Many events happened at my school worthy of the telling. It was long ago when The Cane was the uppermost thing in a boy's mind, certainly in mine. Still is. The memory of it has remained and is alive, almost as alive as it was when I was in short trousers and lived beneath it's shadow. The memory has remained longer than the marks it left on my bottom, these, on average, remained about three weeks. Some boys received The Cane quite regularly, so their bottoms were permanently marked. Immediately following the Caning the marks would be swollen, ridged welts, raised almost a centimetre and if they criss- crossed the junctions would be swollen more and almost bleeding. After a day or so, the swelling went down and the marks became red, blue edged angry slashes, which gradually faded to the famous twin tracks left by the edges of The Cane.
Now, whenever I am in Melbourne, Australia and pass by my old school and a group of chittering chattering boys get on board, I wonder if beneath their smart little short pants there might be those marks. Unlikely, as The Cane has been judged by the lawmakers as being too barbaric and most present day boys would hardly know what a Cane was.
When I was in the primary level of my school and wearing the obligatory short trousers and knee length socks there was a Master there (who I shall call Mr. Jones) who resigned to take up the Headmastership of another school. That school happened to be in the same street as my home, set up in the rather grand house and grounds said to have once been the home of a wealthy family whose wealth came from the early days of gold mining in Ballarat. Ballarat, once a gold boom town, is now principal city in the grazing Western District of the State of Victoria.
The School was coeducational and of primary level and the boys' uniforms included the shortest pants I have ever seen. At first this was only a wonder to me. My school shorts came down to 15 or 16 centimetres above my knees, theirs hardly covered their little bottoms. Once I entered adolescence however, these brief pants quite often embarrassed me and I had to carry my school bag in front to cover that embarrassment - by this time I was in longs and extremely proud of them, but oh dear ! those shorts.
Mr. Jones did not live at his new school and I would often meet him walking to work as I hurried off to catch a tram for my school. I always raised my cap to him and sometimes he even raised his hat back to me. At my junior school only the Principal administered The Cane, and for various offences in class we would be sent down to his study to receive it (at senior school all the Masters wielded The Cane.) It came as a realisation to me that now Mr. Jones, as a Headmaster, would be administering The Cane to the seats of those brief little shorts. It was a matter of only academic interest to me then, now, looking back I wonder if he enjoyed it - especially in view of the story I am about to relate.
When I graduated from Junior to senior school and from short trousers to long I found to my surprise Mr. Jones had resigned his Headmastership to return as an ordinary Master to my senior school. This, by the way, all happened when I was 13 and it was not long after wearing longs for the first time I developed a very healthy fetish for short pants which I still have - the school short pants I once wore as a junior boy. I have however, a special "fondness" for black football shorts, very short and very thin but quite loose at the legs and this came about from this story.
We were in class one day (we were all about 15), it was mathematics, and Mr. Jones was taking the class. There were three boys in this class who were recognised trouble makers. They sat in the back row, paid no attention at all and caused a great deal of disturbance while Mr. Jone's back was turned as he wrote on the blackboard - talking and misbehaving in a way they knew would distract the other boys. Mr. Jones tolerated it for a short time then in a fury turned and threw his chalk at the ringleader, a great hulking boy who laughed as he dodged the missile. Mr. Jones, infuriated all the more, ordered him and his two cronies out in front of the class and gave them a thundering lecture. The great hulking boy stood and grinned insolently throughout the lecture.
Mr. Jones temper snapped (or I think it did) for he leapt right up nose to nose with the big boy and in a fearfully controlled voice told him to take his two mates out and down to the school changing rooms and change out of their school trousers and underpants into their school football shorts and then come back for the thrashings of their lives.
The three boys, now a little nonplussed went out rather quietly and I began to think of them returning in those brief, very thin black shorts which were part of the official school sports uniform. I became embarrassed and began feeling a sort of vibrant throbbing which could be stopped only one way - a way I could not possibly carry out in the circumstances. I hoped I would not have to stand. Mr. Jones went to his cupboard and took out The Cane, laying it on the table in readiness, all eyes were glued to it. I began to feel dampness and shifted my bottom a little uncomfortably. Mr. Jones resumed writing on the blackboard and our attention was called away from the immediate future to a mathematical problem.
They were gone only about 10 minutes and returned sheepishly in their shorts, smooth skinned legs bared almost to their bottoms. Mr. Jones sat down at his desk and chose one of the cronies, calling him over to stand beside him.
"Have you got anything on under your shorts ?" he asked, "No Sir." replied the now very unhappy boy. "Let us make sure, eh ?" To my astonishment, and not a little excitement, he slipped his hand up the leg of the boy's shorts and felt around his bottom. He called the other boys over and did the same. Then he stood, picked up The Cane and ordered the first boy over the table. "Six at least !" he said.
What was incredible was they were not measured slow strokes. Mr. Jones was certainly wreaking vengeance. The strokes slashed down extremely fast, the pain level arriving as it must have done, in one monumental and agonising moment would have been intolerable. All the boys were on their feet and yelling before the final stroke landed on those thin cotton shorts, they danced howling, fingers clawing at their bottoms in useless attempts at alleviating the screaming pain. "That should do," snapped Mr. Jones, "Get back to your desks !"
The clawing fingers of one of the dancing boys raised up the hem of his shorts a little, and I could see the end of one frightful swollen welt. I couldn't believe it and my embarrassment erupted unbidden and for the rest of that day I was worried someone might see the dampness in the front of my trousers. I had wonderful dreams about the memory for weeks afterwards. I am wearing black football shorts as I write.