Then he caught a
side view of his own poor back in the little black-framed looking-glass,
and was quite amazed; for he had not felt much pain, neither flinched,
nor winced, nor spoken. In a moment self-pity did more than pain,
indignation, outrage, or shame could do; it brought large tears into his
softened eyes, and a long sob into his swelling throat.
He had borne himself like a man when flogged; but now he behaved in
the manner of a boy. "He shall never hear the last of this job," he
muttered, "as long as mother has a tongue in her head." To this end he
filled a wet sponge with the red proofs of his scourging, laid it where
it must be seen, and beside it a leaf torn from his wage-book, on which
he had written with a trembling hand: "He says that I am no son of his,
and this looks like it. Signed, Daniel Tugwell, or whatever my name
ought to be."
Then he washed and dressed with neat's-foot oil all of his wounds that
he could reach, and tied a band of linen over them, and, in spite of
increasing smarts and pangs, dressed himself carefully in his Sunday
clothes. From time to time he listened for his father's step, inasmuch
as there was no bolt to his door, and to burn a light so late was
against all law. But nobody came to disturb him; his mother at the end
of the passage slept heavily, and his two child-sisters in the room
close by, Tabby and Debby, were in the land of dreams, as far gone
as little Solly was.
Pages:
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283