Years ago when I was travelling in a country area, I was told by a student how boys were dealt with in his small school. This story, though fictional, was based on what I was told.

The school stood amongst gum trees, a small wooden building at the end of a dusty track, a rusty old tank on a ricketty stand leaning against the building. In the playground a swing was slung from the lower branches of an untidy tree, it was an old tyre on the end of a frayed rope. The school bus was just turning into the track from the highway, a battered old Reo. It was full of the children from farms around about. Inside the building Mr. Bull was lovingly applying Neats Foot Oil to his strap, ready for another day. The oil glistened as it was painted on, slowly fading as it soaked into the supple leather. It was only boys who received corporal punishment. There were 19 children in the school and 9 of them were boys.

The old bus pulled into the school yard and Mr. Bull put away the bottle of oil and the brush and hung the strap up beside the blackboard on its special hook, just above the Punishment Stool, from where the unfortunate boys themselves would have to take it, and the stool, out in front of the class. if it was to be their legs, or carrying it out into the boys toilet if it was to be their bottoms. On the whole, Mr. Bull prefered legs as it was quicker and there was less initial preparation than punishment on their bottoms as the boys frequently wasted time pleading not to have to take off their pants and underpants. The boys all knew from hard experience Mr. Bull prefered them to wear shorts, those unfortunate enough to be wearing jeans or long trousers could be sure of carrying the strap out to the toilets. The boys also knew Mr. Bull prefered their shorts to be brief but loose fitting so he could slip his hand up the legs and fondle their bottoms while they stood beside his desk discussing their work or offences. Mr. Bull knew this was very disconcerting, ensuring a boy's strict attention to whatever was being discussed, the boys very much aware of what Mr. Bull might might be planning for their thighs, or worse, for their bottoms.

The children filed in quietly and respectfully, boys one side and girls the other. The sound of the old Reo chugging out of the school yard faded as Mr. Bull, without any preliminary greeting growled:

"Timmy, come out here !"

Timmy was 10 years old, he had a mop of black hair and he wore little black footy shorts. He stood up trembling. The whole school knew what had happened and were waiting for the climax - Timmy, howling and dancing around in front of the class rubbing his legs. Late the previous evening his Mother had caught him having a quiet smoke in his cubby. He had been marched - by his ear, around to the schoolmasters house where an unpleasant scene occurred ending in the promise of what was to happen the next morning before school began. Timmy's Mum was a widow, and notwithstanding the ominous happenings to take place the next morning she decided to take action of her own. But not until just before Timmy's bedtime when he was in his little shorty pajamas. Timmy's Mum knew in the morning Mr. Bull would be concerned with Timmy's legs and she decided that was insufficient, his bottom also needed a certain amount of treatment. Timmy's Mum prefered the hearth brush. It made very satisfactory bruises and caused the most satisfying shrieks to come from Timmy. Timmy's shorty pajama pants were very thin and when he was on his knees with his nose on the floor took up the contours of his little bottom very effectively. In that undignified position Timmy received 10 good hard whacks, five on each cheek. He had to stand up while his Mum pulled down his pants to check his bottom was sufficiently bruised after which he was tucked up in his bed to sob himself to sleep.

White faced and trembling, Timmy came out in front of the class. His bottom was still sore, the bruises would stay for at least a week, but at least the other kids couldn't see. He knew the marks from Mr. Bull's strap would be seen by everyone, including the driver of the old Reo bus. Mr. Bull's hand stroked up the back of his legs as he stood beside the desk listening to Mr. Bull explaining to the class what he had been doing the night before. The big hand slid in under the black cotton of his shorts, the fingers working their way up under his underpants to cup the very bruised right cheek of his little bottom. Mr. Bull squeezed and Timmy squealed in pain, he had looked in the mirror that morning and there was a big round purple bruise on each cheek. Mr. Bull's hand shifted and he squeezed the other cheek as he announced Timmy was to have six on his legs.

"Fetch the strap and the stool Timmy !"

Timmy brought the stool out and handed Mr. Bull the strap.

"Go to the stool my boy,"

Timmy slowly moved to the dreaded stool and sat on it facing the class with his feet on the bar so the front of his thighs were sloping downwards and the edge of the stool pushed the fleshy parts between them upwards so as to present this particularly sensitive part to Mr. Bull's strap.

"Pull up the legs of your shorts boy ! as high as they'll go lad."

Timmy hauled up the legs of his shorts as far as they would go. His knees were slightly apart. Mr. Bull gently closed them together, stood back and raised the strap. Timmy howled. A wide red slash instantly rose on both thighs.

"Pull those shorts up higher boy !" Mr. Bull snapped as Timmy doubled over rubbing the fast reddening welt.

The strap was wide, it left two inch welts, and in fact the upper edge had been a little hindered by actually hitting the crunched up hem of Timmy's pants. After the third Mr. Bull moved sedately around the other side to ensure an even spread on Timmys thighs. Timmy was weeping and shrieking at each lash, and had to be snapped at, to stop rubbing his legs and pull up his pants again. After the fourth his thighs were red from the hem of his shorts to just above his knees. The last two were administered diagonally across the welts of the others, one from each side and Timmy was howling.

To ensure the school understood the consequences of smoking, Mr. Bull made Timmy stand on a table in front of the class. Without warning he pulled down Timmy's shorts and his underpants (he knew what had happened before bed the previous night), made Timmy hold up his shirt tails high and displayed Timmy's bruised bare bottom. Timmy had to turn round and face the class irregardless that he was naked from his navel down while Mr. Bull displayed to the class the welts on the front of his thighs. Timmy had to stand there, turning around every now and then and holding his shirt tails high, until morning recess.

At the end of school that day, the bus driver did indeed see Timmy's legs, and no doubt wondered, though he said nothing.