Poor devil!--as he got upon his feet the bucket rolled
up with its iron handles full against his shins, the oath he swore at
which encounter, while he dashed headlong after me, directed by the
noise I made on purpose, is most unmentionable. Well knowing where it
was, I easily jumped over the stick which barred the passage. Not so
Tom--for going at the very top of his pace, swearing like forty troopers
all the time, he caught it with both legs just below the knees, and went
down with a squelch that shook the whole hut to the rooftree, while at
the self-same instant Harry once again soused him with the contents of
the second pail, and made his escape unobserved by the window of Tom's
own chamber. Meanwhile I had reached my room, and flinging off my
jacket, came running out with nothing but my shirt and a lighted candle,
to Tom's assistance, in which the next moment I was joined by Harry, who
rushed in from out of doors with the stable lanthorn.
"What's the row now?" he said, with his face admirably cool and quiet.
"What the devil's in the wind?"
"Oh! Archer!" grunted poor Tom, in most piteous accents--"them darned
etarnal Teachmans--they've murdered me right out! I'll never get over
this--ugh! ugh! ugh! Half drowned and smashed up the darndest! Now aint
it an etarnal shame! Cuss them, if I doos n't sarve them out for it, my
name's not Thomas Draw!"
"Well, it is not," rejoined Harry, "who in the name of wonder ever
called you Thomas? Christened you never were at all, that's evident
enough, you barbarous old heathen--but you were certainly named Tom.
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