“Yes, my son. Get me a stout stick from the woodshed.”
Andrew Jackson obeyed with alacrity.
Armed with the stick, Mr. Badger crept upstairs, rather astonished by his bound boy’s noisy breathing, and, entering the darkened chamber, brought the stick down smartly on the astonished sleeper.
In about two minutes Mrs. Badger and Andrew, standing at the foot of the stairs, were astonished by the noise of a terrible conflict in the little attic chamber, as if two men were wrestling.
There was the sound of a heavy body flung on the floor, and the voice of Mr. Badger was heard shouting:
“Help! help! murder!”
“The young villain’s killing your father!” exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Badger. “Go up and help him!”
“I don’t dare to,” said Andrew, pale as a sheet.
“Then I will!” said his mother, and she hurried upstairs, only to be met by her husband, who was literally tumbled downstairs by the occupant of the attic chamber.
Husband and wife fell together in a heap, and Andrew Jackson uttered a yell of dismay.