“Oh no, it’s of no use. I gave him an awful thrashing though.”
“I wish you’d give him ten times as much, my lad—a wagabone. It was Pete Warboys, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, I don’t know; I couldn’t tell. It was like something in a long sack kicking about there. I hit him nearly every time.”
“Well, that’s something, sir. Do him more good than a peck out o’ our apples. Better for his morials. He ought to have had twice as much.”
“But he had enough to keep him from coming again.”
“Mebbe, sir; but there’s a deal o’ wickedness in boys, when they are wicked, and they soon forgets. Here, chuck me the rope, and I’ll coil it up.”
“Rope! I have no rope.”
“Why, you don’t mean to say as you’ve let him cut off with it, sir?”
“I!” cried Tom. “Why you had it.”
“Ay, till he snatchered it away, when I was down. Hff! My elbows.”