“Bill you old muff, the half-hour hasn’t struck.” “Here, Bill, drink some cocktail.”
“Sing us a song, old boy.” “Don’t you wish you may get the table?” Bill drank the proffered cocktail not unwillingly, and putting down the empty glass, remonstrated.
“Now gentlemen, there’s only ten minutes to prayers, and we must get the hall straight.”
Shouts of “No, no!” and a violent effort to strike up “Billy Taylor” for the third time. Bill looked appealingly to old Brooke, who got up and stopped the noise. “Now then, lend a hand, you youngsters, and get the tables back; clear away the jugs and glasses. Bill’s right. Open the windows, Warner.” The boy addressed, who sat by the long ropes, proceeded to pull up the great windows, and let in a clear, fresh rush of night air, which made the candles flicker and gutter, and the fires roar. The circle broke up, each collaring his own jug, glass, and song-book; Bill pounced on the big table, and began to rattle it away to its place outside the buttery door. The lower-passage boys carried off their small tables, aided by their friends; while above all, standing on the great hall-table, a knot of untiring sons of harmony made night doleful by a prolonged performance of “God Save the King.” His Majesty King William the Fourth then reigned over us, a monarch deservedly popular amongst the boys addicted to melody, to whom he was chiefly known from the beginning of that excellent if slightly vulgar song in which they much delighted,—
“Come, neighbours all, both great and small,
Perform your duties here,
And loudly sing, ‘Live Billy, our king,’
For bating the tax upon veer.”
Others of the more learned in songs also celebrated his praises in a sort of ballad, which I take to have been written by some Irish loyalist. I have forgotten all but the chorus, which ran,—
“God save our good King William,
Be his name for ever blest;
He’s the father of all his people,
And the guardian of all the rest.”
In troth we were loyal subjects in those days, in a rough way. I trust that our successors make as much of her present Majesty, and, having regard to the greater refinement of the times, have adopted or written other songs equally hearty, but more civilized, in her honour.
Then the quarter to ten struck, and the prayer-bell rang. The sixth and fifth form boys ranged themselves in their school order along the wall, on either side of the great fires, the middle-fifth and upper-school boys round the long table in the middle of the hall, and the lower-school boys round the upper part of the second long table, which ran down the side of the hall farthest from the fires. Here Tom found himself at the bottom of all, in a state of mind and body not at all fit for prayers, as he thought; and so tried hard to make himself serious, but couldn’t, for the life of him, do anything but repeat in his head the choruses of some of the songs, and stare at all the boys opposite, wondering at the brilliancy of their waistcoats, and speculating what sort of fellows they were. The steps of the head-porter are heard on the stairs, and a light gleams at the door. “Hush!” from the fifth-form boys who stand there, and then in strides the Doctor, cap on head, book in one hand, and gathering up his gown in the other. He walks up the middle, and takes his post by Warner, who begins calling over the names. The Doctor takes no notice of anything, but quietly turns over his book and finds the place, and then stands, cap in hand and finger in book, looking straight before his nose. He knows better than any one when to look, and when to see nothing. To-night is singing night, and there’s been lots of noise and no harm done—nothing but beer drunk, and nobody the worse for it, though some of them do look hot and excited. So the Doctor sees nothing, but fascinates Tom in a horrible manner as he stands there, and reads out the psalm, in that deep, ringing, searching voice of his. Prayers are over, and Tom still stares open-mouthed after the Doctor’s retiring figure, when he feels a pull at his sleeve, and turning round, sees East.
“I say, were you ever tossed in a blanket?”
“No,” said Tom; “why?”
“’Cause there’ll be tossing to-night, most likely, before the sixth come up to bed. So if you funk, you just come along and hide, or else they’ll catch you and toss you.”
“Were you ever tossed? Does it hurt?” inquired Tom.
“Oh yes, bless you, a dozen times,” said East, as he hobbled along by Tom’s side upstairs. “It don’t hurt unless you fall on the floor. But most fellows don’t like it.”
They stopped at the fireplace in the top passage, where were a crowd of small boys whispering together, and evidently unwilling to go up into the bedrooms. In a minute, however, a study door opened, and a sixth-form boy came out, and off they all scuttled up the stairs, and then noiselessly dispersed to their different rooms. Tom’s heart beat rather quick as he and East reached their room, but he had made up his mind. “I shan’t hide, East,” said he.
“Very well, old fellow,” replied East, evidently pleased; “no more shall I. They’ll be here for us directly.”
The room was a great big one, with a dozen beds in it, but not a boy that Tom could see except East and himself. East pulled off his coat and waistcoat, and then sat on the bottom of his bed whistling and pulling off his boots. Tom followed his example.
A noise and steps are heard in the passage, the door opens, and in rush four or five great fifth-form boys, headed by Flashman in his glory.
Tom and East slept in the farther corner of the room, and were not seen at first.
“Gone to ground, eh?” roared Flashman. “Push ’em out then, boys; look under the beds.” And he pulled up the little white curtain of the one nearest him. “Who-o-op!” he roared, pulling away at the leg of a small boy, who held on tight to the leg of the bed, and sang out lustily for mercy.
“Here, lend a hand, one of you, and help me pull out this young howling brute.—Hold your tongue, sir, or I’ll kill you.”
“Oh, please, Flashman, please, Walker, don’t toss me! I’ll fag for you—I’ll do anything—only don’t toss me.”
“You be hanged,” said Flashman, lugging the wretched boy along; “’twon’t hurt you,—you!—Come along, boys; here he is.”
“I say, Flashey,” sang out another of the big boys; “drop that; you heard what old Pater Brooke said to-night. I’ll be hanged if we’ll toss any one against their will. No more bullying. Let him go, I say.”
Flashman, with an oath and a kick, released his prey, who rushed headlong under his bed again, for fear they should change their minds, and crept along underneath the other beds, till he got under that of the sixth-form boy, which he knew they daren’t disturb.
“There’s plenty of youngsters don’t care about it,” said Walker. “Here, here’s Scud East—you’ll be tossed, won’t you, young un?” Scud was East’s nickname, or Black, as we called it, gained by his fleetness of foot.
“Yes,” said East, “if you like, only mind my foot.”
“And here’s another who didn’t hide.—Hullo! new boy; what’s your name, sir?”
“Brown.”
“Well, Whitey Brown, you don’t mind being tossed?”
“No,” said Tom, setting his teeth.
“Come along then, boys,” sang out Walker; and away they all went, carrying along Tom and