--Are you ready, Brown? Time's up."
The small boys rushed in again. Closing, they saw, was their best
chance, and Flashman was wilder and more flurried than ever: he caught
East by the throat, and tried to force him back on the iron-bound table.
Tom grasped his waist, and remembering the old throw he had learned
in the Vale from Harry Winburn, crooked his leg inside Flashman's, and
threw his whole weight forward. The three tottered for a moment, and
then over they went on to the floor, Flashman striking his head against
a form in the hall.
The two youngsters sprang to their legs, but he lay there still. They
began to be frightened. Tom stooped down, and then cried out, scared
out of his wits, "He's bleeding awfully. Come here, East! Diggs, he's
dying!"
"Not he," said Diggs, getting leisurely off the table; "it's all sham;
he's only afraid to fight it out."
East was as frightened as Tom. Diggs lifted Flashman's head, and he
groaned.
"What's the matter?" shouted Diggs.
"My skull's fractured," sobbed Flashman.
"Oh, let me run for the housekeeper!" cried Tom. "What shall we do?"
"Fiddlesticks! It's nothing but the skin broken," said the relentless
Diggs, feeling his head. "Cold water and a bit of rag's all he'll want."
"Let me go," said Flashman surlily, sitting up; "I don't want your
help."
"We're really very sorry--" began East.
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