'
Charles stared for a moment, then sputtered a laugh.
'That's _your_ idea, is it, Mr. Lott? Well, it isn't mine. So, good
morning!'
Again the timber-merchant seemed to meditate; his eyes wandered from
Charles to the dining-room table.
'Just a minute more,' he resumed; 'I have another idea--not a new one; an
idea that came to me long ago, when your father first began to have trouble
about you. I happened to be in the shop one day--it was when you were
living idle at your father's expense, young man--and I heard you speak to
him in what I call a confoundedly impertinent way. Thinking it over
afterwards, I said to myself: If I had a son who spoke to me like that, I'd
give him the soundest thrashing he'd be ever likely to get. That was my
idea, young man; and as I stood listening to you to-day, it came back into
my mind again. Your father can't thrash you; he hasn't the brawn for it.
But as it's nothing less than a public duty, somebody _must_, and so--'
Charles, who had been watching every movement of the speaker's face,
suddenly sprang forward, making for the door. But Mr. Lott had foreseen
this; with astonishing alertness and vigour he intercepted the fugitive
seized him by the scruff of the neck, and, after a moment's struggle,
pinned him face downwards across the end of the table.
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