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A few bold spirits had disputed the wisdom of Squire Hardy's

orders to let the wharf and fish-house burn, and had attempted to

give them a dousing. In less than five minutes they had

retreated, singed and hairless, due to a sudden explosion of a

drum of oil.

"Play on Bill Boughton's store!" came the order.

Already an iron ladder reached to the eaves of the building. Two

men galloped up its length, dragging behind them another ladder

with a pair of huge hooks at the end.

Clinging like monkeys, they worked this up over their heads and

up the shingles until the hooks caught squarely across the

ridge-pole of the house. Then, on hands and feet, they trotted up

this and sat astride the ridge-pole. One of these was Code

Schofield.

Other men now swarmed up the ladders, until there was one on

every rung from the ground to the top of the house.