He saw the unmistakable outlines of a man in the gloom, only a short distance behind him.  Afraid to meet him face to face, Tom turned back and resumed his walk along the highway.

“When I get along a little farther,” was his thought, “I’ll slip over the fence among the trees and dodge him.”

He began walking fast, continually glancing over his shoulder.  His alarm increased upon discovering that the man had also quickened his footsteps, so that instead of holding his place, the pursuer, as he may be considered, was gaining.

The fact that not the slightest sound disturbed the stillness added to the oppression of the situation.  The lad was on the point of breaking into a run, when the man, who was one of the tramps before referred to, called out,—­

“Hold on there, sonny! don’t be in such a hurry.”

This salutation was not calculated to soothe Tom’s agitation, and without any reply he started on a loping trot, still keeping his attention to the rear, and prepared to break into a dead run the moment it became necessary.  He was fleet of foot, and believed he could make the fellow hustle.

“Didn’t you hear me, sonny?  If you don’t want to get shot, stop!”

Tom had no wish to be shot, nor did he mean to have the company of the rascal who was bent on intruding upon him.

“Catch me if you can,” he muttered, breaking into a swifter pace; “I’m glad it’s night so I’ll have a chance to hide from you”—­

“Hold on there! what’s your hurry, younker?”

The boy almost sank to the ground, for this startling hail came not from the rear, but from the front.  Stopping short, he saw a burly fellow, standing within ten feet of him in the middle of the road, so nigh indeed, that, despite the darkness, Tom had no earthly chance of eluding him, as he might have done had he detected his presence a moment sooner.

Rallying with a supreme effort, he addressed the one nearest him.

“What do you want, that you stop me this way?”

“What do I want?” repeated the tramp with a chuckle, “that’s good; why I want to make the acquaintance of a purty young man like you.  What’s your name?”

“Tom Gordon,” promptly replied the boy, seeing nothing to be gained by hiding his identity.

“I’m Count De Buffer, travelling incog. just now, ’cause you see I don’t want the Americans to make so much fuss over me; I have enough of that at home, where they’re not such tuft hunters as here.  Glad to know you, Tom,” added the tramp, extending his hand.

The boy with some hesitation accepted the grimy palm which almost crushed his own.

“This is my friend Duke De Sassy,” said the “count,” as the other came up; “him and me have got tired of the frivolities of court life, and are making a tower through America studying its institutions, and doing the country.”

“This ere young man didn’t seem to care for my company,” remarked the last arrival; “for I called to him two or three times, but then, he couldn’t have knowed that it was a real live dook he was treating that way, so I forgive him.”