“Now I’ve got you,” he said, white with passion, “and I’m going to teach you a lesson.”

Clinging to Pomp with one hand, he drew a stout string from his pocket with the other, and secured the hands of the little contraband, notwithstanding his efforts to escape.

“Le’ me go, you debble,” he said, using a word which had grown familiar to him on the plantation.

There was a cruel light in John’s eyes which augured little good to poor Pomp.  Suddenly, as if a new idea had struck him, he loosened the cord, and taking the boy carried him, in spite of his kicking and screaming, to a small tree, around which he clasped his hands, which he again confined with cords.

He then sought out a stout stick, and divested it of twigs.

Pomp watched his preparations with terror.  Too well he knew what they meant.  More than once he had seen those of his own color whipped on the plantation.  Unconsciously, he glided into the language which he would have used there.

“Don’t whip me, Massa John,” he whimpered in terror.  “For the lub of Heaven, lef me be.  I ain’t done noffin’ to you.”

“You’d better have thought of that before,” said John, his eyes blazing anew with vengeful light.  “If I whip you, you little black rascal, it’s only because you richly deserve it.”

“I’ll nebber do so again,” pleaded Pomp, rolling his eyes in terror.  Though what it was he promised not to do the poor little fellow would have found it hard to tell.

It would have been as easy to soften the heart of a nether millstone as that of John Haynes.

By the time he had completed his preparations, and whirled his stick in the air preparatory to bringing it down with full force on Pomp’s back, rapid steps were heard, and a voice asked, “What are you doing there, John Haynes?”

John looked round, and saw standing near him Frank Frost, whose attention had been excited by what he had heard of Pomp’s cries.

“Save me, save me, Mass’ Frank,” pleaded poor little Pomp.

“What has he tied you up there for, Pomp?”

“It’s none of your business, Frank Frost,” said John passionately.

“I think it’s some of my business,” said Frank coolly, “when I find you playing the part of a Southern overseer.  You are not in Richmond, John Haynes, and you’ll get into trouble if you undertake to act as if you were.”

“If you say much more, I’ll flog you too!” screamed John, beside himself with excitement and rage.

Frank had not a particle of cowardice in his composition.  He was not fond of fighting, but he felt that circumstances made it necessary for him to do so now.  He did not easily lose his temper, and this at present gave him the advantage over John.

“You are too excited to know what you are talking about,” he said coolly.  “Pomp, why has he tied you up?”

Pomp explained that John had tried to get his pail from him.  He closed by imploring “Mass’ Frank” to prevent John from whipping him.