"What do you say to that?" he demanded.
"Clarence told the truth, father," I replied.
"He did, eh? What do you mean by running away from school in this manner?"
He grew very angry, catching me by the shoulder, gave me such a jerk that
my books, which I had under my arm, went flying in all directions. "Why
have you not been to school?" he said thickly.
"I was working, but I did not intend to deceive you father."
"Working! Working! Where have you been working?"
"At Mr. Hazleton's box factory."
"At a _what_ factory?"
"_Box_ factory."
"How much did you earn?" he growled, watching me closely to see if I told
the truth.
"Five dollars a week," I said timidly, feeling all the time that he was
exacting from me a confession that I wished, on his account, to keep
secret.
"Five dollars a week! Where is the money? Show me the money!" he persisted
incredulously.
"I cannot, father. I do not have it."
I was greatly embarrassed and frightened at his conduct.
"Where is it?" he growled.
"I--I--spent it," I said, not thinking what else to say.
A groan escaped through his shut teeth as he reeled across the hall and
took down a short rawhide whip that had been mine to play with.
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