t up at the top of the pole, the running knot drew tight, and the
pumpkin was fast--with the difficulty presenting itself to whomever
should seek to get it down, that the harder one pulled on the loose end
of rope, the tighter he would draw the knot that held the thing high in
air.

Now it shone forth in the darkness like an evil sort of beacon, its
silly grotesque face grinning like a true hobgoblin of Hallowe'en; for,
having scooped out its pulp and seeds, they had set a candle therein and
lighted it just before they sent it aloft.

"Great, isn't it?" chuckled Young Joe. "Now let's get Henry Burns, and
give Colonel Witham notice." But, strangely enough, Henry Burns did not
respond to their whistles, low at first, then repeated with louder
insistence.

"That's funny," said George Warren. "Wait here a minute and I'll go and
get him." But, to his surprise, when he had approached the corner of
the inn, where he could see Henry Burns, still crouching by the
half-opened blind, the latter youth turned for a moment and motioned
energetically for him to keep away.

"Come on," whispered George Warren, "the thing's up; we want to get
Witham out to see it."

But Henry Burns only turned again and uttered a warning "sh-h-h," then
resumed his place at the window.

George Warren crept up, softly.

It was not surprising that Henry Burns had been interested by what he
saw in the old room of the inn, and by what he at length came to hear.
At first glance, there was Colonel Witham, fat and red-faced, strangely
aroused, evidently labouring under some excitement, addressing himself
vigorously to the old woman who sat close by. His heavy fist came down,
now and then, with a thump on the arm of the chair in which he sat; and
each time this happened poor old Granny Thornton jumped nervously as
though she had been struck a blow. Her thin, peaked face was drawn and
anxious; her eyes were fixed and staring; and she shook as though her
feeble old frame would collapse.

Henry Burns, surprised at this queer pantomine, gazed for a moment,
unable to hear what was being said. Then, the voice of Colonel Witham,
raised to a high pitch, could be clearly distinguished. What he said
surprised Henry Burns still more.

"I tell you I'll have her," cried Colonel Witham; "you've got to give
her to me. What are you afraid of? I won't starve her. Where'll she go
when you die, if you don't? Let her go to the poorhouse, will you?"

And he added, heartl