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The old lady whom I had seen sitting in the church porch, who was so ugly, as I thought, and so withered and old, was a very poor widow.  Her husband had died in battle long ago, and she had from year to year supported herself by her spinning wheel and the little relief she had from the parish.  She lived in a little hut on a piece of waste ground, and kept a little poultry, and now and then a pig or two.

Among other animals, the old lady kept an enormous goat, or, rather, he kept himself.  It was one her husband had brought her from abroad, of the Syrian breed.  It was quite young when it came over, but at last grew and grew so, as to become a very formidable animal, so strong and fierce, that every dog was afraid of it, being, no doubt, terrified by the sight of its large horns and undaunted aspect.  The name of this dread animal was Hannibal.

Poor old Goody Clackett—­for that was her name—­had little thoughts of ever being “smugged,” as it was termed, by our schoolfellows to make a guy on the fifth of November, and sat quietly enough spinning her wheel and drawing out her yarn.  Sometimes the thrum of the old wheel would send her soundly to sleep, and then she never dreamed of such a thing as was to happen to her.

Every boy was delighted with this proposition, and it was arranged that on the following evening I and my cousin Simon should assist in the endeavor to get the chair from the outhouse to a convenient place, while Hardy was to provide lantern, matches, cap, and feathers, with red and black paint to disfigure the features of the poor old creature.

“We will make her amends,” said Quidd, “all the money we get shall be hers.”

“Oh yes; that is quite fair,” said I.

When the evening came and it was quite dark, Simon and I went to the back part of Quidd’s father’s house.  After waiting some little time we heard a knock.  Presently Quidd opened the gates and came out.

“There, get it,” said he.  “Look about to see if anybody is coming, and you can take it away.”

We did so.  The coast was clear, and out rolled the chair.

Simon and I took hold of it, one behind and one before at the handle-stick.  Away we went, as had been preconcerted between us in the stable-yard of another schoolfellow of ours in the plot, who placed it near the gate and covered it over with loose straw, so that no one could see it.

The next evening, which was the fourth of November, we met again by appointment at the dark hollow of the churchyard.  This meeting was for the purpose of determining about the way in which Dame Clackett should be dressed in her triumphal entry to the Town Hall, the place where the bonfires were usually made.  Hardy had brought what was of essential service—­namely, an old coat which had formerly belonged to his father when in the yeomanry cavalry, an old helmet, a cartridge-box, and a pair of boots.