Perhaps you never heard about the Band; how we found a cave at Peck's Falls, part way up the mountain, and had all kinds of fun playing there and on Bob's Hill. There are eight of us in all. Skinny is captain. His folks call him Gabriel but we don't like that name. Skinny is a good name for him, he is so fat. He can run though, even if he is heavy, and you would think that he could fight some if you had seen him once, when the Gingham Ground Gang got after us. Benny Wade is the littlest fellow in the bunch but he feels just as big as anybody and sometimes that is almost as good as being big. Besides these there are Harry, Wallie, Chuck, Bill Wilson, Hank Bates,--Oh, yes, I most forgot,--and myself. My name is John Alexander Smith. The boys call me Pedro, and I have been secretary ever since Tom Chapin found the cave. It's up to me to write the doings of the Band and the minutes of the meetings. Tom Chapin was our first captain and he meets with us now, whenever he is in town. The village where we live is in a long, narrow valley, with little Hoosac River flowing north through the center of it, until it gets beyond the mountain range. Then it turns west and hurries down into the Hudson. Bob's Hill stands just west of the village and looks down upon the highest steeples. Over the brow of the hill and a little south are Plunkett's woods. West, straight back, a mile or more, begins the timbered slope of old Greylock, which, everybody knows, is the highest mountain in Massachusetts. And in the edge of the first woods, a little back from the road, is the prettiest place you ever sat eyes upon. Grown-up folks call it "the glen," but we boys just say "Peck's Falls." I don't know why, only there is a waterfall there, which begins in a brook, somewhere up on the mountainside, and plays and tumbles along, until finally it pours down from a high cliff into a pool a hundred feet below; then dashes off to join Hoosac River. A queer-shaped rock, with a high back and narrow ledge, which we call the "pulpit," bridges the ravine in front of the falls, fifty feet and maybe more, above the rushing water. A little farther down the ravine, at the edge of the stream, is another rock. It will do no harm now to say that our cave is under that rock, because folks have found out about it, although not many know about there being two entrances. All these things that I have told about belong to us boys. Mr. Plunkett thinks that he owns Plunkett's woods and Bob's Hill. I mean the very top of it. And somebody has been cutting trees off from Greylock, until it looks like a picked chicken in spots. But we call them all ours because we have more fun with them than anybody else does, and it seems to us that things belong to those who get the most out of them. We knew from the way Skinny was acting that he had something on his mind, so we sat down and waited for him to tell us.