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Billy grinned sheepishly. "We should'a killed 'em, I s'pose," he said, "but we took 'em down to the marsh an' turned 'em loose there. Maurice said that anythin' that had done the good work them weasels had, deserved life, an' I thought so too." "We got——" commenced Maurice, but Billy pinched his leg for silence. Billy shook his head. "No good, she'd be onto us bigger'n a barn. Tell you what we might do. We might take bad colds an' sorta work on her sympathies.".

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"Good gracious!" cried the mother, in alarm. "That good fer nuthin' boy has gone an' caught the foot an' mouth disease from Kearnie's sheep." The approaching terror had drifted into the shadow again. Suddenly, so near that it fairly seemed to scorch the frowsy top of the sapling to which he was hanging, a weird blue light twisted upward almost in Billy's eyes. At the same moment a tiny hoot-owl, sleeping off its early evening's feed in the cedar close beside the boys, woke up and gave a ghostly cry. It was too much for overstrained nerves to stand. Billy felt Fatty's form quiver and leap even before his agonized howl fell on his ears—a cry which he and Maurice may have echoed, for all he knew. Billy watched the old man move down the path, the wild strains of the Irish tune he was playing falling on his ears long after the player had been swallowed up in the golden haze. Then he too passed on, bay Thomas walking sedately behind. As he rounded a bend he met Maurice Keeler and Jim Scroggie, heads close together and speaking animatedly. Arriving at the lake the boys learned after careful reconnoitering that everything was clear for immediate action. Not a light glimmered from the homes of the fishermen, to show that they were awake and vigilant..