Bridget was overwhelmed, for the squire's temper was like a tornado.
"I thought he wanted to sell berries," she faltered.
"That isn't true," said Tom. "I told you expressly that I picked the berries for use at home, and had none to sell."
"Go back to the kitchen, you trollop!" thundered the squire. "You deserve to go to jail for your outrageous conduct."
Bridget did not venture to answer a word, for it would only have raised a more violent storm, but retreated crestfallen to her own realm, and left our hero in possession of the field. She contented herself with muttering under her breath what she did not dare to speak aloud.
"You are Tom Nelson, are you not?" asked the squire, adjusting his spectacles, and looking more carefully at the boy.
"Have you any message from your father?"
"Then why did you come here to take up my time?" demanded the squire, frowning.
"I came to do you a service, Squire Hudson."
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