Bernard Brooks' Adventures: The Experience of a Plucky Boy

“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 an instant on the brink, and then lightly leaped over, landing in safety on the opposite side. Close behind him was Mr. Snowdon. That gentleman felt impelled by the impetus acquired in running to follow Bernard’s example. But the ditch was quite six feet across, and Mr. Snowdon, though not overburdened with flesh, was stiffer in his joints than he had been twenty years before, and this operated against him. Besides, it was slippery where he started to jump, and the result was that he landed in the middle of the ditch where he floundered in the miry water in a woeful condition.

Septimus came up directly, for he was third in the race.

“Where are you, pa?” he asked.

“Don’t you see where I am?” demanded Mr. Snowdon sharply. “Help me out of this quagmire!” Rather reluctantly Septimus extended his hand, for his father’s hand as well as his clothes were bedabbled with mire, and Mr. Snowdon nearly pulled him in, in his efforts to extricate himself from the ditch.

“You’re all over mud, pa!” said Septimus, surveying the sorry plight of his sire.

Just across the ditch stood Bernard, he had come to a halt, and calmly eyed his would-be captor.

“It’s your fault, you young scoundrel!” cried Mr. Snowdon in a fury, his wrath increased by the knowledge that Bernard was as neat and clean as when he started. “If it hadn’t been for you I shouldn’t have been in this plight.”

“I don’t see how I could help it, sir. You shouldn’t have tried to jump over the ditch.”

“Why did you do it?”

“I wanted to get away from you.”

“Jump back at once!”

A smile stole over Bernard’s face.

“I shouldn’t dare to,” he answered. “I might fall in as you have.”

“And serve you right! I order you to jump.”

“Suppose I do, and get safe over?”

“I will flog you within an inch of your life,” said Mr. Snowdon rather imprudently.

“That isn’t inducement enough,” said Bernard. “I guess I had better stay where I am.”

“You needn’t think you will escape the whipping. You may put it off, but you’ll have to take it sooner or later.”

Evidently Mr. Snowdon thought it best to put off punishing Bernard for the present. He was so bespattered with mud that it was necessary to go home and change his clothing. Septimus was very sorry for this decision, as he had been looking forward with pleasant anticipation to seeing Bernard flogged.

“You ain’t goin’ to let him off, pa, are you?” he asked.

“No,” answered Mr. Snowdon, with a vengeful look. “The longer it’s put off, the harder I’ll lay it on when the time comes.”

Satisfied with this assurance Septimus followed his father home. As from time to time he glanced at the figure of his parent he could not help reflecting that Mr. Snowdon was not a father to be proud of. He never looked attractive, but under present circumstances he looked more unsavory than usual.

Left alone Bernard did not leap back across the ditch, but taking a course to the right emerged into the main road about half a mile from Mr. Snowdon’s house.

He took a short cut to the home of his friend Nat Barclay, whom he made acquainted with the catastrophe that had befallen Mr. Snowdon.

Nat laughed – he could hardly help it – as he pictured to himself the miry and bedraggled condition of his old teacher.

“I am afraid he’ll try to get even with you, Bernard,” he said apprehensively.

“No doubt he would if he got a chance.”

“But he can’t help having plenty of chances as you live in his house.”

“But I am not going to live there any longer, Nat.”

“What do you mean?”

“I shall run away.”

“You won’t do that, will you, Bernard? What will your guardian say? You have no one else to depend upon.”

“I don’t know.”

“But this is serious, Bernard.”