Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 The Strategist Revisited

   I mentioned my unfortunate treatment at the hands of the Wrotsleys to
Hector and he was kind enough to put it in a story.  Those days being those
days, the published version was not quite the same as the "limited
edition". Unfortunately I only got to glance at the unexpurgated version. I
shall not tell you the whole story again as I could not of course tell it
as wittily as dear Hector, but I shall tell you the interesting parts.

   THE FIRST TRIP TO THE LIBRARY

   As the library door closed behind us, the elder Wrotsley's face lit up.
"Fancy leaving those there.  They must have known we were coming!" He went
to the rack on the wall and picked up the dog-whip in one hand and the
whalebone riding switch in the other.  He swished them both in the air. 
"Which one would you like first, dear?" he said with a most endearing
smile.

   Knowing that feeling one or the other was even more certain than death
or taxes, I chose the dog-whip as it looked less deadly.

   "Get your little bumfrey out, dear.  We need to do it properly."

   Having a strong objection to getting my little bumfrey out, I demurred
very strongly indeed.

   The elder Wrotsley pointed to himself and counted, "One," and then to
the younger Wrotsley and counted, "Two," and then to the Wrotsley cousin
and counted, "Three." He then pointed to me and counted, "One!" He
continued, "Yes, I thought I had that right.  We are three and you are one.
Do you want to make a fuss?"

   I briefly contemplated making a fuss.  They were three and I was one.  I
decided not to make a fuss.  If fate had been careless enough to lead me to
a locked room with three enemies and leave a dog-whip and a whalebone
riding switch on display, who was I to argue?  I undid my trousers and let
them down.  Sighing deeply I pulled my underpants down, but was careful to
adjust the front of my shirt carefully.  I need not have bothered.  The
Wrotsley cousin snatched my shirt up.

   "Ooh!  We are getting a big boy!" he giggled girlishly.

   There being a single chair in the library, I was invited to accommodate
myself over an arm.  It was leather padded - a small concession by fate to
my comfort.

   "Shall we say six each?" enquired the elder Wrotsley.

   Six each was considered fair - by the Wrotsleys.

   "That will take far too long," I suggested, without much hope of a
reprieve.

   "Don't worry, dear.  We'll swish away merrily."

   And swish away merrily they did.  It was worse than any beating I had
taken from my housemaster and worse than any beating I had taken from a
prefect, which was quite an achievement.

   The thrashing had the usual effect that a thrashing had on me - that was
one reason I was one of the prefects' favourites.

   "Ooh!  We really are a big boy," said the Wrotsley cousin, impressed and
no doubt envious.

   THE SECOND TRIP TO THE LIBRARY

   I could hardly believe I had been so slow as to allow the Wrotsley clan
to get me into the library again.

   "You're not using that dog-whip on me again," I announced.

   "We shouldn't think of repeating ourselves," said the elder Wrotsley. 
"We are all absolutely fretting to try out the whalebone riding switch. 
Knickers down, dear."

   I reminded myself that they were three and I was one.  No D'Artagnan, I
decided not to take on all three at once and bared my little bumfrey with
all the dignity I could muster.

   It may have been the prior application of the dog-whip.  It may have
been that the whalebone riding switch was a deadlier instrument.  It was
the most painful two minutes of my life as the horrid thing lashed my poor
bare bottom.

   As I stood up I could see from the look on his face that the Wrotsley
cousin would, like Sir Lancelot, have liked to have dallied with me for a
while.  But we had to get back, as dear Hector put it, "to the languidly
expectant females".

   THE THIRD TRIP TO THE LIBRARY

   This was about a year later.

   I was three and the Wrotsley cousin was one.

   That whalebone riding switch danced an antic hay over his pale little
bumfrey.

   ***

   Read "The Strategist" by Saki here:
http://www.users.bigpond.com/burnside/strategist.htm