face, and he begins to come to. "Mother!"—the words came feebly and slowly—"it's very cold to-night." Poor old Diggs is blubbering like a child. "Where am I?" goes on Tom, opening his eyes. "Ah! I remember now;" and he shut his eyes again and groaned.
"I say," is whispered, "we can't do any good, and the housekeeper will be here in a minute;" and all but one steal away; he stays with Diggs, silent and sorrowful, and fans Tom's face.
The housekeeper comes in with strong salts, and Tom soon recovers enough to sit up. There is a smell of burning; she examines his clothes, and looks up inquiringly. The boys are silent
"How did he come so?" No answer.
"There's been some bad work here," she adds, looking very serious, "and I shall speak to the Doctor about it." Still no answer.
"Hadn't we better carry him to the sick-room?" suggests Diggs.
"Oh, I can walk now," says Tom! and, supported by East and the housekeeper, goes to the sick-room. The boy who held his ground is soon amongst the rest, who are all in fear of their lives. "Did he peach?" "Does she know about it?"
"Not a word—he's a staunch little fellow." And pausing a moment he adds, "I'm sick of this work; what brutes we've been!"
Meantime Tom is stretched on the sofa in the housekeeper's room, with East by his side while she gets wine and water and other restoratives.
"Are you much hurt, dear old boy?" whispers East.
"Only the back of my legs," answers Tom. They are indeed badly scorched, and part of his
