which was always placed beside his
coffee-cup at breakfast.

I felt that my hair was preparing to stand on end.

"Quite a time," continued my grandfather. "Some boys broke into Ezra
Wingate's barn and carried off the old stagecoach. The young rascals! I
do believe they'd burn up the whole town if they had their way."

With this he resumed the paper. After a long silence he exclaimed,
"Hullo!" upon which I nearly fell off the chair.

"'Miscreants unknown,'" read my grandfather, following the paragraph
with his forefinger; "'escaped from the bridewell, leaving no clew to
their identity, except the letter H, cut on one of the benches.' 'Five
dollars reward offered for the apprehension of the perpetrators.' Sho! I
hope Wingate will catch them."

I don't see how I continued to live, for on hearing this the breath went
entirely out of my body. I beat a retreat from the room as soon as I
could, and flew to the stable with a misty intention of mounting Gypsy
and escaping from the place. I was pondering what steps to take, when
Jack Harris and Charley Marden entered the yard.

"I say," said Harris, as blithe as a lark, "has old Wingate been here?"

"Been here?" I cried, "I should hope not!"

"The whole thing's out, you know," said Harris, pulling Gypsy's forelock
over her eyes and blowing playfully into her nostrils.

"You don't mean it!" I gasped.

"Yes, I do, and we are to pay Wingate three dollars apiece. He'll make
rather a good spec out of it."

"But how did he discover that we were the--the miscreants?" I asked,
quoting mechanically from the Rivermouth Bamacle.

"Why, he saw us take the old ark, confound him! He's been trying to sell
it any time these ten years. Now he has sold it to us. When he found
that we had slipped out of the Meat Market, he went right off and wrote
the advertisement offering five dollars reward; though he knew well
enough who had taken the coach, for he came round to my father's
house before the paper was printed to talk the matter over. Wasn't the
governor mad, though! But it's all settled, I tell you. We're to pay
Wingate fifteen dollars for the old go-cart, which he wanted to sell
the other day for seventy-five cents, and couldn't. It's a downright
swindle. But the funny part of it is to come."

"O, there's a funny part to it, is there?" I remarked bitterly.

"Yes. The moment Bill Conway saw the advertisement, he knew it was
Harry Blake who cut that letter H on the bench; so off