"Here it is, dad!" he said, handing it to his father.
All this happened in open view of the house and of the public road. Mr. Sprague was so intent upon his plan of punishing Philip that he did not notice the approach of two men walking with unsteady steps along the highway and now close at hand. They were the two men who had talked with Philip in front of the drinking saloon. They had been drinking, but had not reached the stage of helplessness.
"I say, Joe," said one, looking towards Nahum Sprague's house, "there's where old Sprague lives."
"He's a mean rascal," hiccoughed the other. "I'd like to thrash him."
"There's the kid—the one he sent to buy some drink. And there's old Sprague with a whip in his hand. I'll be dog-goned if he ain't goin' to lick him. It's a beastly shame. I say, suppose we take a hand."
"All right, Bill."
Meanwhile Nahum Sprague, quite unaware that he was likely to be interfered with, took the whip from the hand of his son. He looked at Philip very much as a cat looks at a mouse whom she is preparing to swallow.
"Now you're going to catch it," he announced, with a cruel gleam in his eyes. "Now you're going to see what you get for spilling my whisky. I'll learn you!"
"Oh, please don't whip me, Mr. Sprague!" pleaded Philip. "Indeed. I didn't mean to break the bottle."
