THE ADVENTURES OF A FOURTH.1

BY THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH.

(From "The Story of a Bad Boy.")

[THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH, American poet and novelist, was born in Portsmouth, N.H., November 11, 1836, and during the early part of his career was clerk in a mercantile house. The success of his first contributions to periodicals induced him to adopt literature as a profession, and after a few years' experience as proof reader and "reader" for a publishing firm, he became a frequent contributor to the New York Evening Mirror and Home Journal, conducted Every Saturday in Boston (1870-1874), and was editor of the Atlantic Monthly (1881-1890). "The Story of a Bad Boy," "Marjorie Daw," "The Stillwater Tragedy,” and “From Ponkapog to Pesth” are his principal prose publications. Among his poetical works may be mentioned: " Ballad of Baby Bell," "Flower and Thorn," "Lyrics and Sonnets," "Wyndham Towers," "Judith and Holofernes," and "The Sisters' Tragedy."]

THE sun cast a broad column of quivering gold across the river at the foot of our street, just as I reached the doorstep of the Nutter House. Kitty Collins, with her dress tucked about her so that she looked as if she had on a pair of calico trousers, was washing off the sidewalk.

"Arrah, you bad boy!" cried Kitty, leaning on the mophandle, "the Capen has jist been askin' for you. He's gone up town, now. It's a nate thing you done with my clothesline, and it's me you may thank for gettin' it out of the way before the Capen come down."

The kind creature had hauled in the rope, and my escapade had not been discovered by the family; but I knew very well that the burning of the stagecoach and the arrest of the boys concerned in the mischief were sure to reach my grandfather's ears sooner or later.

"Well, Thomas," said the old gentleman, an hour or so afterwards, beaming upon me benevolently across the breakfast table, "you didn't wait to be called this morning."

"No, sir," I replied, growing very warm, "I took a little run up town to see what was going on.

I didn't say anything about the little run I took home again!

"They had quite a time on the Square last night," remarked

1 Copyright, 1869 and 1877, by Thomas Bailey Aldrich ; 1897, by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Used by permission.

Captain Nutter, looking up from the Rivermouth Barnacle, which was always placed beside his coffee cup at breakfast.

I felt that my hair was preparing to stand on end.

"Quite a time," continued my grandfather. "Some boys broke into Ezra Wingate's barn and carried off the old stagecoach. The young rascals! I do believe they'd burn up the whole town if they had their way."

With this he resumed the paper. After a long silence he exclaimed," Halloo!"-upon which I nearly fell off the chair.

"Miscreants unknown,'" read my grandfather, following the paragraph with his forefinger; "escaped from the bridewell, leaving no clue to their identity, except the letter H, cut on one of the benches.' 'Five dollars reward offered for the apprehension of the perpetrators.' Sho! I hope Wingate will catch them."

I don't see how I continued to live, for on hearing this the breath went entirely out of my body. I beat a retreat from the room as soon as I could, and flew to the stable with a misty intention of mounting Gypsy and escaping from the place. I was pondering what steps to take, when Jack Harris and Charley Marden entered the yard.

"I say," said Harris, as blithe as a lark, "has old Wingate been here?"

"Been here?" I cried, "I should hope not!"

"The whole thing's out, you know," said Harris, pulling Gypsy's forelock over her eyes and blowing playfully into her

nostrils.

"You don't mean it!" I gasped.

"Yes, I do, and we are to pay Wingate three dollars apiece. He'll make rather a good spec out of it."

the mis

"But how did he discover that we were the creants?" I asked, quoting mechanically from the Rivermouth Barnacle.

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him! He's Now he has

Why, he saw us take the old ark, confound been trying to sell it any time these ten years. sold it to us. When he found that we had slipped out of the Meat Market, he went right off and wrote the advertisement offering five dollars reward, though he knew well enough who had taken the coach, for he came round to my father's house before the paper was printed to talk the matter over. Wasn't the governor mad, though! But it's all settled, I tell you. We're to pay Wingate fifteen dollars for the old gocart, which

he wanted to sell the other day for seventy-five cents, and couldn't. It's a downright swindle. But the funny part of it

is to come."

"O, there's a funny part to it, is there?" I remarked bitterly.

"Yes. The moment Bill Conway saw the advertisement, he knew it was Harry Blake who cut that letter H on the bench; so off he rushes up to Wingate-kind of him, wasn't it?and claims the reward. Too late, young man,' says old Wingate, the culprits has been discovered.' You see Slyboots hadn't any intention of paying that five dollars."

Jack Harris' statement lifted a weight from my bosom. The article in the Rivermouth Barnacle had placed the affair before me in a new light. I had thoughtlessly committed a grave offense. Though the property in question was valueless, we were clearly wrong in destroying it. At the same time Mr. Wingate had tacitly sanctioned the act by not preventing it when he might easily have done so. He had allowed his property to be destroyed in order that he might realize a large profit.

Without waiting to hear more, I went straight to Captain Nutter, and, laying my remaining three dollars on his knee, confessed my share in the previous night's transaction.

The Captain heard me through in profound silence, pocketed the bank notes, and walked off without speaking a word. He had punished me in his own whimsical fashion at the breakfast table, for, at the very moment he was harrowing up my soul by reading the extracts from the Rivermouth Barnacle, he not only knew all about the bonfire, but had paid Ezra Wingate his three dollars. Such was the duplicity of that aged impostor!

I think Captain Nutter was justified in retaining my pocket money, as additional punishment, though the possession of it later in the day would have got me out of a difficult position, as the reader will see further on.

I returned with a light heart and a large piece of punk to my friends in the stable yard, where we celebrated the termination of our trouble by setting off two packs of firecrackers in an empty wine cask. They made a prodigious racket, but failed somehow to fully express my feelings. The little brass pistol in my bedroom suddenly occurred to me. It had been loaded I don't know how many months, long before I left New