Mark Mason's Victory Part 53

"No," answered Philip sadly.

"Then I understand how it is. Do you expect to keep on living with Mr.

Sprague?"

"Papa wrote to a gentleman in New York. I expect he will send for me."

"I hope he will for your sake, poor little chap. Well, go on and get your whisky. I don't want to take up your time."

As Philip entered the first speaker remarked, "Well, Bill, I don't pretend to be an angel, but I wouldn't send a kid like that for whisky.

I drink it myself, but I wouldn't want a boy like that to go for it. I'd go myself."

"I agree with you," said Bill. "That Sprague ain't of much account any way. I'd lick him myself for a dollar. He's about as mean as they make 'em."

CHAPTER x.x.x.

A CIRCUS IN MR. SPRAGUE'S YARD.

PHILIP timidly made known his request and the bottle was filled. The saloon-keeper attended to the order in a matter-of-fact manner. As long as he got his pay he cared very little whom he dealt with.

Philip, feeling ashamed of his burden, came out with the bottle and set out on his return home. He had been delayed by the conversation at the door, and he had also had to wait to have the bottle filled, there being several customers to attend to before him. So it happened that when he got back Mr. Sprague and Oscar were awaiting him impatiently.

"There the boy comes at last, father," said Oscar. "He's creeping like a snail."

Whisky was Mr. Sprague's one extravagance, and he had waited longer than usual for his customary drink. This made him irritable.

"Why don't you come along faster, you young beggar?" he called out harshly.

"I'll start him up, dad," said Oscar with alacrity.

"Do so!"

Oscar started down the road with a cruel light in his eyes. He liked nothing better than to ill-treat the unfortunate boy who had been left to the tender mercies of his father.

Philip did not understand what Oscar's coming portended till the older boy seized him violently by the shoulders.

"Why don't you hurry up?" he demanded. "Don't you know any better than to waste your time playing on the street?"

"I didn't waste any time. I couldn't get waited on at first."

"That's too thin! You were walking like a snail any way. I'll see if I can't make you stir your stumps a little faster."

Oscar pushed Philip so violently that the little fellow stumbled, and then came a catastrophe! He was thrown forward. The bottle came in contact with a stone, and of course broke, spilling the precious contents, as Nahum Sprague thought them.

"Now you've done it!" exclaimed Oscar. "I wouldn't be in your shoes, young man. Pa will flog you within an inch of your life."

"See what Philip has done, pa!" said Oscar, pointing to the broken bottle.

Nahum Sprague absolutely glared at the unfortunate boy. His throat was dry and parched, and his craving for whisky was almost painful in its intensity. And now to have the cup dashed from his lips! It would take time to get a fresh supply, not to count the additional cost. His wrath was kindled against the poor boy.

"What made you break the bottle, you young rascal?" he demanded harshly.

"I didn't mean to," answered Philip, pale with fright.

"You didn't mean to? I suppose it fell of itself," retorted Mr. Sprague with sarcasm.

"Oscar pushed me," exclaimed Philip. "He pushed me very hard, or I wouldn't have dropped it."

"Now he wants to throw it all upon me, pa. Ain't you ashamed of yourself?"

"It's true, Oscar, and you know it," returned Philip with a show of spirit. "You said I didn't move fast enough."

"It's a wicked lie. I just touched you on the shoulder, and you broke the bottle out of spite."

"I have no doubt Oscar is right," said Nahum Sprague severely. "You have destroyed my property. You have broken the bottle as well as wasted the whisky. You are a wicked and ungrateful boy. Here I have been keeping you out of charity because your lazy and s.h.i.+ftless father left you nothing."

"Don't you say anything against my father," said Philip, his meek spirit aroused by this cruel aspersion of the only human being who had cared for him since his mother's death.

"Hoity, toity! Here's impudence! So I am not to say anything against your father after caring for him through his sickness and burying him at my own expense."

"I'll pay you back, Mr. Sprague, indeed I will," said Philip, his lip quivering.

"You'll pay me back, you who are nothing but a beggar. Well, here's cheek. You talk as if you were rich instead of a pauper."

"I'll pay you some time--I have no money now--but I'll work day and night when I am a man to pay you."

"That all sounds very well, but it don't pay me for the bottle of whisky. I must give you a lesson for your carelessness. Oscar, go and get the horsewhip."

"I'll do it, dad," said Oscar joyfully.

He was naturally a cruel boy, and the prospect of seeing Philip flogged gave him the greatest pleasure.

There was a small outbuilding near the house which had once been used for a stable when Mr. Sprague kept a horse, but the last poor animal having pined away and died, as it was believed from insufficient food, it was no longer in use except as a store house for various odds and ends. The horsewhip was saved over from the time when it was needed for its legitimate purpose.

"Oh, don't whip me, Mr. Sprague!" pleaded Philip, frightened at the last words of his cruel guardian.

He was a sensitive boy, one of the kind that thrives under kind influences, and droops under ill-treatment. He had a delicate physical organization that shrank from pain, which some boys bear with stoical fort.i.tude.

It was not merely pain, but the humiliation of a blow that daunted him.

Mr. Sprague did not make any reply to his pleadings, but waited impatiently for Oscar to appear.

This was not long. Sent on a congenial errand Oscar wasted no time, but came out of the building promptly with the horsewhip in his hand.

"Here it is, dad!" he said, handing it to his father.