on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood of the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that something would happen that might clear away their difficulties.

But nothing happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in this luckless captive.

The boys did as they had often done before — went to the cell grating and gave Potter some tobacco and matches. He was on the ground floor and there were no guards.

His gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences before — it cut deeper than ever, this time. They felt cowardly and treacherous to the last degree when Potter said:

“You’ve been mighty good to me, boys — better’n anybody else in this town. And I don’t