n
we have say we going make _le charivari_, do you want that we hall tell
a lie? My faith! 'sfools!"

"But you can shivaree somebody else," said desperate little White.

"_Oui_" cried Bienvenu, "_et chahivahi_ Jean-ah Poquelin tomo'w!"

"Let us go to Madame Schneider!" cried two or three, and amid huzzas and
confused cries, among which was heard a stentorian Celtic call for
drinks, the crowd again began to move.

"_Cent piastres pour l'hopital de charite_!"

"Hurrah!"

"One hongred dolla' for Charity Hospital!"

"Hurrah!"

"Whang!" went a tin pan, the crowd yelled, and Pandemonium gaped again.
They were off at a right angle.

Nodding, Mrs. White looked at the mantle-clock.

"Well, if it isn't away after midnight."

The hideous noise down street was passing beyond earshot. She raised a
sash and listened. For a moment there was silence. Some one came to the
door.

"Is that you, White?"

"Yes." He entered. "I succeeded, Patty."

"Did you?" said Patty, joyfully.

"Yes. They've gone down to shivaree the old Dutchwoman who married her
step-daughter's sweetheart. They say she has got to pay a hundred
dollars to the hospital before they stop."

The couple retired, and Mrs. White slumbered. She was awakened by her
husband snapping the lid of his watch.

"What time?" she asked.

"Half-past three. Patty, I haven't slept a wink. Those fellows are out
yet. Don't you hear them?"

"Why, White, they're coming this way!"

"I know they are," said White, sliding out of bed and drawing on his
clothes, "and they're coming fast. You'd better go away from that
window, Patty. My! what a clatter!"

"Here they are," said Mrs. White, but her husband was gone. Two or three
hundred men and boys pass the place at a rapid walk straight down the
broad, new street, toward the hated house of ghosts. The din was
terrific. She saw little White at the head of the rabble brandishing his
arms and trying in vain to make himself heard; but they only shook their
heads laughing and hooting the louder, and so passed, bearing him on
before them.

Swiftly they pass out from among the houses, away from the dim oil lamps
of the street, out into the broad starlit commons, and enter the willowy
jungles of the haunted ground. Some hearts fail and their owners lag
behind and turn back, suddenly remembering how near morning it is. But
the most part push on, tearing the air with their clamor.

Down ahead of them in the long, thicket-darkened