Down he came. Not to the floor, but to a bended knee that caught him lengthwise athwart the middle of the body. The bargee doubled, face downward, across Dad’s knee—like a jack-knife.
One iron hand on the back of his fat neck pinioned his head to the floor. With the other hand Dad smote—smote again, and yet again and again.
Wide-handed he struck and with open palm on the portion of the bargee’s anatomy which, in that position, presented the largest and, in all respects, the most convenient striking surface.
The blows of the spanking resounded like prolonged theater applause. The bargee struggled and writhed and kicked. But all in vain. The hand and arm that held him fast were as strong as they were deft.
With no shadow of annoyance on his handsome face, Dad continued to spank, while the car shook with howls of delight from a hundred throats—howls that quite downed the bargee’s lurid vocabulary.
At length Dad paused. Palm significantly upraised, he asked gently:
“President Lincoln is a great man, isn’t he?”
“Y-yes,” groaned the bargee, after a moment of hesitation.
“You’ll never forget that again?”
“No.”