, and it was risky.

After each had said his say, we put it to the vote, and it was
carried three to one that the fire take place. We set fire to a lot
of pieces of broken coffins at two separate places alongside a pile
of boxes or trunks of bones. Then we made all haste to get aboard our
craft, up sail and away. We had hardly reached the bridge and crossed
the harbor from the bottom of Johnson Street to the Indian reserve,
when the fire could be seen plainly as having been a success from our
point of view--so much so that we made greater haste to get to the
boathouse. We lost no time in settling up for the boat hire, and
making the best of our legs in getting home. The paper next morning
was early sought for, and with fear and trembling, too. There was
good reason for fear, for the paper gave an account of the affair.
The Indians had made complaint to the police, and they were searching
for the culprits. I was afraid to go out at all, much less to go to
school, and every knock at the door made me start. I at last
confessed to my parents my share in the business, and it was decided
that I must "lay low" for a few days, and lucky it was for me I did
not get what I deserved, a good whipping, as my mother said. The
quartette of boys kept their counsel, and we escaped a visit from the
police.

Some time later we visited the island to see the result of the fire,
and found that all traces of the burying-ground had vanished, the
surface of the island being swept clean, with not a trace of boxes,
bones or trees, and it has remained so till this day.

In the absence of Chinese market gardens, and the kitchen garden now
attached to most homesteads, we had to go to a distance for our
vegetables. It took us the best part of a day to go to Hillside Farm
for a sack of assorted vegetables. Several boys would start together
for this trip into the country. It is astonishing how the absence
of streets or roads lengthens this distance, and so it was then. We
started after breakfast and took our lunch, going across country by
trail, each with a sack, which was filled by old Willie Pottinger,
the gardener, for a shilling. Very good and fresh they were, and very
cheap this was considered. With our loads we started for home, and
the further we got from Hillside the heavier the vegetables got, and
therefore the more stoppages we made to rest. At last Port and
Blanchard Streets were in sight, and we were home again, tired out
and hungry as