he nuisance was Bloomfield had fixed on this particular
morning for a turn on the river with Game, and Parson would of course
have to steer for them. Just his luck again! He didn't mind steering
for Bloomfield, of course, and if he must fag he'd as soon fag for him
as anybody, especially now that he would be captain of the eleven and of
the boats; but how, Parson wanted to know, was he to do his Caesar and
his French verbs, and steer Bloomfield and Game up the river at one and
the same time? He couldn't take the books in the boat.

Well, he supposed he'd have to get reported; and probably "Paddy" would
give it him on the hands. He was always getting it on the hands, far
oftener than Telson, who was Riddell's fag, and never had to go and
steer boats up the river. In fact, Riddell, he knew, looked over
Telson's lessons for him--catch Bloomfield doing as much for Parson!

All these considerations tended greatly to impair the temper of Master
Parson this beautiful morning. But the worst grievance of all was that
he had to get up that moment and call Bloomfield, or else he'd get a
licking. That would be worse any day than getting it on the hands from
the doctor.

So he kicked off the clothes surlily, and put one foot out of bed. But
the other was a long time following. For Parson was fagged. He'd
dreamt all night of that wretched hundred yards, and wasn't a bit
refreshed; and if he had been refreshed, he'd got those eight French
verbs and the Caesar on his mind, and he could have done them
comfortably in bed. But--

A sudden glance at the watch in his hand cut short all further
meditation. Parson is out of his bed and into his flannels in the
twinkling of an eye, and scuttling down the passage to his senior's room
as if the avenger of blood was at his heels.

Bloomfield, if truth must be told, is as disinclined to get up as his
fag has been; and Parson has almost to use personal violence before he
can create an impression on his lord and master.

"What's the time?" demands the senior.

"Six--that is, a second or two past," replies Parson.

"Why didn't you call me punctually?" asks Bloomfield, digging his nose
comfortably into the pillow. "What do you mean by a second or two?"

"It's only seven past," says Parson, in an injured tone.

"Very well; go and see if Game's up."

Parson skulks off to rouse Game, knowing perfectly well that Bloomfield
will be sound asleep again before he is out of the door, w