Tige saw the stick, and he appeared to have a wholesome respect for it—­a sentiment inspired by sundry beatings, intended to cure a love of mutton on the hoof, or beef on the shelf.  The brute retreated a few paces; but at this moment Squire Pemberton appeared at the front door, with a lantern in his hand.  He understood the “situation” at a glance.

“Take him, Tige!  Stu’ boy!” shouted the squire.

The dog snarled an encouraging reply to this suggestion, and moved up towards the fugitive.  Tom’s courage was equal to the occasion, and he levelled a blow at the head of the bull dog, which, if it had hit him fairly, must have smashed in his skull.  As it was, the blow was a heavy one, and Tige retreated; but the shouts of the squire rallied him, and he rushed forward to the onslaught again.

Tom, as we have before had occasion to suggest, was a master of strategy, and instead of another stroke at the head of his savage foe, with only one chance in ten of hitting the mark he commenced swinging it vigorously to the right and left, as a mower does his scythe.  His object was to hit the legs of the dog—­a plan which was not entirely original with him, for he had seen it adopted with signal success by a fisherman at the Harbor.  The consequence of this change of tactics was soon apparent, for Tige got a rap on the fore leg, which caused him to yelp with pain, and retire from the field.  While the dog moved off in good order in one direction, Tom effected an equally admirable retreat in the other direction.

On reaching the road, he pulled on his boots, which he had picked up after the discomfiture of his canine antagonist.  Squire Pemberton still stood at the door trying to bring Tige to a sense of his duty in the trying emergency; but the brute had more regard for his own shins than he had for the mandate of his master, and the victor was permitted to bear away his laurels without further opposition.

When he reached his father’s house, supposing the front door was locked, he went to the kitchen window, where he had heard the patriotic remarks of his mother.  Tom told his story in substance as we have related it.

“Do you mean what you have said, mother?” inquired he, when he had finished his narrative.

Mrs. Somers bit her lip in silence for a moment.

“Certainly I do, Thomas,” said she, desperately.

It was half-past one when the boys retired, but it was another hour before Tom’s excited brain would permit him to sleep.  His head was full of a big thought.

CHAPTER VIII.

Signing the papers.

Thomas went to sleep at last, and, worn out by the fatigue and excitement of the day, he slept long and soundly.  His mother did not call him till eight o’clock, and it was nine before he reached the store of his employer, where the recital of the adventure of the preceding night proved to be a sufficient excuse for his non-appearance at the usual hour.