Bub’s howls began again. Father couldn’t stand it. He made for the barn.
“What’s this?” said he.
There stood Bub, with his jacket off, and his father, with a big, tough switch in his hand.
“This?” responded Mr. Ridlet, his teeth fairly chattering in his wrath. “This? It’s that this boy deserves the confoundedest whipping a boy ever had—and I’m giving it to him!”
He lifted the switch, and Bub yelled before it touched him. I knew he had been hurt pretty bad.
“Oh, now, neighbor,” said father, putting out his hand to prevent the switch from coming down, “your boy can’t have done anything so terribly bad. I’ve always thought a lot of your boy. Haven’t you punished him about enough?”
“Hasn’t done anything bad, hasn’t he? Oh, no! He hasn’t been the one to know about his mother’s fork money, and not say a word, and let the mischief be to play between two families? Take that!”
Down came the switch. Poor Bub’s screams made my ears ring. I would not have got that crack for twice the money in question.
“There, neighbor,” interposed father, taking hold of the rod. “I insist on your telling me all about Bub and the money, since I was accused of having it. Bub didn’t steal it?”
“No, no, no!” protested Bub. “I forgot,