Another great fat tear gathered and fell.  “Have you taken root there?” a voice asked.

His father, smoking at the open french window, had been watching him, and marvelling at his rare and exceeding quietness.

Bunty started, guiltily, and pulled up his stockings.

“I’m not doin’ nothin’,” he said aggrievedly, after a minute’s pause.  Bunty always lapsed into evil grammar when agitated.  “Nothing at all.  I’m goin’ to a picnic.”

“Ah, indeed!” said the Captain.  “You looked as if you were meditating on some fresh mischief, or sorrowing over some old—­which was it?”

Bunty turned a little pale, but remarked again he “wasn’t doin’ nothin’.”

The Captain felt in a lazy, teasing mood, and his little fat, dirty son, was the only subject near.

“Suppose you come here and confess every bit of mischief you’ve done this week,” he said gravely.  “I’ve the whole morning to spare, and it’s time I saw to your morals a little.”

Bunty approached the arm of the chair indicated, but went whiter than ever.

“Ah, now we’re comfortable.  Well, there was stealing from the pantry on Tuesday—­that’s one,” he said, encouragingly.  “Now then.”

“I n—­n—­never did n—­nothin’ else,” Bunty gasped.  He felt certain it was all over with him, and the cricket ball episode was discovered.  He even looked nervously round to see if the riding-whip was near.  Yes, there was Esther’s silver-topped one flung carelessly on a chair.  He found time to wish fervently Esther was a tidy woman.

“Nothing at all, Bunty?  On your word?” said his father, in an impressive tone.

“I was p—­playin’ marbles,” he said, in a shaking voice.  “How c—­c—­could I have sh—­shot anything at y—­y—­your old horse?”

“Horse—­ah!” said his father.  A light broke upon him, and his face grew stern.  “What did you throw at Mazeppa to lame him?  Answer me at once.”

Bunty gave a shuddering glance at the whip.

“N-n-nothin’,” he answered—­“n—­nothin’ at all.  My c—­c—­cricket b—­ball was up in the st—­st—­stables.  I was only p—­p—­playin’ marbles.”  The Captain gave him a little shake.

“Did you lame Mazeppa with the cricket ball?” he said sternly.

“N—­n—­no I n—­never,” Bunty whispered, white to the lips.  Then semi-repentance came to him, and he added:  “It just rolled out of my p—­p—–­pocket, and M—­Mazeppa was passing and h—­h—­hit his l-leg on it.”

“Speak the truth, or I’ll thrash you within an inch of your life,” the Captain said, standing up, and seizing Esther’s whip:  “Now then, sir—­was it you lamed Mazeppa?”

“Yes,” said Bunty, bursting into a roar of crying, and madly dodging the whip.

Then, as the strokes descended on his unhappy shoulders, he filled the air with his familiar wail of “’Twasn’t me, ’twasn’t my fault!”

“You contemptible young cur!” said his father, pausing a moment when his arm ached with wielding the whip.  “I’ll thrash this mean spirit of lying and cowardice out of you, or kill you in the attempt.”  Swish, swish.  “What sort of a man do you think you’ll make?” Swish, swish.  “Telling lies just to save your miserable skin!” Swish, swish, swish, swish.