“What’s that? Didn’t I see you fling that bucket of water over him, you little villain?”
“I did that because he insulted me,” replied the boy, with spirit.
“Don’t you dare talk back to me in that fashion, or I’ll flay you within an inch of your life! Go into the store at once!”
Silas Maslin raised his foot as though it was his intention to boot the boy.
He did not do so, however, and it was well for him that he did not.
That was an indignity Dick would not have submitted to from any person, not even from Silas Maslin, much as he held him in awe.
The boy was glad to avail himself of the chance of getting beyond his tyrant’s reach, and was presently drawing a quart of molasses for one of the customers of the establishment.
Mr. Maslin kept a small general store at Cobham’s Corner, on the outskirts of the village of Walkhill, in the State of New York.
The building stood within a few yards of the Erie Canal, facing the country road, which at this point crossed the narrow waterway by means of a stout wooden bridge.
The houses that constituted the village were much scattered, and owing to the heavy growth of trees not one of them could be seen from the store; but by standing on the centre of the bridge the short, stumpy steeple of the small, wooden church could just be made out looming up through the topmost branches in the near distance.