"Aw'll mark yo' nivver fear, aye an' gi' yo' summat 'at 'll keep yo wakken, too, yo' idle good-for-nowt," and Sam swung in with a piece of belting thicker and broader than a navvy's belt. Now it was at just this moment that Tom took the door. He had come from the dyehouse to match a cop. "Hold," he cried, and strode quickly up the room, "you won't beat that child, Sam, wi' that strap. Drop it, I say." "An' who'll stop me?" roared Sam. "I will." "Then tak' that for thi' impudence yo' d----d, meddlin' workhouse bastard," and Sam brought the stinging leather right across Tom's flashing cheek. Then, quick as lightning, sped a downright blow, straight from the shoulder true between the eyes, and Sam fell like a stricken ox, ignominious, into a skep of cops. There was the quick catching of breath from a score of throats as two score eyes watched the bully's fall, and Tom, as he looked about him, felt prouder and gladder than all his life before. "Eh! but aw'st catch it for this," whispered Billy-come-a-lakin. "Aw'll run for it whilst aw've th' chance," and he fled the place, and his billy knew him no more that week. "Yo'n nooan heerd th' last o' this," said Buckley, as he slowly picked himself up, dazed and scowling. "Aw'll mak' yo' pay for this day's wark, if aw swing for it, mind yo'r piecenin', yo' young limbs o' Satan, an' quit yo'r gapin'," and the irate spinner stalked out of the "scribbling boil." Tom did the errand on which he had been sent by the dyer and made his way down the outer steps to return to his own work. He had to cross the mill-yard. Mr. Tinker had just ridden in at the gate and now was bending his head from the saddle to hearken to the tale Sam was pouring into his ear. Tom saw his master's brow contract. "Send him to me," Tom heard, "I'll deal with him. It's rank mutiny." Tom stepped forward and stood by the horse's side. "I'm here, sir," he said quickly, tho' he could hear the beating of his own heart. The riding-whip was raised with quick and angry menace. Tom never flinched, he only dug his nails into his palms to stay his tingling nerves. But the blow fell not. "_Where_ do you say you come from?" "Diggle, sir," and Tom's quiet grey eye looked his master in the face. "You hired me yourself at the Workhouse." Jabez Tinker peered, in the falling autumn light, into the lad's pale set face and scanned it searchingly. "How came that weal across your cheek?" "Sam can tell you best," was the quiet reply. "You said nothing of this Buckley," said the master. "Mind when you come to me again, you don't come with half a tale. Go your ways, Pinder, but let me have no more of this broiling or you'll soon regret it."