“Is that the actual truth of the matter?” asked the elder, anxiously.

“You don’t think I’d lie about a thing like that, do you?” said “Dodd.”  “You can see where he hit me,” he proceeded, himself revealing the welt on his forehead.

This mark was too much for the good parson.  He might have doubted “Dodd’s” word, but there was no disputing the mark.

Now a welt raised by a teacher on the body of a child will drive that child’s parents to madness quicker than anything that I know of.  The elder grew very angry, and resolved to see the end of this as soon as possible.  Calling a younger member of the household to him he whispered in his ear: 

“Run up to Prof.  Bright’s as fast as you can, and tell him to come down here as quick as possible.”  He would bring “Dodd” and his teacher face to face, and then see.

It was this messenger that had brought the teacher to the parsonage on the double-quick.

“Dodd” saw his little brother shoot out of the door, and he was in a worse dilemma than ever.  Whether to run, or to stay and face it out; to lie some more, or to confess the lie he had already told; these were the things he grew more and more anxious about every minute.  But presently he caught sight of his teacher hurrying down the street, and almost before he knew it he said: 

“It’s all a lie I’ve been giving you, old man!  Bright never hit me a lick!”

“But the mark!” almost shrieked the parson.

“I done it myself,” explained “Dodd,” laconically, “to give you and the old woman a stand off with!”

It was just as “Dodd” said this that Mr. Bright opened the door and entered the room.  “Dodd” was seated near one corner, and his father, having just heard from the boy’s own lips a full confession of his wholesale lying, began raving like a maniac.  He swung his arms wildly, weeping and shouting as he strode about the room: 

“My son! my son!  Would to God that you had filled an early grave, or that I had died for thee!  O, my son! my son!” and uttering such lamentations he continued to rave.

“Why, what is this?” exclaimed Mr. Bright, rather at a loss to know just what to say or do.

“O professor,” almost yelled the parson, “my boy has lied to me! lied to me!! lied to me!!!” and again he paced the room and tore his hair.

Coming around again to where Mr. Bright stood, he went on:  “He told me that you struck him with a club, and showed me a mark on his head where he said you had hit him, and then, when I sent for you, and he saw you coming, he confessed that it was all a lie! a lie!! a lie!!!  O, my God, my boy! my lost, my ruined boy!  A liar!” he shrieked again.  “In hell they shall lift up their eyes in torm—­”

“Stop!” commanded Mr. Bright, confronting the almost lunatic parson; “stop raving and sit down, and let us talk about this business like sensible people,” and he led Mr. Weaver to a chair as he spoke.