y started at
about six in the morning, marching through the streets until nine;--by
which time the endurance of a youth who had been out all night usually
came to an end.

Now, as the hour of three was passed, certain eager and impatient
aspirants for first place in the line began to make their appearance on
horseback in the streets of Benton, clattering about on steeds that had
never before known a saddle; weird figures, masked uncouthly in
pasteboard representations of Indians, animals and what-not, and clad in
every sort of costume, from rags to ancient uniforms--a noisy,
tatterdemalion band, blowing horns and discharging firearms.

There was Tim Reardon, mounted on an aged truck horse, that drooped its
head and ambled with half-closed eyes, as though it might at any moment
fall off to sleep again. Sticking like a monkey to its bare back was
Tim, his face hidden behind a monstrous mask, his head surmounted by a
battered silk hat, extracted from a convenient refuse heap; a fish-horn
slung about his neck by a string.

There was Henry Burns, with face blackened and a huge wooden tomahawk at
his belt; he, likewise, astride, on one of Mr. Harris's work horses. A
more mettlesome steed upheld Jack Harvey, but not at all willingly,
since it had an uncertain way of backing without warning into fences and
trees, to the detriment of its rider's shins. The firing of a huge
horse-pistol by Harvey seemed to aggravate rather than soothe the
animal's feelings.

The Warren brothers had contrived a sort of float, consisting of an
express wagon, gorgeously covered with coloured cloths, even interwoven
in the spokes of the wheels, and wound around the body of the horse that
drew it. A wash-boiler, its legitimate usefulness long over, set up in
the wagon, was beaten on by Arthur and Joe Warren, while their elder
brother drove.

Tom Harris, Bob White and a scattering of other grotesque horsemen came
along presently.

"Where'll we go?" queried Harvey, as the squadron paused to rest after a
preliminary round of some of the streets.

"Past Perkins's house again," suggested young Joe Warren.

"No, we've been by there twice already," answered Henry Burns. "He won't
like Fourth of July if we give him too much of it."

Young Joe grinned behind his mask.

"I'll tell you," he said, excitedly. "We've got time to do it, too,
before the parade begins--Witham's! Bet he's sound asleep--what do you
say?"

"Come on," cried Henry Burns. "Wi