“Then you had better go to bed, my darling.” “No, I won’t. I ain’t goin’ to lose seein’ Bill’s flogging. I hope father’ll lay it on well.” “No doubt the boy deserves it.” “What do you think he had the impudence to say to me, mother?” asked Andrew. “I shall not be surprised at any impudence from the young reprobate.” “He wanted me to beg his pardon for strikin’ him with a whip, as he said I did.” “Well, I never did!” ejaculated Mrs. Badger. “To think of my boy apologizing to a low, hired boy like him!” “Oh, he’s gettin’ awful airy, ma! Shouldn’t wonder if he thought he was my equal!” “There’s nothing but a flogging will subdue such a boy as that. I ain’t unmerciful, and if the boy showed a proper humility I wouldn’t mind doin’ all I could for him and overlookin’ his faults, but when he insults my Andrew, I can’t excuse him. But there’s one thing I can’t understand: He didn’t use to be so bold.” “I know what has changed him, ma.” “What is it, Andrew?” “It’s that Dick Schmidt. Dick treats him as if he was his equal, and that makes him put on airs.” “Then Dick lowers himself--though, to be sure, I don’t hold him to be equal to you! The Badgers are a better family than the Schmidts, and so are the Coneys, which was my name before I was married.” “I wonder whether Bill’s asleep?” said Andrew. “You might go to the foot of the stairs and listen,” said his mother. Andrew followed his mother’s advice, and, opening the door at the foot of the attic stairs, was astonished to hear the deep breathing which issued from Bill’s chamber. “Ma,” he said, “Bill is snoring like a house afire.” “Reckless boy! Does he make so light of the flogging which your father has promised him?” “I don’t know. He’s gettin’ awful sassy lately. I do wish father would come home.” “I think I hear him now,” said Mrs. Badger, listening intently. Her ears did not deceive her. Soon the steps of the master of the house, as he considered himself, were heard upon the doorstep, and Mr. Nathan Badger entered. “I’m glad you’ve come, pa. Are you goin’ to flog Bill now?” “Yes, my son. Get me a stout stick from the woodshed.” Andrew Jackson obeyed with alacrity. Armed with the stick, Mr. Badger crept upstairs, rather astonished by his bound boy’s noisy breathing, and, entering the darkened chamber, brought the stick down smartly on the astonished sleeper. In about two minutes Mrs. Badger and Andrew, standing at the foot of the stairs, were astonished by the noise of a terrible conflict in the little attic chamber, as if two men were wrestling. There was the sound of a heavy body flung on the floor, and the voice of Mr. Badger was heard shouting: “Help! help! murder!” “The young villain’s killing your father!” exclaimed the astonished Mrs. Badger. “Go up and help him!” “I don’t dare to,” said Andrew, pale as a sheet.