V + 

A Flogging + 

Leaning his left elbow on the chest of drawers again, playing with his mustache-end with his left hand, standing indolently cross-legged, Einarson began to flog the soldier. His right arm raised the whip, brought the lash whistling down to the soldier’s back, raised it again, brought it down again. It was especially nasty because he was not hurrying himself, not exerting himself. He meant to flog the man until he got what he wanted, and he was saving his strength so that he could keep it up as long as necessary. + 

With the first blow the terror went out of the soldier’s eyes. They dulled sullenly and his lips stopped twitching. He stood woodenly under the beating, staring over Grantham’s head. The officer’s face had also become expressionless. Anger was gone. He showed no pleasure in his work, not even that of relieving his feelings. His air was the air of a stoker shoveling coal, of a carpenter sawing a board, of a stenographer typing a letter. Here was a job to be done in a workmanlike manner, without haste or excitement or wasted effort, without either enthusiasm or repulsion. It was nasty, but it taught me respect for this Colonel Einarson. + 

Lionel Grantham sat on the edge of his folding chair, staring at the soldier with white-ringed eyes. I offered the boy a cigarette, making an unnecessarily complicated operation out of lighting it and my own⁠—to break up his score-keeping. He had been counting the strokes, and that wasn’t good for him. + 

The whip curved up, swished down, cracked on the naked back⁠—up, down, up, down. Einarson’s florid face took on the damp glow of moderate exercise. The soldier’s gray face was a lump of putty. He was facing Grantham and me. We couldn’t see the marks of the whip. + 

Grantham said something to himself in a whisper. Then he gasped: + 

“I can’t stand this!” + 

Einarson didn’t look around from his work. + 

“Don’t stop it now,” I muttered. “We’ve gone this far.” + 

The boy got up unsteadily and went to the window, opened it and stood looking out into the rainy night. Einarson paid no attention to him. He was putting more weight into the whipping now, standing with his feet far apart, leaning forward a little, his left hand on his hip, his right carrying the whip up and down with increasing swiftness. + 

The soldier swayed and a sob shook his hairy chest. The whip cut⁠—cut⁠—cut. I looked at my watch. Einarson had been at it for forty minutes, and looked good for the rest of the night. + 

The soldier moaned and turned toward the officer. Einarson did not break the rhythm of his stroke. The lash cut the man’s shoulder. I caught a glimpse of his back⁠—raw meat. Einarson spoke sharply. The soldier jerked himself to attention again, his left side to the officer. The whip went on with its work⁠—up, down, up, down, up, down. + 

The soldier flung himself on hands and knees at Einarson’s feet and began to pour out sob-broken words. Einarson looked down at him, listening carefully, holding the lash of the whip in his left hand, the butt still in his right. When the man had finished, Einarson asked questions, got answers, nodded, and the soldier stood up. Einarson put a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder, turned him around, looked at his mangled red back, and said something in a sympathetic tone. Then he called the orderly in and gave him some orders. The soldier, moaning as he bent, picked up his discarded clothes and followed the orderly out of the bedroom. + 

Einarson tossed the whip up on top of the chest of drawers and crossed to the bed to pick up his tunic. A leather pocketbook slid from an inside pocket to the floor. When he recovered it, a soiled newspaper clipping slipped out and floated across to my feet. I picked it up and gave it back to him⁠—a photograph of a man, the Shah of Persia, according to the French caption under it. + 

“That pig!” he said⁠—meaning the soldier, not the Shah⁠—as he put on his tunic and buttoned it. “He has a son, also until last week of my troops. This son drinks too much of wine. I reprimand him. He is insolent. What kind of army is it without discipline? Pigs! I knock this pig down, and he produces a knife. Ach! What kind of army is it where a soldier may attack his officers with knives? After I⁠—personally, you comprehend⁠—have finished with this swine, I have him court-martialed and sentenced to twenty years in the prison. This elder pig, his father, does not like that. So he will shoot me tonight. Ach! What kind of army is that?” + 

Lionel Grantham came away from his window. His young face was haggard. His young eyes were ashamed of the haggardness of his face. + 

Colonel Einarson made me a stiff bow and a formal speech of thanks for spoiling the soldier’s aim⁠—which I hadn’t⁠—and saving his life. Then the conversation turned to my presence in Muravia. I told them briefly that I had held a captain’s commission in the military intelligence department during the war. That much was the truth, and that was all the truth I gave them. After the war⁠—so my fairy tale went⁠—I had decided to stay in Europe, had taken my discharge there and had drifted around, doing odd jobs at one place and another. I was vague, trying to give them the impression that those odd jobs had not always, or usually, been ladylike. I gave them more definite⁠—though still highly imaginary⁠—details of my recent employment with a French syndicate, admitting that I had come to this corner of the world because I thought it better not to be seen in Western Europe for a year or so. + 

“Nothing I could be jailed for,” I said, “but things could be made uncomfortable for me. So I roamed over into Mitteleuropa, learned that I might find a connection in Belgrade, got there to find it a false alarm, and came on down here. I may pick up something here. I’ve got a date with the Minister of Police tomorrow. I think I can show him where he can use me.” + 

“The gross Djudakovich!” Einarson said with frank contempt. “You find him to your liking?” + 

“No work, no eat,” I said. + 

“Einarson,” Grantham began quickly, hesitated, said: “Couldn’t we⁠—don’t you think⁠—” and didn’t finish. + 

The Colonel frowned at him, saw I had noticed the frown, cleared his throat, and addressed me in a gruffly hearty tone: + 

“Perhaps it would be well if you did not too speedily engage yourself to this fat minister. It may be⁠—there is a possibility that we know of another field where your talents might find employment more to your taste⁠—and profit.” + 

I let the matter stand there, saying neither yes nor no. + 