"We, the undersigned, Harvey Yeatton and Alfred Batchelder, confess that we have been robbing gardens and stealing our neighbors' fruit for four years. We have been caught to-night stealing pears at the old pound. We have been given our choice of going to jail or taking a whipping and promising to steal no more in the future. We choose the whipping and the promise, and we engage to make no complaint and no further trouble about this for any one." The old Squire read it over to them and bade them to take notice of what they were signing. "For if I hear of your stealing fruit again," said he, "I shall get a warrant and have you arrested for what you have done to-night. Here are four witnesses ready to testify against you." Alfred and Harvey put their names to the paper while I held the lantern. "Now give it to 'em, Squire!" said Jim, when the boys had signed. From the first Addison and I had had little idea that the old Squire would whip the boys. It was never easy to induce him to whip even a refractory horse or ox. Now he took the paper, read their names, then folded it and put it into his pocket. "I guess this will hold you straight, boys," he said. "Now you can go home." "What, ain't ye goin' to lick 'em?" Jim exclaimed. "Not this time," said the old gentleman. "Untie them and let them go." Jim and Asa were greatly disappointed. "Let me give 'em jest a few licks," Jim begged, with a longing glance at the whip. "Not this time," the old Squire replied. "If we catch them at this again, I'll see about it. And, boys," he said to them, as Jim and Asa very reluctantly untied the knots of their bonds, "any time you want a pocketful of pears to eat just come and ask me. But mind, don't you steal another pear or plum in this neighborhood!" Addison opened the barn doors, and Alfred and Harvey took themselves off without ceremony. Apparently they kept their promise with us, for we heard of no further losses of fruit in that neighborhood. CHAPTER XXVIII HALSTEAD'S GOBBLER At that time a flock of twenty or thirty turkeys was usually raised at the old farm every fall--fine, great glossy birds. Nearly every farmhouse had its flock; and by October that entire upland county resounded to the plaintive _Yeap-yeap, yop-yop-yop!_ and the noisy _Gobble-gobble-gobble!_ of the stupid yet much-prized "national bird." At present you may drive the whole length of our county and neither hear nor see a turkey. In their young days the old Squire and Judge Fessenden of Portland, later in life Senator Fessenden, had been warm friends; and after the old Squire chose farming for a vocation and went to live at the family homestead, he was wont to send the judge a fine turkey for Thanksgiving--purely as a token of friendship and remembrance. The judge usually acknowledged the gift by sending in return an interesting book, or other souvenir, sometimes a new five-dollar greenback--when he could not think of an appropriate present.