And even the sickness that was sweeping them off could not kill him.
With the whipping in the compound, discipline had improved.

They cringed under the iron hand of the white man.

They gave their scowls or malignant looks with averted faces or when his back was turned.

They saved their mutterings for the barracks at night, where he could not hear.

And there were no more runaways and no more night-prowlers on the veranda.
Dawn of the third day after the whipping brought the _Jessie's_ white sails in sight.