[Author's Note: I hate my name, but my name it is. Yes, it is my real name. Bet my father won. Anyway, I always thought that the brothers from the books could serve to get the living daylights beaten out of them for their exploits. Here goes.]
Frank and Joe staggered into the kitchen sopping wet and barely coherent. They were late.
"So, what's the excuse?" Their father, Fenton, asked.
"We went after some boat thieves on the way home. We were thrown overboard," explained, Frank, the older of the two.
"Well, what have I told you in the past? Call the police, you are not the police! Go upstairs and dry off, and get your asses back down here! Did you call the police to report the thieves after you swam back to shore?"
"We did, Dad," answered Frank.
"Go dry off."
The boys walked upstairs. They wondered why their father had asked if they called the police.
"You don't think he's going to check our story, do you?" asked Joe.
"Well, if he does, we need'nt bother drying our bums. He'll warm 'em enough to do that."
Indeed, Fenton called the Bayport Police Department. There had been no reports on a boat theif, just some kids prowling around a wearhouse. He had a hunch who those boys were.
"Boys, get into my study when your finished drying off and have some fresh clothes on."
"Well, that's done it. We're going to get it," concluded Joe.
The boys finished drying off and went into their father's study. He was sitting behind the desk.
"Boys, I just got off the phone with the Bayport Police. There was no report of a boat theif. There was a report of boys prowling aroundt the werehouse. What do you have to say for yourselves?"
Frank looked at Joe, and knew to tell the truth.
"Uh, Dad, we were those boys."
"That much I assumed. I told you not to go near that building. But what do you do, you go and get yourself reported prowling!!!! I will not tollerate this!"
"But Dad," it was Frank.
"So it was your idea?"
Frank just nodded.
"Well, let's get your punishment out of the way so I can eat. Joe, you first. Hands on the wall and drop your trousers. You can leave your undershorts on."
Fenton went to the closet, and pulled out a worn razor strop.
"I think I'll give you 50 licks. Count them."
SWAP! One, sir. SWAP! Two, sir. SWAP! Three, sir. And so it went on for fifty. By then he was yelping with every lick.
"Thank you, sir."
"Your welcome, Joe. Now Frank, since you were the ringleader, I think I will take on more drastic measures. Joe, move your chair out into the middle of the room. Frank, bend over the back of the chair after you've dropped your pants and shorts. Joe, grab his hands."
This was done. Fenton walked to the same closet, and pulled out a British senior cane. It had been used on him by his father, and he knew it put the message across very well.
"Frank, you're going to get 30 cuts with the cane. Count them please. If you buck, we start over. If you lose count, we start over. If you swear, we start over. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
Fenton took aim and made contact. The pain didn't start immediately, only after a few seconds. It was worse than anything, even the time he got 150 licks with the strop for smoking.
Gasping, he muttered the count.
He lost count several times, and wound up with a total of 85 strokes, between his wearing and inability to count. Joe understood why he was forced to hold Frank. So did Frank.
"I'm through. Get your asses into bed."
Joe helped Frank into bed, pants still around his ankles. He slept on his stomach last night, although there wasn't much sleeping. Joe stayed up all night, applying cold compress to the wealts and comforting Frank. He could'nt imagine how it hurt.
He dreaded the day he might get the cane.