Читать книгу Prince Dusty. A Story of the Oil Regions онлайн

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During this undeserved punishment not a cry had escaped from the boy, nor had a tear found its way to his eyes. He bit his under-lip and clenched his hands, but not a sound did he utter. He remembered what Uncle Phin had just told him. He was almost a man now, and no man, especially a Dale, would cry for a whipping. So, though the little face was drawn and white, and the boy trembled until he could hardly stand, he held out to the end as bravely as ever a martyr under torture, and when he was thrust into his cheerless shed, he sat on the edge of his rude bed rigid and tearless. His mind was in a furious whirl, but above all was the overwhelming sense of injustice and outrage.

Finally he sprang to his feet, crying, “I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!” and then, flinging himself on his bed, he gave way to a burst of passionate weeping.

“Oh, mamma!” he cried, “my own mamma! why don’t you come for me and take me away from this dreadful place? I can’t stay here any longer! Indeed I can’t, mamma! oh, come for me; do come! Please, mamma, come for me, and take me to where you are!”