chard. "Didn't you agree to the whole
thing? Didn't you go in for paying off Old Batterbones? Didn't you come
down here to burn the barn with me?"

"I did, but I didn't want to come."

"What did you come for, then?"

"Because I agreed to come."

"You're not the fellow I took you to be. You joined me in the affair,
and then, at the last moment, you begin to whine like a sick monkey."

"I'm not so far gone that I can burn a man's barn without feeling it."

"You haven't got the pluck of a mosquito."

"You've said about enough on that tack, Dick Grant," replied Sandy, who
did not relish the reflections cast upon his courage.

"I shall say what I think best."

"No, you won't! I'm sorry for what I've done, and I'm willing to own
it; but I won't take any sauce from you or any other fellow."

"You can talk big enough," sneered Richard.

"Shut up, or I'll bat you over the head."

"Humph!"

"Just put me ashore, Dick Grant, and you and I will part company."

"I'm willing."

Both boys felt that enough had been said, and the conversation was
discontinued by mutual consent. Richard, notwithstanding his bravado,
was no better satisfied with himself than Sandy. Though he had spoken
of "doing the job over again," he had not the slightest idea of
repeating the experiment. The shock which the discovery of the two men
had given him, was too much even for his strong nerves; and though he
was not willing to confess it, he was sorry for what he had done. The
terror of being found out had damped the spirit of revenge. The
excitement of the affair had passed away, and like his companion in
wickedness, visions of public trial, of the house of correction, or the
state prison, began to flit before him.

He was not sorry that the barn had been saved from destruction; and the
only pleasant reflection in connection with the whole transaction was,
that he had insisted upon saving the horses and the oxen. It was with
Richard as it is with all who commit crimes. They are led on by the
spirit of revenge, or some other strong motive. There is a kind of
excitement which urges them on till the wicked deed is committed. Then
the criminal excitement subsides; the hour of reflection comes,
burdened also with the fear of discovery. To some extent, crime is its
own punishment; at least, it is so with those who have not become
hardened in iniquity.

Richard brought the Greyhound up to the point where he had taken Sandy
on board. He did not l