"What is the trouble, boys?" came from an unexpected quarter.
It was Mr. Maynard, who, chancing to pass along the road, had been attracted by the noise of the struggle.
Frank explained in a few words.
"Let him up, Frank," said the old man. "I'll see that he does no further harm."
John rose to his feet, and looked scowlingly from one to the other, as if undecided whether he had not better attack both.
"You've disgraced yourself, John Haynes," said the old farmer scornfully. "So you would turn negro-whipper, would you? Your talents are misapplied here at the North. Brutality isn't respectable here, my lad. You'd better find your way within the rebel lines, and then perhaps you can gratify your propensity for whipping the helpless."
"Some day I'll be revenged on you for this," said John, turning wrathfully upon Frank. "Perhaps you think I don't mean it, but the day will come when you'll remember what I say."
"I wish you no harm, John," said Frank composedly, "but I sha'n't stand by and see you beat a boy like Pomp."