If Mr. Tootler had fittingly represented the masculine side of friendship, Mrs. Tootler as sincerely acted the feminine part. It was not merely the few cordial words, expressing her pleasure at meeting her husband’s old friend, to whom he owed so much in so many ways, but the frank grasp of the hand, the bright look of genuine welcome in the clear brown eyes, the blush of warm interest, the winning smile as she introduced the friend into a home, as he must henceforth feel it--all this was more and more on the side of happiness. Mr. Waddy was again conscious of that unaccustomed feeling overcoming him, like a summer cloud full of summer’s joyful tears. Mrs. Tootler left them to give orders about the fatted calf and icing the champagne. Tommy conducted his friend to his room, and both, with their coats off, were commencing their toilet, chatting through an open door of communication, when there came a sudden alarm from little Cecilia. “Papa!” she cried, running up the stair, “come quick! Some men are fighting Jefferson.” The host and guest were down the stair and in the barnyard in an instant. Four men were endeavouring to put the Fugitive Slave Bill in operation. Jefferson believed in the Declaration of Independence, and was making wondrous play for freedom, but four were too many for him. They had him down and were producing handcuffs. Two of the men were in the Virginia uniform of black dress-coat and shiny satin waistcoat. The other two were Deputy Marshals Hookey and Tucker. It was beautiful as forked lightning to see Mr. Tootler count himself in and make free with the fight. He alighted like a bomb, unexpected, on one Virginian who had his knee on the negro’s head. This man, for reasons, appeared no more in the fray. Ira, of course, followed his friend and occupied himself with raising bumps on the countenance of Marshal Tucker. Jefferson Davis, once released, soon floored the second Virginian. “Cut, Jeff, and go to Sammy’s,” cried Tommy, amidst his attentions to Hookey. “I’ll send your clothes in the morning,” and Jeff was off in an instant. The prey escaped, the two marshals preferred not to be bruised further and called a truce. Virginian No. 2 was quite groggy and _hors de combat_. Crackers, the dog, had pounced upon his fellow-huntsman as he lay, and was smiling at him with very white teeth. At this moment, with a neighbour flash, bang went the big thunder-gun and down came the deluge. The two gentlemen took refuge within, leaving the vanquished to scamper for their carriage with such speed as they were capable of. As the heroes re-entered the house, they met Mrs. Tootler rushing forward with a double-barrelled gun and silver fish-knife. The black cook, with a distinct cuisiney odor of fatted calf, was in the van, armed with a gridiron and pitcher of steaming water. This reserve was, however, needless as the Prussians at Waterloo, and there was no pursuit. “Well, Waddy,” said the host, “how are you? Knuckles lame?”