To be accurate and truthful, it was a rare thing for Zeb to be able to sit down with any comfort, for his interviews with his father were very frequent and generally of a very painful nature.
He entered the kitchen looking more defiant than his brothers or sister had ever seen him.
Zeke did not speak.
He took off his coat and rolled up his homespun linen shirt sleeves.
Then he reached out and got the beechen stick.
Zebedee waited.
He knew that there was a certain formula to be gone through.
His father never thrashed him while angry; he always catechised him, then waited a few minutes before plying the stick or the whip.
"Zeb, did you sort those potatoes?"
"No."