"If you don't, by God, I'll whup the nigger hide clean off yore back," and the sheriff reached for the braided whip which his son Jimmy handed him.
"I sweah Ah don' know where dey is!"
"You dirty liah," taking out a watch; "I'll give you jest five minutes t' tell, an' then—" he menaced with the up-lifted whip.
In stubborn silence the girl waited the five minutes out.
"Jimmy!... Jacklin!... throw her down an' hold her, rump up, over that cot." They obeyed. With a jerk the sheriff had her dress up and her bare buttocks in view.
"I'm a-goin' to whup an' whup till you confess, Martha."
Crack! Crack! Crack! the whip descended, leaving red whelts each time. The mulatto girl writhed, but did not cry quits. Beads of perspiration glistened on the jailer's face. The girl shook off his lax grip on her arms ... the sheriff's son was holding her legs. We were crowded against the bars, angry and silent. We admired the girl's hopeless pluck. We saw she was holding out just to, somehow, have vengeance on the jailer for her being held in unwilling concubinage by him, hoping he would catch it hard for having let the keys hang carelessly in open view, and so, stolen.
"Damn you, Jacklin," shouted the sheriff, "I believe you're a little soft on the gal ... come here ... you swing the whip an' I'll hold her arms."
In mute agony Jacklin obeyed ... whipping the woman of whom he was fond.
"Harder, Jacklin, harder," and the sheriff drew his gun on him to emphasise the command.