The Willoughby Captains | Page 6

else he'd get a licking. That would be worse any day than getting it on the hands from the doctor.
So he kicked off the clothes surlily, and put one foot out of bed. But the other was a long time following. For Parson was fagged. He'd dreamt all night of that wretched hundred yards, and wasn't a bit refreshed; and if he had been refreshed, he'd got those eight French verbs and the Caesar on his mind, and he could have done them comfortably in bed. But--
A sudden glance at the watch in his hand cut short all further meditation. Parson is out of his bed and into his flannels in the twinkling of an eye, and scuttling down the passage to his senior's room as if the avenger of blood was at his heels.
Bloomfield, if truth must be told, is as disinclined to get up as his fag has been; and Parson has almost to use personal violence before he can create an impression on his lord and master.
"What's the time?" demands the senior.
"Six--that is, a second or two past," replies Parson.
"Why didn't you call me punctually?" asks Bloomfield, digging his nose comfortably into the pillow. "What do you mean by a second or two?"
"It's only seven past," says Parson, in an injured tone.
"Very well; go and see if Game's up."
Parson skulks off to rouse Game, knowing perfectly well that Bloomfield will be sound asleep again before he is out of the door, which turns out to be the case. After super-human efforts to extract from Game an assurance that he's getting up that moment, and Parson needn't wait, the luckless fag returns to find his master snoring like one of the seven sleepers. The same process has to be repeated. Shouts and shakes, and an occasional sly pinch, have no effect. Parson is tempted to leave his graceless lord to his fate, and betake himself to his French verbs; but a dim surmise as to the consequences prevents him. At last he braces himself up for one desperate effort. With a mighty tug he snatches the clothes off the bed, and, dragging with all his might at the arm of the obstinate hero, yells out, "I say, Bloomfield, it's half-past six, and you wanted to be up at six. Get up!"
The effect of these combined efforts is that Bloomfield sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes, and demands, "Half-past six! Why didn't you call me at six, you young cad, eh?"
"So I did."
"Don't tell crams. If you'd called me at six I should have been up, shouldn't I?" exclaimed Bloomfield. "I tell you I did call you," retorts the fag.
"Look here," says Bloomfield, becoming alarmingly wide-awake, "I don't want any of your cheek. Go and see if Game's up, and then see if the boat's ready. The tub-pair, mind; look sharp!"
"Please, Bloomfield," says Parson, meekly, "do you mind if I get Parks to cox you? I've not looked at my Caesar yet, and I've got eight French verbs to do besides for Coates."
"Do you hear me? Go and see if Game's up," replies Bloomfield. "If you choose not to do your work overnight, and get impositions for breaking rules into the bargain, it's not my lookout, is it?"
"But I only went--" begins the unfortunate Parson.
"I'll went you with the flat of a bat if you don't cut," shouts Bloomfield. Whereat his fag vanishes.
Game, of course, is fast asleep, but on him Parson has no notion of bestowing the pains he had devoted to Bloomfield. Finding the sleeper deaf to all his calls, he adopts the simple expedient of dipping the end of a towel in water and laying it neatly across the victim's face, shouting in his ear at the same time, "Game, I say, Bloomfield's waiting for you down at the boats." Having delivered himself of which, he retreats rather hastily, and only just in time.
The row up the river that morning was rather pleasant than otherwise. When once they were awake the morning had its effect on the spirits of all three boys. Even Parson, sitting lazily in the stern, listening to the Sixth Form gossip of the two rowers, forgot about his Caesar and French verbs, and felt rather glad he had turned out after all.
The chief object of the present expedition was not pleasure by any means as far as Bloomfield and Game were concerned. It was one of a series of training practices in anticipation of the school regatta, which was to come off on the second of June, in which the rival four-oars of the three houses were to compete for the championship of the river. The second of June was far enough ahead at present, but an old hand like Bloomfield knew well that the time was all too short to