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.”