“Goodness me!” Dogberry stared with all his might. “Am dat really you, Mars Tom?” “Yes; who’s there with you, Dogberry?” “Not anybody, sah. They all just now rush out to cotch you.” Without a moment’s hesitation, Tom Deering sprang up, caught the ledge of the window and drew himself up. He had just vanished, through the window, when the first Tory rounded the corner. CHAPTER IX HOW TOM DEERING HELD THE STAIRCASE THE dining-room of the Foster mansion presented an appearance of great confusion, and Tom looked about in astonishment. The furniture was thrown about in much disorder; some of the costly pictures had been torn from the walls; others hung askew; valuable bric-à-brac was shattered upon the hearth. “What has been going on here, Dogberry?” asked the young swamp-rider. “Didn’t I told you, Mars Tom, dat dose gemmen was carrying on scand’lus. Just take a look around and see if I ain’t right.” At this moment a thin, white-faced man entered the apartment; he had the appearance of an invalid, and seemed very much disturbed. At sight of the boy he started back, with a cry. “You here!” he exclaimed, astonished. “Yes, Mr. Foster,” quietly, “I am here. Pardon my entering without being asked; but your Tory visitors became a trifle too pressing outside there.” “Oh,” cried Mr. Foster, “when shall I rid myself of them! See what they have done,” with a gesture of one thin hand at the ruin of his precious objects of art; “wanton vandalism--without a shadow of excuse.” “The cowards!” broke out Tom, angrily. “They demanded wine,” said Mr. Foster, “well knowing that I never keep it in the house; and because I was unable to produce it for their entertainment they proceeded to destroy whatever their hands fell upon.” “It’s a shame,” cried Tom, his voice full of honest indignation at the outrage and sincere pity for the frail, white-faced man who could not resent the wrong done him. “But we’ll see what we can do for these gentry before the day is over.” “Your cousin, Mark Harwood, is their leader,” said Mr. Foster. Tom reddened with shame at the words. “Mr. Foster,” said he, “he is a sort of cousin of mine, it is true; but not a single drop of the Deering blood flows in his veins.” “Forgive me,” cried Mr. Foster. “I had not intended, my boy, to make you remember a relationship that must be painful to you at all times. But,” looking hurriedly about, “we must not forget that you are in a position of no little peril. If the Tories were to return and find you here----” “Dey am returning, Mars Foster!” exclaimed Dogberry, who had left the apartment as Mr. Foster entered, and now came posting back, his black face shining with excitement. “Dey’s all on de veranda now, sah.” Tom glanced swiftly toward the window. “No, no,” cried Mr. Foster, “not that; they may be watching for you there.”