"Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed
Murmured like a noontide bee,
Shall I nestle near thy side?
Would'st thou me? And I replied,
No, not thee!"
O'Rane read the lines aloud, dipped his pen in the ink and began writing.
"Of course, if you want me to make you...." said Sinclair menacingly.
There was a moment's pause, both boys rose from their seats, Sinclair took a step forward, they closed. What immediately followed is not clear, but, when Draycott indignantly flung his door open and advanced into Hall, he found Sinclair sprawling on the floor and gasping out, "You're breaking my arm, damn you!" while O'Rane sat on the small of his back and twisted his arm every time the words "Damn you!" passed his lips.
"Are you lag, Sinclair?" Draycott asked, artistically dispassionate. "Take this cup down and wash it."
Sinclair rose and obeyed; O'Rane returned to his interrupted copy of verses, and that same evening after prayers both were thrashed for the comprehensive offense of "ragging."