ome in sharp-set for breakfast. But in the forenoon it
is a long time till lunch or dinner. Every one is busy. The clothes
in which you have attempted to sleep feel as if filled with fine sand.
You want to kick somebody, and if there is nobody whom you can
reasonably kick, you feel worse.

Well, this is how Hobby felt. He wanted breakfast, and Mad Jeremy
informed him that there was no bread. If he wanted any he could act as
baker and bake a batch for himself.

"Go and get me something to eat, you rascal!" cried Mr. Stennis
threateningly. And as he raised his riding-whip, Jeremy cowered. But
it was with his body only. His eyes kept on those of his master, and
they were those of a beast that has not been conquered--or, if
vanquished, not subdued.

With impish spitefulness he set about gathering together all the orts
and scraps of his own various disorganized meals, and brought them in,
piled on a plate, to his master. Hobby Stennis was in no mood for
amusement. He had his riding-whip still in his hand. He raised it,
and, as one would strike a hound, he lashed Jeremy across the face.
The madman did not flinch--he only stood, with a certain semblance of
meekness, shutting his eyes as the blows descended, as a dog might.
Once, twice, thrice, the whip cut across cheek and brow and jaw.
Jeremy put up his fingers to feel the weals which rose red and angry.
But he said nothing. Only his eyes followed his master as he went out.

[Illustration: "He raised his riding whip, and, as one would strike a
hound he lashed Jeremy across the face."]

Mr. Stennis, still furiously angry, threw plate and contents out of the
window. They fell in the muddy, ill-cared-for yard. The plate
shivered, and Jeremy, after whimpering a little like a punished child,
went outside also, got on his knees, and patiently gathered them
together again, swinging his head with the pitiable and impotent
vengeance of a child. Only Mad Jeremy was very far indeed from being a
child.

Muttering to himself, Mr. Stennis strode away across the drawbridge,
which still bore the footmarks of the mob which, in the time of his
illness, had crossed and recrossed it. Part of the balustrade had been
kicked away, and hung by a tough twisted oak splinter, yawning over the
Moat to the swirl of the wet February wind.

He walked forward, never hesitating a moment, his switch still in his
hand, cutting at the brownish last year's brackens which, having
doubled