“Are we both to have a good thrashing?” I asked myself, as the horse cantered on, and “Right wheel—left wheel—forward!” rang in my ears. “Are we to be made more uncomfortable than ever?” I thought; “and shall we forget all about what old Lom taught us?”
My arms did not move, my left hand held the reins on a level with my imaginary waist-belt, about which the sergeant talked, and my right hand hung steadily down just by my leg, but all the time I was on guard, and keenly on the watch for blows from those white bony hands that seemed to be flourished before me. Then I fancied concussions and dizziness, and felt blows, and rolled over upon the grass, but not off the horse, for it was all fancy; and I was just seeing in my mind’s eye poor Tom Mercer going down before a heavy blow from Dicksee’s fat fist, when there rang out the word, “Halt!” and the horse stopped short.
Lomax strode up in his stiff military fashion, and patted the cob on the neck.
“Well?” he said sharply. “What am I to say to you now?”
“I—I don’t know,” I faltered. “Shall we go through it again.”
“No, no let the trooper breathe a bit. He has been kept at it pretty tightly. Well, how do you feel—stiff?”
“No,” I said, flushing a little, full of a feeling of regret for my neglect in my lesson.
“Bit sore about the knees, eh?”
“Oh yes, my knees keep very sore,” I faltered.
“Of course they do. Never so hard worked before. Soon get better. Let me see, this makes just a month you’ve been at it, eh?”