I was but dimly conscious when he dropped me under a tree whose bare twigs lashed the air and stung my cheeks.

I heard him tearing the branches savagely and muttering, 'Thanks to God, it's the blue beech.' I shall never forget how he turned and held to my hand and put the whip on me as I lay in the snow, and how the sting of it started my blood.

Up I sprang in a jiffy and howled and danced.

The stout rod bent and circled on me like a hoop of fire.

Then I turned and tried to run while he clung to my coat tails, and every step I felt the stinging grab of the beech.