"Can't you tell by the feathers?" said Ned. "What feathers?" "Jail-bird feathers. I've been locked up in jail all night." Of course we asked him how that came about, and Ned told us the story of his captivity, which the reader already knows. "But how did you get out?" said Phaeton. "Why, when 'Squire Moore came to the office and opened the court, I was brought out the first one. And when I told him my story and whose boy I was, he said of course I was; he'd known Father too many years not to be able to tell one of his chickens as soon as it peeped. He advised me not to meddle any more with burglar things, and then told me to go home. 'Squire Moore's the 'squire for my money! But as for that stupid policeman, I'll sue him for false imprisonment, if Aunt Mercy will let me have the funds to pay a lawyer." "Aunt Mercy's pretty liberal with you," said Phaeton, "but you may be sure she'll never give you any such amount as that." When Ned heard of our adventures at the fire, he fairly groaned. "It would be just like my luck," said he, "if there shouldn't be another good fire in this town for a year." The lost brother being found, Phaeton said the next thing to be done was to take home the bird he had rescued. I went with him on this errand. As we approached the house, Phaeton carrying the cage, a scene of desolation met our eyes. Nearly everything it contained had been brought out-of-doors, and had sustained more or less injury. The house itself, with all the windows and doors smashed out, the front burned to charcoal, the side so far wrenched apart from the rest of the frame that it could not be replaced, and the whole browned with smoke and drenched with water, was a melancholy wreck. Mr. Glidden and his son John stood in the yard looking at it, and their countenances, on the whole, were rather sorrowful. "Good-morning, Mr. Glidden," said Phaeton. "Good-morning, sir." "I should like to see Miss Glidden," said Phaeton. "She is at her aunt's, over on West street," said Mr. Glidden. Phaeton seemed a little disappointed. "I've brought home her bird," said he. "I carried it out when the house was on fire, and took it up to our house for safety." "My sister will be very much obliged to you," said John Glidden. "I'll take charge of it." Phaeton intimated his entire willingness to run over to West street with the bird at once, saying that he knew the house where she was staying perfectly well; but John said he wouldn't trouble him to do that, and took the cage, which Phaeton gave up with some appearance of reluctance. "I don't believe the smell of smoke will be good for that bird," said Phaeton, as we walked away. "Canaries are very tender things. He'd better have let me carry it right over to his sister." "Yes," said I, "and relieve her anxiety of mind about it. But I suppose he and his father are thinking of nothing but the house."