“What does he say?” asked Burgess.
“Telling him to cut light, sir,” said Troke, eagerly lying; “they all do it.” “Cut light, eh! We'll see about that. Get on, my man, and look sharp, or I'll tie you up and give you fifty for yourself, as sure as God made little apples.”
“Go on, Dawes,” whispered Kirkland again. “I don't mind.”
Rufus Dawes lifted the cat, swung it round his head, and brought its knotted cords down upon the white back.
“Wonn!” cried Troke.
The white back was instantly striped with six crimson bars. Kirkland stifled a cry. It seemed to him that he had been cut in half.
“Now then, you scoundrel!” roared Burgess; “separate your cats! What do you mean by flogging a man that fashion?”
Rufus Dawes drew his crooked fingers through the entangled cords, and struck again. This time the blow was more effective, and the blood beaded on the skin.
The boy did not cry; but Macklewain saw his hands clutch the staves tightly, and the muscles of his naked arms quiver.
“Tew!”