But you are frighted out of this stolen reading by a circumstance that
stirs your young blood very strangely. The master is looking very sourly
on a certain morning, and has caught sight of the little weak-eyed boy
over beyond you, reading "Roderick Random." He sends out for a long
birch rod, and having trimmed off the leaves carefully,--with a glance
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.
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