“Now come here, sir,” said Mr. Morton, withdrawing himself from the cupboard, with a small horsewhip in his hand, “I will teach you how to speak the truth in future! Confess that you have told a lie!”
“Yes, sir, it was a lie! Pray—pray forgive me: but Tom made me!”
“What! when poor Tom is up-stairs? worse and worse!” said Mrs. Morton, lifting up her hands and eyes. “What a viper!”
“For shame, boy,—for shame! Take that—and that—and that—”
Writhing—shrinking, still more terrified than hurt, the poor child cowered beneath the lash.
“Mamma! mamma!” he cried at last, “Oh, why—why did you leave me?”
At these words Mr. Morton stayed his hand, the whip fell to the ground.
“Yet it is all for the boy’s good,” he muttered. “There, child, I hope this is the last time. There, you are not much hurt. Zounds, don’t cry so!”
“He will alarm the whole street,” said Mrs. Morton; “I never see such a child! Here, take this parcel to Mrs. Birnie’s—you know the house—only next street, and dry your eyes before you get there. Don’t go through the shop; this way out.”
She pushed the child, still sobbing with a vehemence that she could not comprehend, through the private passage into the street, and returned to her husband.