“Didn’t I told you, Mars Tom, dat dose gemmen was carrying on scand’lus. Just take a look around and see if I ain’t right.”
At this moment a thin, white-faced man entered the apartment; he had the appearance of an invalid, and seemed very much disturbed. At sight of the boy he started back, with a cry.
“You here!” he exclaimed, astonished.
“Yes, Mr. Foster,” quietly, “I am here. Pardon my entering without being asked; but your Tory visitors became a trifle too pressing outside there.”
“Oh,” cried Mr. Foster, “when shall I rid myself of them! See what they have done,” with a gesture of one thin hand at the ruin of his precious objects of art; “wanton vandalism—without a shadow of excuse.”
“The cowards!” broke out Tom, angrily.
“They demanded wine,” said Mr. Foster, “well knowing that I never keep it in the house; and because I was unable to produce it for their entertainment they proceeded to destroy whatever their hands fell upon.”
“It’s a shame,” cried Tom, his voice full of honest indignation at the outrage and sincere pity for the frail, white-faced man who could not resent the wrong done him. “But we’ll see what we can do for these gentry before the day is over.”
“Your cousin, Mark Harwood, is their leader,” said Mr. Foster.
Tom reddened with shame at the words. “Mr. Foster,” said he, “he is a sort of cousin of mine, it is true; but not a single drop of the Deering blood flows in his veins.”