about nine in the evening. Tom was thoroughly alarmed when this new enemy
confronted him; but fortunately he had the self-possession to stand his
ground, and not attempt to run away, otherwise the dog would probably have
torn him in pieces.

"Come here, Tige! Poor fellow! Come here! He's a good fellow! Don't you
know me, Tige?" said Tom, whose only hope seemed to be in conciliation and
compromise.

If Tige knew him, he appeared to be very unwilling to acknowledge the
acquaintance under the present suspicious circumstances, and at this
unseemly hour. The brute barked, snarled, howled, and growled, and
manifested as strong an indisposition to compromise as a South Carolina
fire-eater. He placed himself in front of the hero of the night's
adventure, as resolute and as intractable as though he had known all the
facts in the case, and intended to carry out to the letter the wishes of
his master.

Tom slowly retreated towards the garden fence, the dog still following him
up. He had tried coaxing and conciliation, and they had failed. As he
cautiously backed from the house, his feet struck against a heavy cart
stake, which seemed to suggest his next resort. He was well aware that any
quick movement on his part would cause the dog to spring upon him. Placing
his toe under the stake, he raised it with his foot, till he could reach
it with his hand, keeping his gaze fixed upon the eyes of the dog, which
glared like fiery orbs in the gloom of the hour.

Tige saw the stick, and he appeared to have a wholesome respect for it--a
sentiment inspired by sundry beatings, intended to cure a love of mutton
on the hoof, or beef on the shelf. The brute retreated a few paces; but at