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, which turns out to be the case.