"I asked what was the matter with him," said my great-uncle coldly.
"He'm wur one o' they as had a hun'erd 'n' fufty lashes, cap'n, zur."
I shuddered. My great-uncle took snuff.
"And who is gone from this vacant place?" he pressed.
"Tom Morphew, zur. He'm dead, zur."
"Was he shot?"
"No, zur, cap'n. He'm had a hun'erd 'n' fufty lashes, too."
"Where is he?"
There was a barely appreciable pause.
"Please, zur, us buried him," the man answered.