"Basting!"
"Leathering!"
"Thumping!"
"Whopping!"
"Rib-roasting!"
"Dear me!" cried Mrs. Merryweather. "This is rather terrible, I think. There seem to be more terms to express personal violence than anything else."
"We haven't begun to give them all, either!" said Phil. "If we are allowed to use modern slang—I know you prefer ancient, Mammy—"
"I know you are a saucy boy!" said his mother.
"My dear friends," said the Chief, rising. "This is all very fine: but the simple fact is, it is beginning to rain, and I think it advisable for us to beat, fustigate, (where did you get that, Miranda?) or wallop, a retreat!"
Then there was scrambling up, and running to and fro, and gathering up of baskets and shawls. The good old horse, which had been grazing peacefully in a clearing hard by, was harnessed, and Mr. and Mrs. Merryweather, Colonel Ferrers, and the impedimenta bundled in and off as hastily as might be. Finally, as the rain began to pour down in good earnest, the younger campers gathered into a solid phalanx and walked home across the fields, singing in chorus, and informing all whom it might concern that they were