Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. The boy had all kinds of opportunity; but it's the old story of father making it too easy. As he approached the gable of Mrs. "Rowland, your violence is killing me," she returned, in a plaintive tone. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. “Who, me? I scare you?” He asked. Immediately the "boy" went forth with his paper lantern, repeating a cry as he ran—warning to clear the way.
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