evil force that raided on the club the day of the grand march! It was Tim
Tyler, one of the hardest boys in Seamont, aged fifteen. Back of him was a
smaller boy, but a competitor in vice, Bobby Landers. How many others
might soon show themselves, no one could say, but the down-townies were
clannish and loved to turn out in crowds, and to the club the probability
appeared to be, that others would speedily rise up and charge along the
railroad track. Sid Waters, who had urged freemen to stand for their
rights, was now turning on his heel. He headed for a fence that separated
the railroad lot from the woods. It was evident that the first club race
would be, not on the water, but the land, and that Sid Waters's legs would
take an unexpected but active part in it. Other legs followed his, and
this race of freemen for their rights became a general one. At first, it
was not positively certain who would reach the fence first and so beat in
the race, but Sid's alacrity in starting was so great that he gained the
prize, or would have taken it, had any been offered. The others though
made very good time, and showed what freemen could do when hard pushed by
their oppressors. Charlie, alas! was too far from shore to share in their
good fortune, and, besides, Tim Tyler was on hand to object to any such
movement.

"Don't be in too much of a hurry to leave," he said provokingly to
Charlie, and seizing a pole left by one of the retreating club, pushed off
the raft that Charlie had shoved near the shore.

"Leave me alone," growled Charlie.

"I have, haven't I? I don't see how any one could be much more aloner than
you are off there."

Charlie looked like a jar of pickles, a keg of gunpowder, and a small