So Bob trudged along, whistling a merry tune and jingling in his pocket the money his mother had given him.

“He’ll be as mad as hops,” he murmured, “but it can’t do much harm.  He’ll turn it off before much runs out.”

This may seem rather a puzzle to my young readers, but if you have patience you will soon understand what Bob meant, though I hope none of you will follow his example.

As Bob walked along he met another lad about his own age.

“Hello, Bob,” greeted Ted Neefus.  “Where you goin’?”

“Store.”

“What store?”

“Bill Hodge’s.”

“What fer?”

“Lard.”

“Want me t’ go ’long?”

“If you want to,” and there was a half smile on Bob’s face.  Ted knew the meaning of that smile.  He had more than once been associated with Bob in his tricks.

“Kin I watch ye?” he asked eagerly.

“What for?” asked Bob with an air of assumed indignation.  “What do you think I’m going to do?”

“Oh, that’s all right,” returned Ted.  “I won’t say anythin’.  Let me watch, will yer?”

“I don’t s’pose I can stop you,” replied Bob, with an appearance of lofty virtue.  “The street’s public property.  I haven’t any right to say you shan’t stand in front of Bill’s store until I come out.  You can if you want to.”

“Maybe I won’t then!” exclaimed Ted.

“Better not walk along with me,” advised Bob.  “Folks might think we were up to something.”

“That’s so.  Like when we burned some feathers under the church when they were having prayer meeting.”

“Don’t speak so loud,” cautioned Bob.  “You’ll give things away.”

Thus admonished, Ted took a position well to his chum’s rear.  Meanwhile Bob continued on and was soon at the grocery store.

“Good-afternoon, Mr. Hodge,” he said politely.

“Arternoon,” replied Mr. Hodge, for he was not fond of boys, least of all Bob Henderson.  “What d’ you want?”

He had an air as if he was saying: 

“Now none of your tricks, you young rapscallion!  If you play any jokes on me you’ll smart for it!”

“Mother wants a pound of lard—­the best lard, Mr. Hodge,” said Bob.

“I don’t keep any but the best.”

“Then I want a pound.  It’s a fine day, isn’t it?”

“I don’t see nothin’ the matter with it.  ‘Tain’t rainin’ anyhow.  Now don’t you upset anything while I go fer the lard.  I have t’ keep it down cellar, it’s so hot up here.”

Bob knew this.  In fact, he counted on it for what he was about to do.  No sooner had the storekeeper started down the cellar stairs than Bob pulled from his pocket a long, stout piece of cord.  He quickly fastened one end of it to the spigot of a molasses barrel, which stood about half way back in the store.  Then he ran the cord forward and across the doorway, about six inches from the floor, and fastened the other end to a barrel of flour as a sort of anchor.