"Michael," said Sir William, "go to the slate."
I walked across the dusty school-room.
"Chalk!" shouted Sir William, irritated by my lagging steps.
I picked up a lump of chalk, balancing it in my palm as boys do a pebble in a sling.
Something in my eyes may have infuriated Sir William.
The next moment he had me by the arm, then by the collar, whip whistling like the chimney wind—and whistling quite as idly, for the blow never fell.
I freed myself; he made no effort to hold me.
"Keep your lash for your hounds!" I stammered.
He did not seem to hear me, but I planted myself in a corner and cried out that he dare not lay his whip on me, which was a shameful thing to taunt him with, for he had promised me never to lay rod to me; and I knew, as all the world knows, that Sir William Johnson had never broken his word to man or savage.
But still I faced him, now hurling safe defiance, now muttering revenge, until the scornful rebuke in his eyes began to shame me into silence. Tingling already with self-contempt, I dropped my head a little, not so low but what I could see Sir William's bulk motionless before me.