"Third time this term, isn't it, Master Wellbourne?"
"Yes, sir," Peter Wellbourne replied quietly.
"And all for fighting, correct?"
"Yes, sir."
"So it would seem that you have not yet heard the message, Wellbourne. We do not allow fighting at St. Luke's. That's all. Quite simple, really. No fighting. Period."
"Yes, sir."
"Now if I recollect right, the last time you were sent here you were let off with a warning and a thousand lines of copying. Is that accurate?"
"Yes, sir." Peter Wellbourne at least had the sense not to provoke the ire of his head tutor by arguing his case--even though the fight was not really his instigation.
"So you have had two clear warnings and one stiff sentence of copying Cicero and yet you return for another helping? You either are indeed a slow learner--or you have not yet got control of your temper, young man. Well this time I think you will take with you something to better remember the next time you are tempted to punch one of your classmates in the nose."
"Yes, sir," Peter replied in the interminable silence which followed that pronouncement. He knew what was next. His eyes widened a bit when Mister Baker opened his centre desk drawer, took out a thick leather strap, and laid it on the desk.
"This time, Master Wellbourne, your punishment will be a good, stiff thrashing."
"Yes, sir," Peter replied in barely a whisper. He had heard tales plenty from a few upperclassmen who had had the misfortune to find themselves across the head tutor's desk for a strapping. In those hushed voices while lying in bed after the lights were out and before they had fallen asleep, the whisperers talked of their bravery while being so punished. Much like the ghost stories round the campfire, these stories were as much fiction as fact, but they served to put fear into the new boys.
"After evening prayers you will report to me here for a licking you will not soon forget. Is that understood, Wellbourne?"
Peter Wellbourne had lost his voice but nodded meekly.
"Dismissed."
Peter felt a bit rubbery in the knees as he walked across the lawns to his next class. For the first time he really did regret the pounding he had given Jeremy Calkins. Apprehension had already begun to take him over and there were yet afternoon classes, soccer practice, dinner, and evening prayers to get through before this would end. By then, of course, nearly every one of his friends would know he was to be punished in the tutor's office. And they would know what that punishment would be. On the other hand, Peter thought, he might show some pluck and disdain and come out a bit of hero and martyr for his pains. That, he decided, would be the only way to play this one.
"Hear you're going to pay well for that fight with Calkins, Wellbourne," his best friend, John, whispered while they were waiting for Latin class to begin. "Unfair, really, but I suppose he wouldn't listen to your side."
"I can handle it," Peter replied with false bravado. "Calkins had it coming and he started it. My punishment is unfair, yes, but there's little I can do about that."
"Well, what did Mister Baker say?" John prodded. Although he had a good idea of what the penalty would be, he wanted first hand confirmation. "Not another thousand lines, I hope."
"No, not this time. This time my rump will pay. Tonight after prayers."
"Oh, Peter, no," was all John could think to reply while hoping for a few more details before the Latin tutor arrived. "I mean, we've all heard the stories, but I thought they were just tales meant to scare us. You really mean you are going to be caned?"
"Strapped, actually. And just to intimidate me, Baker took the strap out to show me what was in store. Paul Kantor wasn't lying. He keeps it right there in his desk and a nice thick one it is, too, split into two the last foot or so," Peter whispered. He intended to make himself a hero in this and had certainly impressed his friend. "He told me to report after chapel for punishment."
The single seed Peter planted with John sprouted quickly and by dinner the whispers came up where ever Peter went, along with a few admiring glances. By this time the story was that Peter had refused to admit any guilt for the fight, that he had faced down the head tutor, and now was going to take his punishment without buckling under. Amazing how a story can grow and change in a culture of young boys. And Peter did nothing to correct the rumors when they returned to him on the way to evening chapel.
The truth, however, was that Peter felt something akin to nausea from the prolonged anticipation and his knees weakened when he pictured himself across that big mahogony desk. He had, of course, been walloped on more than a few occasions, but never at school before, and never the likes of what he had heard took place in the tutor's office. He participated sincerely in the prayers that evening and offered one up for himself before leaving the chapel to go over to the headmaster's office.
When Peter Wellbourne opened the door to the secretary's foyer outside the headmaster's office he froze in place. There, seated on a chair, waited Jeremy Calkins.
"Welcome, Peter," Jeremy said politely. "Have a seat: it will likely be the last time you sit comfortably for a while."
"What are you doing here?" Peter asked, still standing in the doorway.
"Same as you, I expect. Waiting for the executioner."
"I am sorry about this morning, Jeremy, and I didn't say anything to blame you in this."
"I know you didn't. In fact, I came in on my own and tried to explain how it happened. So we will both take our punishments. Fair is fair." Jeremy stuck his hand out and Peter shook it as he sat down in the chair next to the door. But neither boy spoke in the next five minutes as they waited for the return of the head tutor from chapel.
Doctor Baker burst through the door, his black robe billowing up. With one smooth motion he peeled the robe free, hung it in a coat closet, and then closed the outer door to the foyer. Next they found themselves looking straight up from their chairs into a lecture about fighting and alternative ways to settle disputes. Neither boy heard many of the words or made much sense. No matter, as it was soon over.
"Choose a ball from the box, Jeremy: green you go first, black Peter will go first." He held out a small box above eye level and Jeremy fished out a marble--green as a cat's eye.
Headmaster Arthur Baker opened the door to his office and with a grand sweep of his arm ushered Jeremy Calkins in. Then he closed the door and moved around to the far side of his desk. With a slight flourish he took the leather strap from the drawer and lightly smacked it into his open palm for effect. The dull finish and suppleness reflected three decades of use on the hides of the pupils at St. Luke's: he had purchased it a trip to Scotland during his first year at the school.
Outside the closed office door, Peter moved the chair a bit closer to eavesdrop and cursed his luck for having to go last. As it turned out he did not need to move closer: the unmistakable voice of Mister Baker came through as though there was no door.
"Now, Jeremy Calkins," Mister Baker said solemnly, "you shall find what fighting will bring you. Take your pants down and bend across the end of the desk there for a thrashing." Then, after a brief silence, "Ever had the strap before, boy?"
There was no response.
"Well, I intend to see you get a good dose, something to remember."
A sharp crack so loud Peter recoiled a bit broke the short, ominous silence within. It so startled him, he gave serious, if brief, consideration to bolting the office. Peter recovered to hear bits of the lecture about fighting being repeated between the unmistakable splat of the strap on Jeremy's bared backside. He felt the thump of his own heart in his chest as the adrenaline flowed through his body in anticipation of what was to come.
"If I see you in here once more for fighting, Calkins," splat! "you will find yourself getting six with the cane." Splat! "Do you hear me young man?" Craaaack!
"Yessssss, sir!" hissed Jeremy, writhing up across the desk, his recently milk white posterior now shaded between deep crimson and violet. But he had somehow remained bent over and not yielded entirely to his headmaster.
After about thirty good whacks, Jeremy felt tears well up in his eyes and issued his first plea.
"Please, sir," he wailed quietly. "You'll not ever see me in here again, sir."
"Had enough, then, have you?" Mister Baker asked as he whipped the two fingered tawse down hard across Jeremy's scalded buttocks.
"Yes! Please sir, no more, please no more," blubbered Jeremy.
The sudden silence shocked Peter almost as much as the opening salvo had. And now, he knew, time had run out. A long minute or two passed before the door to the office soon opened and through it walked Jeremy, somewhat stiff legged, and with wet streaks down his face. Peter watched as his classmate closed the outer door, leaving him alone in the foyer.
"Come in Peter," the disembodied voice beckoned. "Time to settle up."
Peter rose and went in to meet his punishment, closing the door behind him. He found Arthur Baker waiting next to the big mahogany desk, the leather strap hanging menacingly from his right hand. "This is the third time for you in here, Wellbourne," he started, "and you had best see to it that this is the last. Just so you are clear where you stand, if you are sent down here once more this year for any major offense, you will find yourself meeting me here again: next time it will be a good caning. But if you are sent in for fighting a fourth time, we shall simply expel you. Is that clear enough, Peter?"
"Yes, sir, quite clear."
"Take your pants down and assume the position."
Peter stripped his slacks down to his ankles, then his shorts down to his knees, and bent across the end of the desk to offer his bared buttocks to the headmaster's strap. Clenching his teeth, he closed his eyes, clamped down on the far edge of the desk, and waited. If Jeremy Calkins could take it, so could he.
As it turned out, it was worse than it had sounded from the next room, and Mister Baker chose to give Peter nearly twice the licking he had given Jeremy Calkins. About halfway through Peter lurched upright with a yelp and began to plead for himself. The tactic had worked for Jeremy but it did not work for Peter. The headmaster's response was simple. He waited till Peter once again bent across the desk and resumed laying the strap to every square centimeter of Peter's cheeks all the way down to the tops of his legs. Now Peter knew what his friend Paul Kantor had meant when he said a whipping with the headmaster's strap was something one never forgot.
Finally, mercifully, the assault on his backside ceased. Peter felt as if he had sat in a tub of scalding water and it seemed that the heat had continued to build even after the last stroke has been struck. Still bent across the desk, he looked up to see the headmaster returning the tawse to his middle desk drawer. Gingerly, Peter started to straighten up and began to grope about his legs to pull up his shorts to hide the incongruous--ridiculous, really-- erection he had somehow sprouted as a result of this rather severe punishment. Embarrassment had been added to the humiliation and the pain and Peter quickly turned away to hide the evidence as he tugged his under shorts up, then his slacks.
"I'm not quite through with you yet, young man," Arthur Baker said as he made his way across the carpet to the closet next to the door. "Just to be sure you think before you do something to earn a return trip to the top of my desk," he said over his shoulder, "one stroke to let you know what the next trip--should there be one--will bring." He turned to face Peter and in his right hand, the cane.
Arthur Baker walked slowly back to the front of his desk and lightly tapped the cane on the edge. "No need to bare yourself for this, Master Wellbourne, no need. I assure you that you will feel this well."
Obediently Peter once again bent across the desk and had barely got his grip on the edge when he heard the awful hiss followed by the quiet thwuck as the cane laced full across his already scorched backside.
The headmaster nearly had the cane back in the closet before the full searing pain sliced through Peter's backside. Peter thrust his closed fist into his gaping mouth just to stifle the scream he thought was about to erupt from his throat. The shock of just that one stroke--the first ever with the cane--was something he knew he would also never forget.
"Six on the bare, Peter, the next time I see you here for a punishment," Arthur Baker said as he settled into the chair behind the desk. "Now you know why we rarely resort to the cane here at St. Luke's: it is the most severe punishment we have and the last stop before explusion. Don't let yourself in for it--please." Peter stood up for the second time and this time there was no embarrassing lump in his pants to be concerned about. One stroke with the cane had taken care of that problem.
"Dismissed," was all the headmaster replied to Peter's startled look as he furiously rubbed his buttocks trying to reduce the awful sting. Quickly Peter Wellbourne exited.
He took a long, slow walk around the campus before returning to his dormitory in hopes that his mates would all have finished in the showers before he got there. While he still hoped there would be a bit of admiration for him in the role of martyr he was also concerned there might be jokes made about his rosy posterior. And he wondered whether Jeremy had told his classmates, having lost his composure completely while being punished. At least Peter had not broke down in tears. And neither of them, he thought, would be comfortable sitting soon.
Little was said to either of the boys during the enforced quiet hours for studying, but there were winks and an occasional whisper of admiration for having taken the punishment without giving in. It was not until they were preparing for bed that Peter had a chance to sneak a peak at his still stinging buttocks. In the bathroom mirror he saw the scarlet expanse scored horizontally with one pencil thin dark purple weal from the cane.
As he stripped for the shower that single mark quickly became his badge of courage and a currency which he would spend penuriously over the rest of the term whenever the opportunity presented itself. But he also saw to it there were no more fights and no major offenses against the Decorum Code of St. Luke's School. Once was, in his case at least, enough.