“They watch me too closely; and when they can’t watch me, they tie or lock me up, and tell me if they catch me trying to run away they will shoot me.”
“Let me talk to him, Ben,” said Sally; “you frighten him; don’t you see how he quivers every time you speak?”
“What is your name, my boy?”
“Charles Bell, marm.”
“Where do you belong?”
“In England.”
“Are your parents there?”
“No, marm; they are dead. I have no kindred in this country, nor any friends.”
“Well,” replied Ben, whose passion was rapidly cooling, “I shall let you off; but I advise you next time to look out how you get into bad company. Come, Sally, let’s go to the house and clear these ruffians out.”
When they returned to the house, they found it presenting the appearance of a butcher’s shambles, although none of the occupants were dead, as Sally had supposed.