“Stand back, sir,” she said sternly, “your time will come soon enough. Your hand, Edward.”
He extended each palm, and received the cutting blows without a quiver, then turned to his seat. As he sat down his fortitude gave way, and, burying his face in his hands, he burst into sobbing.
My time came last, but so much did I feel for Ned that I scarce heeded the stinging ferule. Miss Hester, after some further remarks, dismissed us for the evening. As we poured from the door, the occasion furnished food for more chattering than a cargo of magpies could have made.
“Wasn’t old Hess mad, though?” says one, whose hand was still red from the ruler.
“She couldn’t get much out of my hand with her old slapjack,” boasts another, rubbing his hands unconsciously on his pants, in striking contradiction of his assertion.
As Frank Paning came out I heard him say:
“But didn’t I get out of it nice?”
“Yes, you sneaked out like a dog,” I replied indignantly. Another chimed in:
“Yes, you did. Ned Cheyleigh’s good game, though. I don’t believe he ever would have told old Hess, if she had beat him till now.”
“Umph!” sneered Frank, “‘twas because he was afraid to tell. He knew some of us would whip him if he did.”