“I want you to whip me,” Henry replied, huskily. “I'll stand here and let you lay it on till you are tired. You'll never give me enough to satisfy me. I need it and I want it. You have every right to give it to me, and I want it done.” Unconscious of what he was doing, Hoag accepted the rope, allowing it to hang loosely from his inert fingers. There was another silence. Henry had turned his back and bent his shoulders over the cotton bale. Hoag twisted the rope awkwardly in his hands for a moment, then threw it down. “What did you need money for?” he suddenly inquired. “Tell me; you might as well.” “I borrowed a hundred dollars from Sam Pitman last year,” came from Henry's averted lips. “He's in hard luck. They are about to sell his farm for debt. His family is suffering. He told me that my hundred would tide him over.” “I see, I see,” Hoag muttered. “I didn't know how else to get it,” Henry went on. “I tried a number of ways, but failed. I want you to know that I've never stole before. Somehow I made myself believe it wouldn't be wrong in such a case to take from my own father. Of course I was wrong, but I tried to see it that way. I knew where I could raise the money on the leather, and--well, that's all. I want you to whip me. Nothing else will satisfy me. After that I'll go away for good and all.” “Thar ain't no use to talk that way,” Hoag said, falteringly. “I didn't know you needed money as bad as that. Pitman _is_ in a hard fix, an' I'll tell you what I'll do. It's plumb foolish for you to--to talk about goin' off an' all that. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll pay that debt off in the momin'. I reckon you think I'm purty hard on you. Well, I suppose I am. I was fetched up hard, an' I've got hard. Now, go put up the hoss an' wagon. I feel bad about this. I don't know why, but I feel bad.” “Father, I can't--” “Now, go on an' do as I tell you. I know when I want to do a thing, an' I want to pay Pitman that money, an'--an' I want you to stay on here at home. Now, go put up the hoss an' wagon. If I'm satisfied you ought to be, an' me'n you will have to rub out an' begin over ag'in in some sort o' fashion. You was mad an' I was mad. You've got my temper an' I can't blame you. Now, go on. I'll lock the door.” “Very well,” Henry said, and he picked up his coat and hat and moved away into the darkness, leaving his father with the lighted lantern in his hand. Hoag stood still for a moment. He heard his son clucking to the horse, then came the sound of the wagon-wheels scraping against the edge of the platform, and the grinding of the horse's hoofs on the stony road, as it was driven toward the stables. Hoag extinguished the lantern by lowering it suddenly, and, going out, he closed the sliding door and locked it with fingers which quivered as with palsy. He sat down on the platform, his heavy feet and legs hanging limply, and stared out into space. CHAPTER XI |ONE evening at the end of that week Paul met