CHAPTER VII. — SAM MEETS HIS MATCH.
Sam went upstairs with alacrity, and lay down on the bed,—not that he was particularly tired, but because he found it more agreeable to lie down than to work in the field.
"I wish I had something to read," he thought,—"some nice dime novel like 'The Demon of the Danube.' That was splendid. I like it a good deal better than Dickens. It's more excitin'."
But there was no library in Sam's room, and it was very doubtful whether there were any dime novels in the house. The deacon belonged to the old school of moralists, and looked with suspicion upon all works of fiction, with a very few exceptions, such as Pilgrim's Progress, and Robinson Crusoe, which, however, he supposed to be true stories.
Soon Sam heard the step of Mrs. Hopkins on the stairs. He immediately began to twist his features in such a way as to express pain.
Mrs. Hopkins entered the room with a cup of hot liquid in her hand.
"How do you feel?" she asked.
"I feel bad," said Sam.