“Hands off!” exclaimed the wealthy lad angrily.
“Oh, ho! High and Mighty; eh? Well, that doesn’t go at Westfield. Send him down the line, fellows,” and the Senator gave Bondy a shove. The hazers had lined up in two files, armed with bladders, rolls of papers, books and stockings filled with flour. It was a reproduction of the old Indian gauntlet along which hapless prisoners had to pass, being beaten and clubbed as they ran.
“You chaps are doing this at your own risk!” cried Bondy trying to break away.
“That’s all right, sport! We’ll chance it,” came the answer. “Run, you lobster, or you’ll get the worst of it!”
“I—I protest!” cried the victim, as he turned to see who had hit him with an inflated bladder, in which corn rattled.
“He doth protest too much!” cried a laughing hazer, fetching Bondy a resounding thump with a slap-stick.
“Run!” shouted the Senator, giving him another shove, and the wealthy lad ran perforce, since he was half-pushed, half-pulled the length of the double line.
And what a trouncing he got! He was at once recognized as a supercilious and overbearing lad and the punishment to fit the crime was duly meted out to him. He reached the end of the gauntlet rather much the worse for wear, and his spruce new suit was in need of a tailor’s services.
“Now for the next!” cried the Senator. “Where’s that Whistle-Breeches fellow?”
“Here,” answered Anderson.