The steps of the head-porter are heard on the
stairs, and a light gleams at the door. "Hush!" from the fifth-form boys
who stand there, and then in strides the Doctor, cap on head, book
in one hand, and gathering up his gown in the other. He walks up the
middle, and takes his post by Warner, who begins calling over the names.
The Doctor takes no notice of anything, but quietly turns over his book
and finds the place, and then stands, cap in hand and finger in book,
looking straight before his nose. He knows better than any one when to
look, and when to see nothing. To-night is singing night, and there's
been lots of noise and no harm done--nothing but beer drunk, and nobody
the worse for it, though some of them do look hot and excited. So the
Doctor sees nothing, but fascinates Tom in a horrible manner as he
stands there, and reads out the psalm, in that deep, ringing, searching
voice of his. Prayers are over, and Tom still stares open-mouthed after
the Doctor's retiring figure, when he feels a pull at his sleeve, and
turning round, sees East.
"I say, were you ever tossed in a blanket?"
"No," said Tom; "why?"
"'Cause there'll be tossing to-night, most likely, before the sixth come
up to bed. So if you funk, you just come along and hide, or else they'll
catch you and toss you."
"Were you ever tossed? Does it hurt?" inquired Tom.
"Oh yes, bless you, a dozen times," said East, as he hobbled along by
Tom's side upstairs.
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