or two in your direction,--he marches up behind the bench of the poor
culprit,--who turns deathly pale,--grapples him by the collar, drags him
out over the desks, his limbs dangling in a shocking way against the
sharp angles, and having him fairly in the middle of the room, clinches
his rod with a new, and, as it seems to you, a very sportive grip.

You shudder fearfully.

"Please don't whip me," says the boy, whimpering.

"Aha!" says the smirking pedagogue, bringing down the stick with a
quick, sharp cut,--"you don't like it, eh?"

The poor fellow screams, and struggles to escape; but the blows come
faster and thicker. The blood tingles in your finger-ends with
indignation.

"Please don't strike me again," says the boy, sobbing, and taking
breath, as he writhes about the legs of the master; "I won't read
another time."

"Ah, you won't, sir,--won't you? I don't mean you shall, sir;" and the
blows fall thick and fast, until the poor fellow crawls back, utterly
crestfallen and heartsick, to sob over his books.

You grow into a sudden boldness; you wish you were only large enough to
beat the master; you know such treatment would make you miserable; you
shudder at the thought of it; you do not believe he would dare; you
know the other boy has got no father. This seems to throw a new light
upon the matter, but it only intensifies your indignation. You are sure