"Clear outer here! Clear outer here!" he shouted two or three times. But they only laughed at him. Then we set out over the dusty road. First came Eb, with two other men leading Mr. Daddles, then Jimmy and Ed Mason, each securely held, while I was at the end of the procession, gripped by the arm and collar by a tall man, who never uttered a word. At our heels and doing their best to step on MY heels whenever they could, came a mob of boys and men. When we got back to the Harbor, it had quite changed its appearance. From being a dark and deserted place it was now rather lively. There were lights in most of the houses and people waiting in the street. On our way out of the village, an hour or two before, we had noticed a tent at the edge of the inlet, just above Gregory's hut. The people in the tent had turned out now,--they were three young men, who seemed to have been camping there. They had hung a lighted Japanese lantern over the door of the tent, and one of the campers was playing on a banjo. The constable halted the whole procession, and ordered one of his assistants to put the banjo-player under arrest. "I won't have it!" he shouted, "he's disturbin' the peace!" Everyone laughed at this,--there was so much noise in the street that the banjo could hardly be heard. But a man went across the road, took the player by the arm, and told him that he must come along. The banjo-player seemed to be perfectly dumb-founded; his friends gathered round, argued, threatened, and finally laughed, and tried to treat the whole thing as a joke. Eb was stubborn, and the man joined our parade, with his banjo under his arm. The police-station and jail were both in a new building half way up the hill. Into this we were hurried, and the doors were shut. "Keep 'em all out!" shouted the constable, "keep 'em all out, except members of the possy!" The "possy" seemed to consist of Eb himself, the men who were guarding us,--five or six of them--and Gregory the Gauger. I never found out just what office he held, but he was clearly the most important man of the lot,--except Eb. The constable leaned his pitchfork against the wall, lighted one or two lamps, sat down behind a desk and put on a pair of spectacles. Then he jerked his head, as if to beckon, toward the banjo-player. "Name?" said he, picking up a pen. "My name is Warren Sprague," said the man. "Occupation?" "I suppose you would call me a student." "Don't yer know that yer was disturbin' the peace--" "Contrary to statoot," put in Gregory the Gauger. "Shut up, Mose!" said the constable. "I thought that the peace was pretty well disturbed already," said the banjo-player,-"there was so much noise in the street that it woke us all up. I couldn't sleep,--none of us could sleep, and I didn't see any harm in playing a tune. Whose peace could I disturb?" "Looky here, young feller, it won't do yer any good to get flip!" "I'm not going to get flip."