e same fellows doing "a power o' good," and other hints I had
collected vaguely, of renouncements, rules, self-denials, and the
like. Thereupon, out of the depths of my morbid soul swam up a new and
fascinating idea; and at once the career of arms seemed over-acted and
stale, and piracy, as a profession, flat and unprofitable. This, then,
or something like it, should be my vocation and my revenge. A severer
line of business, perhaps, such as I had read of; something that
included black bread and a hair-shirt. There should be vows,
too--irrevocable, blood curdling vows; and an iron grating. This iron
grating was the most necessary feature of all, for I intended that on
the other side of it my relations should range themselves--I mentally
ran over the catalogue, and saw that the whole gang was present, all in
their proper places--a sad-eyed row, combined in tristful appeal. "We
see our error now," they would say; "we were always dull dogs, slow to
catch--especially in those akin to us--the finer qualities of soul! We
misunderstood you, misappreciated you, and we own up to it. And now--"
"Alas, my dear friends," I would strike in here, waving towards them
an ascetic hand--one of the emaciated sort, that lets the light shine
through at the finger-tips--"Alas, you come too late! This conduct is
fitting and meritorious on your part, and indeed I always expected it of
you, sooner or later; but the die is cast, and you may go home again and
bewail at your leisure this too tardy repentance of yours. For me, I am
vowed and dedicated, and my relations henceforth are austerity and holy
works. Once a month, should you wish it, it shall be your privilege to
come and gaze at me through this very solid grating; but--" WHACK!

A well-aimed clod of garden soil, whizzing just past my ear, starred on
a tree-trunk behind, spattering me with dirt. The present came back to
me in a flash, and I nimbly took cover behind the trees, realising that
the enemy was up and abroad, with ambuscades, alarms, and thrilling
sallies. It was the gardener's boy, I knew well enough; a red
proletariat, who hated me just because I was a gentleman. Hastily
picking up a nice sticky clod in one hand, with the other I delicately
projected my hat beyond the shelter of the tree-trunk. I had not fought
with Red-skins all these years for nothing.

As I had expected, another clod, of the first class for size and
stickiness, took my poor hat full in the centre. Then, Ajax