“Bless my soul, Oliver! You—”
“I guess it’s safe over there back of the woodshed, Uncle Herbert. They can’t see or hear from the house. Many’s the time I’ve been taken out to the woodshed, and I don’t believe Henry the Eighth is any better than I was.”
“My dear boy, I—”
“Now, let him snap at you a couple of times—let him think he’s got you trembling all over with fright. That’s the stuff! Gee, he’s a mean little beast, isn’t he? He’s got the idea he’s a lion or a tiger. Now, yank him up by the leash and take hold of the back of his neck with your left hand—”
“You do it, Oliver. Really, I—I—can’t,” pleaded Mr. Sage.
“Go ahead! Yank him up—look out, sir! He came close to getting you that time. That’s the way. You taught me the art of self-defense a long time ago. Turn about is fair play, sir. I’m going to teach you the art of self-protection. Now take the end of the leash and give him ten sharp cuts with it. Go on! I’ll keep watch.”
And so, to the immeasurable astonishment of Henry the Eighth, ten chastening lashes were administered to his squirming hindquarters, each succeeding one being a little harder than its predecessor as the minister abandoned himself to a most unseemly though delightful state of malevolence. Half way through he decided to drag the performance out a little by increasing the length of the intervals between lashes, thus deceiving Henry the Eighth into the belief that each blow was the last only to find himself lamentably mistaken a few seconds later.
“Keep a sharp watch, Oliver,” whispered Mr. Sage, between his teeth somewhere along about the seventh lash.
“I will,” said Oliver, who hadn’t taken his eyes off of the west window in what he knew to be Jane’s bed-chamber. “Don’t you worry.”
“For goodness’ sake, don’t—don’t let her catch me at it.”