“I won’t go home till I’m ready,” said Phœnix.
“Zen you be ready now!” cried the excited French boy. “What you come here for, anyhow, you little schneak?”
Phœnix turned around and walked to the side of the road. He took off his hat and coat and laid them on the grass. Then he came back to Emile and gave him a tremendous thrashing.
It was of no use for the French boy to struggle or resist. Phœnix Poole was the strongest boy in that part of the country, and he did not stop till he felt that his work was thoroughly done. Then he put on his hat and coat and walked up to the house.
In all his life Emile had never been thoroughly thrashed before, and, among his other sensations, that of astonishment was very strong. How such a little fellow could whip him he could not understand. But, although Phœnix was short, he was not little. Emile had never taken enough interest in him to notice how thick-set and muscular he was.
The French boy, who but a short time ago had felt and acted as the master of Hyson Hall, was now so thoroughly cowed that he was afraid to go back to the house. He was just as angry at everybody as he had been before, but even his temper could not give him courage enough to meet that horrible short boy again.
Phœnix did not find Philip in the house, so he went down to the stables.
“Chap has not been here yet?” said he.
“No,” said Phil. “He isn’t keeping as good a watch over his Emily as he used to. If he isn’t careful, that wreck will be blown up before he knows it.”
After a short silence, in which he occupied himself examining the points of Jouncer, who was being rubbed down by Joel, Phœnix remarked,—