When Bernard saw Septimus Snowdon and his father standing in front of
the house he understood at once, from the expression of their faces,
that trouble was in store for him.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Snowdon curtly, “so you have come home at last?”
“Yes, sir. There was no letter for you.”
“Ahem! I shall have to write a letter to your guardian.”
Bernard shrugged his shoulders, but did not think it necessary to say
anything, rather to the disappointment of Ezekiel, who wished to draw
him out, “I find,” he said, “that you have made an outrageous assault on
my innocent boy. What have you to say in extenuation of your conduct?”
“Only that your innocent boy was stoning a kitten, and bullying a young
boy.”
“Even if he were, what business was it of yours?”
“It will always be my business to protect children and animals from
being abused,” said Bernard warmly.
“You are a very impudent boy! Are you aware that the boy you assaulted
is my son?”
“I ought to be aware of it. There isn’t another boy in town who would be
guilty of such brutal conduct.”
“Are you goin’ to stand that, pa?” asked Septimus, anxious to
precipitate a conflict between Bernard and his father.
“No, I am not,” said Mr. Snowdon, compressing his lips. “Get me the
horsewhip.”
No command could have been more pleasant to Septimus. He ran into the
house, and soon reappeared with an ordinary horsewhip with which his
father was in the habit of punishing the pupils under his charge.
He handed it to his father with a malicious smile.
“There it is, pa!” he said. “Lay it on heavy.”
Mr. Snowdon did not immediately proceed to make use of the whip.
Considering Bernard to be in his power, he was disposed to play with him
as a cat plays with a mouse of whom it is preparing to make a victim.
“Do you know what I am going to do, Bernard Brooks?” he demanded
sternly.
[Illustration: 025]
“Suppose you tell me,” said Bernard quietly.
“I am going to flog you.”
“What for?”
“For assaulting my boy.”
“Why don’t you let him do it?”
“Septimus, do you wish to chastise Bernard with this whip, and so punish
him for his attack upon you?”
There was nothing that Septimus would have liked better, but there was
something in Bernard’s steady look that made him think it would not be
prudent.
“I guess you’d better flog him, pa,” he said, after a pause.
“Very well, my son, I will.”
Whip in hand, Ezekiel Snowdon advanced upon his refractory pupil.
Bernard did not wait meekly to receive the punishment, neither did he
care to get into a fight with the teacher. He turned and ran through the
back yard and down a lane leading to a tract of marsh which belonged to
the Snowdon farm. “He’ll get away, pa!” said Septimus.
“Try to head him off, my son!”
Septimus, who was in the path, tried to do so, but a swinging blow from
Bernard nearly prostrated him, and the fugitive kept on. Mr. Snowdon’s
blood was up. Brandishing the whip in his long and sinewy arms, he kept
his thin legs in motion, and pursued Bernard with as great speed as he
was capable of.
But Bernard had several rods the start, and he was a good runner. He
kept on, occasionally looking back to see what progress his pursuer was
making.
“What does, the boy mean by running to the marsh?” thought Mr. Snowdon.
“He is a fool. I shall catch him there to a certainty.”
Bernard probably had views of his own. Indeed, it is quite certain that
he had a plan by which he hoped to bring discomfiture upon his dignified
preceptor. He made straight for the marsh, till he found his progress
barred by a wide ditch about half full of slimy water.
“Aha! the ditch will stop him,” reflected Mr. Snowdon.
But no! Bernard poised himself for an instant on the brink, and then
lightly leaped over, landing in safety on the opposite side. Close
behind him was Mr. Snowdon. That gentleman felt impelled by the impetus
acquired in running to follow Bernard’s example. But the ditch was quite
six feet across, and Mr. Snowdon, though not overburdened with flesh,
was stiffer in his joints than he had been twenty years before, and this
operated against him. Besides, it was slippery where he started to jump,
and the result was that he landed in the middle of the ditch where he
floundered in the miry water in a woeful condition.
Septimus came up directly, for he was third in the race.
“Where are you, pa?” he asked.
“Don’t you see where I am?” demanded Mr. Snowdon sharply. “Help me out
of this quagmire!” Rather reluctantly Septimus extended his hand, for
his father’s hand as well as his clothes were bedabbled with mire, and
Mr. Snowdon nearly pulled him in, in his efforts to extricate himself
from the ditch.
“You’re all over mud, pa!” said Septimus, surveying the sorry plight of
his sire.
Just across the ditch stood Bernard, he had come to a halt, and calmly
eyed his would-be captor.
“It’s your fault, you young scoundrel!” cried Mr. Snowdon in a fury, his
wrath increased by the knowledge that Bernard was as neat and clean as
when he started. “If it hadn’t been for you I shouldn’t have been in
this plight.”
“I don’t see how I could help it, sir. You shouldn’t have tried to jump
over the ditch.”
“Why did you do it?”
“I wanted to get away from you.”
“Jump back at once!”
A smile stole over Bernard’s face.
“I shouldn’t dare to,” he answered. “I might fall in as you have.”
“And serve you right! I order you to jump.”
“Suppose I do, and get safe over?”
“I will flog you within an inch of your life,” said Mr. Snowdon rather
imprudently.
“That isn’t inducement enough,” said Bernard. “I guess I had better stay
where I am.”
“You needn’t think you will escape the whipping. You may put it off, but
you’ll have to take it sooner or later.”
Evidently Mr. Snowdon thought it best to put off punishing Bernard for
the present. He was so bespattered with mud that it was necessary to go
home and change his clothing. Septimus was very sorry for this decision,
as he had been looking forward with pleasant anticipation to seeing
Bernard flogged.
“You ain’t goin’ to let him off, pa, are you?” he asked.
“No,” answered Mr. Snowdon, with a vengeful look. “The longer it’s put
off, the harder I’ll lay it on when the time comes.”
Satisfied with this assurance Septimus followed his father home. As from
time to time he glanced at the figure of his parent he could not help
reflecting that Mr. Snowdon was not a father to be proud of. He never
looked attractive, but under present circumstances he looked more
unsavory than usual.
Left alone Bernard did not leap back across the ditch, but taking a
course to the right emerged into the main road about half a mile from
Mr. Snowdon’s house.
He took a short cut to the home of his friend Nat Barclay, whom he made
acquainted with the catastrophe that had befallen Mr. Snowdon.
Nat laughed—he could hardly help it—as he pictured to himself the miry
and bedraggled condition of his old teacher.
“I am afraid he’ll try to get even with you, Bernard,” he said
apprehensively.
“No doubt he would if he got a chance.”
“But he can’t help having plenty of chances as you live in his house.”
“But I am not going to live there any longer, Nat.”
“What do you mean?”
“I shall run away.”
“You won’t do that, will you, Bernard? What will your guardian say? You
have no one else to depend upon.”
“I don’t know.”
“But this is serious, Bernard.”
“I have myself.”
“But what can a boy of fifteen do?”
“He can support himself. At any rate, he can try. The fact is, Nat, I
don’t think Mr. McCracken a friend of mine. I may go to him, and ask if
he will make any other arrangements for me. If he won’t, I will make
them for myself.”
“What will you do to-night, Bernard?”
“I will go back to Mr. Snowdon’s—creep up to my room, if I have a
chance, get out a bundle of clothes, and sleep in the barn. In the
morning I can start early, and——”
“Where will you go?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Mr. Snowdon was in the habit of retiring early, and so were his family.
Generally at nine o’clock they were in bed. When nine o’clock came he
told Septimus to lock the door.
“But suppose Bernard comes back?”
“He can sleep out of doors for one night. It will teach him a lesson.”
He didn’t know that Bernard had already visited the house, made up a
bundle of clothing, and withdrawn to the barn, where he had found a
comfortable resting place on one of the lofts of hay.
It was Bernard’s intention to get up early in the morning and make his
escape before Mr. Snowdon or any of his family were astir.
But a healthy boy, who is a good sleeper, cannot always fix the time of
awaking. For some reason Bernard slept on till half-past seven o’clock.
Septimus had occasion to go to the barn, and discovered him still
asleep. He ran into the house in great excitement.
“Pa,” he said, “Bernard is asleep in the barn. I seed him.”
Occasionally Septimus, though the son of a teacher, made grammatical
mistakes.
“Is he asleep?” asked Mr. Snowdon in a tone of interest.
“Yes, pa.”
“The Lord has delivered him into my hands. I will not neglect the
opportunity to chastise him.”
“He may wake up when you are getting up.”
“I will take you with me to hold the ladder.”
“He might stick me with the pitchfork,” said Septimus, who was a coward
at heart.
“Then I will take Bridget.”
Bridget was the kitchen drudge. She was rather a stupid girl, who stood
in fear of her employer.
They went to the barn together. Mr. Snowdon went up the ladder, whip in
hand, Bridget holding the ladder. He mounted the opposite scaffold, and
prepared to cross to the other, when Bernard, who had been aroused by
the sound of voices, made his appearance, cap in hand, and asked
composedly: “What are you after, Mr. Snowdon?”
“I’m after you, Bernard Brooks,” answered Mr. Snowdon grimly.