“Impossible!” cried Archer, “that’s the way we are always to be governed by a man in a wig, who says he has good reasons, and can’t tell them. Are you fools? Go! go back to De Grey! I see you are all Greybeards. Go! Who goes first?” Nobody would go _first_. “I will have nothing to do with ye, if ye are resolved to be slaves!” “We won’t be slaves!” they all exclaimed at once. “Then,” said Archer, “stand out in the right and be free.” “_The right_.” It would have taken up too much time to examine what “the right” was. Archer was always sure that “_the right_” was what his party chose to do; that is, what he chose to do himself; and such is the influence of numbers upon each other, in conquering the feelings of shame and in confusing the powers of reasoning, that in a few minutes “the right” was forgotten, and each said to himself, “To be sure, Archer is a very clever boy, and he can’t be mistaken”; or, “to be sure, Townsend thinks so, and he would not do anything to get us into a scrape”; or, “to be sure, everybody will agree to this but myself, and I can’t stand out alone, to be pointed at as a Greybeard and a slave. Everybody thinks it is right, and everybody can’t be wrong.” By some of these arguments, which passed rapidly through the mind without his being conscious of them, each boy decided, and deceived himself—what none would have done alone, none scrupled to do as a party. It was determined, then, that there should be a Barring Out. The arrangement of the affair was left to their new manager, to whom they all pledged implicit obedience. Obedience, it seems, is necessary, even from rebels to their ringleaders; not reasonable, but implicit obedience. Scarcely had the assembly adjourned to the Ball-alley, when Fisher, with an important length of face, came up to the manager, and desired to speak one word to him. “My advice to you, Archer, is, to do nothing in this till we have consulted, _you know who_, about whether it’s right or wrong.” “‘_You know who_!’ Whom do you mean? Make haste, and don’t make so many faces, for I’m in a hurry. Who is ‘_You know who_?’” “The old woman,” said Fisher, gravely; “the gipsy.” “You may consult the old woman,” said Archer, bursting out a-laughing, “about what’s right and wrong, if you please; but no old woman shall decide for me.” “No; but you don’t _take_ me,” said Fisher; “you don’t _take_ me. By right and wrong, I mean lucky and unlucky.” “Whatever _I_ do will be lucky,” replied Archer. “My gipsy told you that already.”