AFTER supper Tom took a walk. He wanted to know something about his future home. Thus far his impressions had not been altogether agreeable.

“If the Middleton’s are a fair specimen of the people of Plympton, it’s a good place to emigrate from,” he thought. “However, I’ll stay a while and see what turns up.”

Plympton was a village of moderate size. It probably contained about fifteen hundred inhabitants, beside the occupants of outlying farms, for the town was largely agricultural. Those who met our hero surveyed him with attention, for in a small country town all are acquainted, and a stranger is at once recognized as such. One old lady, Mrs. Prudence Peabody, was not content with staring at our hero. She stopped short and addressed him.

“Do you live in Plympton, young man?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Tom. “Do you?”

“I’ve lived here ever since I was a gal.”

“Have you?” asked Tom innocently. “That must be a long time.”

“I ain’t so old as I might be,” said the old lady sharply. “Where do you live? I never see you afore.”

“It’s a remarkable coincidence that I never set eyes on you before.”

“Who be you a living with?”

“Mr. Middleton. Shall be happy to receive a call.”

The old lady looked sharply at our hero, but his manner was so cool and matter-of-fact that it was impossible to tell whether he intended to be polite or was merely chaffing her.

“What’s your name?” asked the old lady.

“Thomas Washington,” said our hero. “Sorry I haven’t a card.”

“You ain’t related to Gineral Washington, be you?”

“I’m his first cousin’s grandson,” answered Tom, who, at any rate, did not possess the traditional love of truth which we usually associate with the name which he had so unjustifiably assumed.

“I declare! Who’d have thought it?” exclaimed Mrs. Peabody. “Be you related to the Middletons?”

“I don’t think I am,” said Tom hastily, for he could not tolerate such an idea even in joke.

“Be you goin’ to stay long?” asked the persevering questioner.

“That depends upon my spine,” said Tom gravely.

“You don’t mean to say you’ve got the spine complaint?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Did you ever try poultices?”

“Lots of ’em, but I had to give ’em up.”

“Why?”

“They made me crazy.”

“You don’t say!” ejaculated the old lady, sheering off in some alarm.

“You needn’t be afraid,” said Tom gravely. “I haven’t had an attack for a week.”

This only alarmed Mrs. Peabody the more, and with a hasty good-night she hurried on her way, considerably bewildered by her interview.

“She’s a prying old lady, and deserves to be mystified,” said Tom to himself. “I’ll bet a hat she’ll come round to old Middleton’s to-morrow to find out all about me. Halloo! there are two chaps playing ball. I guess I’ll join in.”

The boys were James Davenport and his cousin, Edwin Barker, and they were playing in a field belonging to Lawyer Davenport, the father of the former. The boys were about Tom’s age, and belonged to the upper crust of Plympton society. They regarded themselves as socially superior to the other village boys, and had a habit of playing together, and so avoiding the possible contamination of association with the village plebeians. Of course Tom didn’t know this, and if he had it would have made very little difference to him. He jumped over the wall which separated the road from the field, and called out in an easy way.

“Halloo, boys, just pitch the ball this way, will you?”

“Who are you?” demanded James Davenport haughtily.

“I haven’t got my visiting-cards with me, but I can handle a ball, name or no name.”

“This field is private property,” said James loftily.

“Yes, private property,” chimed in his cousin.

“So I supposed,” answered Tom coolly, “most fields are.”

“And you are trespassing.”

“Am I? There isn’t anything to hurt. If I do any damage, bring in your bill.”

“We are playing by ourselves. We don’t wish any company.”

“Well, I do. I feel just like having a game at ball. Just pitch it over.”

“I won’t do it,” said James. “Edwin, catch it.”

So saying, he pitched the ball to his cousin, but Tom intercepted it before it reached the hands for which it was designed.

“Let go that ball!” exclaimed James angrily.

“Red dead-ball, isn’t it?” said Tom, at the same time tossing it up and down. “Where’d you get it?”

“I’ll let you know,” said James menacingly. “What business have you got with my ball?”

“I’ll toss it to you if you’ll toss it back again,” said Tom. “We’ll have a social game of three.”

“No, we won’t. Clear out of this field, you vagabond!”

“You’re very polite, but you haven’t got my name right, you loafer,” said Tom coolly.

“Loafer!” ejaculated James, with insulted dignity.

“Yes, you’re just as much of a loafer as I am a vagabond. Good ball this!” and he kept tossing it up and down.

“Help me, Edwin, and I’ll take it from him,” said James Davenport, in a rage. “Well teach the rascal a lesson.”

“Will you?” said Tom. “Catch me first.”

He run across the field, tossing the ball from time to time, the two boys pursuing him. He eluded their pursuit for a time, till finding himself cornered he gathered his strength and sent the ball whirling into a neighboring corn-field, where it would be very difficult to find it.

“What did you do that for?” shouted James furiously.

“For fun,” said Tom. “You wouldn’t play with me, so you must take the consequences.”

“I’ll give you a beating.”

“Will you? Come on, then.”

In an instant Tom had flung off his coat and stood in his shirt-sleeves, facing his two foes.

“Stand by me, Edwin—we’ll rush on him together,” said James.

But Tom, stepping to one side, received James singly, and flinging him on his back, made a dash at Edwin and served him in the same way.

“That’s the first round,” said he, squaring off. “Now get up, you loafer, and we’ll try it again.”

But James had been laid flat with so much force that it jarred his frame, and he didn’t like it. The stranger was altogether too strong to make it pleasant.

“Why didn’t you help me?” he asked, turning to Edwin.

“He had you down before I got a chance,” said his cousin.

“You’re a brute and a bully!” he said angrily.

“Anything more?” asked Tom coolly. “Go ahead if it does you good. You ought to know what a bully is.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d be one if you had a little more courage.”

James couldn’t stand this. He made another dash at our hero, hoping to take him off his guard, but Tom had a quick eye and saw what was coming. He received James and again laid him flat.

“Now I’m ready for you,” he said, turning to Edwin.

But the latter did not seem inclined to accept the invitation.

“James, let us go. Don’t let us have anything to do with him,” said he.

James by this time was picking himself up silently, and seemed inclined to follow the advice.

“I’ll make you suffer for this!” he said, shaking his fist. “My father’s a lawyer.”

“Is he? I pity him.”

“What for?”

“For having such a son.”

“I ain’t a thief!”

“What do you mean by that?” demanded Tom, his face darkening.

“You’ve stolen my ball and thrown it away.”

“I didn’t steal it. I took it because you were too boorish to let me play with you.”

“You’ve lost it for me.”

“If you can’t find it, I’ll pay you for it. My name is Tom Temple. I board with Nathan Middleton. You can send your bill there if you like. Now I’ll wish you good-night and better manners.”

Tom was near the wall at the time. He vaulted over and walked on, leaving the two boys half angry, half curious to know who he was.