The Ordeal of Richard Feverel — Volume 1Meredith, George
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The Ordeal of Richard Feverel — Volume 1
Meredith, George
Domestic fiction; England -- Fiction; English fiction -- 19th century; 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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