the door in the back of
the shed proved to be too narrow for our ship's beam. But men embarked
on a desperate enterprise are not to be stopped by such trifles, and
the problem was solved by sawing out two adjoining boards. These were
afterwards replaced with skill by the ship's carpenter, Able Seaman
Grits Jarvis. Then the Petrel by heroic efforts was got into the wagon,
the seat of which had been removed, old Thomas Jefferson perched himself
precariously in the bow and protestingly gathered up his rope-patched
reins.

"Folks'll 'low I'se plum crazy, drivin' dis yere boat," he declared,
observing with concern that some four feet of the stern projected over
the tail-board. "Ef she topples, I'll git to heaven quicker'n a bullet."

When one is shanghaied, however,--in the hands of buccaneers,--it is
too late to withdraw. Six shoulders upheld the rear end of the Petrel,
others shoved, and Thomas Jefferson's rickety horse began to move
forward in spite of himself. An expression of sheer terror might have
been observed on the old negro's crinkled face, but his voice was
drowned, and we swept out of the alley. Scarcely had we travelled a
block before we began to be joined by all the boys along the line of
march; marbles, tops, and even incipient baseball games were abandoned
that Saturday morning; people ran out of their houses, teamsters halted
their carts. The breathless excitement, the exaltation I had felt on
leaving the alley were now tinged with other feelings, unanticipated,
but not wholly lacking in delectable quality,--concern and awe at these
unforeseen forces I had raised, at this ever growing and enthusiastic
body of volunteers springing up like dragon's teeth in our path. After
all, was not I the hero of this triumphal procession? The thought was
consoling, exhilarating. And here was Nancy marching at my side, a
little subdued, perhaps, but unquestionably admiring and realizing that
it was I who had created all this. Nancy, who was the aptest of pupils,
the most loyal of followers, though I did not yet value her devotion at
its real worth, because she was a girl. Her imagination kindled at my
touch. And on this eventful occasion she carried in her arms a parcel,
the contents of which were unknown to all but ourselves. At length we
reached the muddy shores of Logan's pond, where two score eager hands
volunteered to assist the Petrel into her native element.

Alas! that the reality never attains to the vision. I h