So we started once more. The streets were black as ink. They were paved with cobblestones, and there did not seem to be any side- walks. The buildings were fishermen's and clammers' huts, boat- houses, and small shops,--all dark and deserted. The fog shut out everything at a short distance. At the top of the hill there was one dim light in the rear of a little shanty. "Hist!" Mr. Daddles stopped us. "It's the lair of the old fox himself!" "Who?" "None but black-hearted Gregory the Gauger. Him it was--or one of his minions--that killed old Diccon, our messmate, but a hundred paces from the cave, last Michaelmas. Shall we go in and slit his weazand?" We crept up to the window and looked in. A little man, with chin- whiskers like a paintbrush, sat inside, shucking clams by the light of a lantern. We decided not to go in and slit his weazand. Suddenly he looked up, as if he had heard us, and then rising, started for the door. We all darted back hastily, and hid in the shadow of the next building. He came out, emptied the pail of clam-shells, looked toward the sky, yawned, and went in again. As soon as he had closed the door, we were on the march. We turned the corner and took the road to the right. The walking was smoother here, and the street broader. We were soon past most of the shanties, and following a country road, where the buildings were far apart. They seemed to be large houses, set back from the road, with carefully kept lawns. Mr. Daddles stopped and peered at one of them through the fog. "Here it is, I think. This one--or the next. No; it's this one, I remember the fence. It would never do to walk right up the front path when you're going to crack a crib. We'll have to get in a back window, anyway, so we'd better go a little farther down the road, get over the wall, circle round, and come up from the rear." We carried out this plan, so far as getting over the wall, and then set out across a field. This was high ground, but the village behind us was still covered with the fog, and all we could see in its direction was a white cloud of vapor. The road we had just left wound on, down the hill again, and toward what might have been a dark clump of trees. The grass in the field was short and scrubby, and worn quite bare in places. There was a path which Mr. Daddles knew, and this we followed in single file. All of a sudden we heard a strange, thumping sound, right in front of us. We stopped short. There was a dark, indistinct mass of something moving slowly toward us. It seemed to be humped up, like a man crawling forward on his hands and knees. Almost as soon as we stopped, it--whatever it was--stopped too. It was a very unpleasant thing to find in a lonely field, in the middle of the night, and as I stared at it, I felt a curious prickling sensation run all over me.