Even these savages knew the horrible consequences of parting with their wits in this manner. Before the drinking commenced, they appointed a few able-bodied Indians who were to remain sober and take care of the rest. They then deprived themselves of all their dangerous weapons--tomahawks, clubs, guns, arrows, and knives, and prepared for their fearful riot. The scene that followed need not be described. Soon the confusion became fearful. The few sober chiefs were constantly risking their lives in their efforts to prevent mischief. Squaws were screaming, and frightened children were hiding in every direction. Tom, who was half forgotten in the general excitement, saw Po-no-kah whisper hurriedly to one of the women. In a moment she caught Rudolph and Kitty by their hands and stole cautiously with them into the forest. Tom's suspicions were aroused. He started up only to feel a strong arm force him back to the log upon which he had been seated. "No move!" muttered a voice, close by his ear. "Soon come.--Be very drunk." In a few moments, while the tumult and uproar were at their height, Tom saw Po-no-kah reeling toward the forest. Wondering what the fellow meant to do, yet filled with a wild hope, Tom watched his chance, staggered past the rioters, and managed to follow the warrior by another path, without creating any suspicion. When, at last, they met, Po-no-kah had Rudolph and Kitty in his arms, and, staggering no more, was hurrying through the forest, armed with bow, quiver, and traveling pouch. The astonished prisoner, after taking Kitty from his companion's arms, followed him in silence. Not for hours did Po-no-kah look back or speak, and then it was but to say a few broken words: "Po-no-kah was hungry. The father of the little pale-faces fed him. Po-no-kah no snake--he remember--Po-no-kah take 'em home." [Footnote 4: Brandy, rum, and all alcoholic liquors.] XII. SHOWING HOW THE BAG OF POTATOES CAME BACK AGAIN. Farmer Hedden was busily at work in the fields, looking ten years older than on that sunny day, nearly a year before, when he had shouted a laughing "good-bye" to Tom and the little ones. Bessie was trudging alone from school, wondering why the birds sang less sweetly than they did the May before, and wishing that the noble dog that bounded by her side looked a little more like the first Bouncer. Mrs. Hedden sat with her brother in the lonely cottage, talking on the old, old theme; the memory of that terrible night had never left her heart. "No, no, Robert," she said at length, in reply to some appeal from her brother, "we must not go. I know it would be better for us to sell out and go to Philadelphia. But it cannot be; we must never leave this spot." "Surely, Betsy," urged her brother, "you cannot be so wild as to suppose--" "No!" she interrupted, "I never dare even hope for that now. I know my lost darlings are not in this world, and yet--and yet why not hope? why not think that perhaps--"