ples, and if they met The Boy alone they
asked him to which of the organizations he himself belonged. If he said
he was a "Rover," they claimed to be "Hounds," and pounded him. If he
declared himself in sympathy with the "Hounds," they hoisted the
"Rovers'" colors, and punched him again. If he disclaimed both
associations, they punched him anyway, on general principles. "The Head
of the Rovers" was subsequently killed, in front of Tom Riley's
liberty-pole in Franklin Street, in a fireman's riot, and "The Chief of
the Hounds," who had a club-foot, became a respectable egg-merchant,
with a stand in Washington Market, near the Root-beer Woman's place of
business, on the south side. The Boy met two of the gang near the
Desbrosses Street Ferry only the other day; but they did not recognize
The Boy.

The only spot where The Boy felt really safe from the interference of
"The Hounds" and "The Rovers" was in St. John's Square, that delightful
oasis in the desert of brick and mortar and cobble-stones which was
known as the Fifth Ward. It was a private enclosure, bounded on the
north by Laight Street, on the south by Beach Street, on the east by
Varick Street, and on the west by Hudson Street; and its site is now
occupied by the great freight-warehouses of the New York Central and
Hudson River Railroad Company.

In the "Fifties," and long before, it was a private park, to which only
the property owners in its immediate neighborhood had access. It
possessed fine old trees, winding gravel-walks, and meadows of grass. In
the centre was a fountain, whereupon, in the proper season, the children
were allowed to skate on both feet, which was a great improvement over
the one-foot gutter-slides outside. The Park was surrounded by a high
iron railing, broken here and there by massive gates, to which The Boy
had a key. But he always climbed over. It was a point of etiquette, in
The Boy's set, to climb over on all occasions, whether the gates were
unlocked or not. And The Boy, many a time, has been known to climb over
a gate, although it stood wide open! He not infrequently tore his
clothes on the sharp spikes by which the gates were surmounted; but that
made no difference to The Boy--until he went home!

The Boy once had a fight in the Park, with Bill Rice, about a certain
lignum-vitae peg-top, of which The Boy was very fond, and which Bill Rice
kicked into the fountain. The Boy got mad, which was wrong and foolish
of The Boy; and The Boy