lage, near the canal and the railway
station, and many of the houses were dilapidated. Jack was thinking
that Mary might write something about improving such a neglected,
squalid quarter, when he heard a shriek from the door of a house near
by.

"Robbers!--thieves!--fire!--murder!--rob-bers!--villains!"

It was the voice of a woman, and had a crack in it that made it sound
as if two voices were trying to choke each other.

"Robbers!" shouted Jack springing forward, just as two very short men
dashed through the gate and disappeared in the darkness.

If they were robbers they were likely to get away, for they ran well.

Jack Ogden did not run very far. He heard other footsteps. There were
people coming from the opposite direction, but he paid no attention to
them, until just as he was passing the gate.

Then he felt a hand on his left shoulder, and another hand on his right
shoulder, and suddenly he found himself lying flat on his back upon the
sidewalk.

"Hold him, boys!"

"We've got him!"

"Hold him down!"

"Tie him! We needn't gag him. Tie him tight! We've got him!"

There were no less than four men, and two held his legs, while the
other two pinioned his arms, all the while threatening him with
terrible things if he resisted.

It was in vain to struggle, and every time he tried to speak they
silenced him. Besides, he was too much astonished to talk easily, and
all the while an unceasing torrent of abuse was poured upon him, over
the gate, by the voice that had given the alarm.

"We've got him, Mrs. McNamara! He can't get away this time. The young
villain!"

"They were goin' to brek into me house, indade," said Mrs. McNamara.
"The murdherin' vagabones!"

"What'll we do with him now, boys?" asked one of his captors. "I don't
know where to take him--do you, Deacon Abrams?"

"What's your name, you young thief?" sternly demanded another.

Jack had begun to think. One of his first thoughts was that a gang of
desperate robbers had seized him. The next idea was, that he never met
four more stupid-looking men in Mertonville, nor anywhere else. He
resolved that he would not tell his name, to have it printed in the
_Inquirer_, and so made no answer.

"That's the way of thim," said Mrs. McNamara. "He's game, and he won't
pache. The joodge'll have to mak him spake. Ye'd betther lock him up,
and kape him till day."

"That's it, Deacon Abrams."

"That's just it," said the man spoken to. "W