Soon the sound of a small cavalcade, riding rapidly along the country roads, broke into the quiet of the night, perchance arousing some light sleeper as it passed, who, after listening drowsily to the retreating hoof-beats as they died away in the distance, would turn and mutter, "The Night Riders," then drift into slumber again. "Where are we going?" asked Milt, who rode by the side of Steve. "To make one less toll-gate." "Which one?" asked Milt, with an interest he did not care to betray. "It's the Cross-Roads Gate, I think. You can look for a lot o' fun tonight if it's that one, an' we get Maggie O'Flynn stirred up. She's a regular circus in herself." Steve chuckled audibly at the prospective entertainment. "It will be something like stirring up a den of wild-cats, not counting in Pat at all," Milt admitted. "Pat don't count; he's a coward, through and through. The fun will all be furnished by Maggie." "And we fellows had better look sharp," cautioned Milt. "Maggie's a pretty good shot, I've heard." "We've seen to it that she won't have a chance to draw a bead on any of us," admitted Steve. "She keeps a rifle at the gate, but one of the neighbors borrowed it this very mornin' to shoot a hawk, an' somehow forgot to carry it back. He won't think of it till in the mornin'. Maggie's tongue is all that's left to guard the gate." "And under ordinary circumstances that's sufficient," admitted Milt. The raiders soon came out upon a turnpike, and after a ride of a mile or two they reached a spot where the pike was intersected by another, crossed at right angles. At the juncture of the two roads stood the toll-house which had been chosen for the night's raid. A raider was stationed about a hundred yards from the gate to guard the approach from that direction, while the rest rode forward to where the double poles were now raised at this mid-hour of the night. Three of the horsemen passed through and took positions on the farther side of the toll-house, at about equal distances from it along the two roads. In the meantime the captain selected a man from among the members of the band, who was least known to the locality, to act as spokesman, and while the remaining raiders grouped themselves about the gate, a resounding knock was given at the toll-house door. "All roight! I'm afther comin'. Ye needn't break the dure down," answered a sleepy man's voice, deeply tinged with Celtic brogue. "What the divil do ye want, anyway? The poles are raised!" the voice demanded immediately after. "We want these poles cut down," announced the spokesman of the band. "Begorra! an' it's the raiders!" Pat said in a husky voice to his awakened spouse. "The phwat?" asked Maggie, in a shrill tone, evidently raising up in bed. "Whist, honey! The raiders!" repeated Pat, in more cautious tones. "An' phwat do they want?" asked Maggie, in a still higher key. "They want the poles cut down," faltered Pat.