anions were preparing for a tremendous
adventure.

After escaping from his room Dick had hunted up Jacker Mack, Phil Doon,
and Billy Peterson. He came upon the two former at a propitious time,
when both were slowly recovering from the physical effects of an 'awful
doing' administered by their respective fathers at the instigation of the
School Committee; when they were still filled with bitterness towards all
mankind, and satisfied that life was hollow and vain, and there was no
happiness or peace for a well meaning small boy on this side of the
grave. Peterson had succeeded in avoiding the head of his house so far,
but was filled with anxiety. Dick easily persuaded all three to accompany
him to the mine, there to discuss the situation and plot a fitting
revenge.

His proposal was that they should all turn bushrangers on the spot, form
a band to ravage and lay waste the country, and visit upon society the
just consequences of its rashness and folly in tyrannising over its boys,
misunderstanding them, and misconstruing their highest and noblest
intentions.

'When anyone shakes our goats, ain't we a right to demand 'em back at the
point o' the sword?' asked Dick indignantly.

The boys were unanimous. They had such a right--nay, it was a bounden
duty.

'Very well, then, what'd they wanter lick us fer?' continued Dick. 'Won't
they be sorry when they hear about us turnin' bushrangers, that's all!

'D'ye really think they will, though?' asked Jacker McKnight dubiously.
He had found his parents very unromantic people, who took a severely
commonplace view of things, and retained unquestioning faith in the strap
as a means of elevating the youthful idea.

'Why, o' course!' cried Dick. 'When our mothers read in the papers 'bout
the lives we're leadin', it'll make 'em cry all night 'cause o' the way
we've been treated; an' you coves' fathers'll hear tell o' yer great
adventures, an' they'll know what sort o' chaps they knocked about an'
abused, an' they'll respect you an' wish you was back home so's they
could make up for the fatal past.'

Jacker looked doubtful still; he could not imagine his parents in that
character; but Peterson was delighted with the prospect, and Phil Doon,
whose mother was a large, stout woman, who spent half her day in bed
reading sentimental stories, was quite impressed, and enlisted on the
spot.

'You'll be my lieutenant, you know, Jacker,' said Dick; 'an' we'll call
you Fork Lightnin'.'

'