"I say, Scud," said he, at last, rousing himself to snuff the candle, "what right have the fifth-form boys to fag us as they do?"
"No more right than you have to fag them," answered East, without looking up from an early number of "Pickwick,"[17] which was just coming out, and which he was luxuriously devouring, stretched on his back on the sofa.
Tom relapsed into his brown study, and East went on reading and chuckling. The contrast of the boys' faces would have given infinite amusement to a looker-on, the one so solemn and big with mighty purpose, the other radiant and bubbling over with fun.
"Do you know, old fellow, I've been thinking it over a good deal," began Tom, again.
"Oh, yes, I know, fagging you are thinking of. Hang it all—but listen here, Tom—here's fun. Mr. Winkle's horse—"
"And I've made up my mind," broke in Tom, "that I won't fag except for the sixth."
"Quite right, too, my boy," cried East, putting his finger on the place and looking up; "but a pretty peck of troubles you'll get into, if you're going to play that game. However, I'm all for a strike myself, if we can get others to join—it's getting too bad."
"Can't we get some sixth-form fellow to take it up?" asked Tom.
"Well, perhaps we might; Morgan would interfere, I think. Only," added East, after a moment's pause, "you see we should have to tell him about it, and that's against school principles. Don't you remember what old Brooke said about learning to take our own parts?"
"Ah, I wish old Brooke were back again—it was all right in his time."