“Arrah you bad boy!” cried Kitty, leaning on the mop handle.  “The Capen has jist been askin’ for you.  He’s gone up town, now.  It’s a nate thing you done with my clothes-line, and, it’s me you may thank for gettin’ it out of the way before the Capen come down.”

The kind creature had hauled in the rope, and my escapade had not been discovered by the family; but I knew very well that the burning of the stage-coach, and the arrest of the boys concerned in the mischief, were sure to reach my grandfathers ears sooner or later.

“Well, Thomas,” said the old gentleman, an hour or so afterwards, beaming upon me benevolently across the breakfast table, “you didn’t wait to be called this morning.”

“No, sir,” I replied, growing very warm, “I took a little run up town to see what was going on.”

I didn’t say anything about the little run I took home again!  “They had quite a time on the Square last night,” remarked Captain Nutter, looking up from the Rivermouth Barnacle, which was always placed beside his coffee-cup at breakfast.

I felt that my hair was preparing to stand on end.

“Quite a time,” continued my grandfather.  “Some boys broke into Ezra Wingate’s barn and carried off the old stagecoach.  The young rascals!  I do believe they’d burn up the whole town if they had their way.”

With this he resumed the paper.  After a long silence he exclaimed, “Hullo!” upon which I nearly fell off the chair.

“‘Miscreants unknown,’” read my grandfather, following the paragraph with his forefinger; “’escaped from the bridewell, leaving no clew to their identity, except the letter H, cut on one of the benches.’  ’Five dollars reward offered for the apprehension of the perpetrators.’  Sho!  I hope Wingate will catch them.”

I don’t see how I continued to live, for on hearing this the breath went entirely out of my body.  I beat a retreat from the room as soon as I could, and flew to the stable with a misty intention of mounting Gypsy and escaping from the place.  I was pondering what steps to take, when Jack Harris and Charley Marden entered the yard.

“I say,” said Harris, as blithe as a lark, “has old Wingate been here?”

“Been here?” I cried, “I should hope not!”

“The whole thing’s out, you know,” said Harris, pulling Gypsy’s forelock over her eyes and blowing playfully into her nostrils.

“You don’t mean it!” I gasped.

“Yes, I do, and we are to pay Wingate three dollars apiece.  He’ll make rather a good spec out of it.”

“But how did he discover that we were the—­the miscreants?” I asked, quoting mechanically from the Rivermouth Bamacle.

“Why, he saw us take the old ark, confound him!  He’s been trying to sell it any time these ten years.  Now he has sold it to us.  When he found that we had slipped out of the Meat Market, he went right off and wrote the advertisement offering five dollars reward; though he knew well enough who had taken the coach, for he came round to my father’s house before the paper was printed to talk the matter over.  Wasn’t the governor mad, though!  But it’s all settled, I tell you.  We’re to pay Wingate fifteen dollars for the old go-cart, which he wanted to sell the other day for seventy-five cents, and couldn’t.  It’s a downright swindle.  But the funny part of it is to come.”