We fell to with a will, and so evenly balanced were our capabilities that we finished our creams together, the spoons clinking in the glasses like one spoon.

“Let’s have some more!” cried Charley Marden, with the air of Aladdin ordering up a fresh hogshead of pearls and rubies.  “Tom Bailey, tell Pettingil to send in another round.”

Could I credit my ears?  I looked at him to see if he were in earnest.  He meant it.  In a moment more I was leaning over the counter giving directions for a second supply.  Thinking it would make no difference to such a gorgeous young sybarite as Marden, I took the liberty of ordering ninepenny creams this time.

On returning to the saloon, what was my horror at finding it empty!

There were the twelve cloudy glasses, standing in a circle on the sticky marble slab, and not a boy to be seen.  A pair of hands letting go their hold on the window-sill outside explained matters.  I had been made a victim.

I couldn’t stay and face Pettingil, whose peppery temper was well known among the boys.  I hadn’t a cent in the world to appease him.  What should I do?  I heard the clink of approaching glasses—­the ninepenny creams.  I rushed to the nearest window.  It was only five feet to the ground.  I threw myself out as if I had been an old hat.

Landing on my feet, I fled breathlessly down High Street, through Willow, and was turning into Brierwood Place when the sound of several voices, calling to me in distress, stopped my progress.

“Look out, you fool!  The mine!  The mine!” yelled the warning voices.

Several men and boys were standing at the head of the street, making insane gestures to me to avoid something.  But I saw no mine, only in the middle of the road in front of me was a common flour-barrel, which, as I gazed at it, suddenly rose into the air with a terrific explosion.  I felt myself thrown violently off my feet.  I remember nothing else, excepting that, as I went up, I caught a momentary glimpse of Ezra Wingate leering through is shop window like an avenging spirit.

The mine that had wrought me woe was not properly a mine at all, but merely a few ounces of powder placed under an empty keg or barrel and fired with a slow-match.  Boys who didn’t happen to have pistols or cannon generally burnt their powder in this fashion.

For an account of what followed I am indebted to hearsay, for I was insensible when the people picked me up and carried me home on a shutter borrowed from the proprietor of Pettingil’s saloon.  I was supposed to be killed, but happily (happily for me at least) I was merely stunned.  I lay in a semi-unconscious state until eight o’clock that night, when I attempted to speak.  Miss Abigail, who watched by the bedside, put her ear down to my lips and was saluted with these remarkable words:  “Strawberry and verneller mixed!”

“Mercy on us!  What is the boy saying?” cried Miss Abigail.