"Good! We will see! We will both take a flogging—stroke for stroke!
Whoever squeals first shall pay for the champagne!"
Sachse could not back out. His cheeks grew whiter, but he staggered to his feet, swearing.
"I will show you of what material a German sergeant is made!" he boasted. "It is not only Prussians who are men of metal! How shall it be arranged?"
The arrangement was easy enough. Schubert shouted for an askari, and the corporal who was doing police duty outside in the street came running. He had a kiboko in his hand almost a yard and a half long, and Schubert examined it with approval.
"How would you like to flog white men?" he demanded.
"I would not dare!" grinned the corporal.
"Not dare, eh? Would you not obey an order?"
"Always I obey!" the man answered, saluting.
"Good. I shall lie here. This other bwana shall lie there beside me. You shall stand between. First you shall strike one, then the other—turn and turn about until I give the order to cease! And listen! If you fail once—just one little time!—to flog with all your might, you shall have two hundred lashes yourself; and they shall be good ones, because I will lay them on! Is it understood?"
"Yes," said the corporal, the whites of his eyes betraying doubt, fear and wonder. But he grinned with his lips, lest the feldwebel should suspect him of unwillingness.