“I don’t want to lick them. Let them off,” growled Dangle.
The hopes of the culprits rose for a moment, but they went down below zero when Yorke picked up the cane.
“Wheatfield, come here.”
Wally held out his case-hardened hand and received half a dozen cuts, for which it is saying a good deal that they made the recipient dance.
D’Arcy followed, and received his six with meek indifference. If he had come first, he would probably have danced. But as Wally had done that, he stood firm.
Ashby received three cuts only, which astonished him dreadfully. It was his first acquaintance with the cane. He had never realised before what a venomous instrument it can be. Still, he bore it like a man.
Poor Fisher minor had a similar experience. With his brother looking on, and his messmates to watch how he bore it, he passed through the ordeal creditably. His three “Ohs” varied in cadence from anguish to surprise, and from surprise to mild expostulation, “Oh!” “Ehee!” “Ow!” after which he felt very pleased, on his brother’s account, that he had not shed tears.
“Now cut,” said the captain, “and if you’re bowled out in that sort of thing again, you won’t be let off so easy.”
“Yorke’s a beast,” said Wally, when the shattered forces mastered once more in his study, “but he’s a just beast. He gave it us all hot alike.”
No one disputed the proposition.