But I had some hope that Major Toppleton would sustain me, or at least that he would not persecute our family, even if he yielded to the caprices of his son. Whatever mischief had been done, I had not done it, though I had been the indirect cause of it. I had not stopped the train; I had not put Tommy out of the car; I had not pitched him down the bank. If these things had been done on my behalf, I had no agency in them. The indignant passengers, who were detained by the whim of the little president, had been the responsible actors, and I had no doubt the stout stranger was ready to answer for his conduct. Whether he was or not, this was not my affair. I had his card in my pocket; but so far as I could ascertain, no one knew anything about him. I regarded him as a person of some consequence. We finished our dinner, and my father was on the point of returning to the mill, when Tom Walton rushed into the kitchen, out of breath with running. His appearance indicated that some unusual event had occurred, for my friend was one of the cool sort, and not easily stirred by small matters. “The dummy has just come in,” exclaimed Tom, in the intervals between his rapid breathing. “Well, what of it?” I inquired, not deeming this very startling intelligence. “Tommy Toppleton’s leg is broken,” gasped Tom. “Broken!” I exclaimed. “Snapped off, like a pipe-stem, below the knee, they say.” “I am sorry for that,” I added; and I almost wished it had been my leg, instead of the little tyrant’s. “His father is the maddest man that ever drew the breath of life.” “I dare say,” said my father, shaking his head. “How did it happen?” I inquired. “Why, that stout man did it when he pitched him down the bank,” answered Tom. “I’ll bet it will cost that man a penny or two. That’s what they say up to the station.” “I will go up and see about it,” I added, taking my hat. “You!” ejaculated Tom, with a stare of astonishment. “Why not?” “If you know what you are about, you will keep out of the way,” suggested Tom, with significant emphasis. “I haven’t done anything that I am ashamed of,” I replied. “I am not afraid to see the major, and tell him the whole story. I’m sorry for Tommy’s misfortune, but it is all his own fault.” “Face the music, Wolf,” said my father. “No one ever makes anything by skulking in the dark. You have a tongue, and you can explain your own conduct better than any one can do it for you.” “But they are all down upon you like a hundred of brick, Wolf,” continued Tom, who was fearful that I might be lynched in the excitement which he said prevailed in the vicinity of the major’s house. “I can’t help it. When I was insulted, I did not resist nor make any row.” “But you left your train at the time it ought to have started,” said Tom.