th and knocked its ashes on the
ground--

"An I'se to be judge an' udder ting you'se talk of, Massa Walter, eh?
An I'se to fire de gun, eh? W-a-all, I'se an ole nigger, an my heart
ees shree-veled up like, I s'pose, but my gorry, young massas, ef you
don't beat, old Clump will jist loaden up do musket again an'--an'--an'
_but_ 'is 'ed agin de rock! Yah, fur sure!"

Having delivered himself of that tragical decision in a manner mixed of
sadness and frenzy, he hobbled off, amidst our laughter and assurances
that we should never allow him to injure the rock in that way, to
consult with Juno, and probably load his pipe again.

No noble lord, with his thousands of pounds wagered on the Derby or
Saint Leger, or perhaps, rather, I should say on some of the crack
yachts of the day, was ever half so excited as was this good old darky
about our boat-race.

Under the escort of Walter, Harry, Alfred, and Drake, the cannon arrived
in the afternoon, and, by their united efforts and the assistance of the
Captain, was mounted before sundown on a heavy piece of timber in the
_Clear the Track's_ bow.

By night the flags, ammunition, and many other necessaries for the
morrow's undertaking were in order and readiness for service.

After the day's work, and filled with anticipations of the eventful
morrow, we felt no desire for our usual outdoor games that evening, but
found seats on the great boulder beside our house, where Mr Clare was
resting, and the Captain was enjoying his smoke. Old Clump, too, having
finished his tea and swept out Juno's kitchen, loitered toward us with
his comforter--the pipe--and edged up respectfully within hearing of our
conversation. So we boys leaned on our elbows, looking out at the dimly
defined water, sometimes lighted in streaks by gleams of phosphorescence
where shoals of fish were jumping; or, stretched on our backs, we
watched the shooting-stars hurrying with speed quick as thought from one
part of the immeasurable blue to another; while our tutors talked
earnestly of former times, and we heard the shrill calls of gulls and
other sea birds, the occasional tender bleating of the lambs in the
distant sheepfold, and the soft regular splash of a summer sea on the
rocks, until the delicate young crescent had dozed slowly down to its
bed in the ocean,--and we, profiting by example, sought slumber in the
old dreamful attic.

Harry Higginson was the first one up in the morning. He shook us to our