terrible instrument of
torture was raised over his head. It fell, and Richard writhed with the
pain, not of the body alone, for the blow seemed to penetrate to his
soul. It lacerated his pride, his self-respect, more than it did his
legs. He trembled like an aspen leaf, as much from intense emotion as
from the smart of the stroke.

Richard was no coward, but he would have begged off, if he could have
done so with any prospect of success; but he might as well have pleaded
with the ocean to hold back its destructive waves, as with Mr.
Batterman to stay his hand, before his revenge was satisfied. Another
and another blow fell. The pain was so severe that the culprit could
not endure it, and the quick-falling strokes soon kindled a fire in his
soul which neither prudence nor policy could check. It burst out in a
raging flame of passion, which caused him to roar like a mad bull, and
to kick, bite, and struggle like an imprisoned tiger.

All this resistance only added to the spite of his persecutor and he
laid on the blows till his own strength failed him. In vain Sandy
remonstrated with Richard upon the folly of his course, and begged him
to keep cool, as though a severe flogging was one of the light
afflictions of this world, that may be endured with patience by a
philosophical temperament.

"Old Batterbones" had exhausted himself in the struggle. His "wind" was
gone; and he gave up because he could do no more, rather than because
he was satisfied with the extent of the punishment.

"There, Mr. Richard Grant, of Woodville, when you want to steal any
more melons of mine, think of that," said the farmer, as he cast the
culprit from him.

"You'll have to pay for this," groaned Richard, who felt as though he
had endured all the tortures of the Inquisition.

"Perhaps I shall," puffed Mr. Batterman; "but if you have got enough to
make you a wiser and a better boy, I shall be perfectly satisfied."

"I'll be revenged on you for this, if it costs me my life," exclaimed
Richard, whose soul smarted even more than his body.

"Shut up, now!" said the farmer, angrily, "or I'll give you some more."

Richard did shut up, for the incident had developed a grain of
discretion in his composition, if nothing better--though nothing better
could be expected from a flogging inflicted in the spirit of malice.

"Now, my boy," said the farmer, turning to Sandy, when he had in some
measure recovered his breath, "we will see what we can do f