pair of hands letting go their
hold on the window-sill outside explained matters. I had been made a
victim.

I couldn't stay and face Pettingil, whose peppery temper was well known
among the boys. I hadn't a cent in the world to appease him. What should
I do? I heard the clink of approaching glasses--the ninepenny creams.
I rushed to the nearest window. It was only five feet to the ground. I
threw myself out as if I had been an old hat.

Landing on my feet, I fled breathlessly down High Street, through
Willow, and was turning into Brierwood Place when the sound of several
voices, calling to me in distress, stopped my progress.

"Look out, you fool! The mine! The mine!" yelled the warning voices.

Several men and boys were standing at the head of the street, making
insane gestures to me to avoid something. But I saw no mine, only in the
middle of the road in front of me was a common flour-barrel, which, as
I gazed at it, suddenly rose into the air with a terrific explosion.
I felt myself thrown violently off my feet. I remember nothing else,
excepting that, as I went up, I caught a momentary glimpse of Ezra
Wingate leering through is shop window like an avenging spirit.

The mine that had wrought me woe was not properly a mine at all, but
merely a few ounces of powder placed under an empty keg or barrel and
fired with a slow-match. Boys who didn't happen to have pistols or
cannon generally burnt their powder in this fashion.

For an account of what followed I am indebted to hearsay, for I was
insensible when the people picked me up and carried me home on a shutter
borrowed from the proprietor of Pettingil's saloon. I was supposed to
be killed, but happily (happily for me at least) I was merely stunned.
I lay in a semi-unconscious state until eight o'clock that night, when
I attempted to speak. Miss Abigail, who watched by the bedside, put
her ear down to my lips and was saluted with these remarkable words:
"Strawberry and verneller mixed!"

"Mercy on us! What is the boy saying?" cried Miss Abigail.

"ROOTBEERSOLDHERE!"

This inscription is copied from a triangular-shaped
piece of slate, still preserved in the garret of the Nutter
House, together with the pistol butt itself, which was
subsequently dug up for a postmortem examination.

Chapter Nine--I Become an R. M. C.

In the course of ten days I recovered sufficiently from my injuries to
attend school, where, for a little while,