This was not altogether easy, for my cubicle happened to be between those of Trimble and Langrish, and the partitions were not particularly high.

I was, indeed, allowed to undress and say my prayers without interference, which was more than I had hoped for.

But no sooner was I in bed, and lights out, than I was favoured with all sorts of missiles pitched over the partitions on either side with extraordinary accuracy.

A book from Langrish hit me on the ear, and a wet sponge from Trimble moistened my cheek.

And when I sought shelter under the sheets, the butt-end of a fishing-rod in the ribs drew me from my hiding-place, and a clever cast with a hooked pin by Langrish relieved me of my outer covering altogether.