h the breath
knocked out of him.

"Want another?" inquired Henry Burns, calmly. He had not even offered to
strike a blow.

Benny Ellison, picking himself up slowly from the dust, hesitated a
moment; then backed away.

"I'll have it out with you again some time," he muttered. "I'll get
square with you for this."

Henry Burns's eyes twinkled.

"Why not now?" he asked.

Benny Ellison made no reply, but went on up the road.

Bess Thornton's face, radiant with delight as Henry Burns turned to her,
suddenly clouded.

"Guess I'll have to look out now," she said. "He'll give it to me, if he
catches me."

Henry Burns's face wore an expression of mingled perplexity and
embarrassment. Then, as one resolved to see the thing through, he
replied, "Come on, I'll get you home all right."

CHAPTER XI

COL. WITHAM GETS THE MILL

It was the evening before the glorious Fourth of July, and Tim Reardon
was dragging an iron cannon along the street, by a small rope. It was a
curious, clumsy piece of iron-mongery, about a foot and a half long,
with a heavily moulded barrel mounted on a block of wood that ran on
four wheels; a product of the local machine shop, designed for the
purpose of being indestructible rather than for show.

Tim Reardon, smudgy-faced, but wearing an expression of deep
satisfaction, paused for a moment before a gate where stood a boy
somewhat younger than himself, who eyed the cannon admiringly.

"Hello, Willie," said Tim. "Comin' out, ain't yer?"

The boy shook his head, disconsolately.

"What's the matter?"

"Can't," said the boy. "Father won't let me."

Tim looked at him pityingly.

"Won't let you come out the night before the Fourth!" he exclaimed.
"Gee! I'd like to see anybody stop me. What's he 'fraid of?"

"He isn't afraid," replied the boy. "He's mad because they make so much
noise he can't sleep. He says they haven't any right to fire off guns
and things on the Fourth."

"Hm!" sniffed Tim. "Henry Burns says you have, and I guess he knows.
He's read all about it. He says there was a man named Adams who was a
president once, and he said everybody ought to make all the noise they
could; get out and fire guns, and blow horns, and beat on pans and yell
like everything, and build bonfires and fire off firecrackers."

"Did he?" said the boy. "And did he say anything about getting out the
night before?"

"Well, I dunno about that," answered Tim Reardon; "but of course the
patriotic