man of peace, but between you and me"--the old fellow sank his voice
to a whisper--"I've got stowed away, unbeknown to him, four tidy
little guns; real beauties they are, if small. You shall help me to
use 'em on the Mounseers, if they won't leave us alone."

To a lad of George Fairburn's stamp such a prospect was glorious.
"I'm quite ready to go, mother," he announced, "on the brig's very next
trip." Mother and father made no reply, but the former turned away to
hide her tears. The lad must go and begin his new life. For a few days
all was bustle and preparation, George in the seventh heaven of
delight. The long voyage in a grimy and uncomfortable collier had no
terrors for him; he was too much accustomed to coal dust for that. And
was there not a chance that before the Thames was reached he might see
a brush with a Frenchman?

The last evening at home for him came, and he took a stroll to get a
final look at the familiar surroundings. It was now the very heart of
summer, the weather glorious: could any boy be sad at such a time,
even though there was before him the parting from home, from an
indulgent and much-loved mother, from a just and honourable as well as
affectionate father? George whistled and sang as he wandered across
the fields, careless whither his footsteps led him.

As fate would have it, he was proceeding generally in the direction of
Mr. Blackett's great house, Binfield Towers, a mansion almost entirely
hidden by thick woods from the public gaze. George knew these woods
well, with their acres of bluebells and their breadths of primroses in
the Spring, and their wealth of dogroses in June. He turned into the
footpath that crossed the plantations, and presently found himself
gazing at the mansion a hundred yards away. The place was almost new,
the style that was known in later days as Queen Anne's. But George
knew nothing of architectural styles, and was idly counting the
multitude of windows when he was startled by a cracked old voice
calling to him from the other side of the fence that separated the
wood from the grassplots in front of the house.

"For God's sake, come along and help, my good lad," cried an old man
in livery, beckoning him frantically.

"What's the matter?" George asked quickly.

"The house is on fire," was the reply, "and there's nobody at home but
the women folk, except old Reuben, and he's just about as much use as
me, and that's none at all, I reckon."

"Where's Mr. Blacke