Read The Quickening of Tom Turnpike (The Talltrees Trilogy) for Free Online

and ran a hand shakily through his hair.  He looked at
the bookcases behind us and then fixed a piercing gaze upon me.  He must have
realised why we were here.  I felt so afraid, I didn’t know where to look.  The
last time he had seen me, and he must have seen me, was when we were
down in the Dungeon.  This was it, I thought.  He’s here to give me my
punishment.
    Freddie
always grovelled pathetically when he felt trouble coming.  “Sir, we’re
terribly sorry,” he mewed, staring at the ground.  “We just wanted to find...
um...”
    “ Turnpike ,”
blurted Barrington, glowering at me.  “I suppose you think that surviving the
Flucht entitles you to a flagrant disregard for the school rules.  Do
you, boy?”
    “No,
I don’t,” I replied, looking directly up at him and with perhaps a little too
much defiance.
    He
didn’t like this.  He glared at me, exhaling loudly from his nostrils, jaw
clenching.  “Well,” he said slowly and darkly, “I strongly suggest ...”
    “I
say, Colonel Barrington!” interrupted Mr. English calmly, shuffling over.  “I do hope you don’t object, but I told these young fellas that they could spend a
few minutes choosing a novel each before they go outside.”
    Barrington
paused, checking his wristwatch.  He looked at Freddie and me with his mouth
open as if he was about to say something.  “Very well then, Mr. English,” he
said.  Then he turned and stalked out of the room.  Doctor Saracen lingered
briefly, studying us both.  His eyebrows met in the middle, giving his stare a
dark, menacing quality.  Then, after a moment, he turned and followed
Barrington.
    Freddie
and I looked up at Mr. English.  “Thank you very much, Sir,” said Freddie.
    “Now,
look here, young fellas.  I think you’d better get yourselves outside before I go
upsetting any other Masters.”
    We
turned to leave, but, just as we got to the door, Mr. English stopped us.  “Oh
and boys,” he called, not looking up from his work, “It occurs to me now that
the book that would suit you both is by Huxley, Aldous Huxley”.  He then looked
over the rims of his spectacles and nodded towards the bookcase which Freddie
had been searching and gave us a conspiratorial wink.

four
     
    Slog-out
must be the best game ever invented.  It takes the basic principles of cricket
and removes all of the subtlety.  No point-scoring, no teams, no winners, no
losers.  The only object of the game is to perform with as much style as
possible.
    The
bowler stands facing the Veranda at the rear of the school.  He has an old
tennis ball.  Around ten paces in front of the bowler stands the batsman,
preferably a right-hander and always a popular Senior, brandishing a tennis
racquet in both hands.  He is defending the set of stumps that has been drawn
with chalk on the wall behind him.  In the outfield to the batsman’s left wait
as many fielders as want to play, often more than forty boys.
    The
bowler throws the ball towards the batsman at a gentle pace, underarm and just
above waist-height.  The bowler absolutely does not attempt to confound the
batsman with swingers, seamers, bouncers, beamers, flippers, floaters, googlies,
chinamen or pea-rollers. 
    The
batsman then smashes the ball as hard as he can into the midst of the expectant
fielders.  The ideal outcome for the batsman is that the ball sails through the
air, clean over the heads of the admiring fielders, and lands, with a plop, in
the Swimming Pool about seventy yards to his left.  If he achieves this, he
will be celebrated as a hero and duly worshipped for the rest of the day.
    The
aim for anyone in the field is to catch the ball on the full in the most
flamboyant manner possible, ideally sprinting fifteen yards, diving a further
five, plucking the ball one-handed out of the air, and completing the motion
with an elaborate commando-roll.  Additional praise is available for an
inch-perfect return-throw to the bowler and, most importantly,