“I—that is—have been asleep,” stammered Tom.
“Asleep? Yes, and snoring loud enough to bring the plaster off the ceiling. Why, you must have been gorging yourself like a boa-constrictor, and been sleeping it off. Come, wake up, bumpkin, you’re half stupid now.”
“I’m quite awake, Sam. Had a pleasant day? I say, were you sitting on my head?”
“Was I doing what?” cried Sam. “No, I wasn’t; but you want some one to sit upon you to bring you to your senses. Wake up; I want to talk.”
Tom tried to rub the last traces of his drowsiness out of his eyes, and now sat up watching his cousin, who, after taking off collar and tie, unfastened his braces, and then, as if moved by a sudden thought, he tied the aforesaid suspenders about his waist. Then, grinning to himself, he stooped down, untied his Oxford shoes, pushed them off, took up one, and shouting “Play!” bowled it sharply at Tom where he sat up in bed on the other side of the room.
It was a bad shot, for the shoe whizzed by the lad’s side, and struck the scroll-work of the iron bedstead with a sharp rap, and fell on the pillow.
“Play again!” cried Sam, and he sent the second shoe spinning with a vicious energy at the still confused and sleepy boy.
This time the aim was excellent, and Tom was too helpless to avoid the missile, which struck him heavily, the edge of the heel catching him on the chin, and making him wince.
“Well played—well bowled!” cried Sam, laughing boisterously. “I say, bumpkin, that’s the way to wake you up.”
Tom’s face grew dark, and the hand which he held to his injured face twitched as if the fingers were trying to clench themselves and form a fist for their owner’s defence; but the boy did not stir, only sat looking at his cousin, who now struck an attitude, made two or three feints, and then dashed forward hitting out sharply, catching Tom in the chest, and knocking him backward so heavily that it was his crown now that struck the scroll-work of the bed.