“My eye! he’s going to come down heavy on Nat this time. Wish I hadn’t told,” thought good-natured Tommy, for to be feruled was the deepest disgrace at this school.
“You remember what I told you last time?” said Mr. Bhaer, sorrowfully, not angrily.
“Yes; but please don’t make me, I can’t bear it,” cried Nat, backing up against the door with both hands behind him, and a face full of distress.
“Why don’t he up and take it like a man? I would,” thought Tommy, though his heart beat fast at the sight.
“I shall keep my word, and you must remember to tell the truth. Obey me, Nat, take this and give me six good strokes.”
Tommy was so staggered by this last speech that he nearly tumbled down the bank, but saved himself, and hung on to the window ledge, staring in with eyes as round as the stuffed owl’s on the chimney-piece.
Nat took the rule, for when Mr. Bhaer spoke in that tone every one obeyed him, and, looking as scared and guilty as if about to stab his master, he gave two feeble blows on the broad hand held out to him. Then he stopped and looked up half-blind with tears, but Mr. Bhaer said steadily,—
“Go on, and strike harder.”
As if seeing that it must be done, and eager to have the hard task soon over, Nat drew his sleeve across his eyes and gave two more quick hard strokes that reddened the hand, yet hurt the giver more.