As he spoke, he spat in his hand, took a fresh grip of the ash stick, and, in spite or Mr Blakeford’s cries for help and mercy, he thrashed him till the stick broke in pieces; and then, taking him by the collar with both hands, he shook him till he was tired, and ended by throwing him back in his chair.
“There!” cried the farmer; “now do your worst, you cheating scoundrel. I’m satisfied; go and satisfy yourself, and much good may the money you have stolen from the poor, the fatherless, and the widow do you.”
As he said this he strode out of the office and banged the door.
I was half stunned with fear and horror, and I remember how thankful I felt that I had seen Mrs Blakeford go out with Hetty half an hour before. While the thrashing was going on Mary had opened the door and looked in, but as if it were no business of hers, she had gone out again, and I was left the sole spectator.
“Are you much hurt, sir?” I said in trembling tones as soon as we were alone.
“Yes,” he whispered hoarsely, and showing his teeth, “a good deal.”
“Shall I get you something, sir?”
“Yes,” he said, panting less hoarsely, “fetch that leather case out of the passage.”
I ran and fetched the heavy leather-covered box he meant, and placed it beside him, watching him anxiously, to see if he were better.
“Now, fasten both the doors,” he whispered, laying his hand upon his breast to keep down the panting as he drew his breath more easily, and wiped the perspiration from his face.