Richard opened his eyes.

If you wants to be horsewhipped, you’ll stay where y’are!” continued the farmer.  “Giles Blaize never stands nonsense!”

“Then we’ll stay,” quoth Richard.

“Good! so be’t!  If you will have’t, have’t, my men!”

As a preparatory measure, Farmer Blaize seized a wing of the bird, on which both boys flung themselves desperately, and secured it minus the pinion.

“That’s your game,” cried the farmer.  “Here’s a taste of horsewhip for ye.  I never stands nonsense!” and sweetch went the mighty whip, well swayed.  The boys tried to close with him.  He kept his distance and lashed without mercy.  Black blood was made by Farmer Blaize that day!  The boys wriggled, in spite of themselves.  It was like a relentless serpent coiling, and biting, and stinging their young veins to madness.  Probably they felt the disgrace of the contortions they were made to go through more than the pain, but the pain was fierce, for the farmer laid about from a practised arm, and did not consider that he had done enough till he was well breathed and his ruddy jowl inflamed.  He paused, to receive the remainder of the cock-pheasant in his face.

“Take your beastly bird,” cried Richard.

“Money, my lads, and interest,” roared the farmer, lashing out again.

Shameful as it was to retreat, there was but that course open to them.  They decided to surrender the field.

“Look! you big brute,” Richard shook his gun, hoarse with passion, “I’d have shot you, if I’d been loaded.  Mind if I come across you when I’m loaded, you coward, I’ll fire!” The un-English nature of this threat exasperated Farmer Blaize, and he pressed the pursuit in time to bestow a few farewell stripes as they were escaping tight-breeched into neutral territory.  At the hedge they parleyed a minute, the farmer to inquire if they had had a mortal good tanning and were satisfied, for when they wanted a further instalment of the same they were to come for it to Belthorpe Farm, and there it was in pickle:  the boys meantime exploding in menaces and threats of vengeance, on which the farmer contemptuously turned his back.  Ripton had already stocked an armful of flints for the enjoyment of a little skirmishing.  Richard, however, knocked them all out, saying, “No!  Gentlemen don’t fling stones; leave that to the blackguards.”

“Just one shy at him!” pleaded Ripton, with his eye on Farmer Blaize’s broad mark, and his whole mind drunken with a sudden revelation of the advantages of light troops in opposition to heavies.

“No,” said Richard, imperatively, “no stones,” and marched briskly away.  Ripton followed with a sigh.  His leader’s magnanimity was wholly beyond him.  A good spanking mark at the farmer would have relieved Master Ripton; it would have done nothing to console Richard Feverel for the ignominy he had been compelled to submit to.  Ripton was familiar with the rod, a monster much