The boys collected together here and there in knots, consulting as to what should be done.
It yet lacked four or five hours of daybreak, and none of us were in the humor to return to bed.

I approached one of the groups standing near the town pump, and discovered in the uncertain light of the dying brands the figures of Jack Harris, Phil Adams, Harry Blake, and Pepper Whitcomb, their faces streaked with perspiration and tar, and, their whole appearance suggestive of New Zealand chiefs.
"Hullo! Here's Tom Bailey!" shouted Pepper Whitcomb.

"He'll join in!" Of course he would.

The sting had gone out of my hands, and I was ripe for anything--none the less ripe for not knowing what was on the tapis.
After whispering together for a moment the boys motioned me to follow them.
We glided out from the crowd and silently wended our way through a neighboring alley, at the head of which stood a tumble-down old barn, owned by one Ezra Wingate.

In former days this was the stable of the mail-coach that ran between Rivermouth and Boston.