CHAPTER Eight--The Adventures of a Fourth.
The sun cast a broad column of quivering gold across the river at the foot of our street, just as I reached the doorstep of the Nutter House.
Kitty Collins, with her dress tucked about her so that she looked as if she had on a pair of calico trousers, was washing off the sidewalk.
"Arrah you bad boy!" cried Kitty, leaning on the mop handle.

"The Capen has jist been askin' for you.

He's gone up town, now.

It's a nate thing you done with my clothes-line, and, it's me you may thank for gettin' it out of the way before the Capen come down." The kind creature had hauled in the rope, and my escapade had not been discovered by the family; but I knew very well that the burning of the stage-coach, and the arrest of the boys concerned in the mischief, were sure to reach my grandfathers ears sooner or later.
"Well, Thomas," said the old gentleman, an hour or so afterwards, beaming upon me benevolently across the breakfast table, "you didn't wait to be called this morning." "No, sir," I replied, growing very warm, "I took a little run up town to see what was going on." I didn't say anything about the little run I took home again! "They had quite a time on the Square last night," remarked Captain Nutter, looking up from the Rivermouth Barnacle, which was always placed beside his coffee-cup at breakfast.
I felt that my hair was preparing to stand on end.
"Quite a time," continued my grandfather.

"Some boys broke into Ezra Wingate's barn and carried off the old stagecoach.