And the result was that, after standing painfully still for about ten minutes, during which Prince’s significant sniffs and growls had thrice driven him to the very verge of disclosure, he was left unmolested in the dark old closet.  He opened the door; but the shed seemed darker yet.  No loving cat or friendly dog was there to cheer or to betray.  Nothing but thick, black darkness.  Was it possible that the moon was still shining outside?

He wondered if the boys were having a good time.  He would open the door and go to them as soon as he dared.  But while he was thinking and wondering, waiting until he was sure his father and mother were asleep again, the old clock rang out the hour of twelve.  Midnight!  It was of no use to go then; the boys would be gone.

And so Bert crept up stairs to his room, cross and dissatisfied, feeling that the fates were against him.

He was late to breakfast the next morning.  His mother laughingly inquired if the weight of his bedclothes had affected his hearing.

“Yes’m—­no’m.  I mean—­I guess not,” he replied absently.

It was a rainy morning, and the weather was disagreeably warm.  After breakfast Bert came into the shed, and watched his father as he mended an old harness.

“What sort of boy is that Ned Sellars?” inquired his father at length.

Bert started.

“I don’t know.  I think he’s a pretty good boy.  Why?”

“I passed the house this morning.  Some one was getting a terrible flogging, and I think it must have been Ned.”

“What for?  Do you know?”

“Yes.  They spoke very loud, and I couldn’t help hearing.  It was for running off last night.  Going swimming, I believe.”

[Illustration:  “Some one was getting a terrible fogging.”]

Bert’s eyes flashed.

“That’s just like his father,” said he, indignantly.  “He never wants Ned to have any fun.”

There was no reply.  Some hidden feeling, he could hardly tell what, prompted Bert’s next question.

“Would you flog me, father, if I went swimming without leave?”

“That depends upon circumstances,” replied his father, looking searchingly into his face.  “If my boy was mean enough to skulk out of the house at night, when I supposed him to be abed and asleep, it is just possible that I might not consider him worth flogging.”

How Bert’s cheeks burned.  He had never looked at the matter in just that light before. “Never be a sneak, my son.  It is cowardly and disgraceful.”

Bert made no answer, but his thoughts were busy.  Was he not every whit as mean and cowardly as if he had really gone with his unfortunate friend?  Yes, verily.

And then he thought of his father.  How good he was—­never denying him any reasonable pleasure; nay, often denying himself for his sake.  Bert seemed to realize his father’s goodness now as never before.