“Forgive me,” cried Mr. Foster. “I had not intended, my boy, to make you remember a relationship that must be painful to you at all times. But,” looking hurriedly about, “we must not forget that you are in a position of no little peril. If the Tories were to return and find you here——”
“Dey am returning, Mars Foster!” exclaimed Dogberry, who had left the apartment as Mr. Foster entered, and now came posting back, his black face shining with excitement. “Dey’s all on de veranda now, sah.”
Tom glanced swiftly toward the window.
“No, no,” cried Mr. Foster, “not that; they may be watching for you there.”
“I must get cover of some kind,” said Tom. “Do you not hear their footsteps? I shall be caught like a rat in a trap!” His glance traveled rapidly about the room. “Have you not a cupboard or some such thing in which I can conceal myself?”
“No,” said Mr. Foster, in despair. But suddenly his face lighted up. “I have it; the very thing.”
Grasping Tom by the arm he threw open a door. The boy found himself in a wide hallway at the end of which was a broad steep flight of stairs leading to the floor above. Almost at the foot of the staircase was a large clock whose wooden works made a burring sound as they moved, and whose great pendulum ticked loudly, slowly, solemnly. The clock almost reached from floor to ceiling: Mr. Foster threw open the painted glass door.
“There is room for you there,” said he.
In a moment Tom was inside the big clock with the door closed upon him; almost at the same moment the outer door opened, and the Tories came stamping noisily into the hall.
“I don’t believe there is any one about the place except those who belong here,” said one of them in a loud voice.