“I will flog you within an inch of your life,” said Mr. Snowdon rather imprudently.
“That isn’t inducement enough,” said Bernard. “I guess I had better stay where I am.”
“You needn’t think you will escape the whipping. You may put it off, but you’ll have to take it sooner or later.”
Evidently Mr. Snowdon thought it best to put off punishing Bernard for the present. He was so bespattered with mud that it was necessary to go home and change his clothing. Septimus was very sorry for this decision, as he had been looking forward with pleasant anticipation to seeing Bernard flogged.
“You ain’t goin’ to let him off, pa, are you?” he asked.
“No,” answered Mr. Snowdon, with a vengeful look. “The longer it’s put off, the harder I’ll lay it on when the time comes.”
Satisfied with this assurance Septimus followed his father home. As from time to time he glanced at the figure of his parent he could not help reflecting that Mr. Snowdon was not a father to be proud of. He never looked attractive, but under present circumstances he looked more unsavory than usual.
Left alone Bernard did not leap back across the ditch, but taking a course to the right emerged into the main road about half a mile from Mr. Snowdon’s house.
He took a short cut to the home of his friend Nat Barclay, whom he made acquainted with the catastrophe that had befallen Mr. Snowdon.
Nat laughed—he could hardly help it—as he pictured to himself the miry and bedraggled condition of his old teacher.