“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.