eyes were now turned in a new direction--in that whither the muzzle
of the cannon was pointed.

The grounds of the Harrington mansion were the scene of a vivid
commotion. The porch lights had been abruptly turned on, and they
flooded the lawn in front with radiance.

Bart gasped, thrilled, and experienced a strange qualm of dismay. He
discerned in a flash that something heretofore always prominently
present on the Harrington landscape was not now in evidence.

The wealthy colonel was given to "grandstand plays," and one of them had
been the placing of a bronze pedestal and statue at the side of the
driveway.

It bore the inscription "1812," and according to the colonel, portrayed
a military man life-size, epaulettes, sword, uniform and all--his
maternal grandfather as he had appeared in the battle scene where he had
lost a limb.

Now, in effigy, the valiant warrior was prostrate. The colonel's
servants were rushing to the spot where the statue had tumbled over on
the velvety sward.

"See here!"--cried Bart stormingly, turning on Dale Wacker.

"Loaded," significantly observed the latter with a diabolical grin.

A rush of keen realization made Bart shiver. He recognized what the
foolhardy escapade might have cost had that whirling cannon ball met a
human, instead of an inanimate, target.

As it was, he easily calculated the indignation and resentment of the
haughty village magnate who was given to outbursts of wrath which
carried all before him.

"You've spoiled my Fourth," began Bart in a tumult. "I'll spoil your--"

"Cut for it, fellows! they're coming for us!"

"They" were the village officers. Bart had made a jump towards Dale
Wacker, but the latter had faded into the vortex of pell-mell fugitives
rushing away downhill to hiding.

Bart put after them, trying to single out the author of the scurvy joke
that he knew had serious trouble at the end of it.

"Hold on!" gasped a breathless voice.

"Don't stop me!" shouted Bart, trying to tear loose from a frantic grip.
"Oh, it's you--what do you want?"

He halted to survey the person who detained him--the man who haunted the
freight tracks--to whom he had given money earlier in the evening.

"Come, quick!" the man panted. "Express shed--where your father
is--trouble. Don't wait--not a minute."

"See here," challenged Bart, instantly startled into a new tremor of
anxiety, "what do you mean?"

But the forlorn roustabout could not be coherent. He continu