“Do you think I am going to do anything for this young scoundrel!” exclaimed the squire, indignantly.  “Why, he stoned Fred and me to-day, and stoned the horse, and made him run away and break the chaise all to pieces.”

“But we mustn’t leave him here in this situation.  He may die.”

“Let him die.”

“But what will folks say?”

The more humane wife evidently understood the weak point of the squire, for nothing but slavery and the Southern Confederacy could have induced him to set at defiance the public sentiment of Pinchbrook.

“Well, carry him up stairs then; but he never will get out of my house till he has been severely punished for his crimes.”

The squire and Fred took hold of the senseless form of poor Tom, and carried it up stairs, where it was placed upon the sofa in the sitting room.  Mrs. Pemberton had the reputation of being “an excellent hand in sickness,” and she immediately applied herself to the duty of restoring the sufferer to consciousness.

“Don’t you think you had better go after the doctor, father?” asked the good woman.  “Some of his bones may be broken, or he may be injured inwardly.”

“I shall not go for any doctor,” snarled the squire.  “Do you think I will trust myself out doors while that howling mob is hanging round the house?”

“Fred can go,” suggested Susan.

“He can, but he shall not,” growled the squire, throwing himself into his arm chair in the corner, with an appearance of indifference and unconcern, which were far from representing the actual state of his mind.

Mrs. Pemberton said no more, but she and Susan went to work upon the sufferer with camphor and hartshorn in good earnest, and in a short time they had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes.  They continued the treatment for some time longer, with the most satisfactory result, till Tom astonished them by jumping off the sofa, and standing up in the middle of the room.  He rubbed his forehead, hunched up his left shoulder, and felt of his shins.

“Are you hurt, Thomas?” asked Mrs. Pemberton, with more of tenderness in her tones than the squire deemed proper for the occasion.

“No, marm, I guess not,” replied Tom.  “My shoulder feels a little stiff, and I think I barked one of my shins; but I shall be as good as new by to-morrow.”

But there was an ugly bump on the side of his head, which he had not yet discovered, but which Susan pointed out to him.  He acknowledged the bump, but declared it was only a little sore and would be all right by the next day.

“I feel pretty well,” continued Tom, “and I guess I’ll go home now.”

“I think you won’t, young man,” interposed Squire Pemberton.

Tom looked at him, and for the first time since he had come to himself, he remembered in what manner he had received his injuries.  He immediately came to the conclusion that he had got into a bad scrape.  He was in the house of, and in the presence of, his great enemy.  The events of the day passed in rapid succession through his mind, and he could not help thinking that he was destined to be the first victim in Pinchbrook to the war spirit which had just been awakened all over the country.