“Not on your life,” was the reply. “I ain’t no sugar lump. A drop o’ water won’t hurt me. I’m goin’ to stay by till we land this stone cupid on somebody’s porch.” “Whose porch?” asked Little Dusty. “Well, I’ll s-s-say, Jim Perry’s. That’s only two or three blocks away, and we ain’t done nothin’ for J-J-Jim yet to-night.” “That’s right! We mustn’t forget Jim.” Evidently the noise of Slicker’s misadventure had aroused no one. Absolute silence still reigned in and about the Barriscale mansion. The boys got to their feet, again lifted the marble figure, and two of them bore it silently to the street and turned up the walk. They passed the electric light at the corner in safety, went one more block, and then turned into a side street. It was very dark here. From two or three upper windows there were gleams of faint light, otherwise the darkness was impenetrable. Jim Perry lived midway of this block, but to locate his house in this kind of a night was next to impossible. It was not until one of the members of the group, known as Billy, whose home was just across the street, had gone back to the corner and counted the houses, that the boys felt at all sure of their exact location. But, having satisfied themselves that their selection of a resting-place for the “stone cupid” was fully justified, they lost no time in carrying their burden up the steps and depositing it on the Perry porch, much to the relief of Hal, who had been in constant fear lest some accident should happen to it. And, having thus performed their duties and finished their night’s adventures, the Hallowe’en marauders decided to disband and seek their respective homes. “Remember,” warned Slicker, “mum’s the word. No fellow’s got a right to squeal if they skin him alive.” “I won’t peach,” replied one. “Nor I,” “Nor I,” added others. But Hal said: “I’ll tell on myself if I want to, but wild horses won’t drag out of me anything about the rest of you.” “All right! That’s fair!” So, by ones and twos, they slipped away into the thick mist, leaving the marble figure of a kneeling boy reposing quietly on Jim Perry’s front porch, and peering silently into a crack in the floor, as he had peered for many years at his own image mirrored in the water of the fountain on the Barriscale lawn. A half hour later another group of boys, marching up the main residence street of the city, reached the mansion of Benjamin Barriscale. And in this group was Benjamin Barriscale, Jr. They were returning from an evening of Hallowe’en adventures not dissimilar to the adventures of the company that had preceded them. At the entrance to the grounds they stopped to say good-night to Ben, for they too had finished their evening of sport and were on their way home.