(Author Note: This story is the fouth in a series about the life and times of a young printer's apprentice living in the Colony of Virginia in the 1740s. The characters and situations were introduced in the story, "Zachary Malvern - The Printer's Devil". It can be read independently, but you might want to read the earlier stories first for best results.)

Have you something to do tomorrow, do it today. - Benjamin Franklin, 1742

The young apprentice was happy and sad at the same time. Twelve-year-old boys tend to have capricious emotions, and Zachary Malvern was no exception. The lad was delighted that William Parks, the master printer to whom he was apprenticed, was due to arrive home from a long business trip the very next day.

On the other hand, Zachary was quite sad about the quality of the work he had accomplished while his master was gone. Or was it the quantity of work? Yeah, that's the one. Of course the quality of the work wasn't exactly world-beating, either.

The moody young man was not terribly concerned about the work he had been doing the past seventeen days in the print shop. Though his master was likely to have a thing or two to say about the unfortunate incident of July 8th, when a clumsy indentured pressman named Miles Robinson spilt a tub of ink that Zachary was handing to him and blamed the incident on the inexperienced apprentice.

No, the cause of Zachary's growing unease was the essay his master had set as an academic task to be completed by the time of Mr. Parks' return, which was supposed to be a week ago. And here Zachary sat, in his room late at night, at the small desk he shared with Jeremy Topper, the 16-year-old senior printer's apprentice who had been sound asleep for more than an hour. Zachary was trying to complete the half-finished (at best!) essay by candlelight with his master due to arrive home in what amounted to mere hours.

Why hadn't Zachary taken proper advantage of the whole extra week he had been given to complete his essay? Why did he keep putting it off night after night after night? Mr. Parks kept telling him that academic studies - particularly English composition - were just as important to a future printer/publisher as knowing how to operate the press. Zachary threw down his quill in frustration.

Why did he always do this? Looking back at his three years in the Williamsburg Grammar School, Zachary realized that most of the times he felt his teacher's strap on the seat of his britches, it was because of exactly this same thing. Failing to make a reasonable attempt at completing assigned homework due to procrastination. It drove Mr. Perry, the school master, to distraction.

Speaking of distractions, how many times had Zachary found himself lying across the top of a school desk, squirming and grunting in pain as the master's strap connected again and again with the seat of his pants? Mr. Perry strapped Zachary longer and harder than most other boys who failed to do their essays properly. Because both teacher and student knew that those other lads weren't really capable of doing quality work, whereas Zachary was quite capable of excellent work. He simply needed to do it.

Zachary yawned and stretched. He rubbed his eyes, which felt like they had sand in them. He spent a few more minutes trying to continue with the essay, which was supposed to be about Oliver Cromwell. On top of everything else, Zachary didn't much care for Cromwell. When he and his friends played Civil War, Zachary always wanted to be a Cavalier. They certainly had the most interesting clothes. Roundheads were boring.

Eventually Zachary realized that he was hopelessly tired. The effort was no longer worth the candle - he simply wasn't going to make any progress on the essay this late at night. He put away his essay, made use of the chamber pot under his bed, then blew out the candle burning on the desk. Finally the boy knelt down and said his prayers before climbing into bed.

Any hopes Zachary may have harbored of finishing the essay before Mr. Parks was due home on Thursday were dashed by how busy the household and the print shop both were, preparing for the master's return. Zachary was kept on the go from breakfast onward, running errands for Mrs. Parks and for Mr. Castle.

Running errands in Williamsburg had gotten a lot more complicated in the past week. The drought had finally broken the previous Thursday, July 15th, and the rain had poured down for more than two days straight. The winds and lightning accompanying the storm were incredible - the rain seemed to be falling sideways for much of the two days. Virginia went from not having enough water to suddenly having far too much. Many of the local streams and rivers had flooded, damaging crops and completely swamping certain low-lying areas.

Riders finally started making in into Williamsburg from outlying areas on Tuesday, three days after the storm ended. They brought news that many of the bridges over the upper Chickahominy and Rappahannock Rivers had been washed out. Travel in the tidewater region of Virginia had suddenly gotten very slow and difficult. Mr. Castle had started wondering out loud if Mr. Parks would be able to make it home as scheduled.

Normally a further delay in the return of his master would have saddened Zachary. The boy thought about this as he picked his way carefully along the edge of Duke of Gloucester Street, avoiding the nearly knee-deep mud in the middle of the street as he headed back to the print shop with another load of beer for the thirsty workers. In this case Zachary secretly hoped that Mr. Parks would be delayed another day or two, giving him a chance to finish his essay properly.

In fact Zachary did have another night to work on his essay, and was pleasantly surprised by the amount of work he was able to get done. He knew it still wasn't the best work he could produce, and was a little on the short side, but it was an essay about Oliver Cromwell. It would have to do.

William Parks finally returned to Williamsburg early in the evening on Friday, July 23rd. He and his horse were completely mud splattered and exhausted. Mr. Parks usually preferred travelling by coach rather than on horseback. But coach service in the area was impossible because of all the bridges that had been washed out.

So Mr. Parks had bought a horse in Fredericksburg and forded several swollen rivers on his way home. Mrs. Parks was furious with her husband for taking such absurd risks. It was an embarrassing scene, and Zachary was quite happy to be ordered to lead the exhausted horse to the local livery stable where it could be tended to and boarded.

Dinner was a happy occasion for the Parks family that night. Mr. Parks had bathed and was wearing clean clothes. He said it was the first time he had been really clean since leaving Philadelphia. Mr. and Mrs. Parks were joined at the dinner table by Jeremy and Zachary. Sarah Dawson, the Parks family housekeeper, served Mr. Parks' favorite dinner, Veal Chops.

Apprentices were essentially adopted members of their master's families for the duration of their contracts. Mr. Parks treated the lads like his own sons. Mrs. Parks treated them like distant cousins from one of the more unsavory branches of the family. Zachary couldn't pretend to enjoy the way he was treated by Mrs. Parks, but he had to admit that the woman had been through a lot.

William and Janet Parks had lost their own children, a boy and two girls, to typhus many years ago when they still lived in Annapolis, Maryland. Mr. Parks refused to discuss it with the apprentices, but Jeremy believed that the tragic loss of his children was the reason Mr. Parks chose to relocate his main business to Williamsburg.

Zachary was secretly certain that Jeremy was right. He never told anybody, not even Phillip, but Zachary had always been grateful that he and his brother had moved to Williamsburg after a tragic fire wiped out the rest of their family. Zachary didn't think he would have been able to cope with remaining in Norfolk, and periodically having to pass by the spot where his family had perished.

Mr. Parks was far too exhausted to look at his apprentices' school work on Friday night. He told them to hand it in after breakfast in the morning.

After breakfast on Saturday Zachary duly handed in his essay, and other assigned school work to Mr. Parks. Jeremy also handed in his assignments. Mr. Parks told them he would be frightfully busy on Saturday, but would try to check their school work sometime during the day. If so, he would review it with them Saturday evening after dinner.

Market Day on Saturday, July 24th wasn't nearly as busy as normal for that time of year. Travel was still difficult in the wake of what Mr. Parks was calling a "tropical storm". Zachary thought about this for a while and decided that if those were the kinds of storms they usually had in the tropics, he would try to stay away from the tropics if at all possible.

Later in the day Zachary remembered that his older brother, Phillip, was serving as a cabin boy on HMS St Albans down in the West Indies, which he thought was close to the tropics. Zachary said a silent prayer that Phillip's ship had weathered the storm in good shape and that Phillip was safe and in good health.

At dinner on Saturday night, Mr. Parks informed his apprentices that he had found time to look at their school work, and that he would review their performance with them after dinner. There was something in the tone of his master's voice, and the look on his master's face that made a shiver run up Zachary's spine. One glance at Jeremy's face told Zachary that his brother apprentice shared his misgivings about the upcoming interview.

William Parks had a private study on the first floor of his house, there being insufficient room in the print shop building itself for a private office large enough for his needs. Mr. Parks was meeting first with Jeremy. Zachary was pacing nervously in the front foyer of the house, waiting for his turn to speak with his master.

Zachary had already been waiting at least fifteen minutes and managed to work himself up into a bundle of nerves. Why hadn't he worked on the Cromwell essay some more Friday night? What would Mr. Parks say? It had been clear at dinner that Mr. Parks wasn't happy. But was the master printer upset with both of his apprentices, or just one?

Perhaps Jeremy was the one who was really in trouble? Part of Zachary was confident that was the case, and that he was in the clear. Another part of Zachary thought that was very wishful thinking, and that at the very best his master would be barely satisfied with his work.

The study door opened, and Zachary nearly jumped out of his skin at the sudden sound. Jeremy stepped out into the hallway, turned away from Zachary and headed for the kitchen at the rear of the house. From the brief glimpse of Jeremy's face, he could see that his brother apprentice looked very unhappy. That could mean Jeremy was the one in trouble and Zachary was in the clear. Zachary wasn't proud of himself for hoping that was the case, but it was the truth.

He heard Mr. Parks' voice from beyond the study door, which Jeremy had left open, "Zachary, please come in."

Zachary straightened out his clothes, ran a hand through his hair in the hopes of getting it to be a bit less unruly than usual, then he walked into the study, closing the door behind him. He walked across the bookshelf-lined room to stand in front of his master's desk, his hands clasped behind his back.

William Parks was more than forty years old, although Zachary didn't know his master's precise age. Born, raised, and trained in England, Mr. Parks had voyaged across the Atlantic to the colonies as a journeyman about twenty-five years ago. He worked for various printers and publishers in Boston and Philadephia before establishing his own first newspaper, the Maryland Gazette in Annapolis, Maryland.

Mr. Parks was tall and moderately thin. He seemed fairly robust for a man his age. Although his hair was a mixture of black and grey-white, he still got around well, which was handy for someone who travelled as much as he did. Although far too busy for games and frivolity these days, Mr. Parks did admit to having played a game called rugby football during his youth back in England.

Zachary was happy to see that Mr. Parks was leafing through his sketch book. Zachary had been drawing ever since he could remember, and people seemed to think he was good at it. In fact Mr. Parks appeared to be quite pleased as he looked through the drawings Zachary had done while he was away on his business trip. The young apprentice quietly sighed in relief, and began relaxing a bit, although he remained standing in the 'schoolboy attention' posture in front of his master.

"So, Zachary," began Mr. Parks as he flipped casually through the sketch book, "did you manage to keep busy while I was away?"

"Yes, sir, very busy," said Zachary. "Mr. Castle kept us all hopping."

Mr. Parks looked up and met his apprentice's eyes for the first time, a slight smile on his face, "Did he, now?"

"Yes, sir."

"You were busy cleaning up ink, from what I heard."

Zachary gulped slightly, trying to read his master's face, which bore a rather wry smile. He couldn't tell if Mr. Parks was really angry about the spilled ink, or just playing with him. In any case there was no point in denying the situation, since he had already been strapped for it. "Yes, sir. I'm quite sorry about that, sir."

"No major harm done, I'm sure," said Mr. Parks. "I'll go over the handling of ink with you again on Monday. I trust you will be more careful with the ink in the future?"

"Oh, yes sir!" said Zachary. He knew that he had been careful, but he could see little point in arguing about something that was over and done with weeks ago.

"Good," said Mr. Parks. "Obviously Mr. Castle did have to punish you for that lapse."

"Yes, sir." Actually Zachary didn't see that requirement at all, but he didn't really know what Maynard Castle had said to Mr. Parks about the incident. Nothing good about Zachary, that much was certain.

"But I have asked him not to punish you in the print shop right in front of all the customers in future."

"Thank you, sir!" Maybe some good would come out of this after all.

"That's quite all right, Zachary," said Mr. Parks, grinning. "The order is not really for your benefit. Although I daresay it will be less embarrassing for you to get your whippings in private."

"Yes, sir," said Zachary, blushing slightly.

"The real reason for the order is to spare any customers in the shop the embarrassment of having to witness your punishment."

"I understand, sir," said Zachary. He wondered what Mr. Parks would have said about the way the customers he was trying to protect had egged Mr. Castle on during Zachary's whipping in the print shop.

"Your drawings are getting better," said Mr. Parks, electing to change the subject.

"Thanks!" said Zachary. His master was always pleased with his drawings. In fact Zachary had recently begun to suspect that his skill with drawing was the main reason Mr. Parks had taken him on as an apprentice at the early age of twelve. In fact Mr. Parks had told both apprentices that he hoped to begin adding woodcut illustrations to the Virginia Gazette eventually.

"Was there really this much water down on Francis Street?" said Mr. Parks, looking at a drawing Zachary had made of a street located in one of the more southern, lower-lying areas of the city the previous Sunday, soon after the tropical storm had ended.

"Yes, sir!" said Zachary. "There was nearly two feet of water in the street. Folks were calling it the 'Francis River'."

"And people really were paddling canoes down the street?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Amazing," said Mr. Parks. "We had a lot of wind and rain up in Philadelphia as well, but nothing like what you must have had here."

"Yes, sir," said Zachary. "Mr. Parks, did you have a lot of trouble fording those rivers between here and Fredericksburg?"

"You could say that," said Mr. Parks, the wry grin returning to his face as he continued to flip through the drawings Zachary had done. "Don't tell Mrs. Parks, but I'm very lucky to be alive."

"Wow!" said Zachary, swelling with pride at the bravery of his beloved master. "Really?"

"Yes," said Mr. Parks, who looked up at Zachary and then suddenly got a very stern look on his face. He looked the boy straight in the eye and said, "Now Zachary, I don't expect to ever hear about you taking chances like that - fording flooded rivers on an exhausted horse."

"Oh, no, sir," said Zachary. "I never would..."

"Good," said Mr. Parks. "Because if you ever do, I will personally skin you alive, understand?"

"Yes, sir!" said Zachary. He couldn't imagine where Mr. Parks got the idea that he would do anything like that.

"Alright, then... Whoa! What is this?" said Mr. Parks. He showed Zachary the drawing he had just turned to.

"That's my friend, Davey Landis."

"Yes, of course I know who it is," said Mr. Parks. "The drawing has an excellent likeness of Davey's face. What I want to know is, why did you draw him in the nude?"

"Oh, that's from when we were swimming in Halfway Creek, the Sunday before the storm hit."

"You took your sketch book with you swimming?"

"Oh, no, sir. I drew it from memory that night after dinner."

"I see. Is there any particular reason you chose to draw Davey nude from the front?"

"Not really, sir. He was just lying in the shade like that a lot of the afternoon when we'd be talking - between sessions of actual swimming." Zachary refrained from stating the main reason he didn't want to draw Davey from behind that day - his best friend's backside had been displaying the stripes from his hickory switching from the previous day.

"That makes sense," said Mr. Parks. Then he pointed to a particular part of the drawing, "Is this part of the drawing accurate, as well?"

Zachary took a close look at where Mr. Parks was pointing, a part of the drawing which showed a portion of Davey's anatomy that was usually hidden by his breeches. The boy giggled and said, "Yes, sir. That's what he looks like down there."

"Well," said Mr. Parks. "I daresay that young Davey is going to be very popular with the girls someday."

Zachary giggled helplessly at this comment, and was joined by the hearty laughter of Mr. Parks. When they stopped laughing, Mr. Parks got the serious look on his face again and said, "Seriously, though. I really don't think you should be making drawings of your friends in the nude."

"Really? Why?"

"It might upset some people. Mrs. Parks, just for instance."

"Mrs. Parks never looks at my drawings anyways."

"The proper way to say it is 'anyway', not 'anyways'."

"Yes, sir, she never looks at my drawings anyway."

"Better," said Mr. Parks. "Nevertheless, you really shouldn't be drawing people in the nude, Zachary. It's not considered polite."

"Yes, sir," said Zachary. "I won't do it again."

"Excellent," said Mr. Parks. "Other than that, I have no complaints about your drawings. Your art skills continue to improve, which is particularly admirable, considering the fact that you've never had any proper instruction in art."

"Thank you, sir," said Zachary, beaming at the compliment.

"Yes, well," said Mr. Parks, clearing his throat. He set aside the sketch book, and picked up Zachary's other school work. "Now, on to the more difficult part of this interview. Your geography and composition assignments."

Zachary gasped, feeling like he had been suddenly punched in the stomach. He had relaxed, thinking he wasn't in any sort of trouble. Now, seeing the look on his master's face as he mentioned the rest of his school work, Zachary realized that Mr. Parks was anything but pleased.

"Let's start with geography," said Mr. Parks. "I take it that both you and Jeremy took my threat seriously?"

"Yes, sir," said Zachary, gulping slightly. He had been in the habit of wheedling help out of Jeremy when it came to his geography assignments. Before leaving for his business trip, Mr. Parks had threatened to give both apprentices a sound thrashing with his razor strop if Jeremy ever helped Zachary 'cheat on his school work' again.

"I could tell," said Mr. Parks. "For starters, I'm fairly certain that Jeremy knows that Calais is not the capital of France."

"It's not?" said Zachary. He had been concentrating so much on the Cromwell essay that he had spent hardly any time working on the European capitals assignment for geography. Only now did he realize what a horrible blunder that was.

"Of course it's not!" said Mr. Parks, clearly irritated. "Paris is the capital of France, and it also happens to be one of the most famous cities in the world."

"Um...aren't we at war with France?" asked Zachary, hopefully.

"Well, yes," said Mr. Parks. "I believe we are. But what on earth does that have to do with which city is the capital of France? Did the British Army capture Paris while I was riding home from Philadelphia, forcing the French to move their capital to Calais?"

"No," admitted Zachary, "Not that I know of."

"You didn't really know any of the assigned capitals, did you?"

"Yes, I did! I knew that London is the capital of Great Britain!"

"Well, huzzah!" said Mr. Parks sarcastically. "You know the name of your own country's capital! We should go see Dr. Blair right away. You could be the new Professor of Geography at the College of William and Mary!"

Zachary, his face bright red with shame, couldn't bring himself to say anything. All he could manage was to shake his head 'no' and try to keep himself from crying.

Mr. Parks sighed. "The most annoying part of this is that you are very intelligent, Zachary. This assignment should have been easy for a boy your age, and with your wits."

"Yes, sir," said Zachary, in a tiny voice. He couldn't bring himself to look at Mr. Parks, and stared at some books on the shelf behind his master.

"Alright," said Mr. Parks, setting aside the geography assignment. "Let's talk about Oliver Cromwell for a moment."

"Okay, sir," said Zachary, brightening up slightly. At least he had put some effort into this essay, belated though that effort might have been.

"I don't know quite what to say about this, Zachary," said Mr. Parks. "You have most of the dates of Cromwell's battles wrong..."

"I do?" said Zachary, becoming alarmed again.

"You do," said Mr. Parks, looking very severe. "And Cromwell was not the army commander at the Battle of Marston Moor, he was the cavalry commander under the Earl of Manchester."

"Oh," said Zachary, who hadn't even mentioned the Earl of Manchester in his essay. One look at the disappointment in his master's face was enough to make Zachary wish that he could sink straight into the floor. He began to fidget and squirm in place as he struggled to remain at attention.

"Tell me, Zachary," said Mr. Parks. "Did you even start this essay before last night?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I finished it Thursday night."

"You finished it Thursday night?" said Mr. Parks. He got up from his chair and looked down at his apprentice.

"Yes, sir."

"You finished the essay seven days after it had been due?" said Mr. Parks. He began to walk around the desk to where Zachary was standing.

"Yes, sir." Zachary wanted nothing more than to run screaming from the room. He was quite close to tears.

Standing by Zachary's side, Mr. Parks grabbed the boy's ear and tugged - reasonably gently, Zachary thought, considering how angry he obviously was - and asked, "Do your ears work, boy?"

"Yes, sir."

"So you knew that the essay was due on Thursday, July 15th?"

"Yes, sir," said Zachary. "But that was also the day the tropical storm hit here."

"Fair enough," said Mr. Parks. He released the ear. "And you already knew by then that I was going to be a week late coming home."

"Yes, sir."

"But the fact remains that you were given an extra week to get the essay completed, and yet you couldn't even be bothered to confirm the basic facts you were writing about."

Zachary could no longer stop a few tears from running down his cheeks. "No, sir."

"We've discussed your procrastination before, have we not?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Parks started gently patting the seat of Zachary's breeches. "I believe we discussed what would would happen to you if you kept procrastinating, did we not?"

"Yes, sir," said Zachary. He felt an urgent need to use the privy.

"I believe we discussed a meeting... an introduction?" The patting continued.

"Yes, sir."

"A meeting between my razor strop and your bare bottom," said Mr. Parks. "Who have not yet had the pleasure of making each other's acquaintance, have they?"

"No, sir," gasped Zachary. He felt sick to his stomach and was desperate to use the privy.

"Well, Zachary, I believe it may be time for that meeting. I suppose we had better make it a memorable introduction. Don't you agree?"

"Yes, sir," said Zachary, his voice high pitched and ragged. He suddenly realized he was clutching the crotch of his breeches and squeezing his legs together like a five-year-old who desperately needed his potty.

"Alright," said Mr. Parks. "I don't need a mess in here. Go use the privy, then have your bath and report back here for your meeting with Mr. Strop."

"Yes, sir!" gasped Zachary gratefully, as he plunged out of the office and raced for the kitchen, the back door, and the privy.

Tears were pouring out of Zachary's eyes and running down his cheeks. The sting was beyond belief, and he danced from foot to foot as he gasped in pain. "Please hurry, Sarah!" he begged.

"Coming, dear heart!" said Sarah Dawson, the Parks family housekeeper. The short, but study young woman heaved a bucket of water up high and poured it over Zachary's head.

The boy gasped as the cold water washed the heavy lather from the strong, homemade lye soap off his head and face. The soapy water rinsed some of the soap from his naked body as it ran down into the large wooden bathtub in which he was standing. The pain from the strong soap on his face was mostly gone, but he was still in agony. "More, please, Sarah!"

"In a moment, sweetie!" said Sarah, as she put down the empty bucket and reached for a full one.

Zachary was in a world of pain and humiliation, as he always was when being bathed. The lye soap was far too strong to be used for bathing. Zachary's mother and Aunt Gloria both used two different grades of lye soap, a mild one for bathing and a strong one for the laundry. Mrs. Parks, for reasons known only to herself, believed that one grade of strong soap was good enough for both purposes. So bathing in the Parks household was unnecessarily painful.

At least Jeremy was allowed to soap himself. But Zachary, at twelve, was considered too immature to clean himself properly, at least by Mrs. Parks. She insisted that Zachary allow Sarah to soap up his body - his entire body. The young housekeeper was fond of Zachary, and was gentle with him, particularly when soaping up his 'private areas.' The problem was that the accursed lye soap could sting his poor willy almost as badly as it stung his eyes when the soap got in them. In fact it was doing so now.

Zachary gasped with pleasure as the second bucketful of water washed more of the horribly strong soap from his body. He redirected some of the water towards his willy, and tried to use it to rub the stinging soap from that tender appendage.

"Stop playing with yourself!" shouted Mrs. Parks, who unfortunately chose that moment to enter the kitchen and check on the progress of Zachary's bath. "How dare you? You foul little beast!" She slapped Zachary hard across the face.

"I'm not!" protested Zachary, his face reddening and more tears streaming from his eyes. "The soap burns!"

"He was just trying to clean the soap from that area, ma'am!" said Sarah.

"You hush, girl!" said Mrs. Parks. Then she took another look at the tearful boy, who stood in the bathtub writhing in pain, and seemed to think better of it. "Well, if it's burning him, get some more water on him!"

"Yes ma'am!" said Sarah, as she heaved the third bucket of water up in the air and dumped it down Zachary's front. He was able to redirect enough water to his willy to get the burning soap off of it. "There you go, sweet cakes."

"Thanks, Sarah!" said Zachary, profoundly grateful that his willy had stopped burning. He was fond of Sarah, but he really wished she would stop using such stupid pet names for him. He sometimes thought of saying something about it, but didn't want to risk offending her.

A minute later a fourth bucket of cold water had been splashed over Zachary and almost all the soap was gone. He was soon being dried off with an old, but clean linen towel.

"All right, Zachary," said Mrs. Parks when the boy was properly dry. "Your master wants you to wait outside the study, nose to the wall, while he finishes up with Jeremy."

"Yes'm," said Zachary. He knew better than to ask for his night shirt. It would be given to him only after Mr. Parks was finished introducing him to the razor strop.

The naked Zachary walked slowly and unwillingly down the hall from the kitchen and took up his place near the study door, nose pressed against the wall and hands by his sides. As he moved into position, Zachary could hear the unmistakable sound of leather hitting bare flesh in the study. Jeremy had also disappointed their master badly enough to earn himself a whipping.

As Zachary stood staring at the wall of the hallway, he could hear Mr. Parks asking questions, and Jeremy answering. He couldn't hear exactly what was being said, but he had a pretty good idea of the main points. Mr. Parks was one of those people who sometimes insisted on questioning a boy while he was punishing him. Then a solid thwacckk caused by leather sharply striking raw flesh was heard from inside the study, followed by a yelp of pain from Jeremy.

Zachary had no idea how long the whipping had been going on, or how long it would last. Mr. Parks didn't usually start the serious questioning until the whipping was almost over, so that was a good sign it was nearing its end. He was sorry for Jeremy's pain, and hoped his apprentice brother's thrashing would be over soon. The problem was, soon after Jeremy's thrashing ended, his own would begin.

Although he hadn't yet been whipped with Mr. Parks' razor strop, Zachary had seen the effects of the last razor strapping Jeremy received back in May. The marks Jeremy displayed when he lifted up the back of his night shirt after that whipping had been truly frightening.

He had been lucky so far, Zachary had to admit. Since becoming an apprentice in late March, he had only been punished by Mr. Parks four times. The first two times he had received bare-bottomed over the knee hand spankings, which truly humiliated the young apprentice. He thought it was just too undignified for an apprentice to be spanked like a little kid. The real problem was that Mr. Parks had a strong right hand that made Zachary bawl both times, just like a little kid.

Thwacckk. "Oww!" Jeremy's seat had just absorbed another lick of the razor strop, and the 16-year-old made his displeasure at that fact known.

As Mr. Parks continued the questioning of his senior apprentice, Zachary was left out in the darkened hallway alone with his own thoughts. And those thoughts were getting less positive as his own backside's appointment with the razor strop drew closer and closer. The last two times that Mr. Parks punished Zachary he had used the same heavy harness leather strap that Mr. Castle had used on him after the ink debacle of July 8th.

The first strapping Mr. Parks gave Zachary was for dawdling - taking far too long to make a delivery. Zachary had been visiting with Davey at the cooperage, though fortunately neither master craftsman had found that out. Mr. Parks had grabbed Zachary by the arm and marched him out the side door of the print shop. The man kept hold of his arm and simply dealt out six licks of the strap to the seat of the boy's breeches while Zachary yelped and hopped in place.

Thwacckk. "Owwch!" The senior apprentice continued learning his painful lesson as the junior apprentice continued to recollect.

The second strapping Mr. Parks gave Zachary was more serious, and more formal. Zachary had been procrastinating on his school work back in June - once again - and Mr. Parks made him lie face down on a bench in his study with his breeches down. The heavy harness strap was applied to the seat of Zachary's drawers ten times on that occasion. While Zachary writhed and yelped under the strap, he had been promised his first razor stropping - on his bare bottom - if he procrastinated again.

Thwacckk. "Ooowww!" Jeremy's whipping continued, and Zachary continued to get more nervous. In fact he soon became too nervous for coherent recollections.

Eventually Zachary became aware that it had been a couple of minutes since he heard the sound of leather hitting bare bottom. Perhaps Jeremy's whipping had ended. Sure enough, the door to the study opened about a minute later. He heard Jeremy sniffling as he tried to choke down sobs.

"Okay, Zachary," said Mr. Parks. "Time for your meeting."

Zachary moved towards the study door. Jeremy was standing in the hallway on the far side of the door, nose against the wall and hands behind his head. As Zachary turned to enter the study door, enough lamplight escaped from the study to give him a glimpse of the gruesome damage that had been done to Jeremy's muscular backside by the razor strop. The sight caused his own poor little bottom to tingle and cringe in fear at what lie ahead.

Mr. Parks closed the study door and then moved to pick up the razor strop that was lying on the top of his desk. He turned to Zachary and said, "Do you have anything you want to say before your punishment?"

"No, sir," said Zachary, who knew there was no reasonable excuse for the poor work he had done.

"Alright, then. Lie down on the bench."

Zachary scrambled to obey his master immediately. He lay down where Jeremy had so recently suffered, positioning his hips over the pillow that had been placed in the center of the bench.

"Hang on tight, son," said Mr. Parks. Zachary grabbed the legs of the bench with both hands. "Stay in position."

"Yes, sir." Zachary felt the stiff leather laid gently across his bottom, which twitched in anticipation as his master took aim for the first whack from the strop. He closed his eyes and waited.

Thwwaaccckkk. The tough leather razor strop greeted Zachary's bare bottom for the first time, and the message took the form of pain that blazed across his rump. The boy exhaled explosively from the sheer shock of the blow.

"Stings a bit, eh?" said Mr. Parks, clinically.

"Yes, sir."

Thwwaaccckkk. "Uuuhh." The razor strop hit lower on the curves of Zachary's boyish bottom, the pain causing the lad to grunt slightly. The blows from the razor strop felt heavier, for some reason, than anything Zachary had experienced while being punished before.

"Do I have your undivided attention, now?" said Mr. Parks.

"Yes, sir!" said Zachary. "I'm listening!"

"Good," said Mr. Parks. "I'm going to give you the damned good thrashing you deserve, son. Howl if you must, but I want you to be thinking how you ended up in this sorry state, and what you can do to avoid ending up like this in the future. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Zachary, "I understand." Tears were already starting to flow down his cheeks, and he couldn't bring himself to look at his master. In fact he kept his eyes firmly shut.

Thwwaaccckkk. "Aaaahh!" He tried to think of why he was there.

Thwwaaccckkk. "OOwwwww!." But it was hard to concentrate on anything but the horrible burning sensation that engulfed his bottom.

Thwwaaccckkk. "Oooooccchh!" He was sobbing now, tears in full flow.

As the razor strop continued to blister his backside, Zachary howled and bawled openly. After ten whacks Zachary began pleading for mercy. He hated himself for it, but he couldn't stop himself.

"Why are you being whipped, Zachary?" asked Mr. Parks.

"F-for procrastin-tination," Zachary gasped, between sobs, "and for doing p-poor research."

"Correct," said Mr. Parks. "Will you pay proper attention to your school work in the future?"

"Oh, yes, sir!" Zachary gasped.

"Very, well," said Mr. Parks. "Two final whacks to drive the lesson home."

Zachary moaned in despair, mumbling, "No, no...."

Thwwaaccckkk. "Ooooowww! Ssss."

Thwwaaccckkk. "Oooowwwwww!"

"Have you learned your lesson at last, young man?"

"Yes, sir!" gasped Zachary between sobs. Tears and snot were dripping from his face onto the bench.

"You better have," said Mr. Parks. "If you ever turn in shoddy work like that again, you will be taking your meals standing up for a month! Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir!" gasped Zachary. "I promise I'll do better."

"Very well, then," said Mr. Parks. "When you feel you can, get off the bench, but keep your hands behind your head."

"It's just not fair!" complained Jeremy bitterly. He was relieving himself in his chamber pot in preparation for bedtime. As he knelt on the floor he held his night shirt up under his arms, exposing his front and back.

This posture gave Zachary a clear candlelit view of the senior apprentice's damaged backside as he noisily urinated in the ceramic pot. The razor strop had really blistered Jeremy's muscular rump. The marks were a mish mash of crimson, blue and purple. It looked exactly as painful as his own poor throbbing little bottom felt. "I know," said Zachary. "To lose our whole Sunday!"

After giving Zachary a few minutes to regain his composure, Mr. Parks had the two tearful apprentices standing in front of him, hands laced behind heads. He then proceeded to lecture them on their responsibilities as apprentices. Not only were they there to learn the mechanics of the printing trade. They were also supposed to be learning enough academics to be effective writers and publishers.

Mr. Parks had been gone for nearly three weeks, and neither apprentice had produced a satisfactory essay. This, despite the fact that they were given eight extra days to complete the work. So in addition to the thrashing they had just received, both apprentices would be confined to the house on Sunday after church.

Both boys would be expected to rewrite their essays on Sunday, turning them in at breakfast on Monday. If either new essay was found wanting, the author of said essay would find himself lying on the bench in his master's study on Monday night being treated to an even stronger dose of the razor strop on his bare bottom.

Zachary lifted the back of his night shirt and rubbed his horribly sore backside, shuddering at the very thought of another whipping worse than the one he just received coming within 48 hours. He simply had to write a great essay on Sunday!