Tom Blount started up in bed confused and staring. He was only half awake, and it was some time before he could realise that it was his cousin, who had come back from his trip boisterous and elated, and who had been playing him some trick as he lay there asleep.

“Well, what are you staring at, old torpid?” cried Sam, as he now began to divest himself slowly of his coat and vest.

“I – that is – have been asleep,” stammered Tom.

“Asleep? Yes, and snoring loud enough to bring the plaster off the ceiling. Why, you must have been gorging yourself like a boa-constrictor, and been sleeping it off. Come, wake up, bumpkin, you’re half stupid now.”

“I’m quite awake, Sam. Had a pleasant day? I say, were you sitting on my head?”

“Was I doing what?” cried Sam. “No, I wasn’t; but you want some one to sit upon you to bring you to your senses. Wake up; I want to talk.”

Tom tried to rub the last traces of his drowsiness out of his eyes, and now sat up watching his cousin, who, after taking off collar and tie, unfastened his braces, and then, as if moved by a sudden thought, he tied the aforesaid suspenders about his waist. Then, grinning to himself, he stooped down, untied his Oxford shoes, pushed them off, took up one, and shouting “Play!” bowled it sharply at Tom where he sat up in bed on the other side of the room.

It was a bad shot, for the shoe whizzed by the lad’s side, and struck the scroll-work of the iron bedstead with a sharp rap, and fell on the pillow.

“Play again!” cried Sam, and he sent the second shoe spinning with a vicious energy at the still confused and sleepy boy.

This time the aim was excellent, and Tom was too helpless to avoid the missile, which struck him heavily, the edge of the heel catching him on the chin, and making him wince.

“Well played – well bowled!” cried Sam, laughing boisterously. “I say, bumpkin, that’s the way to wake you up.”

Tom’s face grew dark, and the hand which he held to his injured face twitched as if the fingers were trying to clench themselves and form a fist for their owner’s defence; but the boy did not stir, only sat looking at his cousin, who now struck an attitude, made two or three feints, and then dashed forward hitting out sharply, catching Tom in the chest, and knocking him backward so heavily that it was his crown now that struck the scroll-work of the bed.

“That’s your sort, countryman,” cried Sam. “How do you like that style?”

“Don’t! Be quiet, will you,” said the boy in a suffocated voice, as he sat up once more.

“What for?” cried Sam. “Here, get up and have a round with the gloves. I feel as if I can hit to-night. It’s the rowing. My arms are as hard as wood.”

“No; be quiet,” said Tom huskily. “They’ll hear you down-stairs.”

“Let ’em,” said Sam, chuckling to himself as he dragged open a drawer, and brought out a couple of pairs of boxing-gloves, two of which he hurled with all his might like a couple of balls at his cousin’s head.

But the boy was wide-awake now, and caught each glove in turn, letting it fall afterwards upon the bed before him.

“Now then, shove ’em on,” cried Sam, as he thrust his own hands into the gloves he held. “Look sharp, or I’ll knock you off the bed.”

“No, no,” cried Tom; “don’t be so absurd. How can I when I’m undressed?”

“Put on your trousers then. D’yer hear? Be quick now, or you’ll have it.”

“You’ll have uncle hear you directly if you don’t be quiet.”

“You’ll have him hear you go off that bed lump if you don’t jump out and get ready. Now then, are you going to begin?”

“No,” said Tom sturdily. “I’m going to sleep.”

He snuggled down in his place and drew the clothes up to his ear, but they did not stay there, for Sam began his attack, bounding forward and bringing the padded gloves thud, thud, down upon his cousin’s head, as if bent upon driving it down into the pillow.

Tom sat up again quickly with his teeth set, and his eyes flashing.

“Will you be quiet?” he cried in a low, half-suffocated voice.

“Will you put on those gloves?” cried Sam.

“No; I’m not going to make such a fool of myself at this time of night,” said Tom.

“Lie down then,” cried Sam, and hitting out again cleverly he knocked his cousin back on to the pillow, following it up with other blows, each having the same result, for Tom struggled up again and again.

“Now, will you get up?” cried Sam.

“No,” said Tom hoarsely; and down he went once more.

“You’d better jump up and do as I tell you, or it will be the worse for you.”

“You’d better leave me alone before you get my temper up.”

“Temper, bumpkin? Yes, you’d better show your teeth. Take that, and that, and that.”

Tom did take them – heavy blows delivered with the soft gloves, but all falling hard enough to inflict a good deal of pain, and make the boy draw his breath hard.

“That’s your sort,” continued Sam, who danced about by the side of the bed, skilfully delivering his blows upon his defenceless cousin, and revelling in the pleasure he found in inflicting pain. “That’ll knock some sense into your thick head, and so will that, and that, and that, and – Oh!”

Sam had gone too far, for after trying all he could to avoid the blows, Tom suddenly gathered himself together and shot out of bed full at his cousin’s breast, sending him down heavily in a sitting position first and then backwards, so that his head struck heavily against the iron leg of his own bedstead.

Then, thoroughly up now, Tom flung himself upon his cousin, tore off his gloves, and stuffed them under his bed-clothes, and was looking for the others, when he was sent down in turn by Sam.

“You savage beast!” cried the latter. “I’ll teach you to do that;” and flinging himself on Tom’s chest, he nipped him with his knees, and began to belabour him with his fists.

Then a fierce struggle began. Sam was jerked off, and for a few moments there was an angry up-and-down wrestle, ending in Sam becoming the undermost, with Tom occupying his position in turn, and holding his cousin down just as the bedroom door was opened, and Mr James Brandon entered in his dressing-gown, and holding up a candle above his head.

“What is the meaning of all this?” he cried angrily, as Tom sprang up and darted into bed.

“Yes, you may well say that, father,” cried Sam, rising slowly, and beginning to try and fasten the neck of his shirt, but vainly, for the button-hole was torn and the button off. “If that country wild beast is to stop here I shan’t sleep in the same room.”

Sam’s father turned to Tom, who now lay in bed staring, mentally stunned by the tone his cousin had taken.

“What is the meaning of this?” he cried. “How dare you, sir!”

“Why, he began at me, uncle, while I was asleep, and – ”

“Silence, sir! I will not have the calm and repose of my house disturbed by such disgraceful conduct. Past twelve o’clock, you ought to be asleep, and here is a regular riot in the place.”

“There, I told you how it would be,” said Sam in an ill-used, remonstrative tone.

“Oh!” exclaimed Tom, but no more, for a hot feeling of indignation forced him to be silent, stung as he was by the injustice of the disturbance being laid at his door.

“Oh! indeed!” cried his uncle. “It is scandalous, sir. Out of charity and compassion for your forlorn state, I give you a home and brilliant prospects, and you set yourself to work in every way possible to make me repent my kindness. It is abominable. You make friends with the servants; you are idle and stupid and careless beyond belief; and when you come back at night to my peaceful quiet home, you must introduce your low, blackguardly habits, and begin quarrelling and fighting with your cousin.”

“I can’t speak – I won’t speak,” said Tom to himself, as he set his teeth hard. “And as for Sam, I’ll – ”

He had not time to say to himself what he would do to his cousin, for his uncle had worked himself up now to deliver a sounding tirade upon his base, disgraceful conduct, finding plenty of epithets suitable as he considered for the occasion, and making the poor lad writhe as he lay there, hot and panting beneath the undeserved reproaches till he was quite out of breath; while, to make matters worse, Sam put in a word or two in a murmuring tone – “He knew how it would be,” and “It was of no use for him to speak,” and the like. And all the time Tom’s indignation made him feel more stubbornly determined to hold his peace.

“It’s of no use for me to complain,” he thought. “Uncle hates me, and he will not believe, and it’s too hard to bear.”

“Once for all, sir,” cried his uncle, “remember this – if you stay here there must be a marked improvement in your conduct, both as to your work at the office and your behaviour in my house. I won’t have it – do you hear? I won’t have it. That sulky way too won’t go down with me. Here you, Sam, undress and get to bed, and if he interferes with you again, call me at once; but if I do come up, unwilling as I should be, I shall feel called upon, out of my duty to his mother, to read him a very severe lesson, such as his schoolmaster should have read him years ago. Now silence, both of you; and as for you, sir, bear in mind what I have said, for, as you ought to know by this time, I am a man of my word.”

The door was shut loudly, and the resounding steps were heard, followed by the banging of the bedroom door on the next floor.

“There, now you know, bumpkin,” said Sam, with a sneering laugh.

Tom sat up in bed as if a spring had been touched.

“You sneak!” he cried.

“What?”

“I say you sneak – you miserable, cowardly sneak!”

“Look here,” cried Sam, “you say another word and I’ll call the guv’nor, and you know what he meant; he’ll give you a good licking, and serve you right.”

“Oh!” muttered Tom between his teeth, while his cousin went on quietly undressing.

“That would soon bring you to your senses. I wanted to be friendly with you, and have just a bit of a game, but you must turn nasty, and it just serves you right.”

“Oh!” muttered Tom again.

“I thought that would quiet you, my lad. He’d bring up his old rattan, and loosen that stiff hide of yours. There, go to sleep, bumpkin, and think yourself lucky you got off so well.”

A minute later the candle was extinguished, and Sam jumped into bed, to fall asleep directly, but Tom lay with his head throbbing till the pale dawn began to creep into the room; and then only did he fall into a troubled doze, full of unpleasant dreams one after the other, till it was time to rise, get his breakfast alone, and hurry off to the office. For breakfast was late, and aunt, uncle, and cousin did not put in an appearance till long after Tom had climbed upon his stool in Gray’s Inn.

Chapter Four

That day and many following Tom sat over his books or copying, musing upon the injustice of the treatment he was receiving, and feeling more and more the misery of his new life. He looked with envy at nearly every boy he met, and thought of the happy, independent life they seemed to lead. But he worked hard all the same.

“I won’t give up,” he would say through his set teeth. “Uncle shall see that if I’m not clever I can persevere, and master what I have to learn.”

But in spite of his determination he did not progress very fast, for the simple reason that he expected to learn in a few months the work of many years.

The weeks did not pass without plenty of unpleasant encounters with his cousin, while pretty well every day there was a snubbing or downright bullying from his uncle.

“But never you mind, Mr Tom,” Pringle would say; “things always come right in the end.”

One of Tom’s greatest troubles was his home life, and the evident aversion shown to him by his aunt. She had received him coldly and distantly at the first, and her manner did not become warmer as the months wore on. Possibly she had once been a sweet, amiable woman, but troubles with her husband and son had produced an acidity of temper and habit of complaining which were not pleasant for those with whom she lived. Her husband escaped, from the fact that she held him in fear, while Sam was too much idolised to receive anything but the fondest attentions.

Tom’s perceptions were keen enough, and he soon saw for himself that his uncle repented his generosity in taking him into his home; while his aunt’s feeling for him was evidently one of jealousy, as if his presence was likely to interfere with her darling’s prospects.

She resented his being there more and more; and though Tom tried hard to win her love and esteem, he found at the end of six months that he was as far from his object as ever.

“I’m only in the way there,” he often said to himself; “I wish I could live always here at the office.”

But as he thought this he looked round with a slight shiver, and thought of how dreary it would be shut up there with the law-books, tin boxes, and dusty papers, and he gave up the idea.

Often of a night it was like a temptation to him – that intense longing to be free; and he would sit with a book before him, but his mind wandering far away, following the adventures of boys of his own age who had gone away to seek their fortunes, and if they had not found all they sought, had at least achieved some kind of success.

And how grand it would be, he thought, with his cheeks flushing, to be independent, and work his own way without encountering day by day his uncle’s sour sneers and reproaches, his aunt’s cold looks, and his cousin’s tyranny.

“I could make my way, I know I could,” he thought, and the outlook grew day by day more rosy. Those were pleasant paths, he told himself, that he wanted to tread, and it never occurred to him that if he went among strangers they might be harder than his uncle.

But the outcome of these musings was always the same: there was the stern figure of Duty rising before him to remind him of his promise to his mother, and with his brow knitting, his hands would clench beneath table or desk as he softly muttered to himself —

“I’m going to be a lawyer, and I will succeed.”

But it has been written by a wise man, “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will,” and Tom Blount was soon to find out its truth.

Matters had been going very badly at Mornington Crescent, and the boy’s life was harder than ever to bear, for, presuming upon his patience, Sam Brandon was more tyrannical than ever. Words failing to sting sufficiently, he had often had recourse to blows, and these Tom had borne patiently, till, to his cousin’s way of thinking, he was about as contemptible a coward as ever existed.

One morning at the office Sam was seated opposite to his cousin writing, Pringle was busily employed in the other room, and Tom was putting stamps on some letters, when his eye lit upon one standing edgewise against a gum-bottle between him and his cousin.

Just then Mr Brandon bustled in looking very stern and angry, and he gave a sharp look round the office. Then his eyes lit upon Tom and his task.

“What letters are those?” he said.

“The tithe notices, sir, you told me to fill up and direct from the book,” replied Tom.

“Humph! yes, quite right. Oh, by the way, Samuel, did you post that letter to Mr Wilcox yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes, father,” said Sam promptly; and as he raised his eyes he saw his cousin’s gazing at the letter standing on edge between them.

Sam turned pale as he now met Tom’s keen look.

It was all momentary, in the interval of Mr Brandon’s first words and his next question. “Then how is it that Mr Wilcox has not received it, and been on to me at home full of anxiety about not having my answer to an important question?”

“I don’t know, father,” said Sam sharply.

“Are you sure you posted the letter?”

“Oh yes, father. No; I recollect now: some one came in on business, to ask for you, and I told Tom Blount here to take it directly. Oh!” he cried, “I say, it is too bad. Why, you didn’t take it, Tom. Here’s the letter, father, all the time.”

He took up and held out the unfortunate missive, shaking his head at Tom the while.

“You never told me to take any letter yesterday,” said Tom quietly.

“Oh – my! What a lie, to be sure!” cried Sam, as if perfectly astounded. “Pringle must have heard me at the time.”

“Of course,” said his father, speaking with his lips tightly compressed, so that his voice sounded muttering and indistinct. Then aloud – “Here, Pringle.”

Scroop went Pringle’s stool, and he hurried in. “You call, sir?”

“Yes. What time was it when you heard Mr Samuel tell his cousin to go out and post a letter?”

“Never heard anything of the kind, sir, at any time.”

“That will do,” said his employer.

“Row on,” thought Pringle. “I hope he isn’t going to catch it again.”

Then as the door closed Mr Brandon, whose countenance was flushed and his eyes angry-looking, turned upon his son.

“Do you think I am blind, sir?” he said sharply.

“No, father: I don’t know what you mean.”

“Then I’ll tell you, sir. I mean that you have told me a miserable falsehood – a disgraceful falsehood.”

“I haven’t, father. I told Tom here to take the letter;” and he gave his cousin a fierce look which evidently said, “Say I told you, or it will be the worse for you,” and he accompanied the look with a sharp kick under the desk, which took effect on Tom’s shin, rousing him to a pitch of fury and obstinate determination.

“Oh, you haven’t, eh?” said Mr Brandon. “Tom, did your cousin tell you to post that letter?”

“Yes, you know I did,” cried Sam.

“No, uncle.”

“I did. You’ve forgotten it, or else you’re saying that out of spite,” cried Sam desperately.

“I haven’t forgotten it, and I’m not saying what I did out of spite,” said Tom firmly. “Indeed I spoke the truth, uncle.”

“Yes; I believe you,” said Mr Brandon.

“Shall I go and post the letter now, sir?”

“No; it is too late. Here, Samuel, come into my room.”

Mr Brandon walked into his room, while Sam got down slowly from his stool, leaning over toward his cousin the while.

“I’ll serve you out for this,” he whispered, and then crossed to his father’s room.

There was a low murmur of voices from within as soon as the door was closed; but that door fitted too closely for any of the conversation to be heard. Not that Tom was listening, for he was feeling a kind of pity for his cousin’s position, and more warmly towards his uncle for his simple act of justice than he had felt for months.

Just then there was a faint creaking sound, and looking behind him, it was to see that the inner office door was open, and Pringle standing there framed as it were, and going through a pantomimic performance expressive of his intense delight, grimacing, rubbing his hands, and laughing silently. Then he gesticulated and pointed toward the private office, and rubbed his hands again, till there was a sound in the private room, and he darted back and closed the door.

All this was meant for Tom’s amusement, and as congratulation; but the boy did not feel in the least elated, but sat waiting for his cousin’s return, fully intending to offer him his hand and whisper, “I am sorry – but you should have told the truth.”

A good half-hour passed before Sam came out, looking very red in the face; but when he took his place on his stool, Tom did not reach across to offer his hand, for his cousin’s face repelled him, and he felt that something would come of all this – what he could not tell. Still there was one gratifying thing left: his uncle had taken his word before that of his cousin, and this little thing comforted him during the remainder of that unpleasant day.

Before the afternoon was half over Mr Brandon came to his door and called Sam, who went in, and then took his hat and went away, to Tom’s great relief, for it was far from pleasant to be sitting at a double desk facing one who kept on darting scowling looks full of threatenings.

An hour later Mr Brandon left, after sending Pringle upon some errand, and for the rest of the afternoon the boy had the office to himself.

Chapter Five

In due time Tom locked up the safe and strong-room, saw that no important papers were left about, and started for Mornington Crescent in anything but the best of spirits, for he did not look forward with any feeling of pleasure to his next meeting with his cousin. Upon reaching home he found from divers signs that company was expected to dinner; for the cloth was laid for five, the best glass was on the table, there were flowers and fruit, and sundry fumes from the kitchen ascended into the hall, suggesting extra preparations there as well.

Tom had hardly reached this point when his cousin came out of the library scowling.

“Here, bumpkin,” he cried, “you’re to look sharp and put on your best things. It’s not my doing, I can tell you, but the pater says you’re to come in to dinner.”

“Who’s coming?” said Tom.

“What’s that to you? Pretty cheeky that. I suppose you ought to have been asked whether we might have company.”

“Oh, no,” said Tom, good-temperedly; “I only wanted to know.”

“Did you? Well, you won’t know till dinnertime. Now then, don’t stand staring there, but go and wash that dirty face, and see if you can’t come down with your hands and nails fit to be seen.”

“Clean as ever yours are,” was on Tom’s lips; but he remembered his cousin’s trouble of that morning, pitied him, and felt that he had some excuse for feeling irritable and strange.

“Well, go on; look sharp,” said Sam, manoeuvring so as to get behind his cousin.

“All right; I’m going,” replied Tom, who was suspicious of something coming after his cousin’s promise of revenge; and he wanted to remain facing any danger that might be threatening. But he felt that he could not back away, it would look so cowardly, and, daring all, he went slowly to the pegs to hang up his overcoat.

“Get on, will you,” cried Sam; “don’t be all night. We don’t want to wait for you.”

“Oh, I shan’t be long,” said Tom quietly; “I’ll soon be down.”

He was on the mat at the foot of the stairs as he said this, conscious the while that Sam was close behind; and he was in the act of stepping up, when he received so savage a kick that he fell forwards on to the stairs, striking his nose violently, and creating a sensation as if that member had suddenly been struck off.

“You got it that time, did you?” said Sam, with a satisfied chuckle. “You generally play the wriggling eel, but I was too quick for you, my lad.”

Sam said no more, for his triumph was only short-lived. He was looking triumphantly at his cousin as the lad got up heavily, feeling his nose to find out whether it was there. The next instant Sam was feeling his own, for he had at last gone too far. Tom had borne till he could bear no more; and in the anguish of that kick he had forgotten company, dressing for dinner, everything but the fact that Sam was there, and quick as lightning he struck him full in the face.

This satisfied him – acting like a discharging rod for his electric rage?

Nothing of the kind: there was a supreme feeling of pleasure in striking that blow. It, was the outlet of any amount of dammed-up suffering; and seeing nothing now but his cousin’s malignant face, Tom followed up that first blow with a second, till, throwing his remaining strength into a blow intended for the last, it took effect, and Sam went over backwards, flung out his right hand to save himself, and caught and brought down a great blue china jar, which shivered to pieces on the floor, covering Sam with fragments, and giving him the aspect of having been terribly cut, for his nose was bleeding freely.

So was Tom’s, as he caught a glimpse of himself in the glass of the hall table, while his lip had received a nasty cut, and in the struggle the stains had been pretty well distributed over his face.

But he had no time to think of that, for the crash had alarmed those up-stairs as well as down, and hurrying steps were heard.

The first to arrive was the cook, who, on reaching the head of the kitchen stairs, uttered a kind of choking gasp as she saw Sam lying apparently insensible among the ruins of the china jar.

“Oh, Master Tom, what have you been and done?” she cried.

“Been and done?” came like an angry echo from the landing above, where Mr Brandon had arrived. But before he could say more there was a piercing shriek, he was pushed aside, and Mrs Brandon rushed down the remaining stairs crying wildly —

“Oh, my darling boy! my darling boy! He has killed him – he has killed him!”

She dropped upon her knees by where Sam lay, apparently insensible; but uttered a cry of pain and sprang up again, for the broken china was full of awkward corners.

“Oh, James! James! look what that wicked wretch has done!”

“Look, woman! Do you think I’m blind? That vase was worth fifty pounds, if it was worth a penny.”

“I – I wasn’t thinking about the ch-ch-ch-china,” sobbed Mrs Brandon, “but about my darling Sam. Oh, my boy! my boy! don’t say you’re dead!”

“Don’t you make an exhibition of yourself before the servants,” cried her husband angrily. “Here you, sir: I always knew that you’d make me repent. How came you to break that vase?”

“I didn’t, sir,” said Tom quietly; “Sam caught hold of it as he was falling.”

Sam was lying insensible the moment before, but this was reviving.

“I didn’t, father; he knocked me down, and then seized the vase and dashed it at me.”

“Yes, yes,” cried Mrs Brandon, as Sam lapsed into insensibility once more. “The wretch has had a spite against his cousin ever since he has been here. Oh, my darling, darling boy!”

Sam uttered a low groan which made his mother shriek and fling herself down by him again.

“Oh, Mary! cook!” she cried, “help – help!”

“Yes, mum,” said the former; “shall I bring a dustpan and brush, and take up the bits?”

“No, no! Water – sponge – help!”

“Indeed, indeed, I did not break the vase,” pleaded Tom, as his uncle suddenly caught him by the collar and drew a gold-headed malacca cane from the umbrella-stand.

“I’ll soon see about that,” said Mr Brandon, with a fierce drawing-in of the breath.

“Yes; beat him, beat him well, James, the wretch, the cruel wretch, and then turn him out of the house.”

“Don’t you interfere,” cried Mr Brandon, with a snap. Then to Tom – “I suppose you’ll say you were not fighting?”

“Yes, sir, I was fighting; but Sam began at me, and all because I wouldn’t screen him to-day.”

“Hah! never mind that,” said Mr Brandon.

“Don’t beat me, sir,” pleaded Tom, excitedly. “I can’t bear it.”

“You’ll have to bear it, my fine fellow. Here, come into the library.”

“Yes, James, beat the wretch well,” cried Mrs Brandon. “Oh, my darling, does it hurt you very much?”

“Oh!” groaned Sam, and his mother shrieked; while a struggle was going on between Tom and his uncle, the boy resisting with all his might.

“He has killed him! he has killed him!” sobbed Mrs Brandon; “and you stand there, cook, doing nothing.”

“Well, mum, what can I do? I’m wanted down-stairs. Them soles is a-burning in the frying-pan. You can smell ’em up here.”

“Yes; nice preparations for company,” said Mr Brandon, stopping to pant, for Tom had seized the plinth at the foot of the balustrade and held on with all his might. “Go down in the kitchen, cook, and see to the dinner.”

The cook turned to go, but stopped short and turned back.

“Oh, my darling! my darling!” cried Mrs Brandon.

“Oh-h-h-h!” groaned Sam.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said cook, speaking very loudly, “but please you ain’t going to whip Mr Tom, are you?”

“Silence, woman! Go down to your kitchen!” roared her master.

“Yes, sir – directly, sir; but Mr Sam’s allus at him, and he begun it to-night, for I heared him.”

“Will you go down and mind your own business, woman?”

“Yes, sir; but I can’t bear to see you lay your hand on that poor boy, as ain’t done nothing to deserve it, and I will speak out, so there.”

“Silence, woman!”

“No, sir, nor I won’t silence neither; and don’t you please call me woman, because I won’t take it from nobody, not for no wages. I behaves respectful to you and missus, and expect the same, so there.”

“Cook, you leave at a month’s end,” cried Mrs Brandon. “Oh, Sam, Sam, speak to your broken-hearted mother.”

“Cert’ny, mum, and very glad to go,” said cook, who was working herself up into a passion. “To-night if you like. No, I won’t; I’ll go now, as soon as I’ve packed my boxes; and if Mary’s the girl I take her for, she’ll go too, and not stand here sweeping up your nasty old china.”

“Am I to take you by the shoulders, woman, and bundle you down-stairs?” roared Mr Brandon.

“No, sir, you ain’t. Just you dare to touch me, that’s all; and what’s more, you ain’t a-going to beat Master Tom, so there now. I wouldn’t stand here and see him punished for what he don’t deserve. It’s all that Mr Sam, who’s ma’s spoilt him, and indulged him, till he’s grown into a nasty, overbearing, cigarette-smoking wretch, as treats servants as if they was the dirt under his feet.”

“Fanny,” cried the lawyer, who felt that he was losing dignity in an unequal struggle, “send this woman down-stairs. Now, sir, you let go of that balustrade and come here.”

“No,” cried Tom, between his teeth; “you shan’t beat me for nothing. It was all Sam.”

“Come here!” roared his uncle, making a savage drag at the boy, which was intercepted by cook forcing herself between, and trying to shelter him.

“You shan’t beat him, not while I’m here,” she cried.

“He is not going to beat him,” said a quiet, firm, grave voice; and all started to see that “the company,” who had been standing quite unobserved on the upper landing, a silent spectator of the scene, was now coming down.

“Oh, Richard!” cried Mrs Brandon; “look here! The wretch – the wretch!”

“Yes, he does look a pretty object certainly,” said the visitor. “Here you, sir, get up and go to your room, and wash yourself. Don’t lie groaning there.”

“Oh – oh – oh!” cried Mrs Brandon, hysterically, “I didn’t mean Sam.”

“If you’d go and stop in the drawing-room, Richard, and not interfere, I should feel obliged.”

“Nothing would have pleased me better, James,” said his brother coldly; “but the riot was getting too loud – I was obliged to come.”

“Then, now go and wait. The dinner will be ready soon.”

“That it just won’t,” cried cook viciously; “and if you’re a gentleman, though you are master’s own brother, you’ll come and help me.”