double-headers, and torpedoes, being strictly prohibited by—the constable round the corner,—we concluded to defer the execution of the malefactor till the ensuing Fourth of July, then a matter of some eight months distant. But at last, it came. Our revenge had slept, but was by no means extinguished. The ogre dwelt in the same place still. The hour for dire retribution drew fearfully near—and at length arrived. The cobbler's doom was sealed. Our maleficent congress—boys, all under twelve—had resolved that he must die, then or never, so far as we were concerned. Pistols and powder being still as scarce as ever, we assailed the enemy with a large string of ignited Chinese crackers, in lieu of guns and bullets—articles de campaign—not procurable, owing to the limited resources of our combined exchequer.
We suffered a defeat—a rout, total and complete—nor did one of us escape what the cobbler called a 'welting,' for our shoulders tingled many an hour thereafter from the application of a strip of leather, wielded by the stalwart right arm of the vindictive man. Now it so happened that, nearly opposite the scene of this farce, there stood a tall flag-staff—'Tom Riley's Fifth Ward liberty pole' it was called—and with this pole is associated, not only the moral of my story, but also one of the most singular experiences ever undergone by a human soul, while incarnated in a tabernacle of flesh and blood, nerve and sinew, muscle and matter. After mutually smarting from the application of the cobbler's 'welt,' we took counsel and refuge beneath the liberty pole aforesaid; and the last I remember of the affair is, that, while gazing upon his triumphantly retreating
