hed off,
at a right angle, along the side street, with no home visible anywhere,
and not a familiar sign in sight. A ship at sea without a rudder, a
solitary wanderer in the Great American Desert without a compass, could
not have been more utterly astray. The Boy was so demoralized that he
forgot his name and address; and when a kindly policeman picked him up,
and carried him over the way, to the Leonard Street station-house for
identification, he felt as if the end of everything had come. It was bad
enough to be arrested, but how was he to satisfy his own conscience, and
explain matters to his mother, when it was discovered that he had
broken his solemn promise, and crossed the street? He had no
pocket-handkerchief; and he remembers that he spoiled the long silk
streamers of his Glengarry bonnet by wiping his eyes upon them. He was
recognized by his Forty-second-plaid gingham frock, a familiar object in
the neighborhood, and he was carried back to his parents, who had not
had time to miss him, and who, consequently, were not distracted. He
lost nothing by the adventure but himself, his self-respect, a pint of
tears--and one shoe.

He was afterwards lost in Greenwich Street, having gone there on the
back step of an ice-cart; and once he was conveyed as far as the Hudson
River Railroad Depot, at Chambers Street, on his sled, which he had
hitched to the milkman's wagon, and could not untie. This was very
serious, indeed; for The Boy realized that he had not only lost himself
but his sleigh, too. Aunt Henrietta found The Boy sitting disconsolately
in front of Wall's bake-shop; but the sleigh did not turn up for several
days. It was finally discovered, badly scratched, in the possession of
"The Head of the Rovers."

"The Hounds" and "The Rovers" were rival bands of boys, not in The Boy's
set, who for many years made out-door life miserable to The Boy and to
his friends. They threw stones and mud at each other, and at everybody
else; and The Boy was not infrequently blamed for the windows they
broke. They punched all the little boys who were better dressed than
they were, and they were even depraved enough, and mean enough, to tell
the driver every time The Boy or Johnny Robertson attempted to "cut
behind."

[Illustration: TOM RILEY'S LIBERTY POLE]

There was also a band of unattached guerillas who aspired to be, and
often pretended to be, either "Hounds" or "Rovers"--they did not care
which. They always hunted in cou