Saturday night came, and a dozen of the brightest boys of Westville gathered in solemn conclave around a lantern to see if some way could not be devised of getting even with Mrs. Grumpy and the squire. As the barn belonged to his father, Charlie Thompson was chosen chairman, and he promptly opened the meeting as follows:— "Now, fellows, we can’t stand this sort of thing any longer. Something must be done, if we perish in the attempt. The honour of the country demands" (Charlie, whose memory was particularly good, had not yet forgotten the last 4th of July oration) "that measures should be taken to show to our oppressors that we are not slaves and cowards. The meeting is now open, and the chair will be pleased to receive suggestions." And amid a vigorous round of boot-heel applause Charlie sat down, feeling that he had proved himself quite equal to the occasion. For a few moments there was a dead pause, all having some sort of a scheme, more or less hazy, in their heads, but none wishing to speak first. At last little Tommy Short, the youngest in the group, piped out,— "Let’s tar and feather ’em. Father has lots of tar in his back shop, and I know where there’s a big pot." A roar of laughter greeted this suggestion, the impracticability of which was exceeded only by its absurdity, could it have been carried out. Dame Grundy and Squire Hardgrit would certainly have made a most mirth-provoking sight, done up in suits of tar and feathers. The speech served its purpose, however, in loosening the other tongues, and plans and projects now poured in thick and fast. "S’pose we burn their barns down," said Dick Wilding, who was a great reader of cheap-novel literature. But all the rest shouted "No" at once. "What do you say to ham-stringing their horses?" asked Bob Henderson, in rather a dubious tone, as if he had not much confidence in the wisdom of his scheme, which, in fact, just occurred to him because he had read that that was the way the Arabs treat their enemies’ horses when they get the chance. "Stuff and nonsense!" cried the chairman. "That’s not the sort of thing we mean at all. We’re not hankering after the penitentiary." "Give us your plan, then, Mr. Chairman," said Dick Wilding. "Well, fellows, I’ll tell you what I was thinking of. Let us hook the old lady’s gobblers, and hide them until she thinks they’re gone for good. You know what a heap she thinks of them, and it will worry her awfully to lose them." "Capital! capital!" shouted the rest of the boys "The very thing!" "But where shall we hide them?" asked Sam Lawson. "It’ll have to be a pretty safe place, for Mrs. Grumpy will turn the town upside down hunting for her precious turkeys, you may be sure." While all this talk was going on, Harold Kent had been sitting on an upturned box which served him as a chair, without opening his mouth. Now, however, taking advantage of the pause which followed Sam’s question, he said quietly,—