old folks, that's all."

The man cocked his eye at me in the most amiable manner, and released
his hold.

"Boys is boys," he muttered. He didn't attempt to stop me as I slipped
through the gate.

Once beyond his clutches, I took to my heels and soon reached the
Square, where I found forty or fifty fellows assembled, engaged in
building a pyramid of tar-barrels. The palms of my hands still tingled
so that I couldn't join in the sport. I stood in the doorway of the
Nautilus Bank, watching the workers, among whom I recognized lots of my
schoolmates. They looked like a legion of imps, coming and going in the
twilight, busy in raising some infernal edifice. What a Babel of
voices it was, everybody directing everybody else, and everybody doing
everything wrong!

When all was prepared, someone applied a match to the sombre pile. A
fiery tongue thrust itself out here and there, then suddenly the whole
fabric burst into flames, blazing and crackling beautifully. This was a
signal for the boys to join hands and dance around the burning barrels,
which they did shouting like mad creatures. When the fire had burnt
down a little, fresh staves were brought and heaped on the pyre. In the
excitement of the moment I forgot my tingling palms, and found myself in
the thick of the carousal.

Before we were half ready, our combustible material was expended, and a
disheartening kind of darkness settled down upon us. The boys collected
together here and there in knots, consulting as to what should be done.
It yet lacked four or five hours of daybreak, and none of us were in the
humor to return to bed. I approached one of the groups standing near the
town pump, and discovered in the uncertain light of the dying brands the
figures of Jack Harris, Phil Adams, Harry Blake, and Pepper Whitcomb,
their faces streaked with perspiration and tar, and, their whole
appearance suggestive of New Zealand chiefs.

"Hullo! Here's Tom Bailey!" shouted Pepper Whitcomb. "He'll join in!"

Of course he would. The sting had gone out of my hands, and I was ripe
for anything--none the less ripe for not knowing what was on the tapis.
After whispering together for a moment the boys motioned me to follow
them.

We glided out from the crowd and silently wended our way through a
neighboring alley, at the head of which stood a tumble-down old barn,
owned by one Ezra Wingate. In former days this was the stable of the
mail-coach that ran between Rivermouth and Bosto