The old hostler opened his mouth slightly in amazement, as if to say something, but the frown on his master's brow checked him. Without a word, George Sloan and Stephen Blunt took the dazed lad out of the hall, down the garden avenue, and out through the gates to the very scene of his morning exploit, where was situated the village stocks. Resistance was out of the question, and so he submitted, as if his spirit was crushed. "I am sorry for 'ee, my lad," said old George, "but us has to hobey horders. To think that the grandson of old squire shud be shut in th' stocks," and old George shook his head, for he felt the disgrace as keenly as the lad. Stephen Blunt, who was not a native of the section, but had come in with the squire's father from the East, said nothing. The Trembaths were nothing to him, having never known them intimately. But old George Sloan, Ned Pengilly and others native to the soil, who had served with their fathers under the Trembaths, took great umbrage at the shabby treatment of the "young squire." Ande thought of the misery of the disgrace; he, the best scholar in the parish school, condemned and punished as a common thief. He thought of his father and his grandfather. They were of the bravest gentry in Cornwall. None could show a better record in the annals of the county. They had taken their part in every prominent movement in the nation. The last of the line, branded as a thief, and, like a common vagrant, imprisoned in the stocks! He thought of his mother and her pride in him. He gave an impatient wrench to free his imprisoned ankles, but the framework was too heavy to be opened in his position. He thought of the parson's sermon of the previous Sabbath. Yes, he was like Joseph. The iron was entering his soul. He gave vent to his pent up feelings in tears. CHAPTER IX THE VILLAGE STOCKS "'Allo! What 'as us 'ere?" It was a coarse voice, half boy's and half man's. Ande looked up and perceived, coming through the gloom, a long-legged, stout lad, about three years older than himself. He had just emerged from the Manor woods and was engaged in what he thought a manly occupation, smoking a short pipe--or Cornish bob. The prisoner did not recognise him at first, for the twilight had begun to darken into night, but as the newcomer advanced he saw the most unwelcome sight of his bitterest school enemy,--Bully Bob Sloan. The recognition was almost simultaneous and the newcomer allowed his freckled face to relax into a grin of delight. "'Allo, can't 'ee speak? What has tha done, boy, to git in they wooden leggins?" "The squire did it, Bob, but I 'adn't done anything. Squire said I 'ad drained the fish-pond, but I didn't. Now, let me out of here, do, Bob." This was said in a propitiating tone, for, thought the lad, Bob might help him. But he had not estimated Bob aright.