“I hope there will!  By gracious, I hope so!”

“I hope the South will beat!”

“Do you?  Do you, Fred Pemberton?” demanded Tom, so excited he could not stand still.

“Yes, I do.  The South has the rights of it.  If we had let their niggers alone, there wouldn’t have been any trouble.”

“You are as blind as a bat, Fred. Don’t you see this isn’t a quarrel between the North and the South, but between the government and the rebels?”

“I don’t see it.  If the North had let the South alone, there wouldn’t have been any fuss.  I hope the North will get whipped, and I know she will.”

“Fred, you are a traitor to your country!”

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are; and if I had my way, I’d ride you on a rail out of town.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Yes, I would.  I always thought you were a decent fellow; but you are a dirty, low-lived traitor.”

“Better be careful what you say, Tom Somers!” retorted the young secessionist, angrily.

“A fellow that won’t stand by his country ain’t fit to live.  You are an out-and-out traitor.”

“Don’t call me that again, Tom Somers,” replied Fred, doubling up his fist.

“I say you are a traitor.”

“Take that, then.”

Tom did take it, and it was a pretty hard blow on the side of his head.  Perhaps it was fortunate for our young patriot that an opportunity was thus afforded him to evaporate some of his enthusiasm in the cause of his country, for there is no knowing what might have been the consequence if it had remained longer pent up in his soul.  Of course, he struck back; and a contest, on a small scale, between the loyalty of the North and the treason of the South commenced.  How long it might have continued, or what might have been the result, cannot now be considered; for the approach of a chaise interrupted the battle, and the forces of secession were reenforced by a full-grown man.

The gentleman stepped out of his chaise with his whip in his hand, and proceeded to lay it about the legs and body of the representative of the Union side.  This was more than Tom Somers could stand, and he retreated in good order from the spot, till he had placed himself out of the reach of the whip.

“What do you mean, you young scoundrel?” demanded the gentleman who had interfered.

Tom looked at him, and discovered that it was Squire Pemberton, the father of his late opponent.

“He hit me first,” said Tom.

“He called me a traitor,” added Fred.  “I won’t be called a traitor by him, or any other fellow.”

“What do you mean by calling my son a traitor, you villain?”

“I meant just what I said.  He is a traitor.  He said he hoped the South would beat.”

“Suppose he did.  I hope so too,” added Squire Pemberton.

The squire thought, evidently, that this ought to settle the question.  If he hoped so, that was enough.