made one gasp to witness. Tom clung in sheer terror to his big
tormentor, afraid of falling off, yet afraid to stay on. Coppinger,
guessing perhaps that the little man in his terror might spring off, undid
his belt, and passed it round the little tailor's body, buckling it
securely around them both. Then, having fastened his victim to him,
beyond all hope of escape, he urged the mare on to a more furious pace
than ever. They tore through the air at lightning speed. Tom shrieked
and prayed to be put down,--to be told whither he was to be taken,--what
Coppinger meant to do with him; and pleaded to be killed at once,
rather than tortured. They dashed on past his own little cottage, and his
wife at the door, catching sight of the pair, nearly fainted to see her
poor husband in the grasp of the tyrant. On they went and on, without sign
of stopping. They leapt ditches and hedges, animals, waggons, people,
anything that came in their way, until, coming at last to a steep hill,
they slackened their pace a little, and Coppinger condescended to speak.

"I promised the Devil I would bring him a tailor," he said, "for his
clothes sadly need mending, and I am going to carry you to him to-night.
It will not be very hard work, and he won't harm you as long as you do
what he bids you."

So terrified was poor little Uncle Tom on hearing this awful fate, that he
had a fit then and there from fright, and the violence of his struggles
was such that the belt gave way, and he was flung from the racing mare,
right into the ditch by the roadside.

There he lay all night, and there he was found in the morning, not only
battered and bruised and half frozen, but with his poor weak mind quite
gone.

"He would never sew for the Devil," he kept repeating over and over and
over again, "he would never sew for the Devil, nor for Coppinger either.
He believed Coppinger was the Devil, and he might do his work himself,
Uncle Tom would never work for such as he!"

Never again did poor Uncle Tom get back his reason, or do another stroke
of work to support himself and his wife,--but Coppinger had had his joke,
and thought it a very fine one.

Countless were the cruel pranks he played on the poor, the helpless,
and defenceless, until at last people became afraid to go outside their
houses, and were afraid to stay in them, for every day brought some new
wickedness done by him, and every fresh one was worse than the last.

Coppinger had one child