The gentleman stepped out of his chaise with his whip in his hand, and proceeded to lay it about the legs and body of the representative of the Union side. This was more than Tom Somers could stand, and he retreated in good order from the spot, till he had placed himself out of the reach of the whip. "What do you mean, you young scoundrel?" demanded the gentleman who had interfered. Tom looked at him, and discovered that it was Squire Pemberton, the father of his late opponent. "He hit me first," said Tom. "He called me a traitor," added Fred. "I won't be called a traitor by him, or any other fellow." "What do you mean by calling my son a traitor, you villain?" "I meant just what I said. He is a traitor. He said he hoped the South would beat." "Suppose he did. I hope so too," added Squire Pemberton. The squire thought, evidently, that this ought to settle the question. If he hoped so, that was enough. "Then you are a traitor, too. That's all I've got to say," replied Tom, boldly. "You scoundrel! How dare you use such a word to me!" roared the squire, as he moved towards the blunt-spoken little patriot. For strategic reasons, Tom deemed it prudent to fall back; but as he did so, he picked up a couple of good-sized stones. "I said you were a traitor, and I say so again," said Tom. "Two can play at that game," added Fred, as he picked up a stone and threw it at Tom. The Union force returned the fire with the most determined energy, until one of the missiles struck the horse attached to the chaise. The animal, evidently having no sympathy with either party in this miniature contest, and without considering how much damage he might do the rebel cause, started off at a furious pace when the stone struck him. He dashed down the hill at a fearful rate, and bounded away over the plain that led to the Harbor. Squire Pemberton and his son had more interest in the fate of the runaway horse than they had in the issue of the contest, and both started at the top of their speed in pursuit. But they might as well have chased a flash of lightning, or a locomotive going at the rate of fifty miles an hour. Tom Somers came down from the bank which he had ascended to secure a good position. He had done rather more than he intended to do; but on the whole he did not much regret it. He watched the course of the spirited animal, as he dashed madly on to destruction. The career of the horse was short; for in the act of turning a corner, half a mile from the spot where Tom stood, he upset the chaise, and was himself thrown down, and, being entangled in the harness, was unable to rise before a stout man had him by the head. "I wish that chaise had been the southern confederacy," said Tom to himself, philosophically, when he saw the catastrophe in the distance. "Well, it served you right, old Secesh; and I'll bet there ain't many folks in Pinchbrook Harbor that will be willing to comfort the mourners."