The Ordeal of Richard Feverel: A History of a Father and SonMeredith, George
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The Ordeal of Richard Feverel: A History of a Father and Son
Meredith, George
Domestic fiction; England -- Fiction; Fathers and sons -- Fiction
"That's your game," cried the farmer. "Here's a taste of horsewhip
for ye. I never stands nonsense!" and sweetch went the mighty whip,
well swayed. The boys tried to close with him. He kept his distance
and lashed without mercy. Black blood was made by Farmer Blaize that
day! The boys wriggled, in spite of themselves. It was like a
relentless serpent coiling, and biting, and stinging their young
veins to madness. Probably they felt the disgrace of the contortions
they were made to go through more than the pain, but the pain was
fierce, for the farmer laid about from a practised arm, and did not
consider that he had done enough till he was well breathed and his
ruddy jowl inflamed. He paused, to receive the remainder of the
cock-pheasant in his face.
"Take your beastly bird," cried Richard.
"Money, my lads, and interest," roared the farmer, lashing out
again.
Shameful as it was to retreat, there was but that course open to
them. They decided to surrender the field.
"Look! you big brute," Richard shook his gun, hoarse with passion,
"I'd have shot you, if I'd been loaded. Mind! if I come across you
when I'm loaded, you coward, I'll fire!"
The un-English nature of this threat exasperated Farmer Blaize, and
he pressed the pursuit in time to bestow a few farewell stripes as
they were escaping tight-breeched into neutral territory. At the
hedge they parleyed a minute, the farmer to inquire if they had had
a mortal good tanning and were satisfied, for when they wanted a
further instalment of the same they were to come for it to Belthorpe
Farm, and there it was in pickle: The boys meantime exploding in
menaces and threats of vengeance, on which the farmer contemptuously
turned his back. Ripton had already stocked an armful of flints for
the enjoyment of a little skirmishing. Richard, however, knocked
them all out, saying, "No! Gentlemen don't fling stones; leave that
to the blackguards."
"Just one shy at him!" pleaded Ripton, with his eye on Farmer
Blaize's broad mark, and his whole mind drunken with a sudden
revelation of the advantages of light troops in opposition to
heavies.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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