In the meanwhile Bailey’s Battery bellowed away at regular intervals.  The greatest confusion reigned everywhere by this time.  People with lanterns rushed hither and thither.  The town watch had turned out to a man, and marched off, in admirable order, in the wrong direction.  Discovering their mistake, they retraced their steps, and got down to the wharf just as the last cannon belched forth its lightning.

A dense cloud of sulphurous smoke floated over Anchor Lane, obscuring the starlight.  Two or three hundred people, in various stages of excitement, crowded about the upper end of the wharf, not liking to advance farther until they were satisfied that the explosions were over.  A board was here and there blown from the fence, and through the openings thus afforded a few of the more daring spirits at length ventured to crawl.

The cause of the racket soon transpired.  A suspicion that they had been sold gradually dawned on the Rivermouthians.  Many were exceedingly indignant, and declared that no penalty was severe enough for those concerned in such a prank; others—­and these were the very people who had been terrified nearly out of their wits—­had the assurance to laugh, saying that they knew all along it was only a trick.

The town watch boldly took possession of the ground, and the crowd began to disperse.  Knots of gossips lingered here and there near the place, indulging in vain surmises as to who the invisible gunners could be.

There was no more noise that night, but many a timid person lay awake expecting a renewal of the mysterious cannonading.  The Oldest Inhabitant refused to go to bed on any terms, but persisted in sitting up in a rocking-chair, with his hat and mittens on, until daybreak.

I thought I should never get to sleep.  The moment I drifted off in a doze I fell to laughing and woke myself up.  But towards morning slumber overtook me, and I had a series of disagreeable dreams, in one of which I was waited upon by the ghost of Silas Trefethen with an exorbitant bill for the use of his guns.  In another, I was dragged before a court-martial and sentenced by Sailor Ben, in a frizzled wig and three-cornered cocked hat, to be shot to death by Bailey’s Battery—­a sentence which Sailor Ben was about to execute with his own hand, when I suddenly opened my eyes and found the sunshine lying pleasantly across my face.  I tell you I was glad!

That unaccountable fascination which leads the guilty to hover about the spot where his crime was committed drew me down to the wharf as soon as I was dressed.  Phil Adams, Jack Harris, and others of the conspirators were already there, examining with a mingled feeling of curiosity and apprehension the havoc accomplished by the battery.

The fence was badly shattered and the ground ploughed up for several yards round the place where the guns formerly lay—­formerly lay, for now they were scattered every which way.  There was scarcely a gun that hadn’t burst.  Here was one ripped open from muzzle to breech, and there was another with its mouth blown into the shape of a trumpet.  Three of the guns had disappeared bodily, but on looking over the edge of the wharf we saw them standing on end in the tide-mud.  They had popped overboard in their excitement.