Mechanically Edward slipped farther and farther away, his father after him; mechanically, too, the boy raised his right arm to shield his face, and stretched out his left to ward off the coming blows. "Where are you going to?" "To Ole Tuft." "What are you going to do there? Hey? Is Ole Tuft at home? Hey?" "Yes." "What are you going there for?" "I am going to--to----" "Well!" "To beg his pardon." "To beg his pardon? What for? What for? Hey?" and he raised his whip. The boy answered, hurriedly: "He won't come to school any more." "Oh, indeed! So you've been teasing him? Hey? You at the head? Hey?" "Yes." "Your fault, was it? Hey?" he cried. "I found out----" here he stopped. "Well?" "That he--that he----" and the boy began to cry. "Well?" "That he goes to visit the sick." "So you told the others? Hey? Carried tales? Hey?" Edward dared not answer, and then the whip began to be troublesome; both the lad's arms swung up and down, keeping time with the whip, as if uncertain where it would fall next. He kept slipping farther and farther away. "Stand still!" shouted his father. But instead the boy sprang with one bound right to the edge of the ditch. Fiercely the father lifted his whip again; but, unintentionally, the horse behind him received such a sharp cut that it pulled so hard at the bridle as nearly to upset its master. Edward could not resist the comical side of this most welcome deliverance and he burst into a roar of laughter. But he was so startled at hearing himself laugh that he hopped over the ditch and ran into the wood. He could not possibly control himself as he turned away; he began to laugh again, and could hit upon no better way of hiding it than to set up a good howl. The father's contempt for his son was not to be described. He recovered his temper, though, quieted the horse, and mounted again. "Come along," said he, quietly, pointing with his whip in the direction of the Tuft valley. "There will be more accounts to settle when we get there," thought the boy to himself. He obeyed his father's call, of course, and walked on, but at a safe distance in front of the horse. He kept at the same distance all the time; the horse was a quick stepper, so it was an effort. The man in gray on the chestnut horse drove his son mercilessly on before him, through the snow and slush, although one could clearly see by the way he walked that his feet hurt him, and although his hands were half-frozen--he kept putting them in his mouth--and although he was dripping wet; his fur cap was sticking to his head like a washed-out rag. The man in gray sat comfortably on his horse, in warm, waterproof clothes, his whip in his hand, his eyes glistening on each side of his hooked nose. No one who saw this little procession could have guessed that the dearest wish of this stern-looking man was to love the boy he was so angrily driving before him.