“Let him up, Frank,” said the old man.  “I’ll see that he does no further harm.”

John rose to his feet, and looked scowlingly from one to the other, as if undecided whether he had not better attack both.

“You’ve disgraced yourself, John Haynes,” said the old farmer scornfully.  “So you would turn negro-whipper, would you?  Your talents are misapplied here at the North.  Brutality isn’t respectable here, my lad.  You’d better find your way within the rebel lines, and then perhaps you can gratify your propensity for whipping the helpless.”

“Some day I’ll be revenged on you for this,” said John, turning wrathfully upon Frank.  “Perhaps you think I don’t mean it, but the day will come when you’ll remember what I say.”

“I wish you no harm, John,” said Frank composedly, “but I sha’n’t stand by and see you beat a boy like Pomp.”

“No,” said the farmer sternly; “and if ever I hear of your doing it, I’ll horsewhip you till you beg for mercy.  Now go home, and carry your disgrace with you.”

Mr. Maynard spoke contemptuously, but with decision, and pointed up the road.

With smothered wrath John obeyed his order, because he saw that it would not be safe to refuse.

“I’ll come up with him yet,” he muttered to himself, as he walked quietly toward home.  “If he doesn’t rue this day, my name isn’t John Haynes.”

John did not see fit to make known the circumstances of his quarrel with Frank, feeling, justly, that neither his design nor the result would reflect any credit upon himself.  But his wrath was none the less deep because he brooded over it in secret.  He would have renewed his attempt upon Pomp, but there was something in Mr. Maynard’s eye which assured him that his threat would be carried out.  Frank, solicitous for the little fellow’s safety, kept vigilant watch over him for some days, but no violence was attempted.  He hoped John had forgotten his threats.

CHAPTER XII.  A LETTER FROM THE CAMP

The little family at the Frost farm looked forward with anxious eagerness to the first letter from the absent father.

Ten days had elapsed when Frank was seen hurrying up the road with something in his hand.

Alice saw him first, and ran in, exclaiming, “Mother, I do believe Frank has got a letter from father.  He is running up the road.”

Mrs. Frost at once dropped her work, no less interested than her daughter, and was at the door just as Frank, flushed with running, reached the gate.

“What’ll you give me for a letter?” he asked triumphantly.

“Give it to me quick,” said Mrs. Frost.  “I am anxious to learn whether your father is well.”

“I guess he is, or he wouldn’t have written such a long letter.”

“How do you know it’s long?” asked Alice.  “You haven’t read it.”

“I judge from the weight.  There are two stamps on the envelope.  I was tempted to open it, but, being directed to mother, I didn’t venture.”