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see he gives me complete authority over you.”

      “I see he does,” returned Bernard in a peculiar tone.

      “May I ask, Mr. Snowdon,” he added, after a thoughtful pause, “whether my guardian ever told you about how I was situated?”

      “In what way?”

      “As to money matters. Did he tell you whether or not I had any fortune?”

      “He said you had not.”

      “Did he tell you that I was wholly dependent upon his charity?”

      “He gave me that impression. You ought to feel very grateful to him for his great-hearted liberality in thus defraying the expenses of a destitute orphan.”

      “Probably I am as grateful as the occasion requires,” rejoined Bernard gravely. “I will inquire for letters for you.”

      As the boy went out Mr. Snowdon looked after him thoughtfully.

      “I hate that boy!” he murmured to himself. “It would do me good to flog him. His guardian has given me leave, and I think that I will soon find an opportunity to avail myself of it.”

      CHAPTER II. BERNARD’S BOLDNESS

      On his way to the post-office Bernard met Nat Barclay.

      “Where are you bound, Bernard?” he asked.

      “To the post-office.”

      “How are you getting on with Ezekiel?”

      “There is no love lost between us. He says I am a bad lot. In fact, he says he never knew a wuss boy.”

      Both boys laughed.

      “What bad things do you do?”

      “Associate with you, for one thing.”

      “Has Ezekiel forbidden it?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then perhaps I had better leave you?”

      “By no means. I don’t propose to obey Mr. Snowdon in that.”

      “Thank you, but I don’t want you to get into trouble.”

      “What trouble can I get into?”

      “He may undertake to flog you.”

      “Let him try it,” said Bernard in a significant tone. “What do you think I would be doing? Did he ever undertake to chastise you?”

      “No. He knew my father would not permit it.”

      “If he would whip his own son it might do him good. Septimus is a young imp.”

      “There he is now! I wonder what he is up to.” Septimus Snowdon was an ill-favored boy of fifteen with red hair and freckles seeming like extensive patches upon a face in which even the most partial eyes could not have seen a redeeming feature. He was standing a little distance ahead, looking up into the branches of a tree in which a terrified kitten had taken refuge. Standing beside him was a young boy of twelve who seemed to be concerned for the safety of the kitten.

      Septimus raised a large stone, and taking aim, sent it through the air, aiming at the cat. It came very near hitting her.

      “Don’t stone my kitty,” remonstrated Frank Fisk, the young boy.

      “Stop your noise!” said Septimus roughly. “I shall stone her all I want to.”

      As he spoke he threw another stone, which just grazed the kitten’s face and elicited a terrified cry.

      “There, you bad boy, you hit my kitty.”

      “Who calls me a bad boy?” demanded Septimus, with an ugly look on his face.

      “I did, and you are one, or you wouldn’t throw stones at my kitten.”

      “I’ll throw stones at you if you like it any better.”

      “You wouldn’t dare to. I’d tell my father, and he’d – ”

      “What would he do?”

      “He’d stop you.”

      “We’ll see if he will.”

      Septimus took a strong cord from his pocket, and seizing the boy’s hands, prepared to tie them together in spite of his cries.

      “What are you going to do?” asked Frank in a tone of apprehension.

      “I am going to give you a lesson,” answered Septimus coolly.

      Frank struggled to free himself, but Septimus was too strong for him.

      Nat Barclay turned to Bernard.

      “Shall we let him hurt little Frank?” he asked.

      “Not much.”

      As Bernard spoke he strode towards Septimus, who thus far had not observed him.

      “Stop that, you young brute!” he said in an imperious tone. “Do you hear me?”

      Septimus turned quickly, and his scowl became deeper when he saw who had spoken to him; for if there was any boy he hated it was Bernard, who had interfered with him more than once.

      “Yes,” he said. “I hear and I won’t do it.”

      “You won’t, eh?”

      “No, I won’t, and you’d better be careful what you say or do, or I’ll tell pa, and then – ”

      “And then what?”

      “You’ll get a flogging.”

      “That doesn’t frighten me much. Are you going to stop?”

      “No, I’m not.” and Septimus gave an extra twist that made Frank cry out.

      Bernard concluded that the time for remonstrance was past. He sprang forward, and seizing Septimus in his powerful grasp, tore him from his young victim.

      “I’ll pay you up for this!” shrieked Septimus, as he flung himself upon Bernard.

      Bernard laid him on his back in less than a minute.

      “Do you want any more?” he asked, rather contemptuously.

      Just at this moment the kitten saw a favorable opportunity to escape, and ran down the trunk of the tree. As she was running away Septimus caught sight of her, and his cruel instincts were aroused. He seized a rock and flung it at her. Had it struck the kitten she would have been seriously hurt.

      Bernard was fond of pets, and his soul revolted at cruelty in any form.

      “I see you can’t be trusted, Septimus,” he said composedly. “Nat, come here and help secure him.”

      “What shall I do?” asked Nat.

      “Hold his hands.”

      Nat Barclay complied with his request, and Bernard taking the cord which Septimus had used on Frank, quickly and securely tied the hands of the young tyrant.

      Septimus struggled and threatened, but without effect. In less than a minute he was securely bound.

      “There,” said Bernard, “you are safe for a short time.”

      “Untie my hands, or I’ll get my father to flog you!” screamed Septimus.

      “Perhaps you’d better,” said Nat Barclay in a low voice. He was afraid his friend would get into trouble.

      “No, I won’t. Septimus needs the lesson. You needn’t worry about me. Now we’ll go to the post-office.”

      The two boys kept on their way, and Septimus, his hands tied, with wrath in his heart, started for home.

      Mr. Snowdon was just coming out of the front door, when to his astonished gaze was revealed his son and heir walking towards the house, with his hands close together, like a prisoner in handcuffs.

      “What does all this mean?” he asked in surprise. “What have you been tying your hands for?”

      “I

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