“Certainly, if it will do you any good.  I said that you were a bully, John Haynes; and there’s not a boy here that doesn’t know it to be true.”

“Take care!” said John, turning white with passion.

“While I’m about it, there’s something more I want to say,” continued Wilbur undauntedly.  “Yesterday you knocked my little brother off his sled and sent him home crying.  If you do it again, you will have somebody else to deal with.”

John trembled with anger.  It would have done him good to “pitch into” Wilbur, but the latter looked him in the face so calmly and resolutely that discretion seemed to him the better part of valor, and with an oath he turned away.

“I don’t know what’s got into John Haynes,” said Wilbur.  “I never liked him, but now he seems to be getting worse and worse every day.”

CHAPTER XXIII.  POMP TAKES MRS. PAYSON PRISONER

Old Mrs. Payson, who arrived in Rossville at the same time with Henry Morton, had been invited by her daughter, “Cynthy Ann,” to pass the winter, and had acquiesced without making any very strenuous objections.  Her “bunnit,” which she had looked upon as “sp’ilt,” had been so far restored by a skilful milliner that she was able to wear it for best.  As this restoration cost but one dollar and a half out of the five which had been given her by young Morton, she felt very well satisfied with the way matters had turned out.  This did not, however, by any means diminish her rancor against Pomp, who had been the mischievous cause of the calamity.

“Ef I could only get hold on him,” Mrs. Payson had remarked on several occasions to Cynthy Ann, “I’d shake the mischief out of him, ef I died for’t the very next minute.”

Mrs. Payson was destined to meet with a second calamity, which increased, if possible, her antipathy to the “young imp.”

Being of a social disposition, she was quite in the habit of dropping in to tea at different homes in the village.  Having formerly lived in Rossville, she was acquainted with nearly all the townspeople, and went the rounds about once in two weeks.

One afternoon she put her knitting into a black work-bag, which she was accustomed to carry on her arm, and, arraying herself in a green cloak and hood, which had served her for fifteen years, she set out to call on Mrs. Thompson.

Now, the nearest route to the place of her destination lay across a five-acre lot.  The snow lay deep upon the ground, but the outer surface had become so hard as, without difficulty, to bear a person of ordinary weight.

When Mrs. Payson came up to the bars, she said to herself, " ’Tain’t so fur to go across lots.  I guess I’ll ventur’.”

She let down a bar and, passing through, went on her way complacently.  But, alas, for the old lady’s peace of mind!  She was destined to come to very deep grief.