But at this instant there was an interference from a third party.

At a little distance some men were at work hewing timber.  They had been working there for weeks, in which Max had made acquaintance and become a great favorite with them, particularly one called by his companions, “Big Bill,” because of his great size and strength.

He was a rough, good-natured man, with nothing of the bully about him, but regarded with intense scorn and indignation any attempt on the part of the strong to tyrannize over the weak and defenceless.

He and his comrades had seen and heard enough in these weeks of labor in the vicinity of Fox’s residence to inspire them with contempt and dislike toward him on account of his treatment of Max.  They had among themselves already pronounced him “a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a hypocrite and a coward.”

They had seen him watching for the boy with his instrument of torture in his hand, and their wrath had waxed hot.

When Max came in sight they dropped their tools and looked to see what would happen, and at the first blow “Big Bill” muttering between his clenched teeth, “I’ll settle his hash for him,” started for the scene of action.  “Stop that!” he roared, “stop that, you old hypocritical scoundrel!  You hit that boy another lick and I’ll knock you as flat as a flounder!”

The hand that held the whip dropped at Fox’s side, and the other loosed its hold on Max as he turned and faced his assailant.

“What do you mean by coming here to interfere in my business?” he demanded.

“I mean to protect the weak against the strong, sir.  I consider that my business.  You’ve given that boy more unmerciful beatings already than he ought to have had in a lifetime, and he not at all a bad boy either.  I know all about that padlock affair, though he’s never breathed a word to me on the subject, and I’d enjoy nothing better than thrashing you soundly; what’s more I’ll do it if ever I know you to strike him again; or my name’s not Bill Simpson.  Max, if he ever does, you’ve only to let ’Big Bill’ hear of it and he’ll get ten times more than he’s given.”

“Thank you, Bill,” said Max, running to the big, kind-hearted fellow and giving him his hand.  “I’m glad to be protected from him, though I don’t want him hurt if he’ll only let me alone.”

Fox had already stalked away in the direction of the house, swelling with inward wrath, but assuming an air of injured innocence and offended dignity.

Standing in wholesome fear of Max’s self-constituted defender, he never again ventured to lay violent hands on the lad, but contented himself with inflicting many petty annoyances.

CHAPTER XII.

“Except I be by Silvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale;
Unless I look on Silvia in the day,
There is no day for me to look upon.”

                                  —­Shakspeare.