So off he went, pat, pat, with his bare feet over the oilcloth, and then upon the sandy stones in the kitchen. Plenty of light there, and the old Dutch clock plainly to be seen, only the pendulum stood still, and the weights had run down; for cook had forgotten to draw them up on the previous night. “Quarter to twelve,” said the clock.
“Oh! come, that won’t do,” said Harry. “I know it’s late. Don’t I wish I had a watch of my own; I should know what the real time was then.”
Up he went to Fred’s room with the same tale upon his lips respecting the time, but as unbelieving as ever.
“Why, it is only four o’clock,” said Philip, looking out of the window; “and there’s the sun just rising. Well, you are a chap, Hal, to wake one up at this time of the morning and say it’s late. I shall go to bed again.”
“So shall I,” said Fred.
“No, you won’t,” said Harry; dragging the clothes together and making a bundle, with which he ran off into his own room with both the others in full chase. And then began a regular scrimmage, French and English fashion, and Harry, having two enemies, was pulled down sprawling over a rushbottom chair, and then nearly kicked over the washstand, making such a clatter that the Squire knocked angrily at the wall; when off the noisy ones ran back into Fred’s room, Harry this time being the pursuer, armed with his bolster, “Bang, crash—crash, bang—whiz—wuz—rush.” Fred went backwards upon his bed, hors de combat, from a well-directed blow from Harry’s bolster; and then at it went Harry and Phil—the latter being armed with a pillow, down whose front a ghastly slit soon showed itself; but Philip fought well, and Harry was getting worsted and driven into the corner amongst the boots, where the footing was rather bad for bare feet “Flop!” Harry caught it then and staggered back. “Flop” again, for Philip was surpassing himself, and Harry having received the last blow full upon the top of his head went down upon one knee; but he rallied again, ducked to avoid the next blow, and diving under Philip’s arm came up behind, and “Whooz!” went the bolster bang upon Phil’s back, and “Crash!” went Philip forward, ram fashion, with his head into the wardrobe door.
At it again: “whop—whop—flip—flop—bang,” went pillow and bolster, while Fred, sitting tailor fashion upon his bed, was rolling with laughter. At last Philip began to shew signs of being beaten, and Harry whirled his bolster round his head in order to administer the coup de grâce, when “crash!”—the water-bottle and tumbler were swept off the dressing-table, splintering to pieces on the floor, and covering the carpet with feet-piercing fragments and puddles of cold water.
“Oh! shan’t we catch it!” said both combatants, ceasing the war, like two enemies who had just awakened to the fact that they had been doing a vast amount of mischief to somebody else’s property.
“Oh! I say, whatever shall we do?” said Philip in dismay.
“Pick up the pieces,” said Harry, laconically.