“I bet I could take one without winking!” Sachse announced.

Schubert’s little bright pig-eyes gleamed through the smoke at that.

“Kurtz und gut!” he laughed.  “There is a case of champagne unopened.  I bet you that case of champagne that you lie!  That you can not take a flogging!”

There was an united yelp of delight.  The sergeants rose and gathered round Sachse.  Schubert cursed them and drove them to the chairs again.

“Open that case of champagne!” he roared, and the Jew obeyed, setting the bottles on the table in two rows.

“I bet you those twelve bottles you dare not take a regular flogging, and that you can not endure it if you dare try!”

“I can stand as much as you!” hedged Sachse.

“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 be 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 foldwebel should suspect him of unwillingness.

“Are the terms understood?” demanded Schubert, and the sergeants yelped in the affirmative.

“Then choose a referee!”

One of the sergeants volunteered for the post.  Schubert lay down on the floor, and Sachse beside him about four feet away.  The corporal took his stand between.  He was an enormous Nubian, broad of chest, with the big sloping shoulder muscles that betray double the strength that tailors try to suggest with jackets padded to look square.

“Nun—­recht feste schlagen!"* ordered Schubert.  Then he took the sleeve of his tunic between his teeth and hid his face. [Now, hit good and hard!]

“One!” said the referee.  Down came the heavy black whip with a crack like a gun going off.  Schubert neither winced nor murmured, but the blood welled into the seat of his pants and spread like red ink on blotting-paper.