Sam Dickerson's voice broke and he turned away for a moment so that his visitor should not see his face.
“Well!” he continued. “You've got Pete right this time—no doubt of that. I dunno what makes him such a mean whelp. I'll lambaste him good for this, now I tell you. But the stacks——”
“Make him pay for them out of his own money. Mrs. Atterson ought not to lose the stacks,” said Hiram, slowly.
“Oh, he'll do that, anyway, you can bet!” exclaimed Dickerson, with conviction.
“I don't believe that sending a boy like him to jail will either improve his morals, or do anybody else any good,” observed Hiram, reflectively.
“And it'll jest about finish his mother,” spoke Sam.
“That's right, too,” said the young farmer. “I tell you. I don't want to see him—not just now. But you do what you think is best about this matter, and make Peter pay the bill—ten dollars for the two stacks of fodder.”
“He shall do it, Mr. Strong,” declared Sam Dickerson, warmly. “And he shall beg your pardon, too, or I'll larrup him until he can't stand. He's too big for a lickin', but he ain't too big for me to lick!”
And the elder Dickerson was as good as his word. An hour later yells from the cart shed denoted that Pete was finally getting what he should have received when he was a younger boy.
Before noon Sam marched the youth over to Mrs. Atterson. Pete was very puffy about the eyes, and his cheeks were streaked with tears. Nor did he seem to care to more than sit upon the extreme edge of a chair.