Herbert Day. "I shouldn't like to be in their shoes
when Mr. Scott finds it out; he'll make it hot for them! But how's that
going to help us, Tommy; we're not in it?"

"I know; but what we want to do," answered the Sergeant, "is to guard
the cannon and spoil their little game. It would be great to get ahead
of Davis for once."

"Wouldn't they punch our heads?" said Billy, doubtfully; "they're
bigger."

"I'd like to see them," blustered Fatty; "we'd run them through with our
bayonets."

"What time did they agree to take the cannon, Tommy?" asked Bert.

"After dark, about nine, I suppose. They said they could drag it across
the field to Davis's barn, and that nobody would catch on."

"What sport!" chuckled Green. "We'll go early, then, and form in single
file round the old cannon, and I'd like to see the man who could take it
from us."

"Mr. Scott has a big mastiff, hasn't he?" asked Billy.

"What of that?" scornfully, and Billy was silenced. The boys forgot
their heat and fatigue in their eagerness to prepare for such a great
undertaking, and over and over again the Sergeant's commands rang out:
"Load! squad, ready! aim! _fire!_ Order arms! Load! ready! aim! recover
arms! _fire!_" etc., for a full hour.

At half past eight that same evening the Raleigh Reds, with fife and
drum silent, marched through the lane leading to Mr. Scott's field.

"Squad, halt!" was the command when they reached the fence. Then after a
whispered consultation and a stealthy glance round, lest the enemy might
attack them in the rear, they climbed carefully over the rails, and came
down cautiously on the other side.

"Forward, march!" ordered the Sergeant, and his squad started by twos up
the field.

The cannon was mounted at the other end, and the shadows which the moon
cast across their path looked to the boys' excited fancy like figures
rising from the ground.

"A little faster step--hep, hep!" urged the Sergeant, as they lagged.
"Double time!" he commanded; but alas! a low ferocious growl, followed
by a loud bark, caused a sudden panic in the dauntless Reds.

"The mastiff!" cried Joe Morris; "cut for your lives!"

"Don't you do it! Charge bayonets!" shouted Tom, dismayed by this
breaking of the close-locked ranks.

"About face!" yelled Fatty Simmons, assuming the command in his terror:
"quick to the fence, fellows--run!" and as the big dark object bounded
towards them, the squad for the second time in its short history took