"Don't you think you could excuse me, Mr. Fletcher?" stammered Peabody, panic-stricken.
"No!" thundered Fletcher, so sternly that the unhappy Bostonian shrank back in dismay.
For the credit of Boston, it may be said that John Miles—a broad-shouldered young giant, who did not know what fear was—more honorably represented the same city.
CHAPTER XXV.
A NIGHT PANIC.
Lawrence Peabody's feelings when night approached were not unlike those of a prisoner under sentence of death. He was timid, nervous, and gifted with a lively imagination. His fears were heightened by the sad spectacle that he had recently witnessed. His depression was apparent to all; but I regret to say that it inspired more amusement than sympathy. Men winked at each other as they saw him pass; and, with the exception of Tom and his Scotch friend, probably nobody pitied the poor fellow.
"He's a poor creature, Tom," said Donald Ferguson; "but I pity him. We wouldn't mind watching to-night; but I doubt it's a terrible thing to him."
"I would volunteer in his place, but Mr. Fletcher won't agree to it," said Tom.
"He is right. The young man must take his turn. He won't dread it so much a second time."