The prisoner's injury proved to be so slight, and his conduct so bad
upon his being brought before his officers and those of the other
regiments in barracks, that at last it was decided that a severe
punishment must now follow the many breaches of discipline of which he
had been guilty; and the sentence was no more than might have been
expected, for in those days there was less hesitation over meting out
punishment in the army than there is now.
Dick shuddered when he heard it, and Wyatt looked at him grimly.
"No use to make a face at it, my dear boy," he said. "He deserved it,
and ought to have had it a twelvemonth ago."
"Oh, yes, I dare say; but we all deserve more than we get."
"Speak for yourself, Dicky, boy. I feel particularly good; nothing more
on my conscience than a general feeling of laziness, and a stone too
much weight."
"But to be flogged!" cried Dick.
"Well, yes, it does sound bad, and of course it hurts; but Master Hanson
has been bidding for it month after month."
"But such a degrading punishment!"
"Ye-e-es," drawled Wyatt; "but then all punishments are degrading. They
are meant to be--so it seems to me."
"It seems so hateful!"
"Of course: and the man flogged won't like it. Don't suppose in the
good old times men liked to be cut short with the axe and block. The
moral is, don't do things which entail punishment."
"Do you often flog men in this troop?"
"My dear boy--no! I've been with it seven years, and we never did such
a thing before; and we shall none of us know how to go about it. Let's
see; the drummers do it in the foot regiments. Seems a comical idea--
beating a tattoo on a man's back. Ought to do it with the drumsticks."
"Don't laugh at it, Wyatt," cried Dick angrily.
"Certainly not, old fellow. But, really, we shan't know what to do.
Who's to flog? The drummer can't, because we haven't got one. The
trumpeter, I suppose."
"It is horrible and disgraceful."
"So it is, dear boy; but what are we to do? We don't want to lose the
man, and we can't let him go on as he is going."
"It will make him worse, Wyatt, and he'll be nursing up a feeling of
revenge."
"Not a nice baby, that, for a man to nurse. But I hope for better
things. Do him good."
"No, no, no!"
"Don't jump to conclusions, dear boy, till the remedy has been tried.
But, really, I begin to feel a good deal like my father said he did--
dear old fellow!--though I never believed it before."
"What did he feel? Tell me."
"Oh, it's nothing--nothing much," said Wyatt, tugging at his big
mustachios. "Your pater ever lick you?"
"Never," said Dick emphatically. "He was too fond of me."
"Of course. My father was too fond of me, you know, but he gave me a
tremendous thrashing once."
"Stick?"
"Riding-whip. Hurts more."
There was a dead silence after these laconic remarks, broken at last by
Wyatt drawing a long, deep breath and saying "Ha!"--making it sound
twice as long as "Constantinople" uttered very slowly with a comma after
each syllable.