The men could see the inside of the chamber now. They were humorous
persons who could strain a joke to the snapping point, but they felt,
at last, that there was nothing especially amusing in the situation.
Tom was huddled in a heap on the straw bed in the far corner.
The vacant smile had fled from his face, and he looked, for the first
time in his life, quite distraught.

"Come along, Tom," said the sheriff kindly;
"we 're going to take you where you can sleep in a bed,
and have three meals a day."

"I'd much d'ruth-er walk in the bloom-in' gy-ar-ding,"

sang Tom quaveringly, as he hid his head in a paroxysm of fear.

"Well, there ain't no bloomin' gardings to walk in jest now,
so come along and be peaceable."

"Tom don' want to go to the poor-farm," he wailed piteously.

But there was no alternative. They dragged him off the bed
and down the ladder as gently as possible; then Rube Hobson held him
on the back seat of the wagon, while the sheriff unhitched the horse.
As they were on the point of starting, the captive began to wail
and struggle more than ever, the burden of his plaint being a wild
and tremulous plea for his pail of molasses.

"Dry up, old softy, or I'll put the buggy robe over your head!"
muttered Rube Hobson, who had not had much patience when he started
on the trip, and had lost it all by this time.