"You daren't climb into the hay-loft."

"Daren't I?" said Tommy, scornfully. "You see if I don't." And he shinned easily up the ladder.

The hay-loft was cool and fragrant—a welcome contrast to the glaring yard.

"Come up too," said Tommy.

Madge's black eyes flashed.

"I will," she said, clambering up the steps.

Tommy stooped down and gave her a hand.

"Good girl," he said, approvingly. Then he laid his hand on her lips, and they crouched back into the shade.

For into the barn stepped one of the farm labourers.

"We mustn't get found out, for the man here is an awful beast of a chap," said Tommy, in a low whisper.

The labourer had not perceived them and was soon bent over a machine chopping up fodder for the cattle.

His back was towards them, and he breathed heavily, for the work was hard. His red neck formed a tempting target, and Tommy was an accurate shot. Moreover, his pockets were full of peas.

He took a careful aim and let fly, and there was a hoarse exclamation from the man at the wheel.

Tommy drew back into shelter, where Madge was curled up in the new hay.

"Got him rippingly," said Tommy, "plumb in the back of the neck."

Madge looked a little reproachful.

"O Tommy, it must have hurt him dreadfully."

Tommy chuckled.

"'Spect it did tickle him a bit," he said, looking cautiously round the corner.

The man had resumed work and the hum of the wheel filled the barn.

Tommy selected another portion of the man's anatomy and let fly a little harder.

There was a shout and a sound of muttered exclamation in the barn below them, as Tommy backed into the hay with quiet enjoyment.

As they listened they could hear the man stumping round the barn, swearing softly, and presently he was joined by some one else, for a loud voice broke into his grumbling.

"What the dickens are you doing, Jake?"

"Darned if I know," said the man. "On'y there bees summat as hits I unnever I goes at the wheel, master."

"That's the farmer himself just come in," said Tommy burrowing deeper into the hay.

They could hear him speaking.

"Get on wi' your work, Jake, an' don't get talkin' your nonsense to me, man."

The man grumbled.

"Darned if it are nonsense, master," he said. "Just you wait till you be hit yoursen—right in the bark o' your neck, too."

"O Tommy, do hit him—the farmer I mean."

Tommy shook his head.

"It wouldn't do," he said.

Madge looked at him with a challenge in her eyes.

"You daren't," she whispered.

Tommy flushed.

"We should be caught."

"Oh—then you daren't?"

Tommy was silent, and the farmer's foot was heavy in the barn below.

"You daren't," repeated Madge.

Tommy looked at her, with bright eyes.

"All right," he said. "If you want to see, look round the corner, only don't let him cob you."

Then he drew back a little from the opening and took a flying shot, finding a target in one of the farmer's rather conspicuous ears.

He gave a sudden yell, and his pale eyes seemed to stand out from his head, as he looked amazedly round the building.

The man at the wheel spat into his hands, with a quiet grin.

"Darned if they ain't hit you, master," he said, grinding with some zest.

"My word, they shall pay for it," shouted the farmer, conning the situation with frowning brows.

Then he stepped to the ladder.

"See as they don't get out, Jake, if I send anyone down," he said loudly, and Jake grunted an assent.

Madge was trembling.

"O Tommy, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. Tell him it's all my fault."

"It's all right," said Tommy cheerfully, "He—he won't dare to touch me."

A pair of red cheeks appeared above the floor of the loft, and the pale eyes looked threateningly into the gloom.

In a minute they encountered Tommy's brown ones, bright and defiant.

The farmer grunted.

"Bees you there, eh?" he asked.

Tommy grinned.

"All right, you needn't get shirty," he said.

"Shirty, eh? I wunt get shirty. Don't you make no mistake. Jake!"

"Ah!"

"My stick down there?"

"Ah."

"Will you 'ave it up 'ere or down yon, young man?"

Tommy flushed hotly, and Madge held his arm.

"You daren't hit me," he said.

The farmer laughed.

"You've bin trespassin' more'n once, young man, wi' your catapult an' your sharp tongue, an' now I'm goin' to 'ave my bit. Up 'ere or down yon?"

Tommy temporized.

"Let us come down," he said, eyeing the door warily.

"Young miss, you get down first," said the farmer.

Madge obeyed with pale cheeks, and stood, half in sunlight, at the door.

"Jake!"

"Ah!"

"See the young rip don't get out."

"Ah!"

Tommy clambered down, standing between the two men. Then he made a bolt for freedom, dodging Jake's half-hearted attempt at resistance.

But the farmer held him as he recoiled from Jake and jerked him over a truss of hay.

And for the next few minutes Tommy was very uncomfortable.

"Oh, you cad, you cad, you beastly, putrid cad."

Tommy spoke between his teeth at each stroke of the farmer's stick.

The man released him in a minute or two, and Tommy rushed at him with both fists. The farmer laughed.

"Guess you won't come knockin' about this barn again in a hurry," he said as he pushed him easily into the yard and closed the great door with a thud.

For a moment Tommy stood, white with anger. Then he thought of Madge, who had been a spectator of the tragedy. But she was nowhere to be seen, and he walked gloomily down the lane.

Now Madge, with a beating heart and a stricken conscience, had fled for help, running blindly down the lane, with the idea of securing the first ally who should appear.

And she almost ran into the arms of the pale boy from the Grange.

"Hullo, what's the matter?" he asked, looking at Madge curiously.

Madge blurted out the story, with eager eyes.

'Could he help her? Was there anybody near who could save Tommy from a probable and violent death?'

The pale boy looked at her admiringly, as he considered the question.

Then,

"My father knows the man—he owes my father some money, I think. I'll see if I can do anything."

They ran down the lane together, and doing so encountered Tommy, flushed and ruffled.

"O, Tommy"—Madge began, but stopped suddenly, at the look on Tommy's face.

For to Tommy this seemed the lowest depth of his degradation, that the pale boy should be a witness of his discomfiture.

He looked at them angrily, and then, turning on his heel, struck out across the fields, the iron entering deeply into his soul.

Youth is imitative, and Tommy had often heard the phrase.

"I—I don't care a damn," he said.

For a moment he felt half-frightened, but the birds were still singing in the hedge, and, in the next field, the reapers still chattered gaily at their work.

Moreover, the phrase seemed both consolatory and emphatic.

"I don't care a damn," he repeated, slowly, climbing the stile, into the next field.

Said a voice from behind the hedge:

"Girl in it?"

Tommy looked round, and encountered a tall young man in tweeds. He was looking at him, with amused eyes.

"I—I don't know what you mean," said Tommy.

The young man laughed.

"They're the devil, girls are," he observed.

Tommy was puzzled and eyed the stranger cautiously, thinking him the handsomest man he had seen.

Nor, in a way, was he at fault, for the young man was straight, and tall, and comely.

But there was something in the eyes—a lack of honest lustre—and in the lips—too sensuous for true manliness, that would have warned Tommy, had he been older, or even in a different frame of mind. Just now, however, a friend was welcome, and Tommy told his tale, as they strolled through the fields together.

Presently,

"You belong to Camslove Grange, don't you?" asked the stranger.

"I did."

"And will again, I suppose, eh?"

Tommy looked doubtful, and the young man laughed.

"Sorry—I ought to have put it the other way round, for it will belong to you."

Tommy shook his head.

"I don't think so," he said. "Some other Johnny's got it, you see."

The young man looked at his watch.

"My name's Morris—I live at Borcombe House—you'd better come and feed with me."

"Thanks, I'd like to, awfully."

"That's right—the old man will be glad to see you, and we'll have a game of billiards."

"I can't play."

"Never mind. I'll teach you—good game, pills."

Squire Morris was cordial from the grip of his hand to the moisture in his baggy eyes.

"The heir of Camslove," he said. "Well, well, I am so glad to see you, dear boy, so very glad to see you. You must come often."

For a moment a misgiving arose in Tommy's heart.

"Did you know my father?" he asked, as the old man held his hand.

"Yes, yes; not as well as I would have liked to know him, by no means as well as I would have liked to know him—but I knew him, oh yes. I knew him well enough."

Tommy felt reassured, and the three entered the old hall, hung with trophies of gun and rod and chase.

"A bachelor's abode," laughed the young man. "We're wedded to sport—no use for girls here, eh dad?"

The squire laughed wheezily.

"The dog," he chuckled, "the young dog."

Presently the squire led them to the dining room, where a bountiful meal was spread—so bountiful that Tommy, already predisposed for friendship, rapidly thawed into intimacy.

Both the squire and his son seemed intent on amusing him, and Tommy took the evident effort for the unaccomplished deed—for, in truth, the stories that they told were almost unintelligible to him, though, to the others, they appeared humorous enough.

Presently the squire grew even more affectionate. He had always loved boys, he said, and Tommy was not to forget it. He was a stern enemy, but a good friend, and Tommy was not to forget it. He would always be proud to shake hands with Tommy, wherever he met him, and Tommy was to keep this in remembrance.

Presently he retired to the sofa, with a cigar, which he was continually dropping.

The young man winked, genially, at Tommy.

"He always gets sleepy about this time," he explained.

"Sleepy?" interrupted his father, "not a bit of it. See here," and he filled the three glasses once more from the decanter.

"To the master of Camslove Grange," he cried, lifting his glass. And they drank the health, standing.

As Tommy walked home over the starlit fields, the scene came back to him.

The old man, wheezy but gracious, his son flushed and handsome, the panelled walls and their trophies, and the sparkling glasses—a brave picture.

True—he was still sore, but the episode of the farmer and his stick seemed infinitely remote, and Madge and the pale boy, ghosts of an era past: for had he not drunk of the good red wine, and kept company with gentlemen?