“I feel as if I'd blown my brains out,” said the clarionet player. “This helmet ought to be spelt with a double _l_,” said Mr. Crocket, as he felt the inside of his head-cover. Unfortunately, we stayed too long and laughed too much. Mr. Crocket discovered us, and had a stern and suspicious look. We retreated promptly, and heard no more from the band until next morning. We met on the street and entered the shop together. “Boys,” said the Judge, “I've got a present for you.” “What's that?” Swipes inquired. “Hellmets,” said the marble-cutter, spelling the word with a double _l_, after he had spoken it--“a pair of 'em; one for each of you. Try 'em on.” I did not dare refuse the honor, and poor Swipes had the same feeling. The helmets were on our heads in a minute. “They're becoming,” said Mr. Crocket. “I like to see 'em on you.” He pulled them down and fastened them with a strong cord. He seemed to enjoy tying the knot beneath our chins, and drew it tight. We began our work, and were presently in the tortures of full atonement. Swipes dropped his tools by-and-by, and tried in vain to raise the helmet a little. “I guess somebody has put some mustard in this helmet,” said he, in a loud voice. “Mustard!” Mr. Crocket exclaimed. “Nobody would be mean enough for that.” “It must be,” Swipes persisted. “I guess you're mistaken,” said Mr. Crocket, calmly, as he resumed his work. “Leastways, if there is mustard in 'em, it's only meant for a joke.” Mr. Boggs, who sat in his corner, began to roar. “It's hard when ye have to invent the joke an' take it, too,” said Mr. Crocket. Swipes seized the cord and put all his strength upon it. “You fool, don't you know it's funny?” said the marble-cutter. Swipes could see no occasion for laughter, and continued to pull the string until it came free. “Look here, boy, if you can't take your own medicine you'll have to take mine,” said Mr. Crocket, sternly. “You may pick up your things an' go; I'm done with you.” Poor Swipes! Things had come to a bad turn for him, and his lips were trembling as he prepared to leave. The thought of him, then, was more to me than my own torture. He was poor and sorely needed his place. I should not have done, or permitted him to do, an act so foolish as that we had been guilty of. So I spoke up for him with odd mendacity: “It was my fault, Mr. Crocket. Swipes is not to blame. I put the mustard into those helmets.” It is past finding out--the things a boy will do when he is put to it. “Oh, you did,” said the marble-cutter, “you little-souled, narrer, contracted cuss!” His eyes seemed to be searching me for other qualities likely to serve his scorn. He added, with a look of sternness: “Boy, you've done a great injury to the cause of good music in Heartsdale!” I wondered if music had suffered more than I, and, answered, timidly: “It was only meant for a joke.” “Well, the joke is on you,” said Mr. Crocket, with a rude look at me. “You are both discharged.”