He knew well enough why he had been whipped—the chicken had hardly ceased breathing when the whip descended. Just now he did not want even to think of chicken; he loathed the whole species. He was not chained now, he might range from one end of the chicken-yard to the other, but he had no such desire. In his shame he only wanted to crawl off where no one could ever see him again. He knew at last what a bad thing it was to kill innocent birds that could not help themselves.
Mr. Trimble went about other business and left Van while the punishment soaked into his brain. The lesson must be thorough or it would do no good at all.
A little freckled face under a tousled tow thatch popped through a chink in the gateway. A voice breathless with running whispered,
“Van! Van! Are you there?”
A tiny, almost inaudible, whine was the answer.
Silently Pete slipped in, dropping his books inside the gate. He had been on tenter hooks all the morning, for he knew that this was to be the day of the “lesson,” and he had run all the way home. He shut the gate carefully so that no one might hear.
Two blue eyes looked down pityingly into Vanny-Boy’s sad brown ones. The kennel was large, and Pete slipped in bodily, and took the aching, trembling sinner tenderly in his arms. He cuddled the little heaving body close to his own.
“You pore little feller!” he whispered. “I jest couldn’t stand it. Pop does lick awful sometimes. An’ it hurts too; I know. I hain’t never been licked fer killin’ chickens, though, so mebbe I don’t know the hull of it.
“My! Look at them stripes! I ain’t never had ’em on me like that.” Tender hands were feeling all over Van’s little legs and sides. “Now never you mind, Van, I brought sumpin to make ’em feel better.”
The “sumpin” proved to be a box of soft, oily stuff that had a queer nice smell. Pete rubbed it all over the welts, taking great care not to hurt them any more.