me pie?" asked Sam, who could not bear to lose so
tempting a portion of the repast.

"No, Samuel. What I say I mean. He that will not work shall not eat."

"I worked hard enough afterwards," muttered Sam.

"After I came back--yes, I know that. You worked well part of the
time, so I gave you part of your dinner. Next time let the cats
alone."

"Can I have some more meat, then?" asked Sam.

"Ye-es," said the deacon, hesitating. "You need strength to work this
afternoon."

"I s'pose I get that catechism this afternoon instead of goin to work,"
suggested Sam.

"That will do after supper, Samuel. All things in their place. The
afternoon is for work; the evening for readin' and study, and
improvin' the mind."

Sam reflected that the deacon was a very obstinate man, and decided
that his arrangements were very foolish. What was the use of living if
you'd got to work all the time? A good many people, older than Sam,
are of the same opinion, and it is not wholly without reason; but
then, it should be borne in mind that Sam was opposed to all work. He
believed in enjoying himself, and the work might take care of itself.
But how could it be avoided?

As Sam was reflecting, a way opened itself. He placed his hand on his
stomach, and began to roll his eyes, groaning meanwhile.

"What's the matter?" asked Mrs. Hopkins.

"I feel sick," said Sam, screwing up his face into strange
contortions.

"It's very sudden," said Mrs. Hopkins, suspiciously.

"So 'tis," said Sam. "I'm afraid I'm going to be very sick. Can I lay
down?"

"What do you think it is, Martha?" asked the deacon, looking
disturbed.

"I know what it is," said his wife, calmly. "I've treated such attacks
before. Yes, you may lay down in your room, and I'll bring you some
tea, as soon as I can make it."

"All right," said Sam, elated at the success of his little trick. It
was very much pleasanter to lie down than to hoe potatoes on a hot
day.

"How easy I took in the old woman!" he thought.

It was not long before he changed his mind, as we shall see in The
next chapter.

CHAPTER VII.

SAM MEETS HIS MATCH.

Sam went upstairs with alacrity, and lay down on the bed,--not that he
was particularly tired, but because he found it more agreeable to lie
down than to work in the field.

"I wish I had something to read," he thought,--"some nice dime novel
like 'The Demon of the Danube.' That was splendid. I like it a good
deal better than Dickens. I