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Updated: August 13, 2024
The two boys looked at one another in silence. It had struck nine, so the regular night-fags had left duty, and they were the nearest to the supper-party. East sat up, and began to look comical, as he always did under difficulties. "Fa-a-a-ag!" again. No answer. "Here, Brown! East! you cursed young skulks," roared out Flashman, coming to his open door; "I know you're in; no shirking."
It wasn't till some year or so after the events recorded above that the prepostor of their room and passage left. None of the other sixth-form boys would move into their passage, and, to the disgust and indignation of Tom and East, one morning after breakfast they were seized upon by Flashman, and made to carry down his books and furniture into the unoccupied study, which he had taken.
So now, as each small boy came up and drew his ticket, it was seized and opened by Flashman, or some other of the standers-by. But no great favourite is drawn until it comes to the Tadpole's turn, and he shuffles up and draws, and tries to make off, but is caught, and his ticket is opened like the rest. "Here you are! Wanderer the third favourite!" shouts the opener.
This event, much prayed for by the small fry in general, took place a few months after the above encounter. One fine summer evening Flashman had been regaling himself on gin-punch, at Brownsover; and, having exceeded his usual limits, started home uproarious.
John ascended the battered, worn-out staircase, wondering who the "brute" was. Perhaps a sort of Flashman. John knew his Tom Brown; but some one had told him that bullying had ceased to be. Great emphasis had been laid on the "brute," whoever he might be. Upon the second-floor passage, he found his room and one of its tenants, who nodded carelessly as John crossed the threshold.
"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.
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."
He hit out wildly and savagely; but the full force of his blows didn't tell they were too near to him. It was long odds, though, in point of strength; and in another minute Tom went spinning backwards over a form, and Flashman turned to demolish East with a savage grin. But now Diggs jumped down from the table on which he had seated himself.
"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.
They listened a moment, assured themselves that it wasn't a prepostor, and then went on with their work, and the door swung open, and in walked Flashman. He didn't see Diggs, and thought it a good chance to keep his hand in; and as the boys didn't move for him, struck one of them, to make them get out of his way. "What's that for?" growled the assaulted one. "Because I choose.
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