Leaving the shadow of the tree, which had concealed me from the young ruffians, I walked boldly toward them. The tramp of my feet on the crackling sticks instantly attracted their attention. To my great satisfaction they suddenly retreated into a little thicket near the tar-kettle.
“Save me, Wolf! Save me!” cried Waddie, in tones of the most abject despondency. “Save me, and I will be your best friend.”
I did not believe in any promises he could make; but I directed my steps toward him, with the intention of releasing him.
“Stop!” shouted one of the boys, in a singularly gruff voice, which afforded me no clue to the owner’s identity.
I halted and looked toward the thicket.
“It’s only Wolf Penniman,” said one of the party, who spoke behind the mask that covered his face. “It’s all right. He’ll help us do it.”
“What are you going to do?” I demanded, pretty sharply.
“We are only paying off Waddie. Will you help us, Wolf?” replied one of the conspirators.
“No, certainly not. You have no right to meddle with him.”
“Well, we are going to do it, whether we have any right or not. We will tar and feather him, as sure as he lives.”