d and
struggled till his strength was exhausted, and his conqueror permitted
him to drop upon the ground.

"You've killed him," said Sandy, very much alarmed at the apparent fate
of his friend.

"If I have, that's his business, not mine," answered the farmer,
without betraying any remorse at what he had done.

But Richard was not killed, or even very badly injured. The choking had
deprived him of all his strength; but a few minutes' respite from
persecution restored him in a great measure, and he attempted to get
up, when he was promptly seized by the farmer again.

"Will you carry the bag up to the barn, or will you try some more of
the same sort?" asked Mr. Batterman, in a tone which fully indicated
his intention to resume his harsh treatment.

"I can't carry it," replied Richard, in an altered tone, which was, at
least, suggestive of a "caving in" of his obdurate will.

"You carried it very well before you were caught, and perhaps you can
again," sneered the farmer.

"Come, Dick, take hold of the bag," said Sandy. "It's no use."

"I wasn't brought up to do that kind of work," replied Richard, whose
pride, quite as much as his self-will, prompted him to refuse to do the
degrading office.

"Take your choice, and be quick," said Mr. Batterman, preparing to
apply his disciplinary powers again. "Take hold of the bag at once, or
I'll shake the life out of you."

Richard could not stand another dose of the farmer's exhausting
medicine, and he sullenly seized the bag, while Sandy took hold of the
other side. Bates and the farmer kept close to them, so that there was
no chance to break away. After changing hands several times, they
reached the barn, and placed the melons in the position designated by
their tormentors.

"Now, who are you?" asked the farmer, when they had disposed of the
bag.

"None of your business," answered Richard, in a low, sullen tone.

"You haven't got enough of it yet. Bates, bring the lantern, and fetch
a cowhide with you, while you are about it."

Richard did not like the sound of this last order. It was ominous of a
painful and degrading operation, a process of discipline to which he
had never before been subjected. The idea of being whipped was almost
as terrible as that of being shot through the head or heart.

"Will you tell me your name, young man?" demanded the farmer, when the
foreman had gone. "Let me inform you in the beginning, that I am in no
humor to be trifled with. Yo