I could have done it with this cane! The fool of a fellow didn’t half lay on. He said he’d give it him all the harder for that nice thing on his forehead, but it’s my opinion—”
The sergeant rushed into the room.
“He’s gone, sir! He’s gone!”
The doctor whipped a leather case from his pocket, and went out hurriedly. In five minutes he was back. His colleague was sitting like a yellow ghost.
“Gone?” chuckled the doctor. “A little faint, nothing more, and as stubborn as a mule the moment I brought him to. But I’ll break him yet, Strachan, I’ll break him yet!”
“He had his full hundred?”
“Every lash.”
“His—his skin—”
“Like tissue paper! Drew at the fourth—but not a sound—not a syllable all through.”
“And he’s fit to go back to the farm?”
“Fit enough, if I let him,” the doctor declared. “But I prefer to keep him where he is till to-morrow. Here in the lock-up he can do no mischief—and they know how to look after them here. But what’s the matter with you, Strachan? You look used up. The heat, eh?”
“The climate altogether!” cried the other, rising. “I’m sick of this country, Sullivan. India was a fool to it. I’d give all I’ve got to be going back there to-morrow!”
