“If he would whip his own son it might do him good. Septimus is a young imp.”
“There he is now! I wonder what he is up to.” Septimus Snowdon was an ill-favored boy of fifteen with red hair and freckles seeming like extensive patches upon a face in which even the most partial eyes could not have seen a redeeming feature. He was standing a little distance ahead, looking up into the branches of a tree in which a terrified kitten had taken refuge. Standing beside him was a young boy of twelve who seemed to be concerned for the safety of the kitten.
Septimus raised a large stone, and taking aim, sent it through the air, aiming at the cat. It came very near hitting her.
“Don’t stone my kitty,” remonstrated Frank Fisk, the young boy.
“Stop your noise!” said Septimus roughly. “I shall stone her all I want to.”
As he spoke he threw another stone, which just grazed the kitten’s face and elicited a terrified cry.
“There, you bad boy, you hit my kitty.”
“Who calls me a bad boy?” demanded Septimus, with an ugly look on his face.
“I did, and you are one, or you wouldn’t throw stones at my kitten.”
“I’ll throw stones at you if you like it any better.”