"Yes what?"
"Yes, sir."
"Has it ben four times?"
"Y-es, sir." More heaving of the gingham shirt.
"Well, you air a coward! How many times? Speak up now."
More digging of the bare toes in the earth, and one premonitory tear stealing from under the downcast lids, then:
"A little most every day, and you can keep the cow," wailed the Bishop, as he turned abruptly and fled behind the barn, where he flung himself into the green depths of a tansy bed, and gave himself up to unmanly tears.
I had heard more than I wished, for I had been rooted to the spot, not so much because of my interest in Phil as that I did not like to vex Uncle Abner by making him aware of my unintentional presence. I did not dare seek and comfort my Little Bishop sobbing in the tansy bed, the brand of coward on his forehead, and, what was much worse, the fear in his heart that he deserved it. I hurried home across the fields, quite forgetting my errand, and told Aunt Betty, with tears in my eyes, that I would rather eat buttermilk bread for a week than have one of Uncle Abner's yeast-cakes in the house. I acknowledged that he had been true to his word and had held to his bargain, but I could not forgive his making so hard a bargain with my timid Little Bishop.
Aunt Betty finally heard from Mrs. Sanderson, through whom all information was sure to filter if you gave it time, that Uncle Abner despised a coward, that he considered Phil a regular mother's-apron-string boy, and that he was "learnin'" him to be brave.
Bill Jones, the hired man, now drove Buttercup to pasture, though whenever Uncle Abner went to Moderation of Bonnie Eagle, as he often did, I noticed that Phil took the hired man's place. I often joined him on these anxious expeditions, and a like terror in both our souls, we attempted to train the red cow and give her some idea of obedience.