of the world.

So it was with a not altogether unprejudiced eye that I gazed on this small interloper, and wondered what I had done that I should be treated like this. Doubtless she reciprocated the feeling heartily, but I had no means of knowing that. I could not go forth again to the buffalo hunt, carrying this bit of impedimenta with me. When I even suggested taking her outdoors, a veto was pronounced promptly.

Alice was dressed too nicely to go and play outdoors.

Dressed indeed she was,—starched and cleaned and combed distressingly.

"Perhaps Alice would like to see some of the things in your playroom, Sam,—why don't you take her out there?"

I had expected it. There only remained this final blow, and I knew it would fall. Admit this girl to my inner sanctum,—oh, well, the world was turned upside down this afternoon. What had to be, had to be, and there was an end to it.

"Come on!" I said, in a tone that mingled resignation and gruffness.

Alice did not evince any great amount of eagerness to follow me. Instead, she hung back,—exactly like a girl! Here was I, putting myself out to be pleasant and courteous, giving up my afternoon, in fact, for her amusement, and at my very first invitation she pretended reluctance.

Her mother urged her to accompany me, however, and pretty soon we reached my especial room.

"Do you like polliwogs?" I demanded, walking toward a glass jar in which several hundred of them swam about like animated quotation marks.

"Ugh! I hate 'em! Nathty squiggly things!" and she turned away abruptly.

Here was a nice beginning for you! My prized polliwogs, gathered at no small trouble, and already beginning to show the most interesting signs of froggishness, were dismissed as "nathty squiggly things!"

But I let the matter pass. I was determined to be polite,—polite and patient. I picked up a little box, covered with wire.

"Here is my snake box,—I've only got two now,—one green one and—"

I had no time to finish about the red one, nor to exhibit the snakes themselves. They were really the most harmlesslittle fellows in the world,—neither of them over five inches long. One I had found under a fallen headstone in the old burying-ground, and the other I had obtained by swapping with Ed Mason,—giving a sinker, two fish-hooks, a turtle, and a piece of rock candy in exchange.

But as soon as I mentioned the snakes, this perverse female backed across the room, her eyes closed, and both ears stopped with the tips of her forefingers, as if she thought my pets might utter some fearful screech.

"Oh,snakth! Take 'em away! I don't want to thee 'em! I hate 'em. What do you have suchnathtypetth for? Why don't you have nice ones?"

This was insulting. I was far fonder of my pets than of this fussy little person. Moreover, I was doing my best to amuse her.

"I do have nice ones," I rejoined indignantly, "an' I've got a dog, an' a white rabbit, an' two guinea pigs out in the barn. Do you like any of those?"

"Not very much."

She was hopeless,—simply hopeless. Under the circumstances it seemed hardly worth while to show her my June bugs,—although I had seven or eight which I had caught the night before. They were of the superior golden-yellow variety, too,—not the common brown ones.

"Haven't you any pets?" I asked.

"Yeth; I've got a kitten."

A kitten! I might have known as much. Ordinarily I would have refrained from any comment on kittens, but now, "Kittens are no good," I announced.

"They aretoo; they're lovely."

"No, they ain't, either,—they grow up into cats."

"Catth are nice."

"They catch birds, and torture 'em," I remarked.

The little girl began to whimper.

I couldn't stand blubbering, at any rate. I must do something to stop that. What would appeal to her? There was the engine which would puff out steam when you lighted the lamp under its boiler. Instinctively I knew she would not care for that.

There was my bag of marbles,—including two "alleys," one of which had some beautiful substance that looked like checkerberry candy inside it.

I brought the marbles forward; she remained passive.

My railroad punch (which had once belonged to a real conductor on a train)—she might look at that. Nay, more, she might punch fascinating little holes in a piece of paper with it. In mydetermination to be hospitable I would leave no stone unturned.

But she laid the punch down, and wandered listlessly toward the door, her thumb once more in her mouth.

There was nothing for it but to play my highest trump; she should see my white mice! They were prosperous and interesting, and there were five new ones since last week.

"Come here," I said, and I took her to their box. We looked down into their home, and as we did so, an elder mouse poked his head above the straw, and sniffed the air curiously, his little eyes twinkling, and his whiskers quivering with excitement.

Miss Alice uttered a loud squeal, and dashed out of the room. I could hear her all along the passage:—

"Oh, mamma, mamma,—amouth! amouth!"

Well, I gave it up. I had made every effort,—there was no pleasing the creature. My conscience was clear at all events,—and that was the principal thing.

CHAPTER XXWHILE THE EVIL DAYS COME NOTSeptember was horribly near. And worse,—there was coming that 5th day of September when a certain bell should ring again, and we trudge up Elm Street, fidgeting uneasily about in our new "fall" clothes.The spectre of that man, that arithmetic-man, whose name during the days of vacation it were almost profanation to speak, arose before us with a hateful leer.The nights and mornings had grown cooler, and where daisies and buttercups had blossomed at the roadside, the golden-rod and frost-flowers had it all their own way.But one last adventure we must have, one last protest in the name of liberty. And so we organized, on the third day of September, an extensive expedition for the morrow, and I went to spend the night with Ed Mason, to be ready to make an early start.I fell asleep, wondering if we might not discover some unknown countries during the next day. When I woke, a small, dim figure stood beside me, repeating the words, "It's half-past four."It took me a number of seconds to comprehend their meaning, and to recognize their speaker. Then I knew, of course,—this was the hour of rising for the great expedition into the backwoods, and here was Ed Mason telling me of that fact.By day, Mason stalked the earth, compelling and terrible, in all the majesty of nine years. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and none looked uponhim without reverence. With his own strong right arm he had slain the musk-rat in its lair, and he had explored the fastnesses of "Second Woods,"—which, as everybody knew, were at least three-quarters of a mile beyond "First Woods."But now, in the chilly twilight before dawn, and clad in a single white garment, which hung from his shoulders angelwise, there lacked something of the awe which usually invested the Terror of the Neighborhood.Moreover, the nearly complete darkness which surrounded us, and eight solid hours of sleep from which I had just emerged, tended to make me slow of understanding. Only the afternoon before, and the world which had stretched beyond the borders of the town lay at our feet, awaiting our conquering footsteps. Now, the world seemed not only cold and dark, but immeasurably vast,and we no longer a pair of relentless Columbuses. Rather small, in fact, we seemed, and not wholly equipped to tame the jungle, and bring the desert to acknowledge its masters.However, I said nothing of this to Ed Mason, but arose and dressed. He was making ready in another room, and in a few minutes we tiptoed down the stairs. At five o'clock we were to meet other bold travellers at a rendezvous near the frog pond, and there was no time to be lost.Luncheons, a day's supply of food, had been prepared and put in boxes the evening before.With these under our arms, we hurried out into the faint light and through the side yard, our spirits and our clothes a trifle dampened on the way, by means of a glass of water thoughtfully poured upon us from a window by Ed's sisterFlorence. This attention was by way of reciprocating our act of the previous week, when we had locked her for a while in the hen-house,—a bit of humor which we had long ago forgotten, but which, it appeared, she still held in lively recollection.As we approached the pond, three other personages came into sight. These were Rob Currier, Jimmy Toppan, and Joe Carter. Charley Carter had been one of the organizers of the expedition, but a too intimate association with Mr. Hawkins's Bartlett pear tree and the fruit thereof, late on the previous afternoon, had rendered his absence unavoidable.From his elder brother we gathered that Charles had passed the darkling hours in a manner not altogether agreeable, and that his parents, and even Dr. Macey, had been in consultation overthe matter. Indeed, it was a narrow escape for Joe that he was not made to suffer vicarious punishment, and be kept at home on this day of days, but luckily he had been able to prove an alibi.Peter Bailey would not accompany us.This was not on account of illness, but, as we had all been made aware, because he disapproved of our methods. It was absurd, he had pointed out, to go on such an excursion without a compass. The military instinct which already made Peter regard himself as a future ornament to the United States Army, and which is doubtless of supreme value to him to-day in a stock-broker's office,—this instinct demanded a compass in order to find our path through the wilds.None of us had a compass, and Peter's was broken, and could not be replaced until his birthday,—six months hence.We must either postpone our trip for six months or go without Peter. He would not trust himself so far from civilization unless at any moment he might satisfy his passion for knowing where lay the north.Some little delicacy made us refrain from suggesting that at the farthest point which we should probably reach, the spires of most of the churches in town would undoubtedly be visible, and that we might take our bearings from these.Jimmy Toppan, then, as now, a navigator of deep seas, was one on whom the compass argument had made a profound impression. He described an ingenious but complicated recipe (which had once proved the salvation of certain mariners) whereby the hands of a watch,—if directed toward the sun, or away from the sun, I forget which, at noon, might serve in place of the magnetic needle.But, as Rob Currier observed, we might be hopelessly lost long before noon, and Ed Mason supplemented this gloomy prophecy by recalling the fact that Peter Bailey's Waterbury watch (the only time-piece amongst us) was never going, through Peter's constant neglect to spend the fifteen minutes necessary to wind it up.The plan for the day had nearly fallen through, but we finally decided to take our lives in our hands, and go without a compass. Peter, after treating us to a few sarcasms on our unscientific venture, refused absolutely to have anything to do with the trip. So there were but five of us who set out at last.On one thing we were determined. This was an all-day expedition. The necessary amount of exploration, of hunting and fishing, could not be accomplished in a few hours. We carried foodfor three full meals, and our families had been warned that they must get along without us until night began to gather in.Ed Mason had a light air-rifle, and Joe Carter, by virtue of his seniority and experience (he was thirteen that week) carried a small but pernicious revolver. The rest of us had fishing-poles and lines, and I was further equipped with a burning-glass,—without which no one should venture into the wilderness, where matches may fail, and camp-fires have to be kindled.We had not gone far when the suitability of breakfast occurred to us. We paused by the road,—not far from the brickyard (where Ed Mason had once beaten off an attack by tramps) and ate one third of our provision.Rob Currier's box proved to contain, among other things, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, and to find a third part oftwo eggs was not only puzzling, but unpleasantly reminiscent of Mr. Colburn's Arithmetic,—a book which we did not care to have accompany us, even in spirit.Rob solved the problem by eating both eggs then and there.A short walk brought us to a spot on Little River where the fishing was good, and here Jimmy Toppan and I promptly unlimbered our rods. Ed Mason wandered across the meadow to look for a legendary owl, which he claimed once to have seen in a tree near the centre of the meadow.An owl-haunted tree it certainly looked, but at that hour of the day there was little surprise that Ed saw nothing of him. The hunter soon returned to the river bank, where Jimmy and I were pulling in hornpouts at a great rate.The others, scornful of hornpouts, had departed to a small pool, farther up theriver, where nobler game was reported. Before the end of an hour they returned, bringing two very small and skinny pickerel. Now your pickerel, be he ever so meagre, is of course a nobler fish than your hornpout, and there is more glory in his capture. So Joe Carter and Rob were fain to look with loathing upon the dozen fat hornpouts which lay on the grass, and to consider that Jimmy and I had spent our time in but a trifling fashion.Not content with vaunting the superiority of their two dusty pickerel, they reduced us to deeper humiliation by recounting their adventures. Joe Carter had lost bait, hook, and float from his fishing tackle, through the agency of the enormous turtle who had lived for many a year under the bridge at the head of the pool, and Rob Currier had fallen into the water and come out wet to theknees. So it was evident that there was nothing for Jimmy and me but to hide our diminished heads.We said little, but suggested that as the morning was apparently far advanced, it would be well to have a swim and our midday meal. By the railroad track,—a short cut, we reached the swimming place, Four Rocks. It was probably the poorest swimming pool ever prescribed by an iron tradition. Passing trains made it necessary modestly to seek deeper water, and grazing cows threatened to devour our clothes; but here, and at no other place, did every boy learn to swim.Tradition is a tyrant; during the believing years it is the worst of despots.In a few minutes we were all in the water,—all except Rob Currier, who, under threat of dire punishment, had been eternally charged by his mother to keepout of the water until he was a complete master of the art of swimming.As he had not yet learned on land, he sat on the bank, threw pebbles at the cows, and from time to time remarked monotonously: "Oh, come on!"The process of dressing was slow,—the use of towels, or any serious attempt to dry oneself, being tabooed as a sign of the most degrading effeminacy. When we were ready to depart, the position of the sun, and a hollow sensation in our interiors, showed beyond question that we must once more draw upon our commissariat.Guided by three gaunt poplars, we advanced to the Devil's Den,—an ancient limestone quarry, which had some of the appearance, and many of the advantages, of a natural cave. Curious mineral substances were found there,—asbestos might be dug from the rockwith a jack-knife, and green veins of serpentine decorated the side of the cliff.It was a recognized spot for picnics, and we should have scarcely thought of eating our principal meal anywhere else. In the deepest part of the cleft was an unwholesome-looking puddle into which dripped the moisture from the roof of the cave. It was rather gloomy, and made visitors lower their voices a little, until they were in the sunlight once more.We built a fire,—for what purpose it would be difficult to say, as sandwiches, cake, and fruit do not need a great deal of cooking, and the fish which we had captured had been left with old Mr. Harris, the railroad-crossing tender, to be claimed on our return trip.It was pleasant, although a trifle hot and smoky on a warm day, to sit arounda fire and refresh our wearied frames with food. Joe Carter had a clay pipe, and after he had eaten, tried the experiment of smoking dried leaves in it. He coughed a good deal, and did not seem to derive that joy from the process which we had all heard arose from the use of a pipe.After a little time we set out once more, climbed to the top of Devil's Pulpit, and then took the road toward the Devil's Basin. In that region, the Devil seems to have had a large interest in the scenery. The road is of the pleasantest, however. Here, before the snow has hardly left the woods, the spring "peepers" sing insistently from a little bog, while, a few weeks later, the gentle blossoms of the hepatica emerge shyly from the dead leaves, and the anemone springs up on the hillside.Now, although the tide of summerebbed, the woods were crammed with things of interest. We investigated the Basin,—another deserted quarry. We explored the edges of the bog, and stalked a flock of crows who had gathered in the top of an oak. The afternoon passed at first pleasantly, but finally with some tedium,—the day seemed interminably long. Yet we grudged every moment, for we realized that the hours of vacation were numbered.We rambled about till we became aware that we were very tired, that the day was waning, and that three or four long miles lay between us and home.So we hurried through our suppers, and started on the return trip. Joe Carter walked a little in advance, calling out from time to time:—"You fellers better hurry up, unless you want to camp all night in the woods."Then he would casually take out hisrevolver and look mysteriously toward the deep undergrowth on each side of the road, as if to signify that he could not hold himself responsible for what manner of thing might beset us after the powers of darkness should be exalted.We did not want to camp all night in the woods (Ed Mason and I had not forgotten a certain experience!) and we hastened our steps.When we reached Mr. Harris's little shanty, it was closed and locked, and the old gentleman had gone,—whither we knew not. Our fish he had kindly preserved for us in a pail of water. We gathered them up, and hurried on.We debated what was the exact hour, and both Ed Mason and Rob Currier thought that sunset was close upon us. Ed remarked that he had seen one or two bats fluttering about, as we came through the woods. Evidently thecreatures of the night were beginning to make their appearance.Tired we were,—we knew that,—and a little moody at the thought of approaching school. I had a small, sharp pebble in my shoe, which made walking very painful. So I had to delay the party until I could rid myself of it.Finally we left the railroad track, and started on the home stretch over the old turnpike. We felt more at ease now, since houses were in plain sight, and the town distant only a matter of thirty minutes' walking.Here we met a man driving a sorrel horse in a wagon.Joe Carter hailed him."Say, mister, do you know what time it is?" asked Joe.The man pulled up the horse, and took a watch out of his pocket. He lookedat the dial, and then held the watch to his ear."Well," he remarked leisurely, "guess my watch has stopped again. But I can tell yer pretty close. It was quarter to nine when I came by Moulton's, an' that wa'n't more'n fifteen minutes ago. It's 'bout nine o'clock now,—I guess you young fellers better be gettin' home pretty quick, or you won't get no breakfast!""What?"We all shouted at once.The man looked at us bewildered."What are you talkin' about?" Joe Carter asked him; "quarter of nine—in the evening?""Evening?" said the man; "you crazy? No,—quarter to nine in the mornin', of course. What do you—oh! I see! Been spendin' the night in the woods, an' got lost, ain't yer?""No," Joe replied; "we been out all day,—we started 'fore daylight this morning, an' we thought it was night."The man still stared, but gradually he began to grasp the situation. His mouth slowly opened, a grin began to creep round to his ears, and he cackled. Cackled offensively and long.We could not stand that, and we hurried along the road. The man stood up in his wagon, looking after us, and still uttering that idiotic cackle."Well, we're a lot of numb-heads," remarked Rob Currier.Apparently we all agreed, but no one said so. We stubbed along in the dust, silent and ashamed. The fiasco had taken the life out of us. We did not want to go back to the woods and we did not want to return home. The jeers that might greet us there would be worsethan the laughter of the man in the wagon.Out for an all-day expedition on the last day before school opened, out for a grand exploration of the wild country,—and we had eaten all three of our meals and come home at nine o'clock in the morning! What were these bats and night-birds that we had seen? Where was the sunset and all the rest of it? This last day of vacation to be spoiled—Suddenly Joe Carter stopped in the middle of the road.His mouth opened, and then a grin spread over his face."By Jings!" he shouted.We stopped and gazed at him.Then he began to jump about excitedly on one leg."Don't you see?" he cried."What? See what?""Why, don't you see? What do we care for that old hayseed in the wagon? Or for any one? We've still got a whole day of vacation left!"

WHILE THE EVIL DAYS COME NOT

September was horribly near. And worse,—there was coming that 5th day of September when a certain bell should ring again, and we trudge up Elm Street, fidgeting uneasily about in our new "fall" clothes.

The spectre of that man, that arithmetic-man, whose name during the days of vacation it were almost profanation to speak, arose before us with a hateful leer.

The nights and mornings had grown cooler, and where daisies and buttercups had blossomed at the roadside, the golden-rod and frost-flowers had it all their own way.

But one last adventure we must have, one last protest in the name of liberty. And so we organized, on the third day of September, an extensive expedition for the morrow, and I went to spend the night with Ed Mason, to be ready to make an early start.

I fell asleep, wondering if we might not discover some unknown countries during the next day. When I woke, a small, dim figure stood beside me, repeating the words, "It's half-past four."

It took me a number of seconds to comprehend their meaning, and to recognize their speaker. Then I knew, of course,—this was the hour of rising for the great expedition into the backwoods, and here was Ed Mason telling me of that fact.

By day, Mason stalked the earth, compelling and terrible, in all the majesty of nine years. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and none looked uponhim without reverence. With his own strong right arm he had slain the musk-rat in its lair, and he had explored the fastnesses of "Second Woods,"—which, as everybody knew, were at least three-quarters of a mile beyond "First Woods."

But now, in the chilly twilight before dawn, and clad in a single white garment, which hung from his shoulders angelwise, there lacked something of the awe which usually invested the Terror of the Neighborhood.

Moreover, the nearly complete darkness which surrounded us, and eight solid hours of sleep from which I had just emerged, tended to make me slow of understanding. Only the afternoon before, and the world which had stretched beyond the borders of the town lay at our feet, awaiting our conquering footsteps. Now, the world seemed not only cold and dark, but immeasurably vast,and we no longer a pair of relentless Columbuses. Rather small, in fact, we seemed, and not wholly equipped to tame the jungle, and bring the desert to acknowledge its masters.

However, I said nothing of this to Ed Mason, but arose and dressed. He was making ready in another room, and in a few minutes we tiptoed down the stairs. At five o'clock we were to meet other bold travellers at a rendezvous near the frog pond, and there was no time to be lost.

Luncheons, a day's supply of food, had been prepared and put in boxes the evening before.

With these under our arms, we hurried out into the faint light and through the side yard, our spirits and our clothes a trifle dampened on the way, by means of a glass of water thoughtfully poured upon us from a window by Ed's sisterFlorence. This attention was by way of reciprocating our act of the previous week, when we had locked her for a while in the hen-house,—a bit of humor which we had long ago forgotten, but which, it appeared, she still held in lively recollection.

As we approached the pond, three other personages came into sight. These were Rob Currier, Jimmy Toppan, and Joe Carter. Charley Carter had been one of the organizers of the expedition, but a too intimate association with Mr. Hawkins's Bartlett pear tree and the fruit thereof, late on the previous afternoon, had rendered his absence unavoidable.

From his elder brother we gathered that Charles had passed the darkling hours in a manner not altogether agreeable, and that his parents, and even Dr. Macey, had been in consultation overthe matter. Indeed, it was a narrow escape for Joe that he was not made to suffer vicarious punishment, and be kept at home on this day of days, but luckily he had been able to prove an alibi.

Peter Bailey would not accompany us.

This was not on account of illness, but, as we had all been made aware, because he disapproved of our methods. It was absurd, he had pointed out, to go on such an excursion without a compass. The military instinct which already made Peter regard himself as a future ornament to the United States Army, and which is doubtless of supreme value to him to-day in a stock-broker's office,—this instinct demanded a compass in order to find our path through the wilds.

None of us had a compass, and Peter's was broken, and could not be replaced until his birthday,—six months hence.We must either postpone our trip for six months or go without Peter. He would not trust himself so far from civilization unless at any moment he might satisfy his passion for knowing where lay the north.

Some little delicacy made us refrain from suggesting that at the farthest point which we should probably reach, the spires of most of the churches in town would undoubtedly be visible, and that we might take our bearings from these.

Jimmy Toppan, then, as now, a navigator of deep seas, was one on whom the compass argument had made a profound impression. He described an ingenious but complicated recipe (which had once proved the salvation of certain mariners) whereby the hands of a watch,—if directed toward the sun, or away from the sun, I forget which, at noon, might serve in place of the magnetic needle.

But, as Rob Currier observed, we might be hopelessly lost long before noon, and Ed Mason supplemented this gloomy prophecy by recalling the fact that Peter Bailey's Waterbury watch (the only time-piece amongst us) was never going, through Peter's constant neglect to spend the fifteen minutes necessary to wind it up.

The plan for the day had nearly fallen through, but we finally decided to take our lives in our hands, and go without a compass. Peter, after treating us to a few sarcasms on our unscientific venture, refused absolutely to have anything to do with the trip. So there were but five of us who set out at last.

On one thing we were determined. This was an all-day expedition. The necessary amount of exploration, of hunting and fishing, could not be accomplished in a few hours. We carried foodfor three full meals, and our families had been warned that they must get along without us until night began to gather in.

Ed Mason had a light air-rifle, and Joe Carter, by virtue of his seniority and experience (he was thirteen that week) carried a small but pernicious revolver. The rest of us had fishing-poles and lines, and I was further equipped with a burning-glass,—without which no one should venture into the wilderness, where matches may fail, and camp-fires have to be kindled.

We had not gone far when the suitability of breakfast occurred to us. We paused by the road,—not far from the brickyard (where Ed Mason had once beaten off an attack by tramps) and ate one third of our provision.

Rob Currier's box proved to contain, among other things, a couple of hard-boiled eggs, and to find a third part oftwo eggs was not only puzzling, but unpleasantly reminiscent of Mr. Colburn's Arithmetic,—a book which we did not care to have accompany us, even in spirit.

Rob solved the problem by eating both eggs then and there.

A short walk brought us to a spot on Little River where the fishing was good, and here Jimmy Toppan and I promptly unlimbered our rods. Ed Mason wandered across the meadow to look for a legendary owl, which he claimed once to have seen in a tree near the centre of the meadow.

An owl-haunted tree it certainly looked, but at that hour of the day there was little surprise that Ed saw nothing of him. The hunter soon returned to the river bank, where Jimmy and I were pulling in hornpouts at a great rate.

The others, scornful of hornpouts, had departed to a small pool, farther up theriver, where nobler game was reported. Before the end of an hour they returned, bringing two very small and skinny pickerel. Now your pickerel, be he ever so meagre, is of course a nobler fish than your hornpout, and there is more glory in his capture. So Joe Carter and Rob were fain to look with loathing upon the dozen fat hornpouts which lay on the grass, and to consider that Jimmy and I had spent our time in but a trifling fashion.

Not content with vaunting the superiority of their two dusty pickerel, they reduced us to deeper humiliation by recounting their adventures. Joe Carter had lost bait, hook, and float from his fishing tackle, through the agency of the enormous turtle who had lived for many a year under the bridge at the head of the pool, and Rob Currier had fallen into the water and come out wet to theknees. So it was evident that there was nothing for Jimmy and me but to hide our diminished heads.

We said little, but suggested that as the morning was apparently far advanced, it would be well to have a swim and our midday meal. By the railroad track,—a short cut, we reached the swimming place, Four Rocks. It was probably the poorest swimming pool ever prescribed by an iron tradition. Passing trains made it necessary modestly to seek deeper water, and grazing cows threatened to devour our clothes; but here, and at no other place, did every boy learn to swim.

Tradition is a tyrant; during the believing years it is the worst of despots.

In a few minutes we were all in the water,—all except Rob Currier, who, under threat of dire punishment, had been eternally charged by his mother to keepout of the water until he was a complete master of the art of swimming.

As he had not yet learned on land, he sat on the bank, threw pebbles at the cows, and from time to time remarked monotonously: "Oh, come on!"

The process of dressing was slow,—the use of towels, or any serious attempt to dry oneself, being tabooed as a sign of the most degrading effeminacy. When we were ready to depart, the position of the sun, and a hollow sensation in our interiors, showed beyond question that we must once more draw upon our commissariat.

Guided by three gaunt poplars, we advanced to the Devil's Den,—an ancient limestone quarry, which had some of the appearance, and many of the advantages, of a natural cave. Curious mineral substances were found there,—asbestos might be dug from the rockwith a jack-knife, and green veins of serpentine decorated the side of the cliff.

It was a recognized spot for picnics, and we should have scarcely thought of eating our principal meal anywhere else. In the deepest part of the cleft was an unwholesome-looking puddle into which dripped the moisture from the roof of the cave. It was rather gloomy, and made visitors lower their voices a little, until they were in the sunlight once more.

We built a fire,—for what purpose it would be difficult to say, as sandwiches, cake, and fruit do not need a great deal of cooking, and the fish which we had captured had been left with old Mr. Harris, the railroad-crossing tender, to be claimed on our return trip.

It was pleasant, although a trifle hot and smoky on a warm day, to sit arounda fire and refresh our wearied frames with food. Joe Carter had a clay pipe, and after he had eaten, tried the experiment of smoking dried leaves in it. He coughed a good deal, and did not seem to derive that joy from the process which we had all heard arose from the use of a pipe.

After a little time we set out once more, climbed to the top of Devil's Pulpit, and then took the road toward the Devil's Basin. In that region, the Devil seems to have had a large interest in the scenery. The road is of the pleasantest, however. Here, before the snow has hardly left the woods, the spring "peepers" sing insistently from a little bog, while, a few weeks later, the gentle blossoms of the hepatica emerge shyly from the dead leaves, and the anemone springs up on the hillside.

Now, although the tide of summerebbed, the woods were crammed with things of interest. We investigated the Basin,—another deserted quarry. We explored the edges of the bog, and stalked a flock of crows who had gathered in the top of an oak. The afternoon passed at first pleasantly, but finally with some tedium,—the day seemed interminably long. Yet we grudged every moment, for we realized that the hours of vacation were numbered.

We rambled about till we became aware that we were very tired, that the day was waning, and that three or four long miles lay between us and home.

So we hurried through our suppers, and started on the return trip. Joe Carter walked a little in advance, calling out from time to time:—

"You fellers better hurry up, unless you want to camp all night in the woods."

Then he would casually take out hisrevolver and look mysteriously toward the deep undergrowth on each side of the road, as if to signify that he could not hold himself responsible for what manner of thing might beset us after the powers of darkness should be exalted.

We did not want to camp all night in the woods (Ed Mason and I had not forgotten a certain experience!) and we hastened our steps.

When we reached Mr. Harris's little shanty, it was closed and locked, and the old gentleman had gone,—whither we knew not. Our fish he had kindly preserved for us in a pail of water. We gathered them up, and hurried on.

We debated what was the exact hour, and both Ed Mason and Rob Currier thought that sunset was close upon us. Ed remarked that he had seen one or two bats fluttering about, as we came through the woods. Evidently thecreatures of the night were beginning to make their appearance.

Tired we were,—we knew that,—and a little moody at the thought of approaching school. I had a small, sharp pebble in my shoe, which made walking very painful. So I had to delay the party until I could rid myself of it.

Finally we left the railroad track, and started on the home stretch over the old turnpike. We felt more at ease now, since houses were in plain sight, and the town distant only a matter of thirty minutes' walking.

Here we met a man driving a sorrel horse in a wagon.

Joe Carter hailed him.

"Say, mister, do you know what time it is?" asked Joe.

The man pulled up the horse, and took a watch out of his pocket. He lookedat the dial, and then held the watch to his ear.

"Well," he remarked leisurely, "guess my watch has stopped again. But I can tell yer pretty close. It was quarter to nine when I came by Moulton's, an' that wa'n't more'n fifteen minutes ago. It's 'bout nine o'clock now,—I guess you young fellers better be gettin' home pretty quick, or you won't get no breakfast!"

"What?"

We all shouted at once.

The man looked at us bewildered.

"What are you talkin' about?" Joe Carter asked him; "quarter of nine—in the evening?"

"Evening?" said the man; "you crazy? No,—quarter to nine in the mornin', of course. What do you—oh! I see! Been spendin' the night in the woods, an' got lost, ain't yer?"

"No," Joe replied; "we been out all day,—we started 'fore daylight this morning, an' we thought it was night."

The man still stared, but gradually he began to grasp the situation. His mouth slowly opened, a grin began to creep round to his ears, and he cackled. Cackled offensively and long.

We could not stand that, and we hurried along the road. The man stood up in his wagon, looking after us, and still uttering that idiotic cackle.

"Well, we're a lot of numb-heads," remarked Rob Currier.

Apparently we all agreed, but no one said so. We stubbed along in the dust, silent and ashamed. The fiasco had taken the life out of us. We did not want to go back to the woods and we did not want to return home. The jeers that might greet us there would be worsethan the laughter of the man in the wagon.

Out for an all-day expedition on the last day before school opened, out for a grand exploration of the wild country,—and we had eaten all three of our meals and come home at nine o'clock in the morning! What were these bats and night-birds that we had seen? Where was the sunset and all the rest of it? This last day of vacation to be spoiled—

Suddenly Joe Carter stopped in the middle of the road.

His mouth opened, and then a grin spread over his face.

"By Jings!" he shouted.

We stopped and gazed at him.

Then he began to jump about excitedly on one leg.

"Don't you see?" he cried.

"What? See what?"

"Why, don't you see? What do we care for that old hayseed in the wagon? Or for any one? We've still got a whole day of vacation left!"

The following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan novels.ByE. B. DEWINGOTHER PEOPLE'S HOUSESCloth, 12mo, $1.50SOME OPINIONS OF THE WORK"An acute study—acute at times to the point of painfulness—of a phase of life especially aggressive in our own time, but peculiar to no single period ... there is an underlying power in the book that definitely conveys a promise of better things."—New York Evening Post."It is a remarkable story, with plenty of ingenuity in it, and some startling developments. Any story so plainly out of the beaten path deserves the attention of the reading public."—Cleveland Plain Dealer."'Other People's Houses' is a striking and absorbing study of character, and is an effective introduction to a writer whose ability will doubtless place her among the very few American novelists of importance."—New York Times.ByMARY S. WATTSTHE LEGACYCloth, 12mo, $1.50"It is a good story and at the same time good literature. Its plot is handled with a sure hand, its occasional touches of emotion are genuine, its spirit is wholesome and buoyant. It belongs in the select company of the best American novels."—Record-Herald."In 'Nathan Burke' and in 'The Legacy,' Mrs. Watts has reached a high-water mark in American fiction, has told two stories of genuine Americanism. Every page shows her truly remarkable gift of observation—observation shrewd but not unkind—and her power to probe the hearts of weak and erring mortals. Those who would keep in touch with the best product of story-telling in America must not miss 'The Legacy.'"—New York Globe."It is a story exceptionally well told, reaching and maintaining a rare pitch of interest."—New York World."It is a masterful novel throughout, and places the writer in the very highest rank of modern authors."—Salt Lake Tribune.Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL'S NOVELSEach, cloth, gilt tops and titles, $1.50A Modern ChronicleIllustratedThis, Mr. Churchill's first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. It is frankly a modern love story."The most thorough and artistic work the author has yet turned out. A very interesting story and a faithful picture of character ... one that will give rise to much discussion."—New York Sun.Mr. Crewe's CareerIllustrated"It is an honest and fair story.... It is very interesting; and the heroine is a type of woman as fresh, original, and captivating as any that has appeared in American novels for a long time past."—The Outlook.The CelebrityAn Episode"No such piece of inimitable comedy in a literary way has appeared for years.... It is the purest, keenest fun."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.Richard CarvelIllustrated"In breadth, massing of dramatic effect, depth of feeling, and rare wholesomeness of spirit, it has seldom, if ever, been surpassed by an American romance."—Chicago Tribune.The CrossingIllustrated"A thoroughly interesting book, packed with exciting adventure and sentimental incident, yet faithful to historical fact both in detail and in spirit."—The Dial.The CrisisIllustrated"A charming love story that never loses its interest.... The intense political bitterness, the intense patriotism of both parties, are shown understandingly."—Evening Telegraph, Philadelphia.ConistonIllustrated"A lighter, gayer spirit and a deeper, tenderer touch than Mr. Churchill has ever achieved before.... One of the truest and finest transcripts of modern American life thus far achieved in our fiction."—Chicago Record-Herald.IMPORTANT FICTIONGERTRUDE ATHERTON'STower of IvoryCloth, 12mo, $1.50"The 'Tower of Ivory' provides the closest study of certain phases of English high life at home and abroad that has been given us by any novelist in a great many years. Mrs. Atherton has her readers grappled to her soul by some of the most solid merits of the novelist and these she repays generously."—Chicago Evening Post.CLARA E. LAUGHLIN'SJust FolksCloth, 12mo, $1.50"This work does for readers of fiction the very real service of humanizing the slums."—Philadelphia Press."A most readable story, and one that warms the heart toward others."—Christian Advocate, New York.MABEL O. WRIGHT'SPrincess Flower HatCloth, 12mo, $1.50"The tale is charming, the reading throughout is delightful, and no lover of a garden will pass the book unnoticed."—San Francisco Call.E. V. LUCAS'Mr. InglesideCloth, 12mo, $1.35 net"'Mr. Ingleside' is a literary man's novel. The story itself is the least of Mr. Ingleside'; it is the way it is told, the keen observation of men and things and life in general, the excellent characterization, the drollery and whimsey that bring delight from page to page.... It is rich with allusions and memories, ready with knowledge of life, and quickened with a love for quirks and oddities in character wherever they are to be found."—Argus, Albany, N.Y.RICHARD WASHBURN CHILD'SJim HandsCloth, 12mo, $1.20 net"This is an excellent story. It treats of simple people, of a noble-hearted girl who saw her duty, and of the man she loved. There are scenes of real dramatic power. The interest is sustained. The kind of book that works the heart chords every now and then."—News and Courier, Charleston, S.C."Mr. Child gives us a novel of uncommon interest, but what marks it at once for attention is its purely human quality, its knowledge of the fundamental traits of men and women, its atmosphere of truth to daily life."—New York Tribune.JAMES LANE ALLEN'SThe Doctor's Christmas EveCloth, 12mo, $1.50"Kentucky in its rural aspects and with its noble men and women forms the scenery for this romance of quaintness and homeliness which lovingly interprets the career of a country doctor who has lost faith in life but not in ideals. Incidentally the author has interpreted the new spirit of American childhood in its relation to the miracles and legends and lore of other lands and older times, which have through the centuries gathered about the great Christmas festival of the Nativity."—New York Times."What so many have so long hoped Mr. Allen would do he has accomplished in this work, namely, a description of Kentucky and the bluegrass farms as seen by a youngster."—New York American.MARY S. WATTS'Nathan BurkeCloth, 12mo, $1.50"It is sometimes said that one of the best tests of a good novel, as it is of a well-planned meal, is how you feel at the end. Are you satisfied or do you wish that at some time the performance may be repeated? When one is through with 'Nathan Burke,' one thinks, I'd like to read it right over again."—Columbia Dispatch.WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE'SA Certain Rich ManCloth, 12mo, $1.50"This novel has a message for to-day, and for its brilliant character drawing, and that gossipy desultory style of writing that stamps Mr. White's literary work, will earn a high place in fiction. It is good and clean and provides a vacation from the cares of the hour. It resembles a Chinese play, because it begins with the hero's boyhood, describes his long, busy life, and ends with his death. Its tone is often religious, never flippant, and one of its best assets is its glowing descriptions of the calm, serene beauties of nature. Its moral is that a magnate never did any real good with money."—Oregonian, Portland, Ore.Mr. OWEN WISTER'S NOVELSMembers of the FamilyDecorated cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net"Thrilling and unusual tales of life on the Western prairies. Mr. Wister has shown himself a master in this class of fiction."—Critic.The VirginianDecorated cloth, 12mo, $1.50 net"The vanished West is made to live again by Owen Wister in a manner which makes his book easily the best that deals with the cowboy and the cattle country.... It is picturesque, racy, and above all it is original."—The Philadelphia Press.Lady BaltimoreCloth, 12mo, $1.50"After cowboy stories innumerable, 'the Virginian' came as the last and definite word on that romantic subject in our fiction. 'Lady Baltimore' will serve in much the same way as the most subtly drawn picture of the old-world dignity of the vanished South."—The New York Evening Mail.Mr. EDEN PHILPOTTS' NOVELSEach, in decorated cloth, $1.50The American PrisonerIllustrated"Intensely readable ... perfectly admirable in its elemental humor and racy turns of speech."—The Spectator, London.The Secret Woman"There cannot be two opinions as to the interest and the power of 'The Secret Woman.' It is not only its author's masterpiece, but it is far in advance of anything he has yet written—and that is to give it higher praise than almost any other comparison with contemporary fiction could afford."—Times Saturday Review.Knock at a VentureSketches of the rustic life of Devon, rich in racy, quaint, and humorous touches.The PortreevePUBLISHED BYTHE MACMILLAN COMPANY64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York

The following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan novels.

The following pages contain advertisements of a few of the Macmillan novels.

ByE. B. DEWING

OTHER PEOPLE'S HOUSES

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

SOME OPINIONS OF THE WORK

"An acute study—acute at times to the point of painfulness—of a phase of life especially aggressive in our own time, but peculiar to no single period ... there is an underlying power in the book that definitely conveys a promise of better things."—New York Evening Post.

"It is a remarkable story, with plenty of ingenuity in it, and some startling developments. Any story so plainly out of the beaten path deserves the attention of the reading public."—Cleveland Plain Dealer.

"'Other People's Houses' is a striking and absorbing study of character, and is an effective introduction to a writer whose ability will doubtless place her among the very few American novelists of importance."—New York Times.

ByMARY S. WATTS

THE LEGACY

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

"It is a good story and at the same time good literature. Its plot is handled with a sure hand, its occasional touches of emotion are genuine, its spirit is wholesome and buoyant. It belongs in the select company of the best American novels."—Record-Herald.

"In 'Nathan Burke' and in 'The Legacy,' Mrs. Watts has reached a high-water mark in American fiction, has told two stories of genuine Americanism. Every page shows her truly remarkable gift of observation—observation shrewd but not unkind—and her power to probe the hearts of weak and erring mortals. Those who would keep in touch with the best product of story-telling in America must not miss 'The Legacy.'"—New York Globe.

"It is a story exceptionally well told, reaching and maintaining a rare pitch of interest."—New York World.

"It is a masterful novel throughout, and places the writer in the very highest rank of modern authors."—Salt Lake Tribune.

Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL'S NOVELS

Each, cloth, gilt tops and titles, $1.50

This, Mr. Churchill's first great presentation of the Eternal Feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young American woman. It is frankly a modern love story.

"The most thorough and artistic work the author has yet turned out. A very interesting story and a faithful picture of character ... one that will give rise to much discussion."—New York Sun.

"It is an honest and fair story.... It is very interesting; and the heroine is a type of woman as fresh, original, and captivating as any that has appeared in American novels for a long time past."—The Outlook.

"No such piece of inimitable comedy in a literary way has appeared for years.... It is the purest, keenest fun."—Chicago Inter-Ocean.

"In breadth, massing of dramatic effect, depth of feeling, and rare wholesomeness of spirit, it has seldom, if ever, been surpassed by an American romance."—Chicago Tribune.

"A thoroughly interesting book, packed with exciting adventure and sentimental incident, yet faithful to historical fact both in detail and in spirit."—The Dial.

"A charming love story that never loses its interest.... The intense political bitterness, the intense patriotism of both parties, are shown understandingly."—Evening Telegraph, Philadelphia.

"A lighter, gayer spirit and a deeper, tenderer touch than Mr. Churchill has ever achieved before.... One of the truest and finest transcripts of modern American life thus far achieved in our fiction."—Chicago Record-Herald.

IMPORTANT FICTION

GERTRUDE ATHERTON'S

"The 'Tower of Ivory' provides the closest study of certain phases of English high life at home and abroad that has been given us by any novelist in a great many years. Mrs. Atherton has her readers grappled to her soul by some of the most solid merits of the novelist and these she repays generously."—Chicago Evening Post.

CLARA E. LAUGHLIN'S

"This work does for readers of fiction the very real service of humanizing the slums."—Philadelphia Press.

"A most readable story, and one that warms the heart toward others."—Christian Advocate, New York.

MABEL O. WRIGHT'S

"The tale is charming, the reading throughout is delightful, and no lover of a garden will pass the book unnoticed."—San Francisco Call.

E. V. LUCAS'

"'Mr. Ingleside' is a literary man's novel. The story itself is the least of Mr. Ingleside'; it is the way it is told, the keen observation of men and things and life in general, the excellent characterization, the drollery and whimsey that bring delight from page to page.... It is rich with allusions and memories, ready with knowledge of life, and quickened with a love for quirks and oddities in character wherever they are to be found."—Argus, Albany, N.Y.

RICHARD WASHBURN CHILD'S

"This is an excellent story. It treats of simple people, of a noble-hearted girl who saw her duty, and of the man she loved. There are scenes of real dramatic power. The interest is sustained. The kind of book that works the heart chords every now and then."—News and Courier, Charleston, S.C.

"Mr. Child gives us a novel of uncommon interest, but what marks it at once for attention is its purely human quality, its knowledge of the fundamental traits of men and women, its atmosphere of truth to daily life."—New York Tribune.

JAMES LANE ALLEN'S

The Doctor's Christmas Eve

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

"Kentucky in its rural aspects and with its noble men and women forms the scenery for this romance of quaintness and homeliness which lovingly interprets the career of a country doctor who has lost faith in life but not in ideals. Incidentally the author has interpreted the new spirit of American childhood in its relation to the miracles and legends and lore of other lands and older times, which have through the centuries gathered about the great Christmas festival of the Nativity."—New York Times.

"What so many have so long hoped Mr. Allen would do he has accomplished in this work, namely, a description of Kentucky and the bluegrass farms as seen by a youngster."—New York American.

MARY S. WATTS'

Nathan Burke

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

"It is sometimes said that one of the best tests of a good novel, as it is of a well-planned meal, is how you feel at the end. Are you satisfied or do you wish that at some time the performance may be repeated? When one is through with 'Nathan Burke,' one thinks, I'd like to read it right over again."—Columbia Dispatch.

WILLIAM ALLEN WHITE'S

A Certain Rich Man

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

"This novel has a message for to-day, and for its brilliant character drawing, and that gossipy desultory style of writing that stamps Mr. White's literary work, will earn a high place in fiction. It is good and clean and provides a vacation from the cares of the hour. It resembles a Chinese play, because it begins with the hero's boyhood, describes his long, busy life, and ends with his death. Its tone is often religious, never flippant, and one of its best assets is its glowing descriptions of the calm, serene beauties of nature. Its moral is that a magnate never did any real good with money."—Oregonian, Portland, Ore.

Mr. OWEN WISTER'S NOVELS

Members of the Family

Decorated cloth, 12mo, $1.25 net

"Thrilling and unusual tales of life on the Western prairies. Mr. Wister has shown himself a master in this class of fiction."—Critic.

The Virginian

Decorated cloth, 12mo, $1.50 net

"The vanished West is made to live again by Owen Wister in a manner which makes his book easily the best that deals with the cowboy and the cattle country.... It is picturesque, racy, and above all it is original."—The Philadelphia Press.

Lady Baltimore

Cloth, 12mo, $1.50

"After cowboy stories innumerable, 'the Virginian' came as the last and definite word on that romantic subject in our fiction. 'Lady Baltimore' will serve in much the same way as the most subtly drawn picture of the old-world dignity of the vanished South."—The New York Evening Mail.

Mr. EDEN PHILPOTTS' NOVELS

Each, in decorated cloth, $1.50

"Intensely readable ... perfectly admirable in its elemental humor and racy turns of speech."—The Spectator, London.

The Secret Woman

"There cannot be two opinions as to the interest and the power of 'The Secret Woman.' It is not only its author's masterpiece, but it is far in advance of anything he has yet written—and that is to give it higher praise than almost any other comparison with contemporary fiction could afford."—Times Saturday Review.

Knock at a Venture

Sketches of the rustic life of Devon, rich in racy, quaint, and humorous touches.

The Portreeve

PUBLISHED BY

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

64-66 Fifth Avenue, New York

Back to IndexNext