Even then we knew that the adventure could end in only one fashion. We should be chased, hunted down, shot, lassoed, scalped, and finally burned at the stake, during an imposing war-dance; for these cowboys were fully enamored of Indian methods of warfare when turned against the Indians themselves. We were to belong to a dangerous tribe, recently discovered by Peter Bailey, and called _Sigh-ux_. We agreed to start on our barbaric career from the stable. From there to the street corner we should have full license to pillage and destroy. In order to give the avenging cowboys due provocation, we were to commit certain outrages on the way. These might include burning down the Universalist Church on the corner and ringing the door-bell at Miss Whipple's private school. Once we had turned into Oak Street, where I lived, we would have to look to our safety. The cowboys would be on our track. So off we went. In a few moments, ignited by shots from our revolvers, the Universalist Church was wrapped in flames. We rang Miss Whipple's door-bell, and, as an additional atrocity, threatened her cat with tomahawks. Then we turned up Oak Street, and knew in a moment, by the yells that arose, that the cowboys had burst out of their encampment and were after us. I suppose Ed shared my feelings of despair as we ran up the street. The youngest cowboy was two years older than either of us; they were all swifter runners, and they outnumbered us by three. In a few moments it would all be over. Our brief season of bloodshed and destruction was past, and it now only remained for us to be slaughtered at the cowboys' will. It was so tiresome! Our defeats at Bunker Hill, at Gettysburg, at Waterloo, and on countless other stricken fields recurred to us as we panted along. If we could only turn the tables in some way! Instinctively we hurried toward the side yard of my house, climbed the fence, and tumbled over. We landed on the blue box that held the garden hose. The cowboys were approaching rapidly, with loud cries and much banging of revolvers. Already Horace Winslow was shouting that he had shot me five times, and that I must fall dead instantly. In a moment, we knew, they would be over the fence after us. Moved by the same thought, we opened the blue box. The hose was connected with the tap at the side of the house. Ed turned the tap, while I, standing on the edge of the box and looking over the fence into the street, swept the road with a stream of cold water. Horace stopped abruptly in his rush toward the fence, and Joe Carter, who had halted about thirty feet away to pour a volley of bullets after us, executed a swift movement to the rear. The others paused where they were. Tomahawks, scalping-knives, spears, and revolvers--none of these would have checked the bold cowboys for a moment; but this stream of water was another matter.