Their teeth chattered, and their limbs shook, but they were too petrified with terror to shed a tear.
Jack and Phil, following the farmer indoors, a few minutes later, after putting away their ponies, as they loved to do, beat a hasty retreat, though their untasted supper stood ready within their reach. They were in blissful ignorance as to the cause of the farmer’s rage, but a look from Mrs. Busson warned them that they were not wanted, and with the ready tact of good breeding, they had quickly vanished to their own quarters.
“Oh, I wish,” cried Phoena, “that Ruth, or Libbie, or someone would come and see us. It is getting so late, and it will be too dreadful it we have to wait till to-morrow morning without knowing any more.”
“Well, we can make out something for ourselves,” said matter-of-fact Faith. “For you can hear that Mr. Busson is evidently determined to turn us out to-morrow morning. Just listen, now.”
“Can’t turn ’em out, you, say,” Busson was roaring. “Can’t turn who I choose out of my own house! Well, I call that a pretty pair of walking boots. Don’t you make any mistake about it, Missus, out they’ll go, bag and baggage, neck and crop, leggins or no leggins, soon as ever the sun’s up to-morrow.”
Then came the sound of pleading in a low tone from Mrs. Busson.
This was speedily cut short by the farmer’s loud voice.
“Respect for Miss Agatha, indeed! Let her teach her young ’uns to show respect for my goods and chattels. Let her, I say, before they ever set foot under my roof again.”
Then, after a moment’s lull, the farmer raged on anew.
“And as for that boy, this very night, I’ll give him such a thrashing as he’ll never forget for the rest of his born days. My word! if I don’t break a stick or two over him, my name’s not Benjamin Busson. Polly, I say?”—this was addressed, in stentorian tones, to the girl in the back kitchen, “where have you locked that young rascal up?”