TOM HAD been in the woods, where by good fortune he had cut a stout stick with a thick, gnarled top, something like the top of a cane. Armed with this weapon, he rushed between Mary and her pursuer, and brought down the knob with full force on the dog’s back. The attention of the furious animal—a large bull-dog—was diverted to his assailant. With a fierce howl he rushed upon Tom. But our hero was wary and expected the attack. He jumped on one side and brought down the stick with terrible force upon the dog’s head. The animal fell, partially stunned, his quivering tongue protruding from his mouth.

“It won’t do to leave him so,” thought Tom; “when he revives he’ll be as dangerous as before.”

He dealt the prostrate animal two more blows, which settled his fate. The furious brute would no longer do any one harm.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Temple!” said Mary Somers fervently, a trace of color returning to her cheeks. “I was terribly frightened.”

“I don’t wonder,” said Tom. “The brute was dangerous.”

“How brave you are!” exclaimed the young lady, in admiration.

“It doesn’t take much courage to hit a dog on the head with a stick,” said Tom modestly.

“Many boys would have run,” said Mary.

“What, and left you unprotected?” said Tom indignantly. “None but a coward would have done that.”

“My cousin James run away,” said Mary.

“Did he see the dog chasing you?”

“Yes.”

“And what did he do?”

“He jumped over a stone wall.”

“Perhaps he didn’t have a stick with him,” said Tom considerately. “I shouldn’t like to have tackled the brute without that.”

“Yes; James had a gun. He had just come from hunting.”

“All I can say is, that it isn’t my style,” said Tom. “Do you see how he froths at the mouth? I believe the dog was mad.”

“How fearful!” exclaimed Mary, with a shudder. “Did you suspect that before?”

“Yes, I suspected it when I first saw him.”

“And yet you dared to meet him?”

“It was safer than to run. I wonder whose dog it is?”

“I’ll tell you,” said a brutal voice.

Turning, Tom beheld a stout young fellow, about two years older than himself, with a face in which the animal seemed to predominate.

“I’ll let you know. What have you been doing to my dog?”

Addressed in this tone, Tom thought it unnecessary to throw away politeness upon the newcomer.

“Killing him,” he answered shortly.

“What business had you to kill my dog?” demanded the other fiercely.

“It was your business to keep the brute locked up, where he wouldn’t do any one harm,” said Tom. “As you didn’t I was obliged to kill him.”

“I’ll flog you within an inch of your life,” said the other, with an oath.

“You’d better not try it,” said Tom coolly. “I suppose you think I ought to have let the dog bite Miss Somers.”

“He wouldn’t have bitten her.”

“He would. He was chasing her with that intention.”

“It was only in sport.”

“I suppose he was frothing at the mouth only in sport,” said Tom. “The dog was probably mad. You ought to thank me for killing him. He might have bitten you.”

“That don’t go down,” said the other coarsely. “It’s much too thin.”

“It’s true,” said Mary Somers, speaking for the first time.

“Of course you’ll stand up for your sweetheart,” said the butcher boy (for this was his business), “but that’s neither here nor there. I paid five dollars for that dog, and if he don’t pay me what I gave, I’ll beat him.”

“I shall do nothing of the sort,” said Tom quietly. “A dog like that ought to be killed, and no one has any right to let him run loose, risking the lives of people. The next time you get five dollars you’d better invest it better.”

“Then you won’t pay me the money?” exclaimed the other, in a passion. “I’ll break your head.”

“Come on then,” said Tom. “I’ve got something to say about that,” and he squared off scientifically.

“Oh, don’t fight with him, Mr. Temple—Tom,” said Mary Somers, much distressed. “He’s much stronger than you.”

“He’ll find that out soon enough, I’m thinking,” growled Tom’s big opponent.

This was no doubt true. Ben Miller was not only stouter and larger, but stronger than our hero. On the other hand he didn’t know how to use his strength. It was undisciplined brute force, and that was all. If he could have got Tom by his waist the latter would have been completely at his mercy, but our hero knew that well enough, and didn’t choose to allow it. He was a pretty fair boxer, and stood on his defense, calm and wary.

When Ben rushed in, thinking to seize him, he found himself greeted with two blows on the face, dealt in quick succession, one of which struck him on the nose, the other in the eye, the effect of both being to make his head spin.

“I’ll mash you for that,” he yelled in a frenzy of rage, but as he rushed on a second time he never thought of guarding his face. The consequence was a couple more blows, the other eye being assailed this time.

Ben was astonished. Indeed, I may well say he was astounded. He expected to “chaw up” his small antagonist at the first outset. Instead of that, there stood Tom cool and unhurt, while he could feel that his nose was bleeding, while both eyes were in a very uncomfortable condition. He stopped short and stared at Tom as well as he could through his injured optics.

“Where did you learn to fight?” he asked, rubbing his wounds.

“Of Professor Thompson,” said Tom.

“Who’s he?”

“He teaches boxing.”

“How did your fists get so hard?”

“They’re not very hard,” said Tom, “but they’re rather harder than your nose or eyes. Do you want any more?”

“Not just now,” said Ben. “I say, what’ll you take to teach me boxin’?”

“I shouldn’t dare to,” said Tom.

“Why not?”

“When you’d learned you could lick me easily.”

“Well, I wouldn’t,” said Ben. “I’m a rough customer, I expect, but you’re a trump, and you’ve got grit, I vow if you haven’t. There’s my hand, to show I don’t bear no malice.”

Tom offered his hand, though he feared there might be craft in the offer of friendship. But it was honestly meant. Ben was not altogether a brute, and he really felt respect for Tom’s pluck. He gave him a cordial pressure, and said:

“It’s all right, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Tom. “I hope your face doesn’t pain you.”

“Yes, it does, but no matter. It’ll soon be better.”

“Now,” said Tom, “I’m willing to pay you the five dollars you lost on the dog.”

“No,” said Ben. “I guess you’re right about his being an ugly brute. Maybe he was mad, as you say.”

“I feel sure of it,” said Tom. “Look at him.”

“Well, I’ll bury the poor brute. It wasn’t his fault he got mad.”

“Good-morning,” said Tom. “I’ll see you again about the boxing. Now I am going to accompany this young lady home.”

“You needn’t put yourself to so much trouble, Mr. Temple,” said Mary.

“It’s no trouble,” said Tom politely. “I see you are nervous. That’s only natural.”

“You have saved my life, Mr. Temple,” said Mary warmly. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”

“I’ll take that for granted,” said Tom. “I am going to ask a favor.”

“I shall be sure to grant it.”

“Then don’t call me Mr. Temple. I’m not used to that name from my friends. Call me Tom.”

“If you wish me to,” said Mary bashfully.

“Yes, I do. When you call me Mr. Temple, it makes me feel as if I were your uncle, or grandfather, or some one equally venerable.”

Mary laughed.

“Perhaps you’d like to have me call you Uncle Tom,” she said.

“That would be better than Mr. Temple,” said our hero, “but as there’s another well-known Uncle Tom, I would rather be called only Tom.”

“I’ll remember, Tom,” said Mary hesitatingly.

“That’s right,” said Tom with satisfaction.

They talked together pleasantly until they reached Mr. Davenport’s house. Imogene saw them coming from the front window where she was sitting, and her face grew dark with vexation and jealousy.