Who shall beat him first ?" At a nod from Fred our porters stretched him face downward on the dry dung floor, and knelt on his arms and legs.

One of them staffed a good handful of the dry dung into his mouth to stop his yelling.
"Of course," said Will, rather slowly and distinctly, "if he told us about Schillingschen, we'd have to let him off.

Let's hope he holds his tongue, for I never wanted to flog a man so much in all my life!" The most palpable absurdity at the moment was that there was nothing in the hut to beat him with.

There were dozens of strips of the recently shot hippo hide hanging in the sun outside to dry, with stones tied to the end of each, to keep them taut and straight, but nobody made a move to bring one in.
"Take off his loin-cloth!" ordered Fred.

"It won't hurt him enough with that thing on!" The Baganda spat the cow-dung from his mouth and struggled violently.
"Oh, no, no!" he shouted.