Squire Pemberton rushed down cellar. He was very much excited, and forgot that he had been troubled with the rheumatism during the preceding winter. When he opened the cellar door, he was considerably relieved to find that no brilliant light saluted his expectant gaze. It was as cold and dark in the cellar as it had been when he sorted over the last of his Warren Russets, a few days before.  
It was certain, therefore, that the house was not on fire; and, invigorated by this thought, he descended the stairs. A strong current of fresh, cold air extinguished the light he carried. As this was contrary to his usual experience when he went down cellar in the evening after an apple or a mug of cider, it assured him that there was a screw loose somewhere. Returning to the room above, he procured a lantern, and proceeded to the cellar again to renew his investigations.
 
The squire felt the cold blast of the April air, and immediately made his way to the cellar door, holding the lantern up as high as his head, to ascertain the nature of the mischief which the fanatical abolitionists had perpetrated. He saw that the cellar door was broken through. The rotten boards lay upon the steps, and with another malediction upon the mob, he placed the lantern upon a barrel, and proceeded to repair the damage. As he stepped forward, he stumbled against the body of the enterprising hero of this volume, who lay as calm and still as a sleeping child.
 
The squire started back, not a little alarmed at the sight of the motionless body. He felt as though a terrible retribution had fallen upon somebody, who had been killed in the act of attempting to destroy his property. Seizing his lantern, he retreated to the cellar stairs by which he had descended, and stood there for a moment, his tongue paralyzed, and his knees smiting each other, in the agony of terror.
 
We do not know what he was afraid of, but we suppose that instinctive dread which some people manifest in the presence of death, had completely overcome him. Certainly there was nothing to be afraid of, for a dead man is not half so likely to do a person an injury as a living one. But in a few minutes Squire Pemberton in some measure recovered his self-possession.
 
“There is a dead man down here!” he called up the staircase, in quaking tones.
 
“Mercy on us!” exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton. “Who is he?”
 
“I don’t know,” replied the squire.
 
“Look and see who it is, father,” added Mrs. Pemberton. “Perhaps he isn’t dead.”
 
“Stone dead,” persisted the squire. “He fell into the cellar and broke his neck.”
 
“Go and see who it is—will you?”
 
“Well, you come down and hold the light,” said the squire, who was not quite willing to say that he was scared out of his wits.
 
Mrs. Pemberton descended the stairs, followed by Susan and Fred, who had just returned from the front window, where he had exhibited the flag, which the crowd outside were still cheering.
 
“Who can it be?” continued the old lady, as she slowly and cautiously walked forward to the scene of the catastrophe.
 
“I don’t know,” replied the squire, in whom the presence of his family had spurred up a semblance of courage; for if a man ever is brave, it is in the presence of his wife and children. “If it is one of the ruffians who came here to destroy my house, I am glad he has lost his life in the attempt. It is a righteous retribution upon him for his wickedness.”
 
Mrs. Pemberton took the lantern, and the squire, still excited and terrified, bent over the prostrate form of the young marauder. The victim lay upon his face, and the squire had to turn him over to obtain a view of his countenance.
 
“I declare it is one of the Somers boys!” exclaimed Mrs. Pemberton, as her husband brought the face of Thomas to her view.
 
“The young villain!” ejaculated the squire. “It is lucky he was killed, or the house would have been in flames before this time. He is a desperate young scoundrel.”
 
“But he isn’t dead, father!” said Mrs. Pemberton, as she knelt upon the cold ground, and felt the pulse of the insensible boy. “He is only stunned.”
 
“I am sorry for it. If it had killed him, it would have served him right,” added the squire, who had suddenly become as bold as a lion—as bold as two lions.
 
“Come, father, let’s carry him up stairs, and put him to bed.”
 
“Do you think I am going to do anything for this young scoundrel!” exclaimed the squire, indignantly. “Why, he stoned Fred and me to-day, and stoned the horse, and made him run away and break the chaise all to pieces.”
 
“But we mustn’t leave him here in this situation. He may die.”
 
“Let him die.”
 
“But what will folks say?”
 
The more humane wife evidently understood the weak point of the squire, for nothing but slavery and the Southern Confederacy could have induced him to set at defiance the public sentiment of Pinchbrook.
 
“Well, carry him up stairs then; but he never will get out of my house till he has been severely punished for his crimes.”
 
The squire and Fred took hold of the senseless form of poor Tom, and carried it up stairs, where it was placed upon the sofa in the sitting room. Mrs. Pemberton had the reputation of being “an excellent hand in sickness,” and she immediately applied herself to the duty of restoring the sufferer to consciousness.
 
“Don’t you think you had better go after the doctor, father?” asked the good woman. “Some of his bones may be broken, or he may be injured inwardly.”
 
“I shall not go for any doctor,” snarled the squire. “Do you think I will trust myself out doors while that howling mob is hanging round the house?”
 
“Fred can go,” suggested Susan.
 
“He can, but he shall not,” growled the squire, throwing himself into his arm chair in the corner, with an appearance of indifference and unconcern, which were far from representing the actual state of his mind.
 
Mrs. Pemberton said no more, but she and Susan went to work upon the sufferer with camphor and hartshorn in good earnest, and in a short time they had the satisfaction of seeing him open his eyes. They continued the treatment for some time longer, with the most satisfactory result, till Tom astonished them by jumping off the sofa, and standing up in the middle of the room. He rubbed his forehead, hunched up his left shoulder, and felt of his shins.
 
“Are you hurt, Thomas?” asked Mrs. Pemberton, with more of tenderness in her tones than the squire deemed proper for the occasion.
 
“No, marm, I guess not,” replied Tom. “My shoulder feels a little stiff, and I think I barked one of my shins; but I shall be as good as new by to-morrow.”
 
But there was an ugly bump on the side of his head, which he had not yet discovered, but which Susan pointed out to him. He acknowledged the bump, but declared it was only a little sore and would be all right by the next day.
 
“I feel pretty well,” continued Tom, “and I guess I’ll go home now.”
 
“I think you won’t, young man,” interposed Squire Pemberton.
 
Tom looked at him, and for the first time since he had come to himself, he remembered in what manner he had received his injuries. He immediately came to the conclusion that he had got into a bad scrape. He was in the house of, and in the presence of, his great enemy. The events of the day passed in rapid succession through his mind, and he could not help thinking that he was destined to be the first victim in Pinchbrook to the war spirit which had just been awakened all over the country.
 
The squire thought he would not go home, which was as much as to say he would not let him go home. Tom’s wits were a little confused, after the hard knock he had received upon the head, and all he could do was to stand and look at the oracle of Pinchbrook, and wait for further developments.
 
“Young man,” said the squire, sternly, and in tones that were intended to make a deep impression upon the mind of the young man, “your time has come.”
 
The squire paused, and looked at the culprit to ascertain the effect of the startling announcement; but Tom seemed to be perfectly cool, and was not annihilated by the suggestive remark of the great man of Pinchbrook.
 
“You have become a midnight marauder,” added the squire, poetically.
 
“It isn’t seven o’clock yet,” said Tom pointing to the great wooden clock in the corner of the room.
 
“You joined a mob to pillage and destroy the property of a peaceable citizen. You broke in—”
 
“No, sir; the cellar door broke in,” interposed the culprit.
 
“You broke into my house to set it afire!” continued the squire, in a rage.
 
“No, sir, I did not. I only went round there to see the fun,” replied Tom, pointing to the rear of the house; “and the cellar door broke down and let me in. I did not mean to do you or your house any harm; and I didn’t do any, except breaking the cellar door, and I will have that mended.”
 
“Don’t tell me, you young villain! You meant to burn my house.”
 
“No, I didn’t mean any thing of the kind,” replied Tom, stoutly. “I was going off when the door broke down. The boards were rotten, and I should think a man like you ought to have better cellar doors than those are.”
 
The squire didn’t relish this criticism, especially from the source whence it came. There was a want of humility on the part of the culprit which the magnate of Pinchbrook thought would be exceedingly becoming in a young man in his situation. The absence of it made him more angry than before. He stormed and hurled denunciations at the offender; he rehearsed the mischief he had done during the day, and alluded in strong terms to that which he intended to perpetrate in the “dead watches of the night”—which was the poetical rendering of half-past six in the evening; for the squire was fond of effective phrases.
 
Tom ventured to hint that a man who would not stand by his country when her flag was insulted and “trailed in the dust”—Tom had read the daily papers—ought to be brought to his senses by such expedients as his fellow-citizens might suggest. Of course this remark only increased the squire’s wrath, and he proceeded to pronounce sentence upon the unlucky youth, which was that he should be taken to the finished room in the attic, and confined there under bolts and bars till the inquisitor should further declare and execute his intentions.
 
Mrs. Pemberton and Susan remonstrated against this sentence, prudently suggesting the consequences which might result from detaining the boy. But the squire declared he should not go till he had at least horsewhipped him; and if there was any justice left in the land, he would send him to the county jail in the morning.
 
Tom wanted to resist the execution of his sentence, but he was still weak from the effects of his fall, and he could not expect to vanquish both the squire and his son; so, with an earnest protest, he permitted himself to be led to the attic chamber. The squire thrust him into the room, and after carefully securing the door, left our hero to meditate upon the reverse of fortune which had overtaken him.