“No, no!” said Flashman, pushing in, “leave me to deal with him; we’ll draw lots for it afterwards.  Now sir, you know me:  you’ll sell Harkaway to us for five shillings, or you’ll repent it.”

“I won’t sell a bit of him,” answered Tom shortly.

“You hear that now!” said Flashman, turning to the others.  “He’s the coxiest young blackguard in the house.  I always told you so.  We’re to have all the trouble and risk of getting up the lotteries for the benefit of such fellows as he.”

Flashman forgets to explain what risk they ran, but he speaks to willing ears.  Gambling makes boys selfish and cruel as well as men.

“That’s true.  We always draw blanks,” cried one.—­“Now, sir, you shall sell half, at any rate.”

“I won’t,” said Tom, flushing up to his hair, and lumping them all in his mind with his sworn enemy.

“Very well then; let’s roast him,” cried Flashman, and catches hold of Tom by the collar.  One or two boys hesitate, but the rest join in.  East seizes Tom’s arm, and tries to pull him away, but is knocked back by one of the boys, and Tom is dragged along struggling.  His shoulders are pushed against the mantelpiece, and he is held by main force before the fire, Flashman drawing his trousers tight by way of extra torture.  Poor East, in more pain even than Tom, suddenly thinks of Diggs, and darts off to find him.  “Will you sell now for ten shillings?” says one boy who is relenting.

Tom only answers by groans and struggles.

“I say, Flashey, he has had enough,” says the same boy, dropping the arm he holds.

“No, no; another turn’ll do it,” answers Flashman.  But poor Tom is done already, turns deadly pale, and his head falls forward on his breast, just as Diggs, in frantic excitement, rushes into the hall with East at his heels.

“You cowardly brutes!” is all he can say, as he catches Tom from them and supports him to the hall table.  “Good God! he’s dying.  Here, get some cold water—­run for the housekeeper.”

Flashman and one or two others slink away; the rest, ashamed and sorry, bend over Tom or run for water, while East darts off for the housekeeper.  Water comes, and they throw it on his hands and face, and he begins to come to.  “Mother!”—­the words came feebly and slowly—­“it’s very cold to-night.”  Poor old Diggs is blubbering like a child.  “Where am I?” goes on Tom, opening his eyes, “Ah!  I remember now.”  And he shut his eyes again and groaned.

“I say,” is whispered, “we can’t do any good, and the housekeeper will be here in a minute.”  And all but one steal away.  He stays with Diggs, silent and sorrowful, and fans Tom’s face.

The housekeeper comes in with strong salts, and Tom soon recovers enough to sit up.  There is a smell of burning.  She examines his clothes, and looks up inquiringly.  The boys are silent.

“How did he come so?” No answer.  “There’s been some bad work here,” she adds, looking very serious, “and I shall speak to the Doctor about it.”  Still no answer.