One evening, after spending a few festive hours at a neighbour's house, he was just on the point of departing when he happened to notice seated by the hearth a poor little half-witted tailor, who always went by the name of 'Uncle Tom.'
Uncle Tom was a very quiet, extremely nervous little man, well-known and pitied by all. He went from house to house all over the countryside, doing a day's work at one house, and half a day's at another, and in most houses he was given a meal in addition to his trifling pay, for everyone liked him, he was always willing and obliging, and had never harmed anyone in his life.
"Hulloa, Uncle Tom!" cried Coppinger boisterously, going up and laying a heavy hand on the thin, shaking shoulder of the little tailor. "We are both bound for the same direction. Come along with me, I'll give you a lift on my mare."
The old man shrank away nervously, mumbling all sorts of excuses, for he above all people lived in deadly terror of Cruel Coppinger, also of his vicious mare, and the idea of being at the mercy of them both nearly scared away what few wits he had.
The sight of his terror, though, only made Coppinger more determined to frighten him. He loved to torment so helpless a victim, and the other people present, partly from love of mischief, but chiefly to please Coppinger, egged the tormentor on.
In spite of his struggles and entreaties they hoisted the poor little tailor on to the back of the prancing, restive beast, and held him there while Coppinger sprang up.
No sooner were they both mounted than up reared the mare, danced round on her hind legs a time or two, and then sprang away along the road at a rate which it made one gasp to witness. Tom clung in sheer terror to his big tormentor, afraid of falling off, yet afraid to stay on. Coppinger, guessing perhaps that the little man in his terror might spring off, undid his belt, and passed it round the little tailor's body, buckling it securely around them both. Then, having fastened his victim to him, beyond all hope of escape, he urged the mare on to a more furious pace than ever. They tore through the air at lightning speed. Tom shrieked and prayed to be put down,—to be told whither he was to be taken,—what Coppinger meant to do with him; and pleaded to be killed at once, rather than tortured. They dashed on past his own little cottage, and his wife at the door, catching sight of the pair, nearly fainted to see her poor husband in the grasp of the tyrant. On they went and on, without sign of stopping. They leapt ditches and hedges, animals, waggons, people, anything that came in their way, until, coming at last to a steep hill, they slackened their pace a little, and Coppinger condescended to speak.
"I promised the Devil I would bring him a tailor," he said, "for his clothes sadly need mending, and I am going to carry you to him to-night. It will not be very hard work, and he won't harm you as long as you do what he bids you."
So terrified was poor little Uncle Tom on hearing this awful fate, that he had a fit then and there from fright, and the violence of his struggles was such that the belt gave way, and he was flung from the racing mare, right into the ditch by the roadside.
There he lay all night, and there he was found in the morning, not only battered and bruised and half frozen, but with his poor weak mind quite gone.