But “Dodd” heard little of all this, and cared less, even, for what he did hear.  He was used to having his own way.  He wriggled and squirmed during the explanation, and as soon as he was released, he made straight for his coveted seat again, even in the very face of the old gentleman, and when his grandfather caught him once more and led him away somewhat rapidly, he kicked the shins of his captor in a very malicious and wicked fashion, and yelled lustily the while.  The old man took the boy to his mother and explained matters, assuring “Dodd” and the other children, who stood about in a ring, that they must in no case touch the cask in question, and then left the room.

Mrs. Weaver scolded her first-born roundly, told him he was “a very naughty boy,” and ended by taking from behind the clock a small and brittle switch—­an auxiliary that she had made haste to provide herself with before she had been on the premises an hour, and without which she felt that her family government would be but sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal—­and striking “Dodd” one or two slight strokes over his hips.

This was Mrs. Weaver’s way of “training” her children.  From “Dodd’s” earliest infancy he had been used to this sort of thing.  His mother believed in the maxim, “spare the rod and spoil the child,” and this was her method of endeavoring to fulfill both the spirit and the letter of the precept.  There was always a small, brittle switch behind the clock, and it was taken down numberless times each day, only to make a child bawl for a minute, as he was threatened or struck lightly with the harmless stick.

The usual result was that he went ahead and did the very thing he was forbidden to do.

“Dodd” yelled lustily while his mother laid on, though in truth he scarcely felt the blows, and then sulked for the rest of the day, teasing the other children and making life a burden to everybody and everything he came near.

It was the next day, about two o’clock, that the boy once more got into the yard and made straight for his coveted seat.  The fact is he had never given up his purpose to return at the first opportunity.

He fastened the bridle to the spigot and mounted in hot haste, kicking his little heels into the bleached staves, and plying the riding whip like a young fury.  The horse acted badly ("Dodd’s” horses always acted badly), and he jerked smartly on the bridle rein to subdue him.  It was rare sport, and the lad fairly reveled in it, in his little heart defying those who had forbidden him this pleasure, and glorying in his triumph.

But “the way of sinners is as darkness, they know not at what they stumble,” and “Dodd” was destined to “take a header” forthwith.  The jerks on the reins drew the spigot from its place, and the first he knew it was dangling in the air over the end of the barrel.  He leaned over, fully to observe this fact, and saw the cider shooting out in an amber stream and flooding all the ground.