"Oh, I won't murder him, rest easy about that," returned Richard Anderson grimly.
On his way home that night he stopped at a harness store and asked to see the whips.
"I want something short, and with a good, stinging lash," he said.
"Got a bad horse to deal with, eh?" said the salesman.
"Yes, the worst colt in the city."
"All right, sir, here you are. That will fetch him, I'll warrant you."
"How much?"
"One dollar."
"That will do." Richard Anderson paid the money and had the whip wrapped up.
"Now, Frederic Vernon, I'll wager I'll make you face the music to-morrow," he muttered, as he took a car for home. "If I don't lay this on well it will be because I've forgotten how, and I guess a man don't forget these things very easily."