ill be useful now, or I am not fit to be my
father's son."

CHAPTER IX.

TREACHERY.

Zebedee was flushed and excited when he entered the paternal dwelling.

He had been away all day, and knew that he was likely to get a good
thrashing for neglect of his work.

Ezekiel was waiting for him very patiently.

Zeb had taken all in at a glance. There was a thick beechen stick
standing by the chimney corner, and old Zeke was not far from it.

One of his most favored passages of the Bible was the one in which the
spoiling of the child is said to be caused by the small use of the rod.

Zeb knew what it meant.

He had often felt the strength of his father's muscles, and he fully
realized that if he was spoiled it was not because the rod had been
spared.

Only three mornings before Zeb had entered the kitchen, which served as
dining room as well, and had partaken of his breakfast standing, and at
the midday meal he still preferred an upright position instead of the
one adopted by the other members of his family.

To be accurate and truthful, it was a rare thing for Zeb to be able to
sit down with any comfort, for his interviews with his father were very
frequent and generally of a very painful nature.

He entered the kitchen looking more defiant than his brothers or sister
had ever seen him.

Zeke did not speak.

He took off his coat and rolled up his homespun linen shirt sleeves.

Then he reached out and got the beechen stick.

Zebedee waited.

He knew that there was a certain formula to be gone through.

His father never thrashed him while angry; he always catechised him,
then waited a few minutes before plying the stick or the whip.

"Zeb, did you sort those potatoes?"

"No."

"Did you learn that verse from the Bible the elder told you to commit
to memory?"

"No."

"Playing all day?"

"Yes."

"Then I must use the rod, or my son will be ruined."

Everything had been calm up to that point.

The other members of the family had gone out.

Zeb was alone with his father.

"Come here."

"What for?"

"Come here, I say, and place yourself across my knee."

"Not this time, dad."

If Zebedee had drawn a pistol and shot at his father that worthy could
not have been more astonished. He almost dropped the stick.

"What do you mean?"

"Just what I say. You are never going to beat me again."

"What?"

"Just what I say, dad. I'm going to make a bargain with you. You
swear that you w