Congressman Baldwin was the idol of the masses, and if it could be made to appear that Wycliff had assaulted him there would be a riot, and the victim of its fury would be fortunate if he escaped alive. Frontier methods would not avail at this crisis. Wycliff was somewhat resourceful himself. He got his camera and prepared for a flashlight photograph. He had been writing a magazine article on the whippoorwill--(one of these birds sang in the lilacs every night)--and he had the materials ready for a flashlight of the bird, to illustrate his article. He would now use them to photograph a different object. He set his camera so that it would sweep the highway, and waited under cover of the midnight darkness. The town clock struck for twelve. A thunder-shower was coming up. There was an occasional flash and roar from the cloud. The whippoorwill sang in the lilacs. There were pistol-shots down the road, and then the sound of running footsteps. They drew nearer until they were directly in front of Wycliff. The flashlight did its work. Wycliff boarded a trolley-car for Elmfield, carrying the precious camera, and leaving this notice on his front door:-- “_Gone to visit my old friend, Sheriff Coggswell, at the Jail._ “_JOHN WYCLIFF._” CHAPTER XII. On that same evening mentioned in our last chapter there was a social gathering at Farmer Porter’s, in Sprucemont. It was a festival known among the Green Mountain farmers as a “sugar-eat,” but it was held very much out of season. Maple sugar is usually made during the months of February or March. The sap drawn from the rock-maple, or sugar-maple trees is boiled until it reaches a consistency which is called wax. Tin pans are pressed full of snow, and the maple wax, dipped boiling from the kettles, is poured upon the snow. The wax hardens upon the snow, and is then esteemed the greatest delicacy of country epicures. For many years Farmer Porter had treated his neighbors to an annual sugar-eat; not in winter or spring, but in midsummer, the snow being obtained from the cave on Twin Mountain, known as the “Bear’s Den.” On this occasion, besides his country neighbors, there were present some friends from Papyrus, Ford Hulbert and Lena Boardman, and John Wycliff’s wife and child. Uncle Jerry Barnaby was a neighbor, and was present with his wife and daughter. The farmers, and their wives, daughters, mothers and sweethearts for miles around, thronged the hospitable home of Daniel Porter. In the old-fashioned fireplace in the kitchen, on a stout iron crane, hung the ancient copper kettle filled with maple syrup. A crackling wood fire kept the syrup leaping and dancing, until it was boiled down thick enough to “stand,” or harden, upon the snow. A number of experts decided this point, and when, according to their verdict, it was just brittle enough, the boys brought in the pans of snow which they had secured from the cave.