I scrambled out of that without delay, and was congratulating myself on my good luck, when I saw by the light of the setting moon the form of a man leaning over the garden gate.  It was one of the town watch, who had probably been observing my operations with curiosity.  Seeing no chance of escape, I put a bold face on the matter and walked directly up to him.

“What on airth air you a doin’?” asked the man, grasping the collar of my jacket.

“I live here, sir, if you please,” I replied, “and am going to the bonfire.  I didn’t want to wake up the old folks, that’s all.”

The man cocked his eye at me in the most amiable manner, and released his hold.

“Boys is boys,” he muttered.  He didn’t attempt to stop me as I slipped through the gate.

Once beyond his clutches, I took to my heels and soon reached the Square, where I found forty or fifty fellows assembled, engaged in building a pyramid of tar-barrels.  The palms of my hands still tingled so that I couldn’t join in the sport.  I stood in the doorway of the Nautilus Bank, watching the workers, among whom I recognized lots of my schoolmates.  They looked like a legion of imps, coming and going in the twilight, busy in raising some infernal edifice.  What a Babel of voices it was, everybody directing everybody else, and everybody doing everything wrong!

When all was prepared, someone applied a match to the sombre pile.  A fiery tongue thrust itself out here and there, then suddenly the whole fabric burst into flames, blazing and crackling beautifully.  This was a signal for the boys to join hands and dance around the burning barrels, which they did shouting like mad creatures.  When the fire had burnt down a little, fresh staves were brought and heaped on the pyre.  In the excitement of the moment I forgot my tingling palms, and found myself in the thick of the carousal.

Before we were half ready, our combustible material was expended, and a disheartening kind of darkness settled down upon us.  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.