A sudden glance at the watch in his hand cut short all further meditation. Parson is out of his bed and into his flannels in the twinkling of an eye, and scuttling down the passage to his senior’s room as if the avenger of blood was at his heels.
Bloomfield, if truth must be told, is as disinclined to get up as his fag has been; and Parson has almost to use personal violence before he can create an impression on his lord and master.
“What’s the time?” demands the senior.
“Six—that is, a second or two past,” replies Parson.
“Why didn’t you call me punctually?” asks Bloomfield, digging his nose comfortably into the pillow. “What do you mean by a second or two?”
“It’s only seven past,” says Parson, in an injured tone.
“Very well; go and see if Game’s up.”
Parson skulks off to rouse Game, knowing perfectly well that Bloomfield will be sound asleep again before he is out of the door, which turns out to be the case. After super-human efforts to extract from Game an assurance that he’s getting up that moment, and Parson needn’t wait, the luckless fag returns to find his master snoring like one of the seven sleepers. The same process has to be repeated. Shouts and shakes, and an occasional sly pinch, have no effect. Parson is tempted to leave his graceless lord to his fate, and betake himself to his French verbs; but a dim surmise as to the consequences prevents him. At last he braces himself up for one desperate effort. With a mighty tug he snatches the clothes off the bed, and, dragging with all his might at the arm of the obstinate hero, yells out, “I say, Bloomfield, it’s half-past six, and you wanted to be up at six. Get up!”
The effect of these combined efforts is that Bloomfield sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes, and demands, “Half-past six! Why didn’t you call me at six, you young cad, eh?”
“So I did.”