Presently I returned to the faggery, where the Philosophers were just preparing to obey the summons to bed.
Hurriedly I recited the event of the evening, and for once was honoured with their rapt and excited attention.
“My eye, what a shame we can’t go out and see the fun!” cried Langrish.
“I hope he makes jelly of him,” said Trimble. “I’m jolly glad I’m his fag.”
This brought on a crisis I had rather feared.
“You’re not,” said I. “Pridgin has swopped me for you.”
“What!” screamed Trimble, taking a running kick at my shins.
“I didn’t do it. Shut up. Trim! that’s my leg you’re kicking. It was Pridgin. Go and kick him,” said I.
But Trim was in no mood to listen to reason.
“I always said you were a sneak,” snarled he; “now I know it. Come and kick the beast, you fellows. It’s all a low dodge. Kick him, I say.”