The very next day, as Squire Edwards and his family were sitting down
to dinner, the eldest son Jonathan, a fine young fellow of sixteen,
came in late with a blacked eye and torn clothes.

"My son," said Squire Edwards, sternly, "why do you come to the table
in such a condition? What have you been doing?"

"I've been fighting Obadiah Weeks, sir, and I whipped him, too."

"And I shall whip you, sir, and soundly," said his father, with the
Jove-like frown of the eighteenth century parent. "What have I told
you about fighting? Go to your room, and wait for me there. You will
have no dinner."

The boy turned on his heel without a word, and went out and up to his
room. In the course of the afternoon, Squire Edwards was as good as
his word. When he had come downstairs, after the discharge of his
parental responsibilities, and gone into the store, Desire slipped up
to Jonathan's room with a substantial luncheon under her apron. He was
her favorite brother, and it was her habit thus surreptitiously to
temper justice with mercy on occasions like the present. The lively
satisfaction with which the youth hailed her appearance, gave ground
to the suspicion that an empty stomach had been causing him more
discomfort than a reproving conscience. As Desire was arranging the
viands on the table she expressed a hope that the paternal correction
had not been more painful than usual. The boy began to grin.

"Don't you fret about father's lickins," he said, "I'd just as lieve
he'd lick me all day if he'll give me a couple o' minutes to get ready