ning of
the wind and the clang of bare wintry poles mingled with the noise of
his own suppressed breathing.

The runaway fancied himself bound (as all British runaway boys seem
bound) for sea, and he set out without delay to walk to Liverpool. He
got as far as the brook which formed the limit to his father's farm, and
lingering before he set foot upon the bridge, began to cry a little, and
to bemoan his chances and the dear ones left behind. His father came in
for none of Joe's regrets. It was in the nature of things to the boy's
mind that his father should administer to him periodical thrashings,
whether he had earned them or not. It was the one social relationship
which existed between them. It was only quite of late that Joe had begun
to discern injustice in his father's bullyings. Children take things
as they come, and to the mind of a child--in a modified sense, of
course--whatever is, is right. That a thing exists is its own best
justification. There is no reason to seek reasons for it. But Joe
Mountain, having nearly outgrown this state of juvenile acquiescence,
had begun to make inquiry of himself, and, as a result, had familiarised
himself with many mental pictures in which he figured as an adventurer
rich in adventures. In his day the youth of England were less instructed
than they are now, but the immortal Defoe existed, and Lemuel Gulliver
was as real as he is to-day. Perhaps the Board schools may have made
that great mariner a little less real than he used to be. Joe believed
in him with all his heart, had never had the shadow of a doubt about
him, and meant to sail straight from Liverpool to Lilliput. He would
defer his voyage to Brobdingnagia until he had grown bigger, and should
be something of a match for its inhabitants.

But it was cold, it was darkening fast, it was past his ordinary
tea-time. Liverpool and Lilliput were far away, pretty nearly
equidistant to the juvenile mind, and but for Samson's shadow the
tea-table would have looked alluring. To be sure of tea, and a bed to
sleep in afterwards, it seemed almost worth while to go back to the
brewhouse and obey the paternal command to take his shirt off. To do the
child justice, it was less the fear of the thrashing than the hot sense
of rebellion at unfairness which kept him from returning. His father had
beaten him into that untrue cry of 'No,' and had meant to force him to
it, and then to beat him anew for it. Joe knew that better than Samson,