“Now bring me a pitcher of ice-water, and see that you’re back in five minutes, or you’ll get the same dose over again.”
Tim limped away, his back and legs feeling as if they had been bathed in fire, and each inch of skin ached and smarted as it never had done from the worst whipping Captain Babbige or Aunt Betsey had favored him with. He entered the cabin with eyes swollen from unshed tears, and sobs choking his breath, but with such a sense of injury in his heart that he made no other sign of suffering.
Mr. Rankin was too familiar with Captain Pratt’s methods of dealing with boys to be obliged to ask Tim any questions; but he said, as the boy got the water:
“Try to keep a stiff upper lip, lad, and you’ll come out all right.”
Tim could not trust himself to speak, for he knew he should cry if he did; and he carried the water to the wheel-house, going directly from there to Tip.
The dog leaped up on him when his master came where he was, as if he wanted a frolic; but Tim said, as he threw himself on the deck beside him:
“Don’t, Tip, don’t play now; I feel more like dyin’. You think it’s awful hard to stay here; but it’s twice as hard on me, ’cause the captain whips me every chance he gets.”
Tip knew from his master’s actions that something was wrong, and he licked the face that was drawn with deep lines of pain so lovingly that Tim’s tears came despite his will.
He was lying by Tip’s side, moaning and crying, when old black Mose, the cook, was attracted to the spot by his sounds of suffering.
“Wha-wha-wha’s de matter, honey? Wha’ yer takin’ on so powerful ’bout?”