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.”
“Why, yes, you see, then the strongest and best fellows were in the sixth, and the fifth-form fellows were afraid of them, and they kept good order; but now our sixth-form fellows are too small, and the fifth don't care for them, and do what they like in the house.”
“And so we get a double set of masters,” cried Tom indignantly—“the lawful ones, who are responsible to the Doctor at any rate, and the unlawful, the tyrants, who are responsible to nobody.”