“There isn’t much to tell,” he began. “The Ogden County boys have stolen our cannon--old ‘Ticonderoga’ that belongs to Hennepin County, that we have fired off every Fourth of July, or our folks have, ever since there was a Fourth of July. It has been stolen and carried across the county line, and in less than four hours they will be banging it in our faces from the top of Horncliffe. And we’ve got to get that gun between this and midnight.” “How are we going to do it?” asked Seneca Goodyear. “That is what we have got to find out,” said Ethan. “Why don’t the men do something about it?” asked a conservative boy. “I should think it ought to be settled by law; the gun was given to the county by Eth’s grandfather, and it is county property the same as everything else on the court-house grounds.” “Yes, it is county property,” said Seneca Goodyear. “And that is where the point lies. I’ve heard father talk about it. It is some kind of claim they set up on account of the new boundary line that has sliced off miles and miles of our county, and now they have got the ground they want everything that ever stood on the ground--their proportion of county property they call it, and they have begun by helping themselves to that gun. But there’s no right in their claim.” “Of course there’s not!” said one indignantly. “Ogden County is the meanest lot that live on top of the State of Vermont anyway!” said another. “Well, the Ogden boys were smart enough to steal that gun,” said Ethan Allen, “and if Hennepin boys are any smarter we’d better show our stuff by getting it away from them.” “I don’t take it to be any question of smartness,” answered the conservative boy. “It is quite as smart to keep out of a hornet’s nest as it is to get into it, and then fight out stung half to death. The question is, what are our chances for doing it? I’m not going on a fool’s errand. To begin with, who took the gun? Where did they take it to? Where is it now? And how do you know anything about it, anyway?” “We have got all that straight enough, and here is the boy that will speak for himself. Come up here, Eph,” said Allen. Thus conjured, a boy arose from a dark corner and with a quick cat-like motion came to the front. He looked to be an artless little fellow of ten years, with his quiet eyes and his limp white locks hanging about his small face. But in truth he was fourteen years old, and the discipline of his life had made him shrewd and courageous. He showed very thin and imp-like as the ray of the lantern fell upon him. It seemed as if that sliver of light would go through him like a bayonet and come out on the other side. There was a murmur of voices. “Oh, him!” “Eph Stearns--much he knows about it.” “Dodge down, you little white top, nobody wants to hear you!” But burly Ethan Allen shouldered up to the little fellow. “Go ahead, Eph,” he said, “tell it to ’em just as you told it to me. Don’t be scared.”