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Everyone left Rigby the next morning for the spring vacation. The two Tomlinson brothers; Colin the senior and the just birched Thomas , the younger, were met at their local station by the footman with the dog cart. Thomas, whose arse was still excruciatingly painful and was finding it hard to sit comfortably on the hard leather seat of the dog-cart said to his brother: "Colin you won't tell father that I got birched last night, will you? You know what will happen if you do, don't you? He'll have me straight to his study and I'll get my naked bum beaten again with his cane and you know what that's like don't you? So please, please don't tell him about my birching as I don't think I could stand another thrashing right now."
"Mum's the word, Sprog" said Colin, using his brother's personal pet nickname. " I won't breath a word to father."
"Oh, thanks so much Colin; you're a real sport."
Patrick Ingram-Lewis also took the train and went back for the spring vacation to Ingram House in Northumberland. In the train he mused over the term just gone, his penultimate term as a pupil and Head Boy at Rigby. He had enjoyed every minute of the elite status conferred on him as Head Boy which was made even more prestigious by his nomination in loco domini. He tried to tot up in his head the number of different arses he had thrashed and the total number of strokes given, but he soon lost count and gave up trying: "I must really go back to the punishment book next term to see what my batting average was. It would be great to think that I had broken the school record, if such exists. If not, then perhaps my innings could be the base of reference for all future Head Boys."
TO BE CONTINUED
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