"But we are simply guessing at things, don't you see?" demurred Phil. "Our heads are so full of old Berks and the rest of our day's adventures, that we imagine--" "Not a bit of it!" shouted Andy, on fire with enthusiasm. "Think I don't know the sound of Old Tom? Didn't it come from the right direction? Didn't he tell us--aha! what do you say now?" cried Andy with a positive yell. In those days Concord was a small, scattered village, nothing more. Two minutes running had brought the boys to a sparsely tenanted patch of ground, with the fields and woods just beyond it. Among the distant timber was a brilliant glow. It flashed up, died down, and then flashed up again. Phil was impressed with the sight, for his quick eye discerned that the strange glow was in the precise direction of the queer old stockade inhabited by Silas Berks, in fact, the radiance seemed to indicate the exact location of the home of the eccentric old Indian fighter. No one else in the town seemed aroused as were the boys. They had a lonely dash of it across the river, through a fringe of underbrush, up a rise, and through the trees just beyond the Bram homestead where they could see the flames through the forest. "It's Berks' place, right enough!" declared Andy. "And he has fired the cannon to call for help," suggested Phil. In about five minutes the boys were descending the last hill their side of the old hut. That structure, brightly illuminated, was now in full view. The hut was not on fire at all, but just outside of the stockade a big haystack was blazing up. "No danger of the house," said Phil. "I wonder how it caught on fire?" There was a light in the hut as they dashed up to it, and a great uproar emanated from inside. The parrot was screaming and the doves and chickens flitting about, and two watch dogs were filling the air with manifold barkings. The sound of a cracked old bugle mingled with the general uproar. Andy gave the door a push. It was not locked it seemed on the inside, and it flew open readily. "It's us, Mr. Berks," cried Andy, staring at the object of his anxiety. Silas Berks lay stretched out on a bed, his face red and perspiring. He was blowing upon an old brass military bugle with all the power of his lungs. He removed the mouthpiece from his lips as the boys made their appearance. "Good for you!" he piped. "Say, what's on fire outside?" "A haystack," explained Andy. "It can't do any further damage, it's burned out." "Lighted wad from the cannon must have done that," said Silas. "Too bad--but it's worth the money now you've come." "We don't understand it all," said Andy, in a perplexed way. "What has been happening around here? Was the barking of Old Tom an accident? Why don't you get up?"