V.

"We don't allow drunken people in here," he said coldly, "you'll have to stay outside."

"I ain't drunk," cried Thomas, roused to action; "I'm blest if I am; I'm only unfortunate."

The man laughed loud and long, and called to another, "See here; here's a chap got off his train—not half seas over, you know, oh no! only he's unfortunate."

Thomas' face blazed in an instant. That he, Mr. Bang's man, who had filled one place for a good dozen years, and was saving and industrious, with no taste for the company of low-lived fellows and no leaning toward their habits, should be brought face to face with one of them in this unlucky moment of his life when courage was at its lowest ebb, seemed to him the cruelest blow of Fate, and it deprived him of what little remaining sense he had.

"If anyone says that to me again I'll pitch right into him," he shouted.

"Good—hurrah! he knows what's what!" cried the fellow, a stalwart lounger whose only interest had been in seeing the train come in and depart. When that was over, he had nothing else for his active mind to work upon, and he hailed with delight this new excitement. "Come on, fellows, this chap is determined to fight. So we won't disappoint him. You're a drunken, good-for-nothing sot," he cried in Thomas' face.

Thomas gave one plunge and struck the quarrelsome man squarely in the face.

"Take that, and that, and that," he cried, beside himself in a passion. Never in his life engaged in a quarrel involving blows, now that he was in one, it was purely delicious to give free rein to his anger, and for the first few moments he felt a man indeed.

The young fellow thus struck and two or three other men now closed around him, and he was soon occupied in warding off as best he might the shower of blows, kicks and cuffs that fell to his portion. The noise brought speedily to the spot, the depot officials, one or two farmers riding by, and all the boys in the vicinity.

"Stop—hold—I won't have any of that!" cried the ticket agent, puffing up in authority.

"Oh! won't you?" cried one of the men whose blood was up, and pounding away at Thomas, whom they had succeeded in getting to the ground.

"No, I won't," cried the ticket agent, "I'll have you all arrested."

"Who's going to do it, I'd like to know," asked another man derisively.

Meanwhile Thomas was shouting out his case, and succeeded in catching the ear of a farmer who sitting on the bags of meal in his wagon had paused to see what the trouble was about.

"It's my opinion," said the farmer deliberately, and stopping to clear his throat now and then with a sharp Hem! "that you want me to give you three chaps a poundin' that man, a taste of my whip, and it's also my opinion that I shall do it." With that he sprang from his wagon with surprising alertness considering he looked so old, and, whip in hand, he advanced upon the crowd.

They all fell back. He had "whip" in his eye, and beside, every one knew Jacob Bassett, and that there was no reason to think he would fail to do as he said.

Before all could desert Thomas, however, the last man had the benefit of the leather lash, and he ran off rubbing his leg, and uttering several ejaculations as if he had received enough.

"My man," said Farmer Bassett, tucking up his long whip under his arm and helping Thomas to his feet, "now what's the matter with you?"

"I'm in trouble," said Thomas briefly.

"So I should think," said the old farmer with a wise nod.

"I don't care about myself," said Thomas not regarding certain flapping portions of his once neat suit, nor mindful of the other signs of his predicament, "but it's young master and those other boys who were left to my care." At mention of them, he became helpless once more, and began to bemoan his fate.

"Hah!" said the old farmer. He had boys of his own, not so very long ago either, although he looked so old, and though they were all but one out in the world and promising to be successful men, his heart went back to the time when they were little chaps and running about the farm.

The one who was not out in the world was safe at rest from all temptation and suffering. There was a tiny grave on the hill-top back of the old homestead, and here the farmer often stole in an odd moment, and Betsey his wife went of an afternoon when the work was done up, for a quiet time with her darling—the little Richard, so early folded away from her care, and Sundays they always went together to get peace and resignation for the coming week.

"What's the trouble with the boys?" asked the farmer, quickly.

Thomas looked into his face and the first gleam of hope he had known, now radiated his own countenance. Here was a man who evidently meant to help, and that right speedily.

"Oh sir," he cried, "they're over at Sachem Hill, and locked out of their house."

"Over at Sachem Hill and locked out of their house," repeated the farmer. "How did that happen?"

"'Twas me," cried Thomas miserably, and then he laid bare his confession.

Farmer Bassett said never a word, only as Thomas finished, "Come," he commanded, and motioning him to the green wagon, he climbed in, and seated himself again on his bags.

"I'm goin' to stop a minute an' tell Betsey to put us up a few things, an' while she's doin' it, I'll hitch into the sleigh. I took the wagon to mill, as 'twas poor draggin' along one piece o' bare ground—an' then, says I, we'll be off for them youngsters of yours."

Thomas gave a long breath of relief—and the wagon rolled on in silence till it came to a stop before a large red house.