Making his way in among the old boxes, trunks, and spinning-wheels, he was fully embarked in his difficult venture.  The dust which he stirred up in his progress produced an almost irresistible desire to sneeze, which Lord Dundreary might have been happy to indulge, but which might have been fatal to the execution of Tom Somers’s purpose.  He rubbed his nose, and held his handkerchief over the intractable member, and succeeded in overcoming its dangerous tendency.  His movements were necessarily very slow, for he was in constant dread lest some antiquated relic of the past should tumble over, and thus disturb the slumbers of the family who occupied the chambers below.

But in spite of the perils and difficulties that environed his path, there was something exciting and exhilarating in the undertaking.  It was a real adventure, and, as such, Tom enjoyed it.  As he worked his way through the labyrinth of antiquities, he could not but picture to himself the surprise and chagrin of Squire Pemberton, when he should come up to the attic chamber to wreak his vengeance upon him.  He could see the magnate of Pinchbrook start, compress his lips and clinch his fists, when he found the bird had flown.

“Better not crow till I get out of the woods,” said he to himself, while his imagination was still busy upon the agreeable picture.

After a series of trials and difficulties which our space does not permit us to describe in full, Tom emerged from the repository of antiquities, and stood in the open space in front of the finished chamber.  With one boot in each hand, he felt his way to the stairs, and descended to the entry over the front door.  All obstacles now seemed to be overcome, for he had nothing to do but go down stairs and walk out.

It often happens, amid the uncertainties of this unstable world, that we encounter the greatest trials and difficulties precisely where we expect to find none.  As Tom walked along the entry, with one hand on the rail that protected the staircase to guide him, he struck his foot against the pole upon which Fred Pemberton had suspended the flag out of the window.  It was very careless of the squire, when he took the flag in, to leave the stick in that unsafe position, for one of his own family might have stumbled against it, and broken a leg or an arm, or possibly a neck; and if it might have been a “cause of offence” to one of the Pembertons, it certainly laid a grievous burden upon the shoulders of poor Tom Somers.

When the pole fell, it made a tremendous racket, as all poles will when they fall just at the moment when they ought to stand up, and be decent and orderly.  This catastrophe had the effect to quicken the steps of the young man.  He reached the stairs, and had commenced a rapid descent, when the door of the squire’s room, which was on the lower floor, opened, and Tom found himself flanked in that direction.

“Who’s there?  What’s that?” demanded the squire, in hurried, nervous tones.