“Faix,” he said to himself, “it’s a pity to take so much throuble as all that for nothing. Sorra one on ’em’s showed himself near the pond the day.” Even as he spoke, however, though he had turned back to his endless clatter and dust, and saw it not, the seeming solitude of the pond was being invaded. Down the stream, from the bushes that concealed its winding course through the valley above, there drifted a clumsy, scow-built punt, the pride of Zeb Fuller’s heart, and in it with him were three of his most trusted friends, for, only three minutes before, Zeb had been advised by a trusty scout of a very important and promising occurrence. Not only had the miller returned, but he had been met at his very gate by the Rev. Solomon Dryer, D. D., Principal of Ogleport Academy, and the two men were actually approaching the mill together. “Old Sol hasn’t anything to do with us in vacation, boys,” said Zeb, to his friends, “and I move we strip and go right in. We can keep out in the middle, you know, and they can’t get at us. The other boys can keep hid behind the willows and see the fun.” The road from the miller’s house gave a good view of the pond at several points; and before he and his dignified companion had made half the distance, they saw such goings on upon the water as led even the fat and wheezy man of lumber and flour to double his perspiring pace and his wrath at the same time. “Those boys, Doctor! See them? In the boat! That’s defiance. On my own pond. Defiance, sir. What are we coming to? What’s your authority worth, or mine? Glad I had the spring-board cut off. We must see about this, sir.” “Indeed, my dear sir,” calmly and frigidly responded the head of the village institution, “I fully sympathize with you, but I think my presence will be sufficient. I have long been accustomed to repress these rebellious ebullitions. I will go with you with pleasure.” “Right, sir; knew you would. Stop ’em. Make my pond a bathing-tub before my very eyes, sir.” And now, while the lyers-in-wait behind the willows were half-bursting with envy of their more fortunate fellow-conspirators in the boat, the doctor and the miller puffed their consequential way to the open space on the old flume frame, between the dam and the sawmill. What a view that spot commanded of the peaceful mill-pond and of the audacious iniquity of those boys! Nearer and nearer drifted the boat, while the white-skinned rebels plunged from its rocking sides and disported themselves boisterously and undisguisedly in all directions, as if ignorant of the approach of any authority higher than their own desire for a good swim. It was to the last degree tantalizing and irritating, but, just as Gershom Todderley found breath to sing out, “You young rascals!” his eyes fell upon the mocking and obnoxious length of the spring-board, and he exclaimed: “Doctor, do you see that! I’ll discharge him! He hasn’t cut it off. That Irishman!”