don't know what's got into John Haynes," said Wilbur. "I never liked
him, but now he seems to be getting worse and worse every day."

CHAPTER XXIII. POMP TAKES MRS. PAYSON PRISONER

Old Mrs. Payson, who arrived in Rossville at the same time with Henry
Morton, had been invited by her daughter, "Cynthy Ann," to pass the
winter, and had acquiesced without making any very strenuous objections.
Her "bunnit," which she had looked upon as "sp'ilt," had been so far
restored by a skilful milliner that she was able to wear it for best.
As this restoration cost but one dollar and a half out of the five which
had been given her by young Morton, she felt very well satisfied with
the way matters had turned out. This did not, however, by any means
diminish her rancor against Pomp, who had been the mischievous cause of
the calamity.

"Ef I could only get hold on him," Mrs. Payson had remarked on several
occasions to Cynthy Ann, "I'd shake the mischief out of him, ef I died
for't the very next minute."

Mrs. Payson was destined to meet with a second calamity, which
increased, if possible, her antipathy to the "young imp."

Being of a social disposition, she was quite in the habit of dropping
in to tea at different homes in the village. Having formerly lived in
Rossville, she was acquainted with nearly all the townspeople, and went
the rounds about once in two weeks.

One afternoon she put her knitting into a black work-bag, which she was
accustomed to carry on her arm, and, arraying herself in a green cloak
and hood, which had served her for fifteen years, she set out to call on
Mrs. Thompson.

Now, the nearest route to the place of her destination lay across a
five-acre lot. The snow lay deep upon the ground, but the outer surface
had become so hard as, without difficulty, to bear a person of ordinary
weight.

When Mrs. Payson came up to the bars, she said to herself, "'Tain't so
fur to go across lots. I guess I'll ventur'."

She let down a bar and, passing through, went on her way complacently.
But, alas, for the old lady's peace of mind! She was destined to come to
very deep grief.

That very afternoon Pomp had come over to play with Sam Thompson, and
the two, after devising various projects of amusement, had determined to
make a cave in the snow. They selected a part of the field where it had
drifted to the depth of some four or five feet. Beginning at a little
distance, they burrowed their way into the heart of the