Tobias swung the whip. ... He brought it back again and again, producing a loud, thwacking noise. A brass candle-stick leaped off the mantel and rolled across the floor towards the window.

The babe woke, bawling. Mary stood up, holding her hand protectively around the soft little skull. Now, too, the footman was rising. He pulled himself up slowly from his chair as if constrained by invisible chains. His face contorted pitifully.

"Oh no, not flog him!" he cried. "You mustn't do that, Sir."

"Toby, dear ...," Mary whispered timidly.

"Remain seated, Sir," said Toby. He waved at his wife, making pushing motions with his hand towards the door.

When the creaking door was finally closed behind the bawling babe, Toby finally indicated, for the benefit of the others, the footman's physical distress. He pointed at his restless limbs, his twisted mouth.

"Yes, perhaps we should flog the Phantom?" he said loudly.

"Oh God no, please ..."

"Do you think he would like that?"

"No. Let me wake up."

Toby mouthed to his audience: Watch. Then, adopting a jolly, kindly tone, he spoke again to his subject: "Why are you so agitated, Jack? ... It is your enemy we are to deal with today. ... Can you see the place where we are going to deal with him?"

"I am used to the pain, Sir. It is an old friend."

"I asked you another question. Did you not hear it?"

Jack Maggs began to beat his fists upon his chest. He was truly like a wild animal, and Toby his expert trainer.

Jack Maggs: A NovelBy Peter CareyPage 79