“Bother your talk—both!” vociferates the impatient Nigel. “I’m going to chastise the cur as he deserves, and not as you may like it, Master Hal. I want a twig for him.”
The twig, when cut from its parent stem, turns out to be a stick, three-quarters of an inch in diameter.
With this the peccant animal is brutally belaboured, till the woods for a mile around re-echo its howlings.
Henry begs his brother to desist.
In vain. Nigel continues the cudgelling.
“Gi’e it him!” cries the unfeeling keeper. “Do the beggar good.”
“You, Dick,” interposes Henry, “I shall report you to my father.”
An angry exclamation from the half-brother, and a sullen scowl from the savage in gaiters, is the only notice taken of Henry’s threat. Nigel, irritated by it, only strikes more spitefully.
“Shame, Nigel! Shame! You’ve beaten the poor brute enough—more than enough. Have done!”
“Not till I’ve given him a mark to remember me!”