He was an enormous Nubian, broad of chest, with the big sloping shoulder muscles that betray double the strength that tailors try to suggest with jackets padded to look square.
"Nun--recht feste schlagen!"* ordered Schubert.

Then he took the sleeve of his tunic between his teeth and hid his face.

[*Now, hit good and hard!] "One!" said the referee.

Down came the heavy black whip with a crack like a gun going off.

Schubert neither winced nor murmured, but the blood welled into the seat of his pants and spread like red ink on blotting-paper.
"'One!" said the referee again.