“Of course, Archie B., why of course, my son; I'll fix it right.”
And he scribbled a few lines on the fly leaf of his note book for Archie B. to take home:
“God bless you, my son, good-night.”
Archie B. struck out across the fields jingling his remaining gold and whistling. At home it was as he expected. Patsy met him at the gate. One look into her expectant face showed him that she was delighted at the prospect of his punishment. It was her hope deferred, now long unfulfilled. He had always gotten out before, but now—
“Walk in, Mister Gambler, Mr. Hookey—walk in—paw is waitin' fur you,” she said, smirking.
The Deacon stood in the door, silent, grim, determined. In his hand were well-seasoned hickories. By him stood his wife more silent, more grim, more determined.
“Pull off yo' coat, Archie B.,” said the Deacon, “I'm gwinter lick you fur gamblin'.”
“Pull off yo' coat, Archie B.,” said his mother, “I'm goin' to lick you fur playin' hookey.”
“Pull it off, Archie B.,” said his sister bossily, “I'm goin' to stan' by an' see.”
Archie B. pulled off his coat deliberately.