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young loafer Bernard Brooks. I want you to flog him within an inch of his life.”

      “Bernard Brooks tied your hands?”

      “Didn’t I say so?”

      “But why did you let him do it?”

      “How could I help it, when he had Nat Barclay with him?”

      “So Nat Barclay was with him?”

      “Yes, he was.”

      “I forbade him to associate with that Barclay.”

      “Much he cares for your orders. When I told him you would flog him, he laughed!”

      “Oh, he laughed, did he?” said Mr. Snowdon, much incensed.

      “Yes, he doesn’t care for you,” said Septimus, craftily fanning his father’s wrath.

      “I’ll learn him,” said Mr. Snowdon, shaking his head vigorously. “He’ll see that I am not to be trifled with. But what did he tie your hands for?”

      “Just cut the cord and I’ll tell you. It hurts like all possessed.”

      Mr. Snowdon drew a jack knife from his pocket and severed the cord. Septimus breathed a sigh of relief.

      “See how very red my wrists are?” he said. “Pa, do me a favor.”

      “Well, what is it?”

      “Keep this cord, and let me tie Bernard’s hands with it.”

      “A good idea, Septimus. Now tell me what he tied your hands for \”

      “For just nothing at all.”

      “There must have been something.”

      “Well, you see Frank Fisk’s kitten was up in a tree, and I was shying stones at it. Frank made such a fuss that I took out a cord and thought I would tie his hands just to give him a lesson. Just then those two loafers came along, and had the impudence to tell me to stop, just as if they had any authority over me. Of course I told them it was none of their business, and defied them.”

      “Very proper, Septimus. You are only responsible for your conduct to me.”

      “Then Bernard Brooks made a savage attack upon me, and getting Nat Barclay to hold my hands, he tied them. What do you say to that, pa?”

      “What do I say? That it was a high-handed and outrageous proceeding.”

      “Bully for you, pa! You express my sentiments. Now what are you goin’ to do about it?”

      “I shall call the Brooks boy to account. He forgets that he is under my charge.”

      “He seems to think I am under his charge. Say, pa, you won’t allow your son to be insulted and trod upon, will you?”

      “No, I won’t, Septimus. For some time I have been thinking that it would be necessary to flog Bernard Brooks, and now I have made up my mind to do it.”

      “Good, pa! You’ll let me see you tackle him, won’t you?”

      “Yes, Septimus, I will. I can understand the gratification it will give you.”

      “If you do that will pay me for what he did to me.”

      “But perhaps he won’t come back,” said Mr. Snowdon in an apprehensive tone. “In that case I shall lose the quarterly sum his guardian pays me.”

      “You don’t think he’ll run away?” asked Septimus.

      Half an hour later this question was answered. Bernard was seen approaching the house, his manner cool and composed, while he looked neither troubled nor flurried.

      CHAPTER III. BROUGHT TO BAY

      When Bernard saw Septimus Snowdon and his father standing in front of the house he understood at once, from the expression of their faces, that trouble was in store for him.

      “Well, sir,” said Mr. Snowdon curtly, “so you have come home at last?”

      “Yes, sir. There was no letter for you.”

      “Ahem! I shall have to write a letter to your guardian.”

      Bernard shrugged his shoulders, but did not think it necessary to say anything, rather to the disappointment of Ezekiel, who wished to draw him out, “I find,” he said, “that you have made an outrageous assault on my innocent boy. What have you to say in extenuation of your conduct?”

      “Only that your innocent boy was stoning a kitten, and bullying a young boy.”

      “Even if he were, what business was it of yours?”

      “It will always be my business to protect children and animals from being abused,” said Bernard warmly.

      “You are a very impudent boy! Are you aware that the boy you assaulted is my son?”

      “I ought to be aware of it. There isn’t another boy in town who would be guilty of such brutal conduct.”

      “Are you goin’ to stand that, pa?” asked Septimus, anxious to precipitate a conflict between Bernard and his father.

      “No, I am not,” said Mr. Snowdon, compressing his lips. “Get me the horsewhip.”

      No command could have been more pleasant to Septimus. He ran into the house, and soon reappeared with an ordinary horsewhip with which his father was in the habit of punishing the pupils under his charge.

      He handed it to his father with a malicious smile.

      “There it is, pa!” he said. “Lay it on heavy.”

      Mr. Snowdon did not immediately proceed to make use of the whip. Considering Bernard to be in his power, he was disposed to play with him as a cat plays with a mouse of whom it is preparing to make a victim.

      “Do you know what I am going to do, Bernard Brooks?” he demanded sternly.

      “Suppose you tell me,” said Bernard quietly.

      “I am going to flog you.”

      “What for?”

      “For assaulting my boy.”

      “Why don’t you let him do it?”

      “Septimus, do you wish to chastise Bernard with this whip, and so punish him for his attack upon you?”

      There was nothing that Septimus would have liked better, but there was something in Bernard’s steady look that made him think it would not be prudent.

      “I guess you’d better flog him, pa,” he said, after a pause.

      “Very well, my son, I will.”

      Whip in hand, Ezekiel Snowdon advanced upon his refractory pupil. Bernard did not wait meekly to receive the punishment, neither did he care to get into a fight with the teacher. He turned and ran through the back yard and down a lane leading to a tract of marsh which belonged to the Snowdon farm. “He’ll get away, pa!” said Septimus.

      “Try to head him off, my son!”

      Septimus, who was in the path, tried to do so, but a swinging blow from Bernard nearly prostrated him, and the fugitive kept on. Mr. Snowdon’s blood was up. Brandishing the whip in his long and sinewy arms, he kept his thin legs in motion, and pursued Bernard with as great speed as he was capable of.

      But Bernard had several rods the start, and he was a good runner. He kept on, occasionally looking back to see what progress his pursuer was making.

      “What does, the boy mean by running to the marsh?” thought Mr. Snowdon. “He is a fool. I shall catch him there to a certainty.”

      Bernard probably had views of his own. Indeed, it is quite certain that he had a plan by which he hoped to bring discomfiture upon his dignified preceptor. He made straight for the marsh, till he found his progress barred by a wide ditch about half full of slimy water.

      “Aha! the ditch will stop him,” reflected Mr. Snowdon.

      But no! Bernard poised himself for

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