"You are to stop here. You ought to feel ashamed of yourself to resist your mother like that. Off with you, go to your room and prepare your lessons for tomorrow."
Paul Schlieben spoke sharply. It had made him angry to see how the boy had striven with hands and feet against his delicate wife.
"You rude boy, I'll teach you how to behave to your mother. Here"--he seized hold of him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him up to her--"here, beg her pardon. Kiss your good mother's hand. And promise not to be so wild again, not to behave like a street-boy. Be quick--well, are you soon going to do it?"
The veins on the man's forehead began to swell with anger. What a stubborn fellow he was. There he stood, his blouse torn open at front so that you could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest that was wet with perspiration--he was not breathing quietly even now, he was still panting from the rough game--and looking so wild, so turbulent, not at all like the child of nice parents. This could not go on any longer.
"You must not tear about like that any more, do you hear?" said his father severely. "I forbid it. Play other games. You have your garden, your gymnastic appliances and a hundred things others would envy you. And now come here, beg your mother's pardon."
The boy went to his mother. She met him half way, she held out her hand to him already. He kissed it, he mumbled also, "I won't do it again," but the man did not hear any repentance in his voice. There was something in the sullen way he said it that irritated him. And he lost control of himself a little.
"That wasn't an apology. Ask your mother's pardon again--and distinctly."
The boy repeated it.
"And now promise that you will not rush about like that again. 'Dear mother, I promise'--well?"
Not a word, no promise.