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friend, when Wadlow started to make a strange gurgling sound, leaned forward and threw up, spectacularly, all over the table. A dozen other boys promptly burst into tears.
    The red-haired boy was called Dickie Jessop and Tommy was pleased to find they were in the same dormitory and in the same class. Over the next couple of days the two of them became friends. Dickie's parents lived in Hong Kong and he only saw them once a year when he flew out there for the summer. He had been at various boarding schools since he was five years old and after just one day told Tommy that Ashlawn wasn't half as bad as others he'd known. He was funny and was always cracking jokes and didn't seem afraid of anyone or anything. He was cheeky with some of the teachers and the older boys but did it with such charm that they didn't seem to mind. Best of all, he adored westerns and knew almost as much about them as Tommy did. Tommy asked him who his number one cowboy was and without a moment's hesitation Dickie said it was Flint McCullough from Wagon Train. They shook on it.
    At teatime on that third day, after rugby, Tommy told him quietly about his encounter with Critchley and Judd in the changing room, though he left out the part about wetting his pants and pretended to have acted rather more courageously than in fact he had.
    Dickie heard him out then nodded gravely.
    "We'll get 'em," he said.
    "I don't think that's a good idea."
    "Don't worry. You don't have to. I will."
    Tommy was dry again that night. That made four nights in a row. He'd never gone that long before and felt cautiously elated. He had upped his nightly recitation of I will not wet the bed to two hundred times and it seemed to be working. After breakfast, when he went to Matron's room for his daily spoonful of cod liver oil, she almost smiled at him.
    "Well done, boy," she mouthed. "Keep it up."
    One week. If he could go one week, he'd beat it forever. But take it a night at a time, he told himself.
    Some of the boys in his dorm made remarks about the logs that propped up his bed. And on one occasion, in the bathroom, a boy called Pettifer, who seemed to be jealous of Tommy's friendship with Dickie, called him Log Boy. Dickie grabbed him by the throat, pinned him against the wall and threatened blood-curdling consequences if he ever said it again.
    Their dorm was long and narrow with sixteen metal beds, eight each side, all with identical scarlet wool blankets. Every boy had a peg for his dressing gown and a metal chair on which to put his neatly folded clothes. Tommy's bed was the nearest to the door and this position carried with it the duty of keeping cave (which was apparently Latin for beware and was pronounced KV) and sounding the alarm at the approach along the corridor of Matron or "Whippet" Brent.
    All the staff had nicknames: Mr Rawlston, the headmaster, was Charlie Chin because he didn't have one; Matron, being Welsh and fierce, was The Dragon; and Mr Lawrence was Ducky or The Duck, for reasons Tommy had yet to discover. Nobody however needed to explain Mr Brent's nickname. It referred both to his pointed canine features and to his reputation for administering the most ferocious beatings. His instrument of choice was a red leather, hard-heeled slipper, which left bruises known to last two weeks. Every night, at eight o'clock, when he came to turn off the lights, he would creep along the corridor in the hope of catching boys in the act of some beatable offence, like pillow fighting or reading a comic or an unsuitable book.
    It was on the fifth evening that Tommy was to discover the burden of responsibility that his post as dormitory lookout truly entailed.
    The boys had all returned to the dorm, scrubbed and energized, from the bathroom and Dickie Jessop was holding court. He had a seemingly endless repertoire of dirty jokes and rhymes. Few, if any, of his audience understood the sexual references, but they all laughed loudly to pretend they did. Displaying ignorance in