"Yes, but let's put 'em back, and hurry off now, for fear somebody
should come and catch us. I'm afraid those folks in the drawing-room may
go, and our mothers come up to their work again."

"So they might, to be sure," said Dick, rolling up the bundle and
bestowing it in its former resting place. "We must be on the watch, Wal,
or we'll miss our chance; they'll be sending them out o' this about as
soon as they're finished."

"Yes. Who do you think they're for?"

(The boys scorned the rules of English grammar, and refused to be
fettered by them. Was not theirs a land of free speech--for the
aristocratic class to which they undoubtedly belonged?)

"Cal and Art, of course."

"Don't you believe it, Art cares for nothing but his books and
Silverheels. Wasn't that a jolly birthday present, Dick? I wish Travilla
and Cousin Elsie would remember ours the same way."

"Reckon I do. There, everything's just as we found it. Now let's
skedaddle."




Chapter Eighth.

"A horrid spectre rises to my sight,