"I'll pay you some time—I have no money now—but I'll work day and night when I am a man to pay you."
"That all sounds very well, but it don't pay me for the bottle of whisky. I must give you a lesson for your carelessness. Oscar, go and get the horsewhip."
"I'll do it, dad," said Oscar joyfully.
He was naturally a cruel boy, and the prospect of seeing Philip flogged gave him the greatest pleasure.
There was a small outbuilding near the house which had once been used for a stable when Mr. Sprague kept a horse, but the last poor animal having pined away and died, as it was believed from insufficient food, it was no longer in use except as a store house for various odds and ends. The horsewhip was saved over from the time when it was needed for its legitimate purpose.
"Oh, don't whip me, Mr. Sprague!" pleaded Philip, frightened at the last words of his cruel guardian.
He was a sensitive boy, one of the kind that thrives under kind influences, and droops under ill-treatment. He had a delicate physical organization that shrank from pain, which some boys bear with stoical fortitude.
It was not merely pain, but the humiliation of a blow that daunted him.
Mr. Sprague did not make any reply to his pleadings, but waited impatiently for Oscar to appear.
This was not long. Sent on a congenial errand Oscar wasted no time, but came out of the building promptly with the horsewhip in his hand.