"TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS\n\nBy Thomas Hughes\n\n\n\n\nPART I.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I--THE BROWN FAMILY\n\n     \"I'm the Poet of White Horse Vale, sir,\n     With liberal notions under my cap.\"--Ballad\n\nThe Browns have become illustrious by the pen of Thackeray and the\npencil of Doyle, within the memory of the young gentlemen who are now\nmatriculating at the universities. Notwithstanding the well-merited but\nlate fame which has now fallen upon them, any one at all acquainted with\nthe family must feel that much has yet to be written and said before the\nBritish nation will be properly sensible of how much of its greatness it\nowes to the Browns. For centuries, in their quiet, dogged, homespun way,\nthey have been subduing the earth in most English counties, and leaving\ntheir mark in American forests and Australian uplands. Wherever the\nfleets and armies of England have won renown, there stalwart sons of the\nBrowns have done yeomen's work. With the yew bow and cloth-yard shaft at\nCressy and Agincourt--with the brown bill and pike under the brave\nLord Willoughby--with culverin and demi-culverin against Spaniards and\nDutchmen--with hand-grenade and sabre, and musket and bayonet, under\nRodney and St. Vincent, Wolfe and Moore, Nelson and Wellington, they\nhave carried their lives in their hands, getting hard knocks and hard\nwork in plenty--which was on the whole what they looked for, and the\nbest thing for them--and little praise or pudding, which indeed they,\nand most of us, are better without. Talbots and Stanleys, St. Maurs,\nand such-like folk, have led armies and made laws time out of mind; but\nthose noble families would be somewhat astounded--if the accounts ever\ncame to be fairly taken--to find how small their work for England has\nbeen by the side of that of the Browns.\n\nThese latter, indeed, have, until the present generation, rarely been\nsung by poet, or chronicled by sage. They have wanted their sacer vates,\nhaving been too solid to rise to the top by themselves, and not having\nbeen largely gifted with the talent of catching hold of, and holding on\ntight to, whatever good things happened to be going--the foundation of\nthe fortunes of so many noble families. But the world goes on its way,\nand the wheel turns, and the wrongs of the Browns, like other wrongs,\nseem in a fair way to get righted. And this present writer, having for\nmany years of his life been a devout Brown-worshipper, and, moreover,\nhaving the honour of being nearly connected with an eminently\nrespectable branch of the great Brown family, is anxious, so far as in\nhim lies, to help the wheel over, and throw his stone on to the pile.\n\nHowever, gentle reader, or simple reader, whichever you may be, lest you\nshould be led to waste your precious time upon these pages, I make so\nbold as at once to tell you the sort of folk you'll have to meet and put\nup with, if you and I are to jog on comfortably together. You shall hear\nat once what sort of folk the Browns are--at least my branch of them;\nand then, if you don't like the sort, why, cut the concern at once, and\nlet you and I cry quits before either of us can grumble at the other.\n\nIn the first place, the Browns are a fighting family. One may question\ntheir wisdom, or wit, or beauty, but about their fight there can be no\nquestion. Wherever hard knocks of any kind, visible or invisible, are\ngoing; there the Brown who is nearest must shove in his carcass.\nAnd these carcasses, for the most part, answer very well to the\ncharacteristic propensity: they are a squareheaded and snake-necked\ngeneration, broad in the shoulder, deep in the chest, and thin in\nthe flank, carrying no lumber. Then for clanship, they are as bad as\nHighlanders; it is amazing the belief they have in one another.\nWith them there is nothing like the Browns, to the third and fourth\ngeneration. \"Blood is thicker than water,\" is one of their pet sayings.\nThey can't be happy unless they are always meeting one another. Never\nwere such people for family gatherings; which, were you a stranger, or\nsensitive, you might think had better not have been gathered together.\nFor during the whole time of their being together they luxuriate in\ntelling one another their minds on whatever subject turns up; and their\nminds are wonderfully antagonistic, and all their opinions are downright\nbeliefs. Till you've been among them some time and understand them, you\ncan't think but that they are quarrelling. Not a bit of it. They love\nand respect one another ten times the more after a good set family\narguing bout, and go back, one to his curacy, another to his chambers,\nand another to his regiment, freshened for work, and more than ever\nconvinced that the Browns are the height of company.\n\nThis family training, too, combined with their turn for combativeness,\nmakes them eminently quixotic. They can't let anything alone which they\nthink going wrong. They must speak their mind about it, annoying all\neasy-going folk, and spend their time and money in having a tinker at\nit, however hopeless the job. It is an impossibility to a Brown to leave\nthe most disreputable lame dog on the other side of a stile. Most other\nfolk get tired of such work. The old Browns, with red faces, white\nwhiskers, and bald heads, go on believing and fighting to a green old\nage. They have always a crotchet going, till the old man with the scythe\nreaps and garners them away for troublesome old boys as they are.\n\nAnd the most provoking thing is, that no failures knock them up, or make\nthem hold their hands, or think you, or me, or other sane people in\nthe right. Failures slide off them like July rain off a duck's back\nfeathers. Jem and his whole family turn out bad, and cheat them one\nweek, and the next they are doing the same thing for Jack; and when he\ngoes to the treadmill, and his wife and children to the workhouse, they\nwill be on the lookout for Bill to take his place.\n\nHowever, it is time for us to get from the general to the particular;\nso, leaving the great army of Browns, who are scattered over the whole\nempire on which the sun never sets, and whose general diffusion I take\nto be the chief cause of that empire's stability; let us at once fix our\nattention upon the small nest of Browns in which our hero was hatched,\nand which dwelt in that portion of the royal county of Berks which is\ncalled the Vale of White Horse.\n\nMost of you have probably travelled down the Great Western Railway as\nfar as Swindon. Those of you who did so with their eyes open have been\naware, soon after leaving the Didcot station, of a fine range of chalk\nhills running parallel with the railway on the left-hand side as you go\ndown, and distant some two or three miles, more or less, from the line.\nThe highest point in the range is the White Horse Hill, which you come\nin front of just before you stop at the Shrivenham station. If you love\nEnglish scenery, and have a few hours to spare, you can't do better,\nthe next time you pass, than stop at the Farringdon Road or Shrivenham\nstation, and make your way to that highest point. And those who care for\nthe vague old stories that haunt country-sides all about England, will\nnot, if they are wise, be content with only a few hours' stay; for,\nglorious as the view is, the neighbourhood is yet more interesting\nfor its relics of bygone times. I only know two English neighbourhoods\nthoroughly, and in each, within a circle of five miles, there is enough\nof interest and beauty to last any reasonable man his life. I believe\nthis to be the case almost throughout the country, but each has a\nspecial attraction, and none can be richer than the one I am speaking of\nand going to introduce you to very particularly, for on this subject I\nmust be prosy; so those that don't care for England in detail may skip\nthe chapter.\n\nO young England! young England! you who are born into these racing\nrailroad times, when there's a Great Exhibition, or some monster sight,\nevery year, and you can get over a couple of thousand miles of ground\nfor three pound ten in a five-weeks' holiday, why don't you know more of\nyour own birthplaces? You're all in the ends of the earth, it seems to\nme, as soon as you get your necks out of the educational collar, for\nmidsummer holidays, long vacations, or what not--going round Ireland,\nwith a return ticket, in a fortnight; dropping your copies of Tennyson\non the tops of Swiss mountains; or pulling down the Danube in Oxford\nracing boats. And when you get home for a quiet fortnight, you turn the\nsteam off, and lie on your backs in the paternal garden, surrounded by\nthe last batch of books from Mudie's library, and half bored to death.\nWell, well! I know it has its good side. You all patter French more or\nless, and perhaps German; you have seen men and cities, no doubt, and\nhave your opinions, such as they are, about schools of painting, high\nart, and all that; have seen the pictures of Dresden and the Louvre,\nand know the taste of sour krout. All I say is, you don't know your own\nlanes and woods and fields. Though you may be choke-full of science, not\none in twenty of you knows where to find the wood-sorrel, or bee-orchis,\nwhich grow in the next wood, or on the down three miles off, or what the\nbog-bean and wood-sage are good for. And as for the country legends,\nthe stories of the old gable-ended farmhouses, the place where the last\nskirmish was fought in the civil wars, where the parish butts stood,\nwhere the last highwayman turned to bay, where the last ghost was laid\nby the parson, they're gone out of date altogether.\n\nNow, in my time, when we got home by the old coach, which put us down at\nthe cross-roads with our boxes, the first day of the holidays, and had\nbeen driven off by the family coachman, singing \"Dulce Domum\" at the top\nof our voices, there we were, fixtures, till black Monday came round. We\nhad to cut out our own amusements within a walk or a ride of home. And\nso we got to know all the country folk and their ways and songs and\nstories by heart, and went over the fields and woods and hills, again\nand again, till we made friends of them all. We were Berkshire, or\nGloucestershire, or Yorkshire boys; and you're young cosmopolites,\nbelonging to all countries and no countries. No doubt it's all right; I\ndare say it is. This is the day of large views, and glorious humanity,\nand all that; but I wish back-sword play hadn't gone out in the Vale of\nWhite Horse, and that that confounded Great Western hadn't carried away\nAlfred's Hill to make an embankment.\n\nBut to return to the said Vale of White Horse, the country in which the\nfirst scenes of this true and interesting story are laid. As I said, the\nGreat Western now runs right through it, and it is a land of large, rich\npastures bounded by ox-fences, and covered with fine hedgerow timber,\nwith here and there a nice little gorse or spinney, where abideth poor\nCharley, having no other cover to which to betake himself for miles and\nmiles, when pushed out some fine November morning by the old Berkshire.\nThose who have been there, and well mounted, only know how he and the\nstanch little pack who dash after him--heads high and sterns low, with\na breast-high scent--can consume the ground at such times. There being\nlittle ploughland, and few woods, the Vale is only an average sporting\ncountry, except for hunting. The villages are straggling, queer,\nold-fashioned places, the houses being dropped down without the least\nregularity, in nooks and out-of-the-way corners, by the sides of shadowy\nlanes and footpaths, each with its patch of garden. They are built\nchiefly of good gray stone, and thatched; though I see that within the\nlast year or two the red-brick cottages are multiplying, for the Vale is\nbeginning to manufacture largely both bricks and tiles. There are lots\nof waste ground by the side of the roads in every village, amounting\noften to village greens, where feed the pigs and ganders of the people;\nand these roads are old-fashioned, homely roads, very dirty and badly\nmade, and hardly endurable in winter, but still pleasant jog-trot roads\nrunning through the great pasture-lands, dotted here and there with\nlittle clumps of thorns, where the sleek kine are feeding, with no fence\non either side of them, and a gate at the end of each field, which makes\nyou get out of your gig (if you keep one), and gives you a chance of\nlooking about you every quarter of a mile.\n\nOne of the moralists whom we sat under in our youth--was it the great\nRichard Swiveller, or Mr. Stiggins--says, \"We are born in a vale, and\nmust take the consequences of being found in such a situation.\" These\nconsequences I, for one, am ready to encounter. I pity people who\nweren't born in a vale. I don't mean a flat country; but a vale--that\nis, a flat country bounded by hills. The having your hill always in view\nif you choose to turn towards him--that's the essence of a vale. There\nhe is for ever in the distance, your friend and companion. You never\nlose him as you do in hilly districts.\n\nAnd then what a hill is the White Horse Hill! There it stands right up\nabove all the rest, nine hundred feet above the sea, and the boldest,\nbravest shape for a chalk hill that you ever saw. Let us go up to the\ntop of him, and see what is to be found there. Ay, you may well wonder\nand think it odd you never heard of this before; but wonder or not, as\nyou please, there are hundreds of such things lying about England, which\nwiser folk than you know nothing of, and care nothing for. Yes, it's a\nmagnificent Roman camp, and no mistake, with gates and ditch and mounds,\nall as complete as it was twenty years after the strong old rogues left\nit. Here, right up on the highest point, from which they say you can see\neleven counties, they trenched round all the table-land, some twelve or\nfourteen acres, as was their custom, for they couldn't bear anybody to\noverlook them, and made their eyrie. The ground falls away rapidly on\nall sides. Was there ever such turf in the whole world? You sink up to\nyour ankles at every step, and yet the spring of it is delicious. There\nis always a breeze in the \"camp,\" as it is called; and here it lies,\njust as the Romans left it, except that cairn on the east side, left by\nher Majesty's corps of sappers and miners the other day, when they and\nthe engineer officer had finished their sojourn there, and their surveys\nfor the ordnance map of Berkshire. It is altogether a place that you\nwon't forget, a place to open a man's soul, and make him prophesy, as\nhe looks down on that great Vale spread out as the garden of the Lord\nbefore him, and wave on wave of the mysterious downs behind, and to the\nright and left the chalk hills running away into the distance, along\nwhich he can trace for miles the old Roman road, \"the Ridgeway\" (\"the\nRudge,\" as the country folk call it), keeping straight along the highest\nback of the hills--such a place as Balak brought Balaam to, and told him\nto prophesy against the people in the valley beneath. And he could not,\nneither shall you, for they are a people of the Lord who abide there.\n\nAnd now we leave the camp, and descend towards the west, and are on\nthe Ashdown. We are treading on heroes. It is sacred ground for\nEnglishmen--more sacred than all but one or two fields where their bones\nlie whitening. For this is the actual place where our Alfred won his\ngreat battle, the battle of Ashdown (\"Aescendum\" in the chroniclers),\nwhich broke the Danish power, and made England a Christian land. The\nDanes held the camp and the slope where we are standing--the whole crown\nof the hill, in fact. \"The heathen had beforehand seized the higher\nground,\" as old Asser says, having wasted everything behind them from\nLondon, and being just ready to burst down on the fair Vale, Alfred's\nown birthplace and heritage. And up the heights came the Saxons, as\nthey did at the Alma. \"The Christians led up their line from the\nlower ground. There stood also on that same spot a single thorn-tree,\nmarvellous stumpy (which we ourselves with our very own eyes have\nseen).\" Bless the old chronicler! Does he think nobody ever saw the\n\"single thorn-tree\" but himself? Why, there it stands to this very day,\njust on the edge of the slope, and I saw it not three weeks since--an\nold single thorn-tree, \"marvellous stumpy.\" At least, if it isn't the\nsame tree it ought to have been, for it's just in the place where the\nbattle must have been won or lost--\"around which, as I was saying, the\ntwo lines of foemen came together in battle with a huge shout. And in\nthis place one of the two kings of the heathen and five of his earls\nfell down and died, and many thousands of the heathen side in the same\nplace.\" * After which crowning mercy, the pious king, that there might\nnever be wanting a sign and a memorial to the country-side, carved out\non the northern side of the chalk hill, under the camp, where it is\nalmost precipitous, the great Saxon White Horse, which he who will may\nsee from the railway, and which gives its name to the Vale, over which\nit has looked these thousand years and more.\n\n     * \"Pagani editiorem Iocum praeoccupaverant.  Christiani ab\n     inferiori loco aciem dirigebant.  Erat quoque in eodem loco\n     unica spinosa arbor, brevis admodum (quam nos ipsi nostris\n     propriis oculis vidimus).  Circa quam ergo hostiles inter se\n     acies cum ingenti clamore hostiliter conveniunt.  Quo in\n     loco alter de duobus Paganorum regibus et quinque comites\n     occisi occubuerunt, et multa millia Paganae partis in eodem\n     loco. Cecidit illic ergo Boegsceg Rex, et Sidroc ille senex\n     comes, et Sidroc Junior comes, et Obsbern comes,\" etc.--\n     Annales Rerum Gestarum AElfredi Magni, Auctore Asserio.\n     Recensuit Franciscus Wise. Oxford, 1722, p.23.\n\nRight down below the White Horse is a curious deep and broad gully\ncalled \"the Manger,\" into one side of which the hills fall with a series\nof the most lovely sweeping curves, known as \"the Giant's Stairs.\" They\nare not a bit like stairs, but I never saw anything like them anywhere\nelse, with their short green turf, and tender bluebells, and gossamer\nand thistle-down gleaming in the sun and the sheep-paths running along\ntheir sides like ruled lines.\n\nThe other side of the Manger is formed by the Dragon's Hill, a curious\nlittle round self-confident fellow, thrown forward from the range,\nutterly unlike everything round him. On this hill some deliverer of\nmankind--St. George, the country folk used to tell me--killed a dragon.\nWhether it were St. George, I cannot say; but surely a dragon was killed\nthere, for you may see the marks yet where his blood ran down, and more\nby token the place where it ran down is the easiest way up the hillside.\n\nPassing along the Ridgeway to the west for about a mile, we come to a\nlittle clump of young beech and firs, with a growth of thorn and privet\nunderwood. Here you may find nests of the strong down partridge and\npeewit, but take care that the keeper isn't down upon you; and in the\nmiddle of it is an old cromlech, a huge flat stone raised on seven or\neight others, and led up to by a path, with large single stones set up\non each side. This is Wayland Smith's cave, a place of classic fame now;\nbut as Sir Walter has touched it, I may as well let it alone, and refer\nyou to \"Kenilworth\" for the legend.\n\nThe thick, deep wood which you see in the hollow, about a mile off,\nsurrounds Ashdown Park, built by Inigo Jones. Four broad alleys are cut\nthrough the wood from circumference to centre, and each leads to one\nface of the house. The mystery of the downs hangs about house and wood,\nas they stand there alone, so unlike all around, with the green slopes\nstudded with great stones just about this part, stretching away on all\nsides. It was a wise Lord Craven, I think, who pitched his tent there.\n\nPassing along the Ridgeway to the east, we soon come to cultivated land.\nThe downs, strictly so called, are no more. Lincolnshire farmers have\nbeen imported, and the long, fresh slopes are sheep-walks no more, but\ngrow famous turnips and barley. One of these improvers lives over there\nat the \"Seven Barrows\" farm, another mystery of the great downs. There\nare the barrows still, solemn and silent, like ships in the calm sea,\nthe sepulchres of some sons of men. But of whom? It is three miles from\nthe White Horse--too far for the slain of Ashdown to be buried there.\nWho shall say what heroes are waiting there? But we must get down into\nthe Vale again, and so away by the Great Western Railway to town,\nfor time and the printer's devil press, and it is a terrible long and\nslippery descent, and a shocking bad road. At the bottom, however, there\nis a pleasant public; whereat we must really take a modest quencher, for\nthe down air is provocative of thirst. So we pull up under an old oak\nwhich stands before the door.\n\n\"What is the name of your hill, landlord?\"\n\n\"Blawing STWUN Hill, sir, to be sure.\"\n\n[READER. \"Stuym?\"\n\nAUTHOR: \"Stone, stupid--the Blowing Stone.\"]\n\n\"And of your house? I can't make out the sign.\"\n\n\"Blawing Stwun, sir,\" says the landlord, pouring out his old ale from a\nToby Philpot jug, with a melodious crash, into the long-necked glass.\n\n\"What queer names!\" say we, sighing at the end of our draught, and\nholding out the glass to be replenished.\n\n\"Bean't queer at all, as I can see, sir,\" says mine host, handing back\nour glass, \"seeing as this here is the Blawing Stwun, his self,\" putting\nhis hand on a square lump of stone, some three feet and a half high,\nperforated with two or three queer holes, like petrified antediluvian\nrat-holes, which lies there close under the oak, under our very nose. We\nare more than ever puzzled, and drink our second glass of ale, wondering\nwhat will come next. \"Like to hear un, sir?\" says mine host, setting\ndown Toby Philpot on the tray, and resting both hands on the \"Stwun.\" We\nare ready for anything; and he, without waiting for a reply, applies his\nmouth to one of the ratholes. Something must come of it, if he doesn't\nburst. Good heavens! I hope he has no apoplectic tendencies. Yes, here\nit comes, sure enough, a gruesome sound between a moan and a roar, and\nspreads itself away over the valley, and up the hillside, and into the\nwoods at the back of the house, a ghost-like, awful voice. \"Um do say,\nsir,\" says mine host, rising purple-faced, while the moan is still\ncoming out of the Stwun, \"as they used in old times to warn the\ncountry-side by blawing the Stwun when the enemy was a-comin', and as\nhow folks could make un heered then for seven mile round; leastways, so\nI've heered Lawyer Smith say, and he knows a smart sight about them old\ntimes.\" We can hardly swallow Lawyer Smith's seven miles; but could the\nblowing of the stone have been a summons, a sort of sending the fiery\ncross round the neighbourhood in the old times? What old times? Who\nknows? We pay for our beer, and are thankful.\n\n\"And what's the name of the village just below, landlord?\"\n\n\"Kingstone Lisle, sir.\"\n\n\"Fine plantations you've got here?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir; the Squire's 'mazing fond of trees and such like.\"\n\n\"No wonder. He's got some real beauties to be fond of. Good-day,\nlandlord.\"\n\n\"Good-day, sir, and a pleasant ride to 'ee.\"\n\nAnd now, my boys, you whom I want to get for readers, have you had\nenough? Will you give in at once, and say you're convinced, and let me\nbegin my story, or will you have more of it? Remember, I've only been\nover a little bit of the hillside yet--what you could ride round easily\non your ponies in an hour. I'm only just come down into the Vale, by\nBlowing Stone Hill; and if I once begin about the Vale, what's to stop\nme? You'll have to hear all about Wantage, the birthplace of Alfred, and\nFarringdon, which held out so long for Charles the First (the Vale was\nnear Oxford, and dreadfully malignant--full of Throgmortons, Puseys,\nand Pyes, and such like; and their brawny retainers). Did you ever read\nThomas Ingoldsby's \"Legend of Hamilton Tighe\"? If you haven't, you ought\nto have. Well, Farringdon is where he lived, before he went to sea;\nhis real name was Hamden Pye, and the Pyes were the great folk at\nFarringdon. Then there's Pusey. You've heard of the Pusey horn, which\nKing Canute gave to the Puseys of that day, and which the gallant old\nsquire, lately gone to his rest (whom Berkshire freeholders turned out\nof last Parliament, to their eternal disgrace, for voting according to\nhis conscience), used to bring out on high days, holidays, and bonfire\nnights. And the splendid old cross church at Uffington, the Uffingas\ntown. How the whole countryside teems with Saxon names and memories!\nAnd the old moated grange at Compton, nestled close under the hillside,\nwhere twenty Marianas may have lived, with its bright water-lilies\nin the moat, and its yew walk, \"the cloister walk,\" and its peerless\nterraced gardens. There they all are, and twenty things beside, for\nthose who care about them, and have eyes. And these are the sort of\nthings you may find, I believe, every one of you, in any common English\ncountry neighbourhood.\n\nWill you look for them under your own noses, or will you not? Well,\nwell, I've done what I can to make you; and if you will go gadding over\nhalf Europe now, every holidays, I can't help it. I was born and bred\na west-country man, thank God! a Wessex man, a citizen of the noblest\nSaxon kingdom of Wessex, a regular \"Angular Saxon,\" the very soul of me\nadscriptus glebae. There's nothing like the old country-side for me,\nand no music like the twang of the real old Saxon tongue, as one gets\nit fresh from the veritable chaw in the White Horse Vale; and I say with\n\"Gaarge Ridler,\" the old west-country yeoman,--\n\n     \"Throo aall the waarld owld Gaarge would bwoast,\n     Commend me to merry owld England mwoast;\n     While vools gwoes prating vur and nigh,\n     We stwops at whum, my dog and I.\"\n\nHere, at any rate, lived and stopped at home Squire Brown, J.P. for the\ncounty of Berks, in a village near the foot of the White Horse range.\nAnd here he dealt out justice and mercy in a rough way, and begat sons\nand daughters, and hunted the fox, and grumbled at the badness of\nthe roads and the times. And his wife dealt out stockings, and calico\nshirts, and smock frocks, and comforting drinks to the old folks with\nthe \"rheumatiz,\" and good counsel to all; and kept the coal and clothes'\nclubs going, for yule-tide, when the bands of mummers came round,\ndressed out in ribbons and coloured paper caps, and stamped round the\nSquire's kitchen, repeating in true sing-song vernacular the legend of\nSt. George and his fight, and the ten-pound doctor, who plays his\npart at healing the Saint--a relic, I believe, of the old Middle-age\nmysteries. It was the first dramatic representation which greeted the\neyes of little Tom, who was brought down into the kitchen by his nurse\nto witness it, at the mature age of three years. Tom was the eldest\nchild of his parents, and from his earliest babyhood exhibited the\nfamily characteristics in great strength. He was a hearty, strong boy\nfrom the first, given to fighting with and escaping from his nurse, and\nfraternizing with all the village boys, with whom he made expeditions\nall round the neighbourhood. And here, in the quiet old-fashioned\ncountry village, under the shadow of the everlasting hills, Tom Brown\nwas reared, and never left it till he went first to school, when nearly\neight years of age, for in those days change of air twice a year was not\nthought absolutely necessary for the health of all her Majesty's lieges.\n\nI have been credibly informed, and am inclined to believe, that the\nvarious boards of directors of railway companies, those gigantic jobbers\nand bribers, while quarrelling about everything else, agreed together\nsome ten years back to buy up the learned profession of medicine, body\nand soul. To this end they set apart several millions of money, which\nthey continually distribute judiciously among the doctors, stipulating\nonly this one thing, that they shall prescribe change of air to every\npatient who can pay, or borrow money to pay, a railway fare, and see\ntheir prescription carried out. If it be not for this, why is it that\nnone of us can be well at home for a year together? It wasn't so twenty\nyears ago, not a bit of it. The Browns didn't go out of the country once\nin five years. A visit to Reading or Abingdon twice a year, at assizes\nor quarter sessions, which the Squire made on his horse with a pair\nof saddle-bags containing his wardrobe, a stay of a day or two at some\ncountry neighbour's, or an expedition to a county ball or the yeomanry\nreview, made up the sum of the Brown locomotion in most years. A stray\nBrown from some distant county dropped in every now and then; or from\nOxford, on grave nag, an old don, contemporary of the Squire; and were\nlooked upon by the Brown household and the villagers with the same sort\nof feeling with which we now regard a man who has crossed the Rocky\nMountains, or launched a boat on the Great Lake in Central Africa. The\nWhite Horse Vale, remember, was traversed by no great road--nothing but\ncountry parish roads, and these very bad. Only one coach ran there, and\nthis one only from Wantage to London, so that the western part of the\nVale was without regular means of moving on, and certainly didn't\nseem to want them. There was the canal, by the way, which supplied the\ncountry-side with coal, and up and down which continually went the long\nbarges, with the big black men lounging by the side of the horses along\nthe towing-path, and the women in bright-coloured handkerchiefs standing\nin the sterns steering. Standing I say, but you could never see whether\nthey were standing or sitting, all but their heads and shoulders being\nout of sight in the cozy little cabins which occupied some eight feet of\nthe stern, and which Tom Brown pictured to himself as the most desirable\nof residences. His nurse told him that those good-natured-looking women\nwere in the constant habit of enticing children into the barges, and\ntaking them up to London and selling them, which Tom wouldn't\nbelieve, and which made him resolve as soon as possible to accept the\noft-proffered invitation of these sirens to \"young master\" to come in\nand have a ride. But as yet the nurse was too much for Tom.\n\nYet why should I, after all, abuse the gadabout propensities of my\ncountrymen? We are a vagabond nation now, that's certain, for better\nfor worse. I am a vagabond; I have been away from home no less than five\ndistinct times in the last year. The Queen sets us the example: we are\nmoving on from top to bottom. Little dirty Jack, who abides in Clement's\nInn gateway, and blacks my boots for a penny, takes his month's\nhop-picking every year as a matter of course. Why shouldn't he? I'm\ndelighted at it. I love vagabonds, only I prefer poor to rich ones.\nCouriers and ladies'-maids, imperials and travelling carriages, are an\nabomination unto me; I cannot away with them. But for dirty Jack, and\nevery good fellow who, in the words of the capital French song, moves\nabout,\n\n     \"Comme le limacon,\n     Portant tout son bagage,\n     Ses meubles, sa maison,\"\n\non his own back, why, good luck to them, and many a merry roadside\nadventure, and steaming supper in the chimney corners of roadside inns,\nSwiss chalets, Hottentot kraals, or wherever else they like to go. So,\nhaving succeeded in contradicting myself in my first chapter (which\ngives me great hopes that you will all go on, and think me a good fellow\nnotwithstanding my crotchets), I shall here shut up for the present,\nand consider my ways; having resolved to \"sar' it out,\" as we say in the\nVale, \"holus bolus\" just as it comes, and then you'll probably get the\ntruth out of me.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II--THE \"VEAST.\"\n\n     \"And the King commandeth and forbiddeth, that from\n     henceforth neither fairs nor markets be kept in Churchyards,\n     for the honour of the Church.\"--STATUTES : 13 Edw. I. Stat.\n     II. cap. vi.\n\nAs that venerable and learned poet (whose voluminous works we all think\nit the correct thing to admire and talk about, but don't read often)\nmost truly says, \"The child is father to the man;\" a fortiori,\ntherefore, he must be father to the boy. So as we are going at any rate\nto see Tom Brown through his boyhood, supposing we never get any farther\n(which, if you show a proper sense of the value of this history, there\nis no knowing but what we may), let us have a look at the life and\nenvironments of the child in the quiet country village to which we were\nintroduced in the last chapter.\n\nTom, as has been already said, was a robust and combative urchin, and at\nthe age of four began to struggle against the yoke and authority of his\nnurse. That functionary was a good-hearted, tearful, scatter-brained\ngirl, lately taken by Tom's mother, Madam Brown, as she was called, from\nthe village school to be trained as nurserymaid. Madam Brown was a rare\ntrainer of servants, and spent herself freely in the profession; for\nprofession it was, and gave her more trouble by half than many people\ntake to earn a good income. Her servants were known and sought after for\nmiles round. Almost all the girls who attained a certain place in the\nvillage school were taken by her, one or two at a time, as housemaids,\nlaundrymaids, nurserymaids, or kitchenmaids, and after a year or two's\ntraining were started in life amongst the neighbouring families, with\ngood principles and wardrobes. One of the results of this system was the\nperpetual despair of Mrs. Brown's cook and own maid, who no sooner had\na notable girl made to their hands than missus was sure to find a good\nplace for her and send her off, taking in fresh importations from the\nschool. Another was, that the house was always full of young girls, with\nclean, shining faces, who broke plates and scorched linen, but made an\natmosphere of cheerful, homely life about the place, good for every one\nwho came within its influence. Mrs. Brown loved young people, and in\nfact human creatures in general, above plates and linen. They were more\nlike a lot of elder children than servants, and felt to her more as a\nmother or aunt than as a mistress.\n\nTom's nurse was one who took in her instruction very slowly--she seemed\nto have two left hands and no head; and so Mrs. Brown kept her on longer\nthan usual, that she might expend her awkwardness and forgetfulness upon\nthose who would not judge and punish her too strictly for them.\n\nCharity Lamb was her name. It had been the immemorial habit of the\nvillage to christen children either by Bible names, or by those of the\ncardinal and other virtues; so that one was for ever hearing in the\nvillage street or on the green, shrill sounds of \"Prudence! Prudence!\nthee cum' out o' the gutter;\" or, \"Mercy! drat the girl, what bist thee\na-doin' wi' little Faith?\" and there were Ruths, Rachels, Keziahs,\nin every corner. The same with the boys: they were Benjamins, Jacobs,\nNoahs, Enochs. I suppose the custom has come down from Puritan times.\nThere it is, at any rate, very strong still in the Vale.\n\nWell, from early morning till dewy eve, when she had it out of him in\nthe cold tub before putting him to bed, Charity and Tom were pitted\nagainst one another. Physical power was as yet on the side of Charity,\nbut she hadn't a chance with him wherever headwork was wanted. This\nwar of independence began every morning before breakfast, when Charity\nescorted her charge to a neighbouring farmhouse, which supplied the\nBrowns, and where, by his mother's wish, Master Tom went to drink whey\nbefore breakfast. Tom had no sort of objection to whey, but he had a\ndecided liking for curds, which were forbidden as unwholesome; and there\nwas seldom a morning that he did not manage to secure a handful of hard\ncurds, in defiance of Charity and of the farmer's wife. The latter good\nsoul was a gaunt, angular woman, who, with an old black bonnet on the\ntop of her head, the strings dangling about her shoulders, and her\ngown tucked through her pocket-holes, went clattering about the dairy,\ncheese-room, and yard, in high pattens. Charity was some sort of niece\nof the old lady's, and was consequently free of the farmhouse and\ngarden, into which she could not resist going for the purposes of gossip\nand flirtation with the heir-apparent, who was a dawdling fellow, never\nout at work as he ought to have been. The moment Charity had found her\ncousin, or any other occupation, Tom would slip away; and in a minute\nshrill cries would be heard from the dairy, \"Charity, Charity, thee lazy\nhuzzy, where bist?\" and Tom would break cover, hands and mouth full of\ncurds, and take refuge on the shaky surface of the great muck reservoir\nin the middle of the yard, disturbing the repose of the great pigs. Here\nhe was in safety, as no grown person could follow without getting over\ntheir knees; and the luckless Charity, while her aunt scolded her from\nthe dairy door, for being \"allus hankering about arter our Willum,\ninstead of minding Master Tom,\" would descend from threats to coaxing,\nto lure Tom out of the muck, which was rising over his shoes, and would\nsoon tell a tale on his stockings, for which she would be sure to catch\nit from missus's maid.\n\nTom had two abettors, in the shape of a couple of old boys, Noah and\nBenjamin by name, who defended him from Charity, and expended much time\nupon his education. They were both of them retired servants of former\ngenerations of the Browns. Noah Crooke was a keen, dry old man of almost\nninety, but still able to totter about. He talked to Tom quite as if he\nwere one of his own family, and indeed had long completely identified\nthe Browns with himself. In some remote age he had been the attendant\nof a Miss Brown, and had conveyed her about the country on a pillion. He\nhad a little round picture of the identical gray horse, caparisoned\nwith the identical pillion, before which he used to do a sort of\nfetish worship, and abuse turnpike-roads and carriages. He wore an old\nfull-bottomed wig, the gift of some dandy old Brown whom he had valeted\nin the middle of last century, which habiliment Master Tom looked upon\nwith considerable respect, not to say fear; and indeed his whole feeling\ntowards Noah was strongly tainted with awe. And when the old gentleman\nwas gathered to his fathers, Tom's lamentation over him was not\nunaccompanied by a certain joy at having seen the last of the wig. \"Poor\nold Noah, dead and gone,\" said he; \"Tom Brown so sorry. Put him in the\ncoffin, wig and all.\"\n\nBut old Benjy was young master's real delight and refuge. He was a\nyouth by the side of Noah, scarce seventy years old--a cheery, humorous,\nkind-hearted old man, full of sixty years of Vale gossip, and of all\nsorts of helpful ways for young and old, but above all for children.\nIt was he who bent the first pin with which Tom extracted his first\nstickleback out of \"Pebbly Brook,\" the little stream which ran through\nthe village. The first stickleback was a splendid fellow, with fabulous\nred and blue gills. Tom kept him in a small basin till the day of his\ndeath, and became a fisherman from that day. Within a month from the\ntaking of the first stickleback, Benjy had carried off our hero to\nthe canal, in defiance of Charity; and between them, after a whole\nafternoon's popjoying, they had caught three or four small, coarse fish\nand a perch, averaging perhaps two and a half ounces each, which Tom\nbore home in rapture to his mother as a precious gift, and which she\nreceived like a true mother with equal rapture, instructing the cook\nnevertheless, in a private interview, not to prepare the same for the\nSquire's dinner. Charity had appealed against old Benjy in the meantime,\nrepresenting the dangers of the canal banks; but Mrs. Brown, seeing the\nboy's inaptitude for female guidance, had decided in Benjy's favour, and\nfrom thenceforth the old man was Tom's dry nurse. And as they sat by the\ncanal watching their little green-and-white float, Benjy would instruct\nhim in the doings of deceased Browns. How his grandfather, in the early\ndays of the great war, when there was much distress and crime in the\nVale, and the magistrates had been threatened by the mob, had ridden in\nwith a big stick in his hand, and held the petty sessions by himself.\nHow his great-uncle, the rector, had encountered and laid the last\nghost, who had frightened the old women, male and female, of the\nparish out of their senses, and who turned out to be the blacksmith's\napprentice disguised in drink and a white sheet. It was Benjy, too,\nwho saddled Tom's first pony, and instructed him in the mysteries of\nhorsemanship, teaching him to throw his weight back and keep his hand\nlow, and who stood chuckling outside the door of the girls' school when\nTom rode his little Shetland into the cottage and round the table, where\nthe old dame and her pupils were seated at their work.\n\nBenjy himself was come of a family distinguished in the Vale for their\nprowess in all athletic games. Some half-dozen of his brothers and\nkinsmen had gone to the wars, of whom only one had survived to come\nhome, with a small pension, and three bullets in different parts of his\nbody; he had shared Benjy's cottage till his death, and had left him his\nold dragoon's sword and pistol, which hung over the mantelpiece, flanked\nby a pair of heavy single-sticks with which Benjy himself had won renown\nlong ago as an old gamester, against the picked men of Wiltshire and\nSomersetshire, in many a good bout at the revels and pastimes of the\ncountry-side. For he had been a famous back-swordman in his young days,\nand a good wrestler at elbow and collar.\n\nBack-swording and wrestling were the most serious holiday pursuits of\nthe Vale--those by which men attained fame--and each village had its\nchampion. I suppose that, on the whole, people were less worked then\nthan they are now; at any rate, they seemed to have more time and energy\nfor the old pastimes. The great times for back-swording came round once\na year in each village; at the feast. The Vale \"veasts\" were not\nthe common statute feasts, but much more ancient business. They are\nliterally, so far as one can ascertain, feasts of the dedication--that\nis, they were first established in the churchyard on the day on which\nthe village church was opened for public worship, which was on the wake\nor festival of the patron saint, and have been held on the same day in\nevery year since that time.\n\nThere was no longer any remembrance of why the \"veast\" had been\ninstituted, but nevertheless it had a pleasant and almost sacred\ncharacter of its own; for it was then that all the children of the\nvillage, wherever they were scattered, tried to get home for a holiday\nto visit their fathers and mothers and friends, bringing with them their\nwages or some little gift from up the country for the old folk. Perhaps\nfor a day or two before, but at any rate on \"veast day\" and the day\nafter, in our village, you might see strapping, healthy young men and\nwomen from all parts of the country going round from house to house in\ntheir best clothes, and finishing up with a call on Madam Brown,\nwhom they would consult as to putting out their earnings to the best\nadvantage, or how best to expend the same for the benefit of the old\nfolk. Every household, however poor, managed to raise a \"feast-cake\"\nand a bottle of ginger or raisin wine, which stood on the cottage table\nready for all comers, and not unlikely to make them remember feast-time,\nfor feast-cake is very solid, and full of huge raisins. Moreover,\nfeast-time was the day of reconciliation for the parish. If Job Higgins\nand Noah Freeman hadn't spoken for the last six months, their \"old\nwomen\" would be sure to get it patched up by that day. And though there\nwas a good deal of drinking and low vice in the booths of an evening,\nit was pretty well confined to those who would have been doing the like,\n\"veast or no veast;\" and on the whole, the effect was humanising and\nChristian. In fact, the only reason why this is not the case still is\nthat gentlefolk and farmers have taken to other amusements, and have, as\nusual, forgotten the poor. They don't attend the feasts themselves, and\ncall them disreputable; whereupon the steadiest of the poor leave them\nalso, and they become what they are called. Class amusements, be\nthey for dukes or ploughboys, always become nuisances and curses to a\ncountry. The true charm of cricket and hunting is that they are still\nmore or less sociable and universal; there's a place for every man who\nwill come and take his part.\n\nNo one in the village enjoyed the approach of \"veast day\" more than Tom,\nin the year in which he was taken under old Benjy's tutelage. The feast\nwas held in a large green field at the lower end of the village. The\nroad to Farringdon ran along one side of it, and the brook by the side\nof the road; and above the brook was another large, gentle, sloping\npasture-land, with a footpath running down it from the churchyard; and\nthe old church, the originator of all the mirth, towered up with its\ngray walls and lancet windows, overlooking and sanctioning the whole,\nthough its own share therein had been forgotten. At the point where the\nfootpath crossed the brook and road, and entered on the field where the\nfeast was held, was a long, low roadside inn; and on the opposite side\nof the field was a large white thatched farmhouse, where dwelt an old\nsporting farmer, a great promoter of the revels.\n\nPast the old church, and down the footpath, pottered the old man and the\nchild hand-in-hand early on the afternoon of the day before the feast,\nand wandered all round the ground, which was already being occupied\nby the \"cheap Jacks,\" with their green-covered carts and marvellous\nassortment of wares; and the booths of more legitimate small traders,\nwith their tempting arrays of fairings and eatables; and penny\npeep-shows and other shows, containing pink-eyed ladies, and dwarfs, and\nboa-constrictors, and wild Indians. But the object of most interest to\nBenjy, and of course to his pupil also, was the stage of rough planks\nsome four feet high, which was being put up by the village carpenter for\nthe back-swording and wrestling. And after surveying the whole tenderly,\nold Benjy led his charge away to the roadside inn, where he ordered a\nglass of ale and a long pipe for himself, and discussed these unwonted\nluxuries on the bench outside in the soft autumn evening with mine\nhost, another old servant of the Browns, and speculated with him on the\nlikelihood of a good show of old gamesters to contend for the morrow's\nprizes, and told tales of the gallant bouts of forty years back, to\nwhich Tom listened with all his ears and eyes.\n\nBut who shall tell the joy of the next morning, when the church bells\nwere ringing a merry peal, and old Benjy appeared in the servants' hall,\nresplendent in a long blue coat and brass buttons, and a pair of old\nyellow buckskins and top-boots which he had cleaned for and inherited\nfrom Tom's grandfather, a stout thorn stick in his hand, and a nosegay\nof pinks and lavender in his buttonhole, and led away Tom in his best\nclothes, and two new shillings in his breeches-pockets? Those two, at\nany rate, look like enjoying the day's revel.\n\nThey quicken their pace when they get into the churchyard, for already\nthey see the field thronged with country folk; the men in clean, white\nsmocks or velveteen or fustian coats, with rough plush waistcoats of\nmany colours, and the women in the beautiful, long scarlet cloak--the\nusual out-door dress of west-country women in those days, and which\noften descended in families from mother to daughter--or in new-fashioned\nstuff shawls, which, if they would but believe it, don't become them\nhalf so well. The air resounds with the pipe and tabor, and the drums\nand trumpets of the showmen shouting at the doors of their caravans,\nover which tremendous pictures of the wonders to be seen within hang\ntemptingly; while through all rises the shrill \"root-too-too-too\" of Mr.\nPunch, and the unceasing pan-pipe of his satellite.\n\n\"Lawk a' massey, Mr. Benjamin,\" cries a stout, motherly woman in a red\ncloak, as they enter the field, \"be that you? Well, I never! You do look\npurely. And how's the Squire, and madam, and the family?\"\n\nBenjy graciously shakes hands with the speaker, who has left our village\nfor some years, but has come over for \"veast\" day on a visit to an old\ngossip, and gently indicates the heir-apparent of the Browns.\n\n\"Bless his little heart! I must gi' un a kiss.--Here, Susannah,\nSusannah!\" cries she, raising herself from the embrace, \"come and see\nMr. Benjamin and young Master Tom.--You minds our Sukey, Mr. Benjamin;\nshe be growed a rare slip of a wench since you seen her, though her'll\nbe sixteen come Martinmas. I do aim to take her to see madam to get her\na place.\"\n\nAnd Sukey comes bouncing away from a knot of old school-fellows, and\ndrops a curtsey to Mr. Benjamin. And elders come up from all parts to\nsalute Benjy, and girls who have been madam's pupils to kiss Master\nTom. And they carry him off to load him with fairings; and he returns\nto Benjy, his hat and coat covered with ribbons, and his pockets crammed\nwith wonderful boxes which open upon ever new boxes, and popguns, and\ntrumpets, and apples, and gilt gingerbread from the stall of Angel\nHeavens, sole vender thereof, whose booth groans with kings and queens,\nand elephants and prancing steeds, all gleaming with gold. There\nwas more gold on Angel's cakes than there is ginger in those of\nthis degenerate age. Skilled diggers might yet make a fortune in the\nchurchyards of the Vale, by carefully washing the dust of the consumers\nof Angel's gingerbread. Alas! he is with his namesakes, and his receipts\nhave, I fear, died with him.\n\nAnd then they inspect the penny peep-show--at least Tom does--while old\nBenjy stands outside and gossips and walks up the steps, and enters the\nmysterious doors of the pink-eyed lady and the Irish giant, who do not\nby any means come up to their pictures; and the boa will not swallow his\nrabbit, but there the rabbit is waiting to be swallowed; and what can\nyou expect for tuppence? We are easily pleased in the Vale. Now there\nis a rush of the crowd, and a tinkling bell is heard, and shouts of\nlaughter; and Master Tom mounts on Benjy's shoulders, and beholds a\njingling match in all its glory. The games are begun, and this is the\nopening of them. It is a quaint game, immensely amusing to look at;\nand as I don't know whether it is used in your counties, I had better\ndescribe it. A large roped ring is made, into which are introduced\na dozen or so of big boys and young men who mean to play; these are\ncarefully blinded and turned loose into the ring, and then a man is\nintroduced not blindfolded; with a bell hung round his neck, and his two\nhands tied behind him. Of course every time he moves the bell must ring,\nas he has no hand to hold it; and so the dozen blindfolded men have to\ncatch him. This they cannot always manage if he is a lively fellow, but\nhalf of them always rush into the arms of the other half, or drive their\nheads together, or tumble over; and then the crowd laughs vehemently,\nand invents nicknames for them on the spur of the moment; and they, if\nthey be choleric, tear off the handkerchiefs which blind them, and not\nunfrequently pitch into one another, each thinking that the other must\nhave run against him on purpose. It is great fun to look at a jingling\nmatch certainly, and Tom shouts and jumps on old Benjy's shoulders at\nthe sight, until the old man feels weary, and shifts him to the strong\nyoung shoulders of the groom, who has just got down to the fun.\n\nAnd now, while they are climbing the pole in another part of the field,\nand muzzling in a flour-tub in another, the old farmer whose house, as\nhas been said, overlooks the field, and who is master of the revels,\ngets up the steps on to the stage, and announces to all whom it may\nconcern that a half-sovereign in money will be forthcoming to the old\ngamester who breaks most heads; to which the Squire and he have added a\nnew hat.\n\nThe amount of the prize is sufficient to stimulate the men of the\nimmediate neighbourhood, but not enough to bring any very high talent\nfrom a distance; so, after a glance or two round, a tall fellow, who is\na down shepherd, chucks his hat on to the stage and climbs up the steps,\nlooking rather sheepish. The crowd, of course, first cheer, and then\nchaff as usual, as he picks up his hat and begins handling the sticks to\nsee which will suit him.\n\n\"Wooy, Willum Smith, thee canst plaay wi' he arra daay,\" says his\ncompanion to the blacksmith's apprentice, a stout young fellow of\nnineteen or twenty. Willum's sweetheart is in the \"veast\" somewhere, and\nhas strictly enjoined him not to get his head broke at back-swording, on\npain of her highest displeasure; but as she is not to be seen (the women\npretend not to like to see the backsword play, and keep away from the\nstage), and as his hat is decidedly getting old, he chucks it on to the\nstage, and follows himself, hoping that he will only have to break other\npeople's heads, or that, after all, Rachel won't really mind.\n\nThen follows the greasy cap lined with fur of a half-gipsy, poaching,\nloafing fellow, who travels the Vale not for much good, I fancy:\n\n     \"For twenty times was Peter feared\n     For once that Peter was respected,\"\n\nin fact. And then three or four other hats, including the glossy\ncastor of Joe Willis, the self-elected and would-be champion of\nthe neighbourhood, a well-to-do young butcher of twenty-eight or\nthereabouts, and a great strapping fellow, with his full allowance of\nbluster. This is a capital show of gamesters, considering the amount\nof the prize; so, while they are picking their sticks and drawing their\nlots, I think I must tell you, as shortly as I can, how the noble old\ngame of back-sword is played; for it is sadly gone out of late, even in\nthe Vale, and maybe you have never seen it.\n\nThe weapon is a good stout ash stick with a large basket handle, heavier\nand somewhat shorter than a common single-stick. The players are called\n\"old gamesters\"--why, I can't tell you--and their object is simply\nto break one another's heads; for the moment that blood runs an inch\nanywhere above the eyebrow, the old gamester to whom it belongs is\nbeaten, and has to stop. A very slight blow with the sticks will fetch\nblood, so that it is by no means a punishing pastime, if the men don't\nplay on purpose and savagely at the body and arms of their adversaries.\nThe old gamester going into action only takes off his hat and coat, and\narms himself with a stick; he then loops the fingers of his left hand in\na handkerchief or strap, which he fastens round his left leg, measuring\nthe length, so that when he draws it tight with his left elbow in the\nair, that elbow shall just reach as high as his crown. Thus you see, so\nlong as he chooses to keep his left elbow up, regardless of cuts, he\nhas a perfect guard for the left side of his head. Then he advances his\nright hand above and in front of his head, holding his stick across, so\nthat its point projects an inch or two over his left elbow; and thus\nhis whole head is completely guarded, and he faces his man armed in like\nmanner; and they stand some three feet apart, often nearer, and feint,\nand strike, and return at one another's heads, until one cries \"hold,\"\nor blood flows. In the first case they are allowed a minute's time; and\ngo on again; in the latter another pair of gamesters are called on. If\ngood men are playing, the quickness of the returns is marvellous: you\nhear the rattle like that a boy makes drawing his stick along palings,\nonly heavier; and the closeness of the men in action to one another\ngives it a strange interest, and makes a spell at back-swording a very\nnoble sight.\n\nThey are all suited now with sticks, and Joe Willis and the gipsy man\nhave drawn the first lot. So the rest lean against the rails of the\nstage, and Joe and the dark man meet in the middle, the boards having\nbeen strewed with sawdust, Joe's white shirt and spotless drab breeches\nand boots contrasting with the gipsy's coarse blue shirt and dirty green\nvelveteen breeches and leather gaiters. Joe is evidently turning up his\nnose at the other, and half insulted at having to break his head.\n\nThe gipsy is a tough, active fellow, but not very skilful with his\nweapon, so that Joe's weight and strength tell in a minute; he is too\nheavy metal for him. Whack, whack, whack, come his blows, breaking down\nthe gipsy's guard, and threatening to reach his head every moment. There\nit is at last. \"Blood, blood!\" shout the spectators, as a thin stream\noozes out slowly from the roots of his hair, and the umpire calls to\nthem to stop. The gipsy scowls at Joe under his brows in no pleasant\nmanner, while Master Joe swaggers about, and makes attitudes, and thinks\nhimself, and shows that he thinks himself, the greatest man in the\nfield.\n\nThen follow several stout sets-to between the other candidates for the\nnew hat, and at last come the shepherd and Willum Smith. This is the\ncrack set-to of the day. They are both in famous wind, and there is no\ncrying \"hold.\" The shepherd is an old hand, and up to all the dodges. He\ntries them one after another, and very nearly gets at Willum's head\nby coming in near, and playing over his guard at the half-stick; but\nsomehow Willum blunders through, catching the stick on his shoulders,\nneck, sides, every now and then, anywhere but on his head, and his\nreturns are heavy and straight, and he is the youngest gamester and a\nfavourite in the parish, and his gallant stand brings down shouts and\ncheers, and the knowing ones think he'll win if he keeps steady; and\nTom, on the groom's shoulder, holds his hands together, and can hardly\nbreathe for excitement.\n\nAlas for Willum! His sweetheart, getting tired of female companionship,\nhas been hunting the booths to see where he can have got to, and now\ncatches sight of him on the stage in full combat. She flushes and turns\npale; her old aunt catches hold of her, saying, \"Bless 'ee, child,\ndoan't 'ee go a'nigst it;\" but she breaks away and runs towards the\nstage calling his name. Willum keeps up his guard stoutly, but glances\nfor a moment towards the voice. No guard will do it, Willum, without the\neye. The shepherd steps round and strikes, and the point of his stick\njust grazes Willum's forehead, fetching off the skin, and the blood\nflows, and the umpire cries, \"Hold!\" and poor Willum's chance is up for\nthe day. But he takes it very well, and puts on his old hat and coat,\nand goes down to be scolded by his sweetheart, and led away out of\nmischief. Tom hears him say coaxingly, as he walks off,--\n\n\"Now doan't 'ee, Rachel! I wouldn't ha' done it, only I wanted summut\nto buy 'ee a fairing wi', and I be as vlush o' money as a twod o'\nfeathers.\"\n\n\"Thee mind what I tells 'ee,\" rejoins Rachel saucily, \"and doan't 'ee\nkep blethering about fairings.\"\n\nTom resolves in his heart to give Willum the remainder of his two\nshillings after the back-swording.\n\nJoe Willis has all the luck to-day. His next bout ends in an easy\nvictory, while the shepherd has a tough job to break his second head;\nand when Joe and the shepherd meet, and the whole circle expect and hope\nto see him get a broken crown, the shepherd slips in the first round and\nfalls against the rails, hurting himself so that the old farmer will not\nlet him go on, much as he wishes to try; and that impostor Joe (for he\nis certainly not the best man) struts and swaggers about the stage the\nconquering gamester, though he hasn't had five minutes' really trying\nplay.\n\nJoe takes the new hat in his hand, and puts the money into it, and then,\nas if a thought strikes him, and he doesn't think his victory quite\nacknowledged down below, walks to each face of the stage, and looks\ndown, shaking the money, and chaffing, as how he'll stake hat and money\nand another half-sovereign \"agin any gamester as hasn't played already.\"\nCunning Joe! he thus gets rid of Willum and the shepherd, who is quite\nfresh again.\n\nNo one seems to like the offer, and the umpire is just coming down,\nwhen a queer old hat, something like a doctor of divinity's shovel, is\nchucked on to the stage and an elderly, quiet man steps out, who has\nbeen watching the play, saying he should like to cross a stick wi' the\nprodigalish young chap.\n\nThe crowd cheer, and begin to chaff Joe, who turns up his nose and\nswaggers across to the sticks. \"Imp'dent old wosbird!\" says he; \"I'll\nbreak the bald head on un to the truth.\"\n\nThe old boy is very bald, certainly, and the blood will show fast enough\nif you can touch him, Joe.\n\nHe takes off his long-flapped coat, and stands up in a long-flapped\nwaistcoat, which Sir Roger de Coverley might have worn when it was new,\npicks out a stick, and is ready for Master Joe, who loses no time, but\nbegins his old game, whack, whack, whack, trying to break down the old\nman's guard by sheer strength. But it won't do; he catches every blow\nclose by the basket, and though he is rather stiff in his returns,\nafter a minute walks Joe about the stage, and is clearly a stanch old\ngamester. Joe now comes in, and making the most of his height, tries to\nget over the old man's guard at half-stick, by which he takes a smart\nblow in the ribs and another on the elbow, and nothing more. And now he\nloses wind and begins to puff, and the crowd laugh. \"Cry 'hold,' Joe;\nthee'st met thy match!\" Instead of taking good advice and getting his\nwind, Joe loses his temper, and strikes at the old man's body.\n\n\"Blood, blood!\" shout the crowd; \"Joe's head's broke!\"\n\nWho'd have thought it? How did it come? That body-blow left Joe's head\nunguarded for a moment; and with one turn of the wrist the old gentleman\nhas picked a neat little bit of skin off the middle of his forehead; and\nthough he won't believe it, and hammers on for three more blows despite\nof the shouts, is then convinced by the blood trickling into his eye.\nPoor Joe is sadly crestfallen, and fumbles in his pocket for the other\nhalf-sovereign, but the old gamester won't have it. \"Keep thy money,\nman, and gi's thy hand,\" says he; and they shake hands. But the old\ngamester gives the new hat to the shepherd, and, soon after, the\nhalf-sovereign to Willum, who thereout decorates his sweetheart with\nribbons to his heart's content.\n\n\"Who can a be?\" \"Wur do a cum from?\" ask the crowd. And it soon flies\nabout that the old west-country champion, who played a tie with Shaw the\nLifeguardsman at \"Vizes\" twenty years before, has broken Joe Willis's\ncrown for him.\n\nHow my country fair is spinning out! I see I must skip the wrestling;\nand the boys jumping in sacks, and rolling wheelbarrows blindfolded;\nand the donkey-race, and the fight which arose thereout, marring the\notherwise peaceful \"veast;\" and the frightened scurrying away of the\nfemale feast-goers, and descent of Squire Brown, summoned by the wife of\none of the combatants to stop it; which he wouldn't start to do till he\nhad got on his top-boots. Tom is carried away by old Benjy, dog-tired\nand surfeited with pleasure, as the evening comes on and the dancing\nbegins in the booths; and though Willum, and Rachel in her new ribbons,\nand many another good lad and lass don't come away just yet, but have\na good step out, and enjoy it, and get no harm thereby, yet we, being\nsober folk, will just stroll away up through the churchyard, and by the\nold yew-tree, and get a quiet dish of tea and a parley with our gossips,\nas the steady ones of our village do, and so to bed.\n\nThat's the fair, true sketch, as far as it goes, of one of the larger\nvillage feasts in the Vale of Berks, when I was a little boy. They\nare much altered for the worse, I am told. I haven't been at one these\ntwenty years, but I have been at the statute fairs in some west-country\ntowns, where servants are hired, and greater abominations cannot be\nfound. What village feasts have come to, I fear, in many cases, may\nbe read in the pages of \"Yeast\" (though I never saw one so bad--thank\nGod!).\n\nDo you want to know why? It is because, as I said before, gentlefolk and\nfarmers have left off joining or taking an interest in them. They don't\neither subscribe to the prizes, or go down and enjoy the fun.\n\nIs this a good or a bad sign? I hardly know. Bad, sure enough, if it\nonly arises from the further separation of classes consequent on twenty\nyears of buying cheap and selling dear, and its accompanying overwork;\nor because our sons and daughters have their hearts in London club-life,\nor so-called \"society,\" instead of in the old English home-duties;\nbecause farmers' sons are apeing fine gentlemen, and farmers' daughters\ncaring more to make bad foreign music than good English cheeses. Good,\nperhaps, if it be that the time for the old \"veast\" has gone by; that\nit is no longer the healthy, sound expression of English country\nholiday-making; that, in fact, we, as a nation, have got beyond it,\nand are in a transition state, feeling for and soon likely to find some\nbetter substitute.\n\nOnly I have just got this to say before I quit the text. Don't let\nreformers of any sort think that they are going really to lay hold of\nthe working boys and young men of England by any educational grapnel\nwhatever, which isn't some bona fide equivalent for the games of the\nold country \"veast\" in it; something to put in the place of the\nback-swording and wrestling and racing; something to try the muscles\nof men's bodies, and the endurance of their hearts, and to make them\nrejoice in their strength. In all the new-fangled comprehensive plans\nwhich I see, this is all left out; and the consequence is, that your\ngreat mechanics' institutes end in intellectual priggism, and your\nChristian young men's societies in religious Pharisaism.\n\nWell, well, we must bide our time. Life isn't all beer and skittles;\nbut beer and skittles, or something better of the same sort, must form\na good part of every Englishman's education. If I could only drive this\ninto the heads of you rising parliamentary lords, and young swells\nwho \"have your ways made for you,\" as the saying is, you, who frequent\npalaver houses and West-end clubs, waiting always ready to strap\nyourselves on to the back of poor dear old John, as soon as the present\nused-up lot (your fathers and uncles), who sit there on the great\nparliamentary-majorities' pack-saddle, and make believe they're guiding\nhim with their red-tape bridle, tumble, or have to be lifted off!\n\nI don't think much of you yet--I wish I could--though you do go talking\nand lecturing up and down the country to crowded audiences, and are\nbusy with all sorts of philanthropic intellectualism, and circulating\nlibraries and museums, and Heaven only knows what besides, and try to\nmake us think, through newspaper reports, that you are, even as we, of\nthe working classes. But bless your hearts, we \"ain't so green,\" though\nlots of us of all sorts toady you enough certainly, and try to make you\nthink so.\n\nI'll tell you what to do now: instead of all this trumpeting and fuss,\nwhich is only the old parliamentary-majority dodge over again, just you\ngo, each of you (you've plenty of time for it, if you'll only give\nup t'other line), and quietly make three or four friends--real\nfriends--among us. You'll find a little trouble in getting at the right\nsort, because such birds don't come lightly to your lure; but found\nthey may be. Take, say, two out of the professions, lawyer, parson,\ndoctor--which you will; one out of trade; and three or four out of the\nworking classes--tailors, engineers, carpenters, engravers. There's\nplenty of choice. Let them be men of your own ages, mind, and ask\nthem to your homes; introduce them to your wives and sisters, and get\nintroduced to theirs; give them good dinners, and talk to them about\nwhat is really at the bottom of your hearts; and box, and run, and row\nwith them, when you have a chance. Do all this honestly as man to\nman, and by the time you come to ride old John, you'll be able to do\nsomething more than sit on his back, and may feel his mouth with some\nstronger bridle than a red-tape one.\n\nAh, if you only would! But you have got too far out of the right rut, I\nfear. Too much over-civilization, and the deceitfulness of riches. It is\neasier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle. More's the pity. I\nnever came across but two of you who could value a man wholly and solely\nfor what was in him--who thought themselves verily and indeed of the\nsame flesh and blood as John Jones the attorney's clerk, and Bill Smith\nthe costermonger, and could act as if they thought so.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III--SUNDRY WARS AND ALLIANCES.\n\n\nPoor old Benjy! The \"rheumatiz\" has much to answer for all through\nEnglish country-sides, but it never played a scurvier trick than in\nlaying thee by the heels, when thou wast yet in a green old age. The\nenemy, which had long been carrying on a sort of border warfare, and\ntrying his strength against Benjy's on the battlefield of his hands and\nlegs, now, mustering all his forces, began laying siege to the citadel,\nand overrunning the whole country. Benjy was seized in the back and\nloins; and though he made strong and brave fight, it was soon clear\nenough that all which could be beaten of poor old Benjy would have to\ngive in before long.\n\nIt was as much as he could do now, with the help of his big stick and\nfrequent stops, to hobble down to the canal with Master Tom, and bait\nhis hook for him, and sit and watch his angling, telling him quaint old\ncountry stories; and when Tom had no sport, and detecting a rat some\nhundred yards or so off along the bank, would rush off with Toby the\nturnspit terrier, his other faithful companion, in bootless pursuit, he\nmight have tumbled in and been drowned twenty times over before Benjy\ncould have got near him.\n\nCheery and unmindful of himself, as Benjy was, this loss of locomotive\npower bothered him greatly. He had got a new object in his old age, and\nwas just beginning to think himself useful again in the world. He feared\nmuch, too, lest Master Tom should fall back again into the hands of\nCharity and the women. So he tried everything he could think of to get\nset up. He even went an expedition to the dwelling of one of those queer\nmortals, who--say what we will, and reason how we will--do cure simple\npeople of diseases of one kind or another without the aid of physic,\nand so get to themselves the reputation of using charms, and inspire for\nthemselves and their dwellings great respect, not to say fear, amongst a\nsimple folk such as the dwellers in the Vale of White Horse. Where this\npower, or whatever else it may be, descends upon the shoulders of a\nman whose ways are not straight, he becomes a nuisance to the\nneighbourhood--a receiver of stolen goods, giver of love-potions, and\ndeceiver of silly women--the avowed enemy of law and order, of justices\nof the peace, head-boroughs, and gamekeepers,--such a man, in fact, as\nwas recently caught tripping, and deservedly dealt with by the Leeds\njustices, for seducing a girl who had come to him to get back a\nfaithless lover, and has been convicted of bigamy since then. Sometimes,\nhowever, they are of quite a different stamp--men who pretend to\nnothing, and are with difficulty persuaded to exercise their occult arts\nin the simplest cases.\n\nOf this latter sort was old Farmer Ives, as he was called, the \"wise\nman\" to whom Benjy resorted (taking Tom with him as usual), in the early\nspring of the year next after the feast described in the last chapter.\nWhy he was called \"farmer\" I cannot say, unless it be that he was the\nowner of a cow, a pig or two, and some poultry, which he maintained\non about an acre of land inclosed from the middle of a wild common, on\nwhich probably his father had squatted before lords of manors looked as\nkeenly after their rights as they do now. Here he had lived no one knew\nhow long, a solitary man. It was often rumoured that he was to be turned\nout and his cottage pulled down, but somehow it never came to pass; and\nhis pigs and cow went grazing on the common, and his geese hissed at the\npassing children and at the heels of the horse of my lord's steward, who\noften rode by with a covetous eye on the inclosure still unmolested. His\ndwelling was some miles from our village; so Benjy, who was half ashamed\nof his errand, and wholly unable to walk there, had to exercise much\ningenuity to get the means of transporting himself and Tom thither\nwithout exciting suspicion. However, one fine May morning he managed to\nborrow the old blind pony of our friend the publican, and Tom persuaded\nMadam Brown to give him a holiday to spend with old Benjy, and to lend\nthem the Squire's light cart, stored with bread and cold meat and a\nbottle of ale. And so the two in high glee started behind old Dobbin,\nand jogged along the deep-rutted plashy roads, which had not been mended\nafter their winter's wear, towards the dwelling of the wizard. About\nnoon they passed the gate which opened on to the large common, and old\nDobbin toiled slowly up the hill, while Benjy pointed out a little deep\ndingle on the left, out of which welled a tiny stream. As they crept\nup the hill the tops of a few birch-trees came in sight, and blue smoke\ncurling up through their delicate light boughs; and then the little\nwhite thatched home and inclosed ground of Farmer Ives, lying cradled in\nthe dingle, with the gay gorse common rising behind and on both sides;\nwhile in front, after traversing a gentle slope, the eye might travel\nfor miles and miles over the rich vale. They now left the main road and\nstruck into a green track over the common marked lightly with wheel and\nhorse-shoe, which led down into the dingle and stopped at the rough gate\nof Farmer Ives. Here they found the farmer, an iron-gray old man, with a\nbushy eyebrow and strong aquiline nose, busied in one of his vocations.\nHe was a horse and cow doctor, and was tending a sick beast which had\nbeen sent up to be cured. Benjy hailed him as an old friend, and he\nreturned the greeting cordially enough, looking however hard for a\nmoment both at Benjy and Tom, to see whether there was more in their\nvisit than appeared at first sight. It was a work of some difficulty and\ndanger for Benjy to reach the ground, which, however, he managed to do\nwithout mishap; and then he devoted himself to unharnessing Dobbin and\nturning him out for a graze (\"a run\" one could not say of that virtuous\nsteed) on the common. This done, he extricated the cold provisions from\nthe cart, and they entered the farmer's wicket; and he, shutting up the\nknife with which he was taking maggots out of the cow's back and sides,\naccompanied them towards the cottage. A big old lurcher got up slowly\nfrom the door-stone, stretching first one hind leg and then the other,\nand taking Tom's caresses and the presence of Toby, who kept, however,\nat a respectful distance, with equal indifference.\n\n\"Us be cum to pay 'ee a visit. I've a been long minded to do't for old\nsake's sake, only I vinds I dwon't get about now as I'd used to't. I be\nso plaguy bad wi' th' rheumatiz in my back.\" Benjy paused, in hopes\nof drawing the farmer at once on the subject of his ailments without\nfurther direct application.\n\n\"Ah, I see as you bean't quite so lissom as you was,\" replied the\nfarmer, with a grim smile, as he lifted the latch of his door; \"we\nbean't so young as we was, nother on us, wuss luck.\"\n\nThe farmer's cottage was very like those of the better class of\npeasantry in general. A snug chimney corner with two seats, and a small\ncarpet on the hearth, an old flint gun and a pair of spurs over the\nfireplace, a dresser with shelves on which some bright pewter plates\nand crockeryware were arranged, an old walnut table, a few chairs and\nsettles, some framed samplers, and an old print or two, and a bookcase\nwith some dozen volumes on the walls, a rack with flitches of bacon, and\nother stores fastened to the ceiling, and you have the best part of the\nfurniture. No sign of occult art is to be seen, unless the bundles of\ndried herbs hanging to the rack and in the ingle and the row of labelled\nphials on one of the shelves betoken it.\n\nTom played about with some kittens who occupied the hearth, and with a\ngoat who walked demurely in at the open door--while their host and Benjy\nspread the table for dinner--and was soon engaged in conflict with the\ncold meat, to which he did much honour. The two old men's talk was of\nold comrades and their deeds, mute inglorious Miltons of the Vale, and\nof the doings thirty years back, which didn't interest him much, except\nwhen they spoke of the making of the canal; and then indeed he began to\nlisten with all his ears, and learned, to his no small wonder, that his\ndear and wonderful canal had not been there always--was not, in fact,\nso old as Benjy or Farmer Ives, which caused a strange commotion in his\nsmall brain.\n\nAfter dinner Benjy called attention to a wart which Tom had on the\nknuckles of his hand, and which the family doctor had been trying his\nskill on without success, and begged the farmer to charm it away. Farmer\nIves looked at it, muttered something or another over it, and cut\nsome notches in a short stick, which he handed to Benjy, giving him\ninstructions for cutting it down on certain days, and cautioning Tom not\nto meddle with the wart for a fortnight. And then they strolled out and\nsat on a bench in the sun with their pipes, and the pigs came up and\ngrunted sociably and let Tom scratch them; and the farmer, seeing how he\nliked animals, stood up and held his arms in the air, and gave a call,\nwhich brought a flock of pigeons wheeling and dashing through the\nbirch-trees. They settled down in clusters on the farmer's arms and\nshoulders, making love to him and scrambling over one another's backs\nto get to his face; and then he threw them all off, and they fluttered\nabout close by, and lighted on him again and again when he held up his\narms. All the creatures about the place were clean and fearless, quite\nunlike their relations elsewhere; and Tom begged to be taught how to\nmake all the pigs and cows and poultry in our village tame, at which the\nfarmer only gave one of his grim chuckles.\n\nIt wasn't till they were just ready to go, and old Dobbin was harnessed,\nthat Benjy broached the subject of his rheumatism again, detailing his\nsymptoms one by one. Poor old boy! He hoped the farmer could charm it\naway as easily as he could Tom's wart, and was ready with equal faith to\nput another notched stick into his other pocket, for the cure of his\nown ailments. The physician shook his head, but nevertheless produced a\nbottle, and handed it to Benjy, with instructions for use. \"Not as 't'll\ndo 'ee much good--leastways I be afeard not,\" shading his eyes with his\nhand, and looking up at them in the cart. \"There's only one thing as I\nknows on as'll cure old folks like you and I o' th' rheumatiz.\"\n\n\"Wot be that then, farmer?\" inquired Benjy.\n\n\"Churchyard mould,\" said the old iron-gray man, with another chuckle.\nAnd so they said their good-byes and went their ways home. Tom's wart\nwas gone in a fortnight, but not so Benjy's rheumatism, which laid him\nby the heels more and more. And though Tom still spent many an hour with\nhim, as he sat on a bench in the sunshine, or by the chimney corner when\nit was cold, he soon had to seek elsewhere for his regular companions.\n\nTom had been accustomed often to accompany his mother in her visits to\nthe cottages, and had thereby made acquaintance with many of the village\nboys of his own age. There was Job Rudkin, son of widow Rudkin, the most\nbustling woman in the parish. How she could ever have had such a stolid\nboy as Job for a child must always remain a mystery. The first time\nTom went to their cottage with his mother, Job was not indoors; but he\nentered soon after, and stood with both hands in his pockets, staring\nat Tom. Widow Rudkin, who would have had to cross madam to get at\nyoung Hopeful--a breach of good manners of which she was wholly\nincapable--began a series of pantomime signs, which only puzzled him;\nand at last, unable to contain herself longer, burst out with, \"Job!\nJob! where's thy cap?\"\n\n\"What! bean't 'ee on ma head, mother?\" replied Job, slowly extricating\none hand from a pocket, and feeling for the article in question; which\nhe found on his head sure enough, and left there, to his mother's horror\nand Tom's great delight.\n\nThen there was poor Jacob Dodson, the half-witted boy, who ambled about\ncheerfully, undertaking messages and little helpful odds and ends for\nevery one, which, however, poor Jacob managed always hopelessly to\nimbrangle. Everything came to pieces in his hands, and nothing would\nstop in his head. They nicknamed him Jacob Doodle-calf.\n\nBut above all there was Harry Winburn, the quickest and best boy in the\nparish. He might be a year older than Tom, but was very little bigger,\nand he was the Crichton of our village boys. He could wrestle and climb\nand run better than all the rest, and learned all that the schoolmaster\ncould teach him faster than that worthy at all liked. He was a boy to\nbe proud of, with his curly brown hair, keen gray eye, straight active\nfigure, and little ears and hands and feet, \"as fine as a lord's,\" as\nCharity remarked to Tom one day, talking, as usual, great nonsense.\nLords' hands and ears and feet are just as ugly as other folk's when\nthey are children, as any one may convince himself if he likes to look.\nTight boots and gloves, and doing nothing with them, I allow make a\ndifference by the time they are twenty.\n\nNow that Benjy was laid on the shelf, and his young brothers were still\nunder petticoat government, Tom, in search of companions, began to\ncultivate the village boys generally more and more. Squire Brown, be it\nsaid, was a true-blue Tory to the backbone, and believed honestly that\nthe powers which be were ordained of God, and that loyalty and steadfast\nobedience were men's first duties. Whether it were in consequence or in\nspite of his political creed, I do not mean to give an opinion, though\nI have one; but certain it is that he held therewith divers social\nprinciples not generally supposed to be true blue in colour. Foremost of\nthese, and the one which the Squire loved to propound above all others,\nwas the belief that a man is to be valued wholly and solely for that\nwhich he is in himself, for that which stands up in the four fleshly\nwalls of him, apart from clothes, rank, fortune, and all externals\nwhatsoever. Which belief I take to be a wholesome corrective of all\npolitical opinions, and, if held sincerely, to make all opinions equally\nharmless, whether they be blue, red, or green. As a necessary corollary\nto this belief, Squire Brown held further that it didn't matter a\nstraw whether his son associated with lords' sons or ploughmen's sons,\nprovided they were brave and honest. He himself had played football\nand gone bird-nesting with the farmers whom he met at vestry and\nthe labourers who tilled their fields, and so had his father and\ngrandfather, with their progenitors. So he encouraged Tom in his\nintimacy with the boys of the village, and forwarded it by all means\nin his power, and gave them the run of a close for a playground, and\nprovided bats and balls and a football for their sports.\n\nOur village was blessed amongst other things with a well-endowed school.\nThe building stood by itself, apart from the master's house, on an angle\nof ground where three roads met--an old gray stone building with a steep\nroof and mullioned windows. On one of the opposite angles stood Squire\nBrown's stables and kennel, with their backs to the road, over which\ntowered a great elm-tree; on the third stood the village carpenter and\nwheelwright's large open shop, and his house and the schoolmaster's,\nwith long low eaves, under which the swallows built by scores.\n\nThe moment Tom's lessons were over, he would now get him down to this\ncorner by the stables, and watch till the boys came out of school. He\nprevailed on the groom to cut notches for him in the bark of the elm\nso that he could climb into the lower branches; and there he would sit\nwatching the school door, and speculating on the possibility of turning\nthe elm into a dwelling-place for himself and friends, after the manner\nof the Swiss Family Robinson. But the school hours were long and Tom's\npatience short, so that he soon began to descend into the street, and go\nand peep in at the school door and the wheelwright's shop, and look out\nfor something to while away the time. Now the wheelwright was a choleric\nman, and one fine afternoon, returning from a short absence, found Tom\noccupied with one of his pet adzes, the edge of which was fast vanishing\nunder our hero's care. A speedy flight saved Tom from all but one sound\ncuff on the ears; but he resented this unjustifiable interruption of his\nfirst essays at carpentering, and still more the further proceedings\nof the wheelwright, who cut a switch, and hung it over the door of his\nworkshop, threatening to use it upon Tom if he came within twenty yards\nof his gate. So Tom, to retaliate, commenced a war upon the swallows who\ndwelt under the wheelwright's eaves, whom he harassed with sticks\nand stones; and being fleeter of foot than his enemy, escaped all\npunishment, and kept him in perpetual anger. Moreover, his presence\nabout the school door began to incense the master, as the boys in that\nneighbourhood neglected their lessons in consequence; and more than once\nhe issued into the porch, rod in hand, just as Tom beat a hasty retreat.\nAnd he and the wheelwright, laying their heads together, resolved to\nacquaint the Squire with Tom's afternoon occupations; but in order to\ndo it with effect, determined to take him captive and lead him away to\njudgment fresh from his evil doings. This they would have found some\ndifficulty in doing, had Tom continued the war single-handed, or rather\nsingle-footed, for he would have taken to the deepest part of Pebbly\nBrook to escape them; but, like other active powers, he was ruined by\nhis alliances. Poor Jacob Doodle-calf could not go to the school with\nthe other boys, and one fine afternoon, about three o'clock (the school\nbroke up at four), Tom found him ambling about the street, and pressed\nhim into a visit to the school-porch. Jacob, always ready to do what he\nwas asked, consented, and the two stole down to the school together.\nTom first reconnoitred the wheelwright's shop; and seeing no signs\nof activity, thought all safe in that quarter, and ordered at once an\nadvance of all his troops upon the schoolporch. The door of the school\nwas ajar, and the boys seated on the nearest bench at once recognized\nand opened a correspondence with the invaders. Tom, waxing bold, kept\nputting his head into the school and making faces at the master when\nhis back was turned. Poor Jacob, not in the least comprehending the\nsituation, and in high glee at finding himself so near the school, which\nhe had never been allowed to enter, suddenly, in a fit of enthusiasm,\npushed by Tom, and ambling three steps into the school, stood there,\nlooking round him and nodding with a self-approving smile. The master,\nwho was stooping over a boy's slate, with his back to the door, became\naware of something unusual, and turned quickly round. Tom rushed at\nJacob, and began dragging him back by his smock-frock, and the master\nmade at them, scattering forms and boys in his career. Even now they\nmight have escaped, but that in the porch, barring retreat, appeared the\ncrafty wheelwright, who had been watching all their proceedings. So they\nwere seized, the school dismissed, and Tom and Jacob led away to Squire\nBrown as lawful prize, the boys following to the gate in groups, and\nspeculating on the result.\n\nThe Squire was very angry at first, but the interview, by Tom's\npleading, ended in a compromise. Tom was not to go near the school till\nthree o'clock, and only then if he had done his own lessons well, in\nwhich case he was to be the bearer of a note to the master from Squire\nBrown; and the master agreed in such case to release ten or twelve of\nthe best boys an hour before the time of breaking up, to go off and play\nin the close. The wheelwright's adzes and swallows were to be for ever\nrespected; and that hero and the master withdrew to the servants' hall\nto drink the Squire's health, well satisfied with their day's work.\n\nThe second act of Tom's life may now be said to have begun. The war of\nindependence had been over for some time: none of the women now--not\neven his mother's maid--dared offer to help him in dressing or\nwashing. Between ourselves, he had often at first to run to Benjy in an\nunfinished state of toilet. Charity and the rest of them seemed to take\na delight in putting impossible buttons and ties in the middle of his\nback; but he would have gone without nether integuments altogether,\nsooner than have had recourse to female valeting. He had a room to\nhimself, and his father gave him sixpence a week pocket-money. All\nthis he had achieved by Benjy's advice and assistance. But now he had\nconquered another step in life--the step which all real boys so long\nto make: he had got amongst his equals in age and strength, and could\nmeasure himself with other boys; he lived with those whose pursuits and\nwishes and ways were the same in kind as his own.\n\nThe little governess who had lately been installed in the house found\nher work grow wondrously easy, for Tom slaved at his lessons, in order\nto make sure of his note to the schoolmaster. So there were very few\ndays in the week in which Tom and the village boys were not playing\nin their close by three o'clock. Prisoner's base, rounders,\nhigh-cock-a-lorum, cricket, football--he was soon initiated into the\ndelights of them all; and though most of the boys were older than\nhimself, he managed to hold his own very well. He was naturally active\nand strong, and quick of eye and hand, and had the advantage of light\nshoes and well-fitting dress, so that in a short time he could run and\njump and climb with any of them.\n\nThey generally finished their regular games half an hour or so before\ntea-time, and then began trials of skill and strength in many ways. Some\nof them would catch the Shetland pony who was turned out in the field,\nand get two or three together on his back, and the little rogue,\nenjoying the fun, would gallop off for fifty yards, and then turn round,\nor stop short and shoot them on to the turf, and then graze quietly on\ntill he felt another load; others played at peg-top or marbles, while\na few of the bigger ones stood up for a bout at wrestling. Tom at first\nonly looked on at this pastime, but it had peculiar attractions for him,\nand he could not long keep out of it. Elbow and collar wrestling, as\npractised in the western counties, was, next to back-swording, the way\nto fame for the youth of the Vale; and all the boys knew the rules of\nit, and were more or less expert. But Job Rudkin and Harry Winburn were\nthe stars--the former stiff and sturdy, with legs like small towers; the\nlatter pliant as indiarubber and quick as lightning. Day after day they\nstood foot to foot, and offered first one hand and then the other, and\ngrappled and closed, and swayed and strained, till a well-aimed crook of\nthe heel or thrust of the loin took effect, and a fair back-fall ended\nthe matter. And Tom watched with all his eyes, and first challenged one\nof the less scientific, and threw him; and so one by one wrestled his\nway up to the leaders.\n\nThen indeed for months he had a poor time of it; it was not long indeed\nbefore he could manage to keep his legs against Job, for that hero was\nslow of offence, and gained his victories chiefly by allowing others to\nthrow themselves against his immovable legs and loins. But Harry Winburn\nwas undeniably his master; from the first clutch of hands when they\nstood up, down to the last trip which sent him on to his back on the\nturf, he felt that Harry knew more and could do more than he. Luckily\nHarry's bright unconsciousness and Tom's natural good temper kept them\nfrom quarrelling; and so Tom worked on and on, and trod more and more\nnearly on Harry's heels, and at last mastered all the dodges and falls\nexcept one. This one was Harry's own particular invention and pet; he\nscarcely ever used it except when hard pressed, but then out it came,\nand as sure as it did, over went poor Tom. He thought about that fall\nat his meals, in his walks, when he lay awake in bed, in his dreams, but\nall to no purpose, until Harry one day in his open way suggested to him\nhow he thought it should be met; and in a week from that time the boys\nwere equal, save only the slight difference of strength in Harry's\nfavour, which some extra ten months of age gave. Tom had often\nafterwards reason to be thankful for that early drilling, and above all,\nfor having mastered Harry Winburn's fall.\n\nBesides their home games, on Saturdays the boys would wander all over\nthe neighbourhood; sometimes to the downs, or up to the camp, where\nthey cut their initials out in the springy turf, and watched the hawks\nsoaring, and the \"peert\" bird, as Harry Winburn called the gray plover,\ngorgeous in his wedding feathers; and so home, racing down the Manger\nwith many a roll among the thistles, or through Uffington Wood to watch\nthe fox cubs playing in the green rides; sometimes to Rosy Brook, to cut\nlong whispering reeds which grew there, to make pan-pipes of; sometimes\nto Moor Mills, where was a piece of old forest land, with short browsed\nturf and tufted brambly thickets stretching under the oaks, amongst\nwhich rumour declared that a raven, last of his race, still lingered;\nor to the sand-hills, in vain quest of rabbits; and bird-nesting in the\nseason, anywhere and everywhere.\n\nThe few neighbours of the Squire's own rank every now and then would\nshrug their shoulders as they drove or rode by a party of boys with Tom\nin the middle, carrying along bulrushes or whispering reeds, or great\nbundles of cowslip and meadow-sweet, or young starlings or magpies, or\nother spoil of wood, brook, or meadow; and Lawyer Red-tape might mutter\nto Squire Straight-back at the Board that no good would come of the\nyoung Browns, if they were let run wild with all the dirty village boys,\nwhom the best farmers' sons even would not play with. And the squire\nmight reply with a shake of his head that his sons only mixed with\ntheir equals, and never went into the village without the governess or\na footman. But, luckily, Squire Brown was full as stiffbacked as\nhis neighbours, and so went on his own way; and Tom and his younger\nbrothers, as they grew up, went on playing with the village boys,\nwithout the idea of equality or inequality (except in wrestling,\nrunning, and climbing) ever entering their heads; as it doesn't till\nit's put there by Jack Nastys or fine ladies' maids.\n\nI don't mean to say it would be the case in all villages, but it\ncertainly was so in this one: the village boys were full as manly and\nhonest, and certainly purer, than those in a higher rank; and Tom got\nmore harm from his equals in his first fortnight at a private school,\nwhere he went when he was nine years old, than he had from his village\nfriends from the day he left Charity's apron-strings.\n\nGreat was the grief amongst the village school-boys when Tom drove off\nwith the Squire, one August morning, to meet the coach on his way to\nschool. Each of them had given him some little present of the best that\nhe had, and his small private box was full of peg-taps, white marbles\n(called \"alley-taws\" in the Vale), screws, birds' eggs, whip-cord,\njews-harps, and other miscellaneous boys' wealth. Poor Jacob\nDoodle-calf, in floods of tears, had pressed upon him with spluttering\nearnestness his lame pet hedgehog (he had always some poor broken-down\nbeast or bird by him); but this Tom had been obliged to refuse, by the\nSquire's order. He had given them all a great tea under the big elm in\ntheir playground, for which Madam Brown had supplied the biggest cake\never seen in our village; and Tom was really as sorry to leave them\nas they to lose him, but his sorrow was not unmixed with the pride and\nexcitement of making a new step in life.\n\nAnd this feeling carried him through his first parting with his mother\nbetter than could have been expected. Their love was as fair and whole\nas human love can be--perfect self-sacrifice on the one side meeting\na young and true heart on the other. It is not within the scope of my\nbook, however, to speak of family relations, or I should have much to\nsay on the subject of English mothers--ay, and of English fathers, and\nsisters, and brothers too. Neither have I room to speak of our private\nschools. What I have to say is about public schools--those much-abused\nand much-belauded institutions peculiar to England. So we must hurry\nthrough Master Tom's year at a private school as fast as we can.\n\nIt was a fair average specimen, kept by a gentleman, with another\ngentleman as second master; but it was little enough of the real work\nthey did--merely coming into school when lessons were prepared and all\nready to be heard. The whole discipline of the school out of lesson\nhours was in the hands of the two ushers, one of whom was always with\nthe boys in their playground, in the school, at meals--in fact, at all\ntimes and every where, till they were fairly in bed at night.\n\nNow the theory of private schools is (or was) constant supervision out\nof school--therein differing fundamentally from that of public schools.\n\nIt may be right or wrong; but if right, this supervision surely ought\nto be the especial work of the head-master, the responsible person. The\nobject of all schools is not to ram Latin and Greek into boys, but to\nmake them good English boys, good future citizens; and by far the most\nimportant part of that work must be done, or not done, out of school\nhours. To leave it, therefore, in the hands of inferior men, is just\ngiving up the highest and hardest part of the work of education. Were I\na private school-master, I should say, Let who will hear the boys their\nlessons, but let me live with them when they are at play and rest.\n\nThe two ushers at Tom's first school were not gentlemen, and very poorly\neducated, and were only driving their poor trade of usher to get such\nliving as they could out of it. They were not bad men, but had little\nheart for their work, and of course were bent on making it as easy as\npossible. One of the methods by which they endeavoured to accomplish\nthis was by encouraging tale-bearing, which had become a frightfully\ncommon vice in the school in consequence, and had sapped all the\nfoundations of school morality. Another was, by favouring grossly the\nbiggest boys, who alone could have given them much trouble; whereby\nthose young gentlemen became most abominable tyrants, oppressing the\nlittle boys in all the small mean ways which prevail in private schools.\n\nPoor little Tom was made dreadfully unhappy in his first week by a\ncatastrophe which happened to his first letter home. With huge labour he\nhad, on the very evening of his arrival, managed to fill two sides of\na sheet of letter-paper with assurances of his love for dear mamma, his\nhappiness at school, and his resolves to do all she would wish. This\nmissive, with the help of the boy who sat at the desk next him, also a\nnew arrival, he managed to fold successfully; but this done, they were\nsadly put to it for means of sealing. Envelopes were then unknown;\nthey had no wax, and dared not disturb the stillness of the evening\nschool-room by getting up and going to ask the usher for some. At length\nTom's friend, being of an ingenious turn of mind, suggested sealing with\nink; and the letter was accordingly stuck down with a blob of ink, and\nduly handed by Tom, on his way to bed, to the housekeeper to be posted.\nIt was not till four days afterwards that the good dame sent for him,\nand produced the precious letter and some wax, saying, \"O Master Brown,\nI forgot to tell you before, but your letter isn't sealed.\" Poor Tom\ntook the wax in silence and sealed his letter, with a huge lump rising\nin his throat during the process, and then ran away to a quiet corner of\nthe playground, and burst into an agony of tears. The idea of his mother\nwaiting day after day for the letter he had promised her at once, and\nperhaps thinking him forgetful of her, when he had done all in his power\nto make good his promise, was as bitter a grief as any which he had\nto undergo for many a long year. His wrath, then, was proportionately\nviolent when he was aware of two boys, who stopped close by him, and one\nof whom, a fat gaby of a fellow, pointed at him and called him \"Young\nmammy-sick!\" Whereupon Tom arose, and giving vent thus to his grief and\nshame and rage, smote his derider on the nose; and made it bleed;\nwhich sent that young worthy howling to the usher, who reported Tom for\nviolent and unprovoked assault and battery. Hitting in the face was a\nfelony punishable with flogging, other hitting only a misdemeanour--a\ndistinction not altogether clear in principle. Tom, however, escaped the\npenalty by pleading primum tempus; and having written a second letter\nto his mother, inclosing some forget-me-nots, which he picked on their\nfirst half-holiday walk, felt quite happy again, and began to enjoy\nvastly a good deal of his new life.\n\nThese half-holiday walks were the great events of the week. The whole\nfifty boys started after dinner with one of the ushers for Hazeldown,\nwhich was distant some mile or so from the school. Hazeldown measured\nsome three miles round, and in the neighbourhood were several woods full\nof all manner of birds and butterflies. The usher walked slowly round\nthe down with such boys as liked to accompany him; the rest scattered\nin all directions, being only bound to appear again when the usher\nhad completed his round, and accompany him home. They were forbidden,\nhowever, to go anywhere except on the down and into the woods; the\nvillage had been especially prohibited, where huge bull's-eyes and\nunctuous toffy might be procured in exchange for coin of the realm.\n\nVarious were the amusements to which the boys then betook themselves. At\nthe entrance of the down there was a steep hillock, like the barrows of\nTom's own downs. This mound was the weekly scene of terrific combats,\nat a game called by the queer name of \"mud-patties.\" The boys who played\ndivided into sides under different leaders, and one side occupied the\nmound. Then, all parties having provided themselves with many sods of\nturf, cut with their bread-and-cheese knives, the side which remained\nat the bottom proceeded to assault the mound, advancing up on all sides\nunder cover of a heavy fire of turfs, and then struggling for victory\nwith the occupants, which was theirs as soon as they could, even for a\nmoment, clear the summit, when they in turn became the besieged. It\nwas a good, rough, dirty game, and of great use in counteracting the\nsneaking tendencies of the school. Then others of the boys spread over\nthe downs, looking for the holes of humble-bees and mice, which they\ndug up without mercy, often (I regret to say) killing and skinning the\nunlucky mice, and (I do not regret to say) getting well stung by the\nbumble-bees. Others went after butterflies and birds' eggs in their\nseasons; and Tom found on Hazeldown, for the first time, the beautiful\nlittle blue butterfly with golden spots on his wings, which he had never\nseen on his own downs, and dug out his first sand-martin's nest. This\nlatter achievement resulted in a flogging, for the sand-martins built in\na high bank close to the village, consequently out of bounds; but one of\nthe bolder spirits of the school, who never could be happy unless he\nwas doing something to which risk was attached, easily persuaded Tom to\nbreak bounds and visit the martins' bank. From whence it being only a\nstep to the toffy shop, what could be more simple than to go on there\nand fill their pockets; or what more certain than that on their return,\na distribution of treasure having been made, the usher should shortly\ndetect the forbidden smell of bull's-eyes, and, a search ensuing,\ndiscover the state of the breeches-pockets of Tom and his ally?\n\nThis ally of Tom's was indeed a desperate hero in the sight of the boys,\nand feared as one who dealt in magic, or something approaching thereto.\nWhich reputation came to him in this wise. The boys went to bed at\neight, and, of course, consequently lay awake in the dark for an hour or\ntwo, telling ghost-stories by turns. One night when it came to his turn,\nand he had dried up their souls by his story, he suddenly declared that\nhe would make a fiery hand appear on the door; and to the astonishment\nand terror of the boys in his room, a hand, or something like it, in\npale light, did then and there appear. The fame of this exploit having\nspread to the other rooms, and being discredited there, the young\nnecromancer declared that the same wonder would appear in all the rooms\nin turn, which it accordingly did; and the whole circumstances having\nbeen privately reported to one of the ushers as usual, that functionary,\nafter listening about at the doors of the rooms, by a sudden descent\ncaught the performer in his night-shirt, with a box of phosphorus in his\nguilty hand. Lucifer-matches and all the present facilities for getting\nacquainted with fire were then unknown--the very name of phosphorus had\nsomething diabolic in it to the boy-mind; so Tom's ally, at the cost\nof a sound flogging, earned what many older folk covet much--the very\ndecided fear of most of his companions.\n\nHe was a remarkable boy, and by no means a bad one. Tom stuck to him\ntill he left, and got into many scrapes by so doing. But he was the\ngreat opponent of the tale-bearing habits of the school, and the open\nenemy of the ushers; and so worthy of all support.\n\nTom imbibed a fair amount of Latin and Greek at the school, but somehow,\non the whole, it didn't suit him, or he it, and in the holidays he was\nconstantly working the Squire to send him at once to a public school.\nGreat was his joy then, when in the middle of his third half-year, in\nOctober 183-, a fever broke out in the village, and the master having\nhimself slightly sickened of it, the whole of the boys were sent off at\na day's notice to their respective homes.\n\nThe Squire was not quite so pleased as Master Tom to see that young\ngentleman's brown, merry face appear at home, some two months before the\nproper time, for the Christmas holidays; and so, after putting on his\nthinking cap, he retired to his study and wrote several letters, the\nresult of which was that, one morning at the breakfast-table, about a\nfortnight after Tom's return, he addressed his wife with--\"My dear, I\nhave arranged that Tom shall go to Rugby at once, for the last six weeks\nof this half-year, instead of wasting them in riding and loitering about\nhome. It is very kind of the doctor to allow it. Will you see that his\nthings are all ready by Friday, when I shall take him up to town, and\nsend him down the next day by himself.\"\n\nMrs. Brown was prepared for the announcement, and merely suggested a\ndoubt whether Tom were yet old enough to travel by himself. However,\nfinding both father and son against her on this point, she gave in, like\na wise woman, and proceeded to prepare Tom's kit for his launch into a\npublic school.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV--THE STAGE COACH.\n\n\n     \"Let the steam-pot hiss till it's hot;\n     Give me the speed of the Tantivy trot.\"\n     Coaching Song, by R.E.E. Warburton, Esq.\n\n\"Now, sir, time to get up, if you please. Tally-ho coach for\nLeicester'll be round in half an hour, and don't wait for nobody.\" So\nspake the boots of the Peacock Inn Islington, at half-past two o'clock\non the morning of a day in the early part of November 183-, giving\nTom at the same time a shake by the shoulder, and then putting down a\ncandle; and carrying off his shoes to clean.\n\nTom and his father arrived in town from Berkshire the day before, and\nfinding, on inquiry, that the Birmingham coaches which ran from the city\ndid not pass through Rugby, but deposited their passengers at Dunchurch,\na village three miles distant on the main road, where said passengers\nhad to wait for the Oxford and Leicester coach in the evening, or to\ntake a post-chaise, had resolved that Tom should travel down by the\nTally-ho, which diverged from the main road and passed through Rugby\nitself. And as the Tally-ho was an early coach, they had driven out to\nthe Peacock to be on the road.\n\nTom had never been in London, and would have liked to have stopped at\nthe Belle Savage, where they had been put down by the Star, just at\ndusk, that he might have gone roving about those endless, mysterious,\ngas-lit streets, which, with their glare and hum and moving crowds,\nexcited him so that he couldn't talk even. But as soon as he found that\nthe Peacock arrangement would get him to Rugby by twelve o'clock in the\nday, whereas otherwise he wouldn't be there till the evening, all\nother plans melted away, his one absorbing aim being to become a public\nschool-boy as fast as possible, and six hours sooner or later seeming to\nhim of the most alarming importance.\n\nTom and his father had alighted at the Peacock at about seven in the\nevening; and having heard with unfeigned joy the paternal order, at the\nbar, of steaks and oyster-sauce for supper in half an hour, and seen\nhis father seated cozily by the bright fire in the coffee-room with the\npaper in his hand, Tom had run out to see about him, had wondered at all\nthe vehicles passing and repassing, and had fraternized with the boots\nand hostler, from whom he ascertained that the Tally-ho was a tip-top\ngoer--ten miles an hour including stoppages--and so punctual that all\nthe road set their clocks by her.\n\nThen being summoned to supper, he had regaled himself in one of the\nbright little boxes of the Peacock coffee-room, on the beef-steak\nand unlimited oyster-sauce and brown stout (tasted then for the first\ntime--a day to be marked for ever by Tom with a white stone); had at\nfirst attended to the excellent advice which his father was bestowing\non him from over his glass of steaming brandy-and-water, and then\nbegan nodding, from the united effects of the stout, the fire, and the\nlecture; till the Squire, observing Tom's state, and remembering that it\nwas nearly nine o'clock, and that the Tally-ho left at three, sent the\nlittle fellow off to the chambermaid, with a shake of the hand (Tom\nhaving stipulated in the morning before starting that kissing should now\ncease between them), and a few parting words:\n\n\"And now, Tom, my boy,\" said the Squire, \"remember you are going, at\nyour own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a\nyoung bear, with all your troubles before you--earlier than we should\nhave sent you perhaps. If schools are what they were in my time, you'll\nsee a great many cruel blackguard things done, and hear a deal of foul,\nbad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a brave and kind\nheart, and never listen to or say anything you wouldn't have your mother\nand sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed to come home, or we to\nsee you.\"\n\nThe allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather choky, and he would have\nliked to have hugged his father well, if it hadn't been for the recent\nstipulation.\n\nAs it was, he only squeezed his father's hand, and looked bravely up and\nsaid, \"I'll try, father.\"\n\n\"I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe?\n\n\"Yes,\" said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure.\n\n\"And your keys?\" said the Squire.\n\n\"All right,\" said Tom, diving into the other pocket.\n\n\"Well, then, good-night. God bless you! I'll tell boots to call you, and\nbe up to see you off.\"\n\nTom was carried off by the chambermaid in a brown study, from which he\nwas roused in a clean little attic, by that buxom person calling him a\nlittle darling and kissing him as she left the room; which indignity\nhe was too much surprised to resent. And still thinking of his father's\nlast words, and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and\nprayed that, come what might, he might never bring shame or sorrow on\nthe dear folk at home.\n\nIndeed, the Squire's last words deserved to have their effect, for they\nhad been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London\nhe had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting\nadvice--something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. By\nway of assisting meditation, he had even gone the length of taking out\nhis flint and steel and tinder, and hammering away for a quarter of an\nhour till he had manufactured a light for a long Trichinopoli cheroot,\nwhich he silently puffed, to the no small wonder of coachee, who was an\nold friend, and an institution on the Bath road, and who always expected\na talk on the prospects and doings, agricultural and social, of the\nwhole country, when he carried the Squire.\n\nTo condense the Squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows: \"I\nwon't tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he don't do\nthat for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go\ninto the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that.\nNever do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won't\nunderstand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him\nto mind his work, and say he's sent to school to make himself a good\nscholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for that--at any rate,\nnot for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the\ndigamma; no more does his mother. What is he sent to school for? Well,\npartly because he wanted so to go. If he'll only turn out a brave,\nhelpful, truth-telling Englishman, and a gentleman, and a Christian,\nthat's all I want,\" thought the Squire; and upon this view of the case\nhe framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited\nto his purpose.\n\nFor they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the\nsummons of boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At\nten minutes to three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings,\ncarrying his hat-box, coat, and comforter in his hand; and there he\nfound his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and a\nhard biscuit on the table.\n\n\"Now, then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink this. There's\nnothing like starting warm, old fellow.\"\n\nTom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked\nhimself into his shoes and his greatcoat, well warmed through--a\nPetersham coat with velvet collar, made tight after the abominable\nfashion of those days. And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful,\nwinding his comforter round his throat, and tucking the ends into the\nbreast of his coat, the horn sounds; boots looks in and says, \"Tally-ho,\nsir;\" and they hear the ring and the rattle of the four fast trotters\nand the town-made drag, as it dashes up to the Peacock.\n\n\"Anything for us, Bob?\" says the burly guard, dropping down from behind,\nand slapping himself across the chest.\n\n\"Young gen'lm'n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o' game,\nRugby,\" answers hostler.\n\n\"Tell young gent to look alive,\" says guard, opening the hind-boot and\nshooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps. \"Here; shove\nthe portmanteau up a-top. I'll fasten him presently.--Now then, sir,\njump up behind.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, father--my love at home.\" A last shake of the hand. Up goes\nTom, the guard catching his hatbox and holding on with one hand, while\nwith the other he claps the horn to his mouth. Toot, toot, toot! the\nhostlers let go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and\naway goes the Tally-ho into the darkness, forty-five seconds from the\ntime they pulled up. Hostler, boots, and the Squire stand looking after\nthem under the Peacock lamp.\n\n\"Sharp work!\" says the Squire, and goes in again to his bed, the coach\nbeing well out of sight and hearing.\n\nTom stands up on the coach and looks back at his father's figure as long\nas he can see it; and then the guard, having disposed of his luggage,\ncomes to an anchor, and finishes his buttonings and other preparations\nfor facing the three hours before dawn--no joke for those who minded\ncold, on a fast coach in November, in the reign of his late Majesty.\n\nI sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a deal tenderer\nfellows than we used to be. At any rate you're much more comfortable\ntravellers, for I see every one of you with his rug or plaid, and other\ndodges for preserving the caloric, and most of you going in, those\nfuzzy, dusty, padded first-class carriages. It was another affair\naltogether, a dark ride on the top of the Tally-ho, I can tell you, in a\ntight Petersham coat, and your feet dangling six inches from the floor.\nThen you knew what cold was, and what it was to be without legs, for not\na bit of feeling had you in them after the first half-hour. But it had\nits pleasures, the old dark ride. First there was the consciousness of\nsilent endurance, so dear to every Englishman--of standing out against\nsomething, and not giving in. Then there was the music of the rattling\nharness, and the ring of the horses' feet on the hard road, and the\nglare of the two bright lamps through the steaming hoar frost, over the\nleaders' ears, into the darkness, and the cheery toot of the guard's\nhorn, to warn some drowsy pikeman or the hostler at the next change; and\nthe looking forward to daylight; and last, but not least, the delight of\nreturning sensation in your toes.\n\nThen the break of dawn and the sunrise, where can they be ever seen in\nperfection but from a coach roof? You want motion and change and music\nto see them in their glory--not the music of singing men and singing\nwomen, but good, silent music, which sets itself in your own head, the\naccompaniment of work and getting over the ground.\n\nThe Tally-ho is past St. Albans, and Tom is enjoying the ride, though\nhalf-frozen. The guard, who is alone with him on the back of the coach,\nis silent, but has muffled Tom's feet up in straw, and put the end of an\noat-sack over his knees. The darkness has driven him inwards, and he\nhas gone over his little past life, and thought of all his doings and\npromises, and of his mother and sister, and his father's last words; and\nhas made fifty good resolutions, and means to bear himself like a brave\nBrown as he is, though a young one. Then he has been forward into the\nmysterious boy-future, speculating as to what sort of place Rugby is,\nand what they do there, and calling up all the stories of public schools\nwhich he has heard from big boys in the holidays. He is choke-full of\nhope and life, notwithstanding the cold, and kicks his heels against the\nback-board, and would like to sing, only he doesn't know how his friend\nthe silent guard might take it.\n\nAnd now the dawn breaks at the end of the fourth stage, and the coach\npulls up at a little roadside inn with huge stables behind. There is a\nbright fire gleaming through the red curtains of the bar window, and\nthe door is open. The coachman catches his whip into a double thong, and\nthrows it to the hostler; the steam of the horses rises straight up\ninto the air. He has put them along over the last two miles, and is two\nminutes before his time. He rolls down from the box and into the inn.\nThe guard rolls off behind. \"Now, sir,\" says he to Tom, \"you just jump\ndown, and I'll give you a drop of something to keep the cold out.\"\n\nTom finds a difficulty in jumping, or indeed in finding the top of the\nwheel with his feet, which may be in the next world for all he feels;\nso the guard picks him off the coach top, and sets him on his legs, and\nthey stump off into the bar, and join the coachman and the other outside\npassengers.\n\nHere a fresh-looking barmaid serves them each with a glass of early purl\nas they stand before the fire, coachman and guard exchanging business\nremarks. The purl warms the cockles of Tom's heart, and makes him cough.\n\n\"Rare tackle that, sir, of a cold morning,\" says the coachman, smiling.\n\"Time's up.\" They are out again and up; coachee the last, gathering the\nreins into his hands and talking to Jem the hostler about the mare's\nshoulder, and then swinging himself up on to the box--the horses dashing\noff in a canter before he falls into his seat. Toot-toot-tootle-too goes\nthe horn, and away they are again, five-and-thirty miles on their road\n(nearly half-way to Rugby, thinks Tom), and the prospect of breakfast at\nthe end of the stage.\n\nAnd now they begin to see, and the early life of the country-side comes\nout--a market cart or two; men in smock-frocks going to their work, pipe\nin mouth, a whiff of which is no bad smell this bright morning. The sun\ngets up, and the mist shines like silver gauze. They pass the hounds\njogging along to a distant meet, at the heels of the huntsman's back,\nwhose face is about the colour of the tails of his old pink, as he\nexchanges greetings with coachman and guard. Now they pull up at a\nlodge, and take on board a well-muffled-up sportsman, with his gun-case\nand carpet-bag, An early up-coach meets them, and the coachmen gather\nup their horses, and pass one another with the accustomed lift of the\nelbow, each team doing eleven miles an hour, with a mile to spare behind\nif necessary. And here comes breakfast.\n\n\"Twenty minutes here, gentlemen,\" says the coachman, as they pull up at\nhalf-past seven at the inn-door.\n\nHave we not endured nobly this morning? and is not this a worthy reward\nfor much endurance? There is the low, dark wainscoted room hung with\nsporting prints; the hat-stand (with a whip or two standing up in it\nbelonging to bagmen who are still snug in bed) by the door; the blazing\nfire, with the quaint old glass over the mantelpiece, in which is stuck\na large card with the list of the meets for the week of the county\nhounds; the table covered with the whitest of cloths and of china, and\nbearing a pigeon-pie, ham, round of cold boiled beef cut from a mammoth\nox, and the great loaf of household bread on a wooden trencher. And\nhere comes in the stout head waiter, puffing under a tray of hot\nviands--kidneys and a steak, transparent rashers and poached eggs,\nbuttered toast and muffins, coffee and tea, all smoking hot. The table\ncan never hold it all. The cold meats are removed to the sideboard--they\nwere only put on for show and to give us an appetite. And now fall on,\ngentlemen all. It is a well-known sporting-house, and the breakfasts are\nfamous. Two or three men in pink, on their way to the meet, drop in, and\nare very jovial and sharp-set, as indeed we all are.\n\n\"Tea or coffee, sir?\" says head waiter, coming round to Tom.\n\n\"Coffee, please,\" says Tom, with his mouth full of muffin and kidney.\nCoffee is a treat to him, tea is not.\n\nOur coachman, I perceive, who breakfasts with us, is a cold beef man.\nHe also eschews hot potations, and addicts himself to a tankard of ale,\nwhich is brought him by the barmaid. Sportsman looks on approvingly, and\norders a ditto for himself.\n\nTom has eaten kidney and pigeon-pie, and imbibed coffee, till his little\nskin is as tight as a drum; and then has the further pleasure of paying\nhead waiter out of his own purse, in a dignified manner, and walks out\nbefore the inn-door to see the horses put to. This is done leisurely and\nin a highly-finished manner by the hostlers, as if they enjoyed the not\nbeing hurried. Coachman comes out with his waybill, and puffing a fat\ncigar which the sportsman has given him. Guard emerges from the tap,\nwhere he prefers breakfasting, licking round a tough-looking doubtful\ncheroot, which you might tie round your finger, and three whiffs of\nwhich would knock any one else out of time.\n\nThe pinks stand about the inn-door lighting cigars and waiting to see us\nstart, while their hacks are led up and down the market-place, on which\nthe inn looks. They all know our sportsman, and we feel a reflected\ncredit when we see him chatting and laughing with them.\n\n\"Now, sir, please,\" says the coachman. All the rest of the passengers\nare up; the guard is locking up the hind-boot.\n\n\"A good run to you!\" says the sportsman to the pinks, and is by the\ncoachman's side in no time.\n\n\"Let 'em go, Dick!\" The hostlers fly back, drawing off the cloths from\ntheir glossy loins, and away we go through the market-place and down the\nHigh Street, looking in at the first-floor windows, and seeing several\nworthy burgesses shaving thereat; while all the shopboys who are\ncleaning the windows, and housemaids who are doing the steps, stop and\nlook pleased as we rattle past, as if we were a part of their legitimate\nmorning's amusement. We clear the town, and are well out between the\nhedgerows again as the town clock strikes eight.\n\nThe sun shines almost warmly, and breakfast has oiled all springs\nand loosened all tongues. Tom is encouraged by a remark or two of the\nguard's between the puffs of his oily cheroot, and besides is getting\ntired of not talking. He is too full of his destination to talk about\nanything else, and so asks the guard if he knows Rugby.\n\n\"Goes through it every day of my life. Twenty minutes afore twelve\ndown--ten o'clock up.\"\n\n\"What sort of place is it, please?\" says Tom.\n\nGuard looks at him with a comical expression. \"Werry out-o'-the-way\nplace, sir; no paving to streets, nor no lighting. 'Mazin' big horse and\ncattle fair in autumn--lasts a week--just over now. Takes town a week to\nget clean after it. Fairish hunting country. But slow place, sir, slow\nplace-off the main road, you see--only three coaches a day, and one on\n'em a two-oss wan, more like a hearse nor a coach--Regulator--comes from\nOxford. Young genl'm'n at school calls her Pig and Whistle, and goes up\nto college by her (six miles an hour) when they goes to enter. Belong to\nschool, sir?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" says Tom, not unwilling for a moment that the guard should think\nhim an old boy. But then, having some qualms as to the truth of the\nassertion, and seeing that if he were to assume the character of an old\nboy he couldn't go on asking the questions he wanted, added--\"That is to\nsay, I'm on my way there. I'm a new boy.\"\n\nThe guard looked as if he knew this quite as well as Tom.\n\n\"You're werry late, sir,\" says the guard; \"only six weeks to-day to the\nend of the half.\" Tom assented. \"We takes up fine loads this day six\nweeks, and Monday and Tuesday arter. Hopes we shall have the pleasure of\ncarrying you back.\"\n\nTom said he hoped they would; but he thought within himself that his\nfate would probably be the Pig and Whistle.\n\n\"It pays uncommon cert'nly,\" continues the guard. \"Werry free with their\ncash is the young genl'm'n. But, Lor' bless you, we gets into such rows\nall 'long the road, what wi' their pea-shooters, and long whips, and\nhollering, and upsetting every one as comes by, I'd a sight sooner\ncarry one or two on 'em, sir, as I may be a-carryin' of you now, than a\ncoach-load.\"\n\n\"What do they do with the pea-shooters?\" inquires Tom.\n\n\"Do wi' 'em! Why, peppers every one's faces as we comes near, 'cept the\nyoung gals, and breaks windows wi' them too, some on 'em shoots so hard.\nNow 'twas just here last June, as we was a-driving up the first-day\nboys, they was mendin' a quarter-mile of road, and there was a lot of\nIrish chaps, reg'lar roughs, a-breaking stones. As we comes up, 'Now,\nboys,' says young gent on the box (smart young fellow and desper't\nreckless), 'here's fun! Let the Pats have it about the ears.' 'God's\nsake sir!' says Bob (that's my mate the coachman); 'don't go for to\nshoot at 'em. They'll knock us off the coach.' 'Damme, coachee,' says\nyoung my lord, 'you ain't afraid.--Hoora, boys! let 'em have it.'\n'Hoora!' sings out the others, and fill their mouths choke-full of peas\nto last the whole line. Bob, seeing as 'twas to come, knocks his hat\nover his eyes, hollers to his osses, and shakes 'em up; and away we goes\nup to the line on 'em, twenty miles an hour. The Pats begin to hoora\ntoo, thinking it was a runaway; and first lot on 'em stands grinnin'\nand wavin' their old hats as we comes abreast on 'em; and then you'd ha'\nlaughed to see how took aback and choking savage they looked, when they\ngets the peas a-stinging all over 'em. But bless you, the laugh weren't\nall of our side, sir, by a long way. We was going so fast, and they was\nso took aback, that they didn't take what was up till we was half-way\nup the line. Then 'twas, 'Look out all!' surely. They howls all down the\nline fit to frighten you; some on 'em runs arter us and tries to clamber\nup behind, only we hits 'em over the fingers and pulls their hands off;\none as had had it very sharp act'ly runs right at the leaders, as though\nhe'd ketch 'em by the heads, only luck'ly for him he misses his tip and\ncomes over a heap o' stones first. The rest picks up stones, and gives\nit us right away till we gets out of shot, the young gents holding out\nwerry manful with the pea-shooters and such stones as lodged on us, and\na pretty many there was too. Then Bob picks hisself up again, and looks\nat young gent on box werry solemn. Bob'd had a rum un in the ribs,\nwhich'd like to ha' knocked him off the box, or made him drop the reins.\nYoung gent on box picks hisself up, and so does we all, and looks round\nto count damage. Box's head cut open and his hat gone; 'nother young\ngent's hat gone; mine knocked in at the side, and not one on us as\nwasn't black and blue somewheres or another, most on 'em all over. Two\npound ten to pay for damage to paint, which they subscribed for there\nand then, and give Bob and me a extra half-sovereign each; but I\nwouldn't go down that line again not for twenty half-sovereigns.\" And\nthe guard shook his head slowly, and got up and blew a clear, brisk\ntoot-toot.\n\n\"What fun!\" said Tom, who could scarcely contain his pride at this\nexploit of his future school-fellows. He longed already for the end of\nthe half, that he might join them.\n\n\"'Taint such good fun, though, sir, for the folk as meets the coach, nor\nfor we who has to go back with it next day. Them Irishers last summer\nhad all got stones ready for us, and was all but letting drive, and we'd\ngot two reverend gents aboard too. We pulled up at the beginning of\nthe line, and pacified them, and we're never going to carry no more\npea-shooters, unless they promises not to fire where there's a line of\nIrish chaps a-stonebreaking.\" The guard stopped and pulled away at his\ncheroot, regarding Tom benignantly the while.\n\n\"Oh, don't stop! Tell us something more about the pea-shooting.\"\n\n\"Well, there'd like to have been a pretty piece of work over it at\nBicester, a while back. We was six mile from the town, when we meets an\nold square-headed gray-haired yeoman chap, a-jogging along quite quiet.\nHe looks up at the coach, and just then a pea hits him on the nose, and\nsome catches his cob behind and makes him dance up on his hind legs. I\nsee'd the old boy's face flush and look plaguy awkward, and I thought we\nwas in for somethin' nasty.\n\n\"He turns his cob's head and rides quietly after us just out of shot.\nHow that 'ere cob did step! We never shook him off not a dozen yards\nin the six miles. At first the young gents was werry lively on him; but\nafore we got in, seeing how steady the old chap come on, they was quite\nquiet, and laid their heads together what they should do. Some was for\nfighting, some for axing his pardon. He rides into the town close after\nus, comes up when we stops, and says the two as shot at him must come\nbefore a magistrate; and a great crowd comes round, and we couldn't get\nthe osses to. But the young uns they all stand by one another, and says\nall or none must go, and as how they'd fight it out, and have to be\ncarried. Just as 'twas gettin' serious, and the old boy and the mob was\ngoing to pull 'em off the coach, one little fellow jumps up and says,\n'Here--I'll stay. I'm only going three miles farther. My father's name's\nDavis; he's known about here, and I'll go before the magistrate with\nthis gentleman.' 'What! be thee parson Davis's son?' says the old boy.\n'Yes,' says the young un. 'Well, I be mortal sorry to meet thee in such\ncompany; but for thy father's sake and thine (for thee bist a brave\nyoung chap) I'll say no more about it.' Didn't the boys cheer him, and\nthe mob cheered the young chap; and then one of the biggest gets down,\nand begs his pardon werry gentlemanly for all the rest, saying as they\nall had been plaguy vexed from the first, but didn't like to ax his\npardon till then, 'cause they felt they hadn't ought to shirk the\nconsequences of their joke. And then they all got down, and shook hands\nwith the old boy, and asked him to all parts of the country, to their\nhomes; and we drives off twenty minutes behind time, with cheering and\nhollering as if we was county 'members. But, Lor' bless you, sir,\" says\nthe guard, smacking his hand down on his knee and looking full into\nTom's face, \"ten minutes arter they was all as bad as ever.\"\n\nTom showed such undisguised and open-mouthed interest in his narrations\nthat the old guard rubbed up his memory, and launched out into a graphic\nhistory of all the performances of the boys on the roads for the last\ntwenty years. Off the road he couldn't go; the exploit must have been\nconnected with horses or vehicles to hang in the old fellow's head. Tom\ntried him off his own ground once or twice, but found he knew nothing\nbeyond, and so let him have his head, and the rest of the road bowled\neasily away; for old Blow-hard (as the boys called him) was a dry old\nfile, with much kindness and humour, and a capital spinner of a yarn\nwhen he had broken the neck of his day's work, and got plenty of ale\nunder his belt.\n\nWhat struck Tom's youthful imagination most was the desperate and\nlawless character of most of the stories. Was the guard hoaxing him? He\ncouldn't help hoping that they were true. It's very odd how almost all\nEnglish boys love danger. You can get ten to join a game, or climb a\ntree, or swim a stream, when there's a chance of breaking their limbs or\ngetting drowned, for one who'll stay on level ground, or in his depth,\nor play quoits or bowls.\n\nThe guard had just finished an account of a desperate fight which had\nhappened at one of the fairs between the drovers and the farmers with\ntheir whips, and the boys with cricket-bats and wickets, which arose out\nof a playful but objectionable practice of the boys going round to the\npublic-houses and taking the linch-pins out of the wheels of the gigs,\nand was moralizing upon the way in which the Doctor, \"a terrible stern\nman he'd heard tell,\" had come down upon several of the performers,\n\"sending three on 'em off next morning in a po-shay with a parish\nconstable,\" when they turned a corner and neared the milestone, the\nthird from Rugby. By the stone two boys stood, their jackets buttoned\ntight, waiting for the coach.\n\n\"Look here, sir,\" says the guard, after giving a sharp toot-toot;\n\"there's two on 'em; out-and-out runners they be. They comes out about\ntwice or three times a week, and spirts a mile alongside of us.\"\n\nAnd as they came up, sure enough, away went two boys along the footpath,\nkeeping up with the horses--the first a light, clean-made fellow going\non springs; the other stout and round-shouldered, labouring in his pace,\nbut going as dogged as a bull-terrier.\n\nOld Blow-hard looked on admiringly. \"See how beautiful that there un\nholds hisself together, and goes from his hips, sir,\" said he; \"he's a\n'mazin' fine runner. Now many coachmen as drives a first-rate team'd\nput it on, and try and pass 'em. But Bob, sir, bless you, he's\ntender-hearted; he'd sooner pull in a bit if he see'd 'em a-gettin'\nbeat. I do b'lieve, too, as that there un'd sooner break his heart than\nlet us go by him afore next milestone.\"\n\nAt the second milestone the boys pulled up short, and waved their\nhats to the guard, who had his watch out and shouted \"4.56,\" thereby\nindicating that the mile had been done in four seconds under the five\nminutes. They passed several more parties of boys, all of them objects\nof the deepest interest to Tom, and came in sight of the town at ten\nminutes before twelve. Tom fetched a long breath, and thought he had\nnever spent a pleasanter day. Before he went to bed he had quite settled\nthat it must be the greatest day he should ever spend, and didn't alter\nhis opinion for many a long year--if he has yet.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V--RUGBY AND FOOTBALL.\n\n\n     \"Foot and eye opposed\n     In dubious strife.\"--Scott.\n\n\"And so here's Rugby, sir, at last, and you'll be in plenty of time\nfor dinner at the School-house, as I telled you,\" said the old guard,\npulling his horn out of its case and tootle-tooing away, while the\ncoachman shook up his horses, and carried them along the side of the\nschool close, round Dead-man's corner, past the school-gates, and down\nthe High Street to the Spread Eagle, the wheelers in a spanking trot,\nand leaders cantering, in a style which would not have disgraced \"Cherry\nBob,\" \"ramping, stamping, tearing, swearing Billy Harwood,\" or any other\nof the old coaching heroes.\n\nTom's heart beat quick as he passed the great schoolfield or close, with\nits noble elms, in which several games at football were going on, and\ntried to take in at once the long line of gray buildings, beginning\nwith the chapel, and ending with the School-house, the residence of the\nhead-master, where the great flag was lazily waving from the highest\nround tower. And he began already to be proud of being a Rugby boy, as\nhe passed the schoolgates, with the oriel window above, and saw the boys\nstanding there, looking as if the town belonged to them, and nodding in\na familiar manner to the coachman, as if any one of them would be quite\nequal to getting on the box, and working the team down street as well as\nhe.\n\nOne of the young heroes, however, ran out from the rest, and scrambled\nup behind; where, having righted himself, and nodded to the guard, with\n\"How do, Jem?\" he turned short round to Tom, and after looking him over\nfor a minute, began,--\n\n\"I say, you fellow, is your name Brown?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Tom, in considerable astonishment, glad, however, to have\nlighted on some one already who seemed to know him.\n\n\"Ah, I thought so. You know my old aunt, Miss East. She lives somewhere\ndown your way in Berkshire. She wrote to me that you were coming to-day,\nand asked me to give you a lift.\"\n\nTom was somewhat inclined to resent the patronizing air of his new\nfriend, a boy of just about his own height and age, but gifted with\nthe most transcendent coolness and assurance, which Tom felt to be\naggravating and hard to bear, but couldn't for the life of him help\nadmiring and envying--especially when young my lord begins hectoring\ntwo or three long loafing fellows, half porter, half stableman, with\na strong touch of the blackguard, and in the end arranges with one of\nthem, nicknamed Cooey, to carry Tom's luggage up to the School-house for\nsixpence.\n\n\"And hark 'ee, Cooey; it must be up in ten minutes, or no more jobs from\nme. Come along, Brown.\" And away swaggers the young potentate, with his\nhands in his pockets, and Tom at his side.\n\n\"All right, sir,\" says Cooey, touching his hat, with a leer and a wink\nat his companions.\n\n\"Hullo though,\" says East, pulling up, and taking another look at Tom;\n\"this'll never do. Haven't you got a hat? We never wear caps here. Only\nthe louts wear caps. Bless you, if you were to go into the quadrangle\nwith that thing on, I don't know what'd happen.\" The very idea was quite\nbeyond young Master East, and he looked unutterable things.\n\nTom thought his cap a very knowing affair, but confessed that he had\na hat in his hat-box; which was accordingly at once extracted from the\nhind-boot, and Tom equipped in his go-to-meeting roof, as his new friend\ncalled it. But this didn't quite suit his fastidious taste in another\nminute, being too shiny; so, as they walk up the town, they dive into\nNixon's the hatter's, and Tom is arrayed, to his utter astonishment, and\nwithout paying for it, in a regulation cat-skin at seven-and-sixpence,\nNixon undertaking to send the best hat up to the matron's room,\nSchool-house, in half an hour.\n\n\"You can send in a note for a tile on Monday, and make it all right, you\nknow,\" said Mentor; \"we're allowed two seven-and-sixers a half, besides\nwhat we bring from home.\"\n\nTom by this time began to be conscious of his new social position and\ndignities, and to luxuriate in the realized ambition of being a public\nschool-boy at last, with a vested right of spoiling two seven-and-sixers\nin half a year.\n\n\"You see,\" said his friend, as they strolled up towards the\nschool-gates, in explanation of his conduct, \"a great deal depends on\nhow a fellow cuts up at first. If he's got nothing odd about him, and\nanswers straightforward, and holds his head up, he gets on. Now, you'll\ndo very well as to rig, all but that cap. You see I'm doing the handsome\nthing by you, because my father knows yours; besides, I want to please\nthe old lady. She gave me half a sov. this half, and perhaps'll double\nit next, if I keep in her good books.\"\n\nThere's nothing for candour like a lower-school boy, and East was a\ngenuine specimen--frank, hearty, and good-natured, well-satisfied with\nhimself and his position, and choke-full of life and spirits, and\nall the Rugby prejudices and traditions which he had been able to get\ntogether in the long course of one half-year during which he had been at\nthe School-house.\n\nAnd Tom, notwithstanding his bumptiousness, felt friends with him at\nonce, and began sucking in all his ways and prejudices, as fast as he\ncould understand them.\n\nEast was great in the character of cicerone. He carried Tom through\nthe great gates, where were only two or three boys. These satisfied\nthemselves with the stock questions, \"You fellow, what's your name?\nWhere do you come from? How old are you? Where do you board?\" and, \"What\nform are you in?\" And so they passed on through the quadrangle and\na small courtyard, upon which looked down a lot of little windows\n(belonging, as his guide informed him, to some of the School-house\nstudies), into the matron's room, where East introduced Tom to that\ndignitary; made him give up the key of his trunk, that the matron might\nunpack his linen, and told the story of the hat and of his own presence\nof mind: upon the relation whereof the matron laughingly scolded him for\nthe coolest new boy in the house; and East, indignant at the accusation\nof newness, marched Tom off into the quadrangle, and began showing\nhim the schools, and examining him as to his literary attainments; the\nresult of which was a prophecy that they would be in the same form, and\ncould do their lessons together.\n\n\"And now come in and see my study--we shall have just time before\ndinner; and afterwards, before calling over, we'll do the close.\"\n\nTom followed his guide through the School-house hall, which opens into\nthe quadrangle. It is a great room, thirty feet long and eighteen high,\nor thereabouts, with two great tables running the whole length, and\ntwo large fireplaces at the side, with blazing fires in them, at one of\nwhich some dozen boys were standing and lounging, some of whom shouted\nto East to stop; but he shot through with his convoy, and landed him\nin the long, dark passages, with a large fire at the end of each, upon\nwhich the studies opened. Into one of these, in the bottom passage, East\nbolted with our hero, slamming and bolting the door behind them, in\ncase of pursuit from the hall, and Tom was for the first time in a Rugby\nboy's citadel.\n\nHe hadn't been prepared for separate studies, and was not a little\nastonished and delighted with the palace in question.\n\nIt wasn't very large, certainly, being about six feet long by four\nbroad. It couldn't be called light, as there were bars and a grating to\nthe window; which little precautions were necessary in the studies on\nthe ground-floor looking out into the close, to prevent the exit of\nsmall boys after locking up, and the entrance of contraband articles.\nBut it was uncommonly comfortable to look at, Tom thought. The space\nunder the window at the farther end was occupied by a square table\ncovered with a reasonably clean and whole red and blue check tablecloth;\na hard-seated sofa covered with red stuff occupied one side, running up\nto the end, and making a seat for one, or by sitting close, for two, at\nthe table and a good stout wooden chair afforded a seat to another boy,\nso that three could sit and work together. The walls were wainscoted\nhalf-way up, the wainscot being covered with green baize, the remainder\nwith a bright-patterned paper, on which hung three or four prints of\ndogs' heads; Grimaldi winning the Aylesbury steeple-chase; Amy Robsart,\nthe reigning Waverley beauty of the day; and Tom Crib, in a posture\nof defence, which did no credit to the science of that hero, if truly\nrepresented. Over the door were a row of hat-pegs, and on each side\nbookcases with cupboards at the bottom, shelves and cupboards being\nfilled indiscriminately with school-books, a cup or two, a\nmouse-trap and candlesticks, leather straps, a fustian bag, and some\ncurious-looking articles which puzzled Tom not a little, until his\nfriend explained that they were climbing-irons, and showed their use. A\ncricket-bat and small fishing-rod stood up in one corner.\n\nThis was the residence of East and another boy in the same form, and had\nmore interest for Tom than Windsor Castle, or any other residence in\nthe British Isles. For was he not about to become the joint owner of a\nsimilar home, the first place he could call his own? One's own! What a\ncharm there is in the words! How long it takes boy and man to find\nout their worth! How fast most of us hold on to them--faster and more\njealously, the nearer we are to that general home into which we can\ntake nothing, but must go naked as we came into the world! When shall we\nlearn that he who multiplieth possessions multiplieth troubles, and that\nthe one single use of things which we call our own is that they may be\nhis who hath need of them?\n\n\"And shall I have a study like this too?\" said Tom.\n\n\"Yes, of course; you'll be chummed with some fellow on Monday, and you\ncan sit here till then.\"\n\n\"What nice places!\"\n\n\"They're well enough,\" answered East, patronizingly, \"only uncommon cold\nat nights sometimes. Gower--that's my chum--and I make a fire with paper\non the floor after supper generally, only that makes it so smoky.\"\n\n\"But there's a big fire out in the passage,\" said Tom.\n\n\"Precious little we get out of that, though,\" said East. \"Jones the\nprepostor has the study at the fire end, and he has rigged up an iron\nrod and green baize curtain across the passage, which he draws at night,\nand sits there with his door open; so he gets all the fire, and hears if\nwe come out of our studies after eight, or make a noise. However, he's\ntaken to sitting in the fifth-form room lately, so we do get a bit of\nfire now sometimes; only to keep a sharp lookout that he don't catch you\nbehind his curtain when he comes down--that's all.\"\n\nA quarter past one now struck, and the bell began tolling for dinner; so\nthey went into the hall and took their places, Tom at the very bottom\nof the second table, next to the prepostor (who sat at the end to keep\norder there), and East a few paces higher. And now Tom for the first\ntime saw his future school-fellows in a body. In they came, some hot\nand ruddy from football or long walks, some pale and chilly from hard\nreading in their studies, some from loitering over the fire at\nthe pastrycook's, dainty mortals, bringing with them pickles and\nsaucebottles to help them with their dinners. And a great big-bearded\nman, whom Tom took for a master, began calling over the names, while the\ngreat joints were being rapidly carved on the third table in the\ncorner by the old verger and the housekeeper. Tom's turn came last, and\nmeanwhile he was all eyes, looking first with awe at the great man, who\nsat close to him, and was helped first, and who read a hard-looking book\nall the time he was eating; and when he got up and walked off to the\nfire, at the small boys round him, some of whom were reading, and the\nrest talking in whispers to one another, or stealing one another's\nbread, or shooting pellets, or digging their forks through the\ntablecloth. However, notwithstanding his curiosity, he managed to make\na capital dinner by the time the big man called \"Stand up!\" and said\ngrace.\n\nAs soon as dinner was over, and Tom had been questioned by such of his\nneighbours as were curious as to his birth, parentage, education, and\nother like matters, East, who evidently enjoyed his new dignity of\npatron and mentor, proposed having a look at the close, which Tom,\nathirst for knowledge, gladly assented to; and they went out through the\nquadrangle and past the big fives court, into the great playground.\n\n\"That's the chapel, you see,\" said East; \"and there, just behind it, is\nthe place for fights. You see it's most out of the way of the masters,\nwho all live on the other side, and don't come by here after first\nlesson or callings-over. That's when the fights come off. And all this\npart where we are is the little-side ground, right up to the trees; and\non the other side of the trees is the big-side ground, where the great\nmatches are played. And there's the island in the farthest corner;\nyou'll know that well enough next half, when there's island fagging. I\nsay, it's horrid cold; let's have a run across.\" And away went East, Tom\nclose behind him. East was evidently putting his best foot foremost; and\nTom, who was mighty proud of his running, and not a little anxious\nto show his friend that, although a new boy, he was no milksop, laid\nhimself down to work in his very best style. Right across the close they\nwent, each doing all he knew, and there wasn't a yard between them when\nthey pulled up at the island moat.\n\n\"I say,\" said East, as soon as he got his wind, looking with much\nincreased respect at Tom, \"you ain't a bad scud, not by no means. Well,\nI'm as warm as a toast now.\"\n\n\"But why do you wear white trousers in November?\" said Tom. He had been\nstruck by this peculiarity in the costume of almost all the School-house\nboys.\n\n\"Why, bless us, don't you know? No; I forgot. Why, to-day's the\nSchool-house match. Our house plays the whole of the School at football.\nAnd we all wear white trousers, to show 'em we don't care for hacks.\nYou're in luck to come to-day. You just will see a match; and Brooke's\ngoing to let me play in quarters. That's more than he'll do for any\nother lower-school boy, except James, and he's fourteen.\"\n\n\"Who's Brooke?\"\n\n\"Why, that big fellow who called over at dinner, to be sure. He's cock\nof the school, and head of the School-house side, and the best kick and\ncharger in Rugby.\"\n\n\"Oh, but do show me where they play. And tell me about it. I love\nfootball so, and have played all my life. Won't Brooke let me play?\"\n\n\"Not he,\" said East, with some indignation. \"Why, you don't know the\nrules; you'll be a month learning them. And then it's no joke playing-up\nin a match, I can tell you--quite another thing from your private school\ngames. Why, there's been two collar-bones broken this half, and a dozen\nfellows lamed. And last year a fellow had his leg broken.\"\n\nTom listened with the profoundest respect to this chapter of accidents,\nand followed East across the level ground till they came to a sort of\ngigantic gallows of two poles, eighteen feet high, fixed upright in the\nground some fourteen feet apart, with a cross-bar running from one to\nthe other at the height of ten feet or thereabouts.\n\n\"This is one of the goals,\" said East, \"and you see the other, across\nthere, right opposite, under the Doctor's wall. Well, the match is for\nthe best of three goals; whichever side kicks two goals wins: and it\nwon't do, you see, just to kick the ball through these posts--it must go\nover the cross-bar; any height'll do, so long as it's between the posts.\nYou'll have to stay in goal to touch the ball when it rolls behind the\nposts, because if the other side touch it they have a try at goal. Then\nwe fellows in quarters, we play just about in front of goal here, and\nhave to turn the ball and kick it back before the big fellows on the\nother side can follow it up. And in front of us all the big fellows\nplay, and that's where the scrummages are mostly.\"\n\nTom's respect increased as he struggled to make out his friend's\ntechnicalities, and the other set to work to explain the mysteries\nof \"off your side,\" \"drop-kicks,\" \"punts,\" \"places,\" and the other\nintricacies of the great science of football.\n\n\"But how do you keep the ball between the goals?\" said he; \"I can't see\nwhy it mightn't go right down to the chapel.\"\n\n\"Why; that's out of play,\" answered East. \"You see this gravel-walk\nrunning down all along this side of the playing-ground, and the line\nof elms opposite on the other? Well, they're the bounds. As soon as the\nball gets past them, it's in touch, and out of play. And then whoever\nfirst touches it has to knock it straight out amongst the players-up,\nwho make two lines with a space between them, every fellow going on his\nown side. Ain't there just fine scrummages then! And the three trees you\nsee there which come out into the play, that's a tremendous place when\nthe ball hangs there, for you get thrown against the trees, and that's\nworse than any hack.\"\n\nTom wondered within himself, as they strolled back again towards the\nfives court, whether the matches were really such break-neck affairs as\nEast represented, and whether, if they were, he should ever get to like\nthem and play up well.\n\nHe hadn't long to wonder, however, for next minute East cried out,\n\"Hurrah! here's the punt-about; come along and try your hand at a kick.\"\nThe punt-about is the practice-ball, which is just brought out and\nkicked about anyhow from one boy to another before callings-over and\ndinner, and at other odd times. They joined the boys who had brought it\nout, all small School-house fellows, friends of East; and Tom had the\npleasure of trying his skill, and performed very creditably, after first\ndriving his foot three inches into the ground, and then nearly kicking\nhis leg into the air, in vigorous efforts to accomplish a drop-kick\nafter the manner of East.\n\nPresently more boys and bigger came out, and boys from other houses\non their way to calling-over, and more balls were sent for. The crowd\nthickened as three o'clock approached; and when the hour struck, one\nhundred and fifty boys were hard at work. Then the balls were held, the\nmaster of the week came down in cap and gown to calling-over, and the\nwhole school of three hundred boys swept into the big school to answer\nto their names.\n\n\"I may come in, mayn't I?\" said Tom, catching East by the arm, and\nlonging to feel one of them.\n\n\"Yes, come along; nobody'll say anything. You won't be so eager to get\ninto calling-over after a month,\" replied his friend; and they marched\ninto the big school together, and up to the farther end, where that\nillustrious form, the lower fourth, which had the honour of East's\npatronage for the time being, stood.\n\nThe master mounted into the high desk by the door, and one of the\nprepostors of the week stood by him on the steps, the other three\nmarching up and down the middle of the school with their canes, calling\nout, \"Silence, silence!\" The sixth form stood close by the door on the\nleft, some thirty in number, mostly great big grown men, as Tom thought,\nsurveying them from a distance with awe; the fifth form behind them,\ntwice their number, and not quite so big. These on the left; and on the\nright the lower fifth, shell, and all the junior forms in order; while\nup the middle marched the three prepostors.\n\nThen the prepostor who stands by the master calls out the names,\nbeginning with the sixth form; and as he calls each boy answers \"here\"\nto his name, and walks out. Some of the sixth stop at the door to turn\nthe whole string of boys into the close. It is a great match-day, and\nevery boy in the school, will he, nill he, must be there. The rest of\nthe sixth go forwards into the close, to see that no one escapes by any\nof the side gates.\n\nTo-day, however, being the School-house match, none of the School-house\nprepostors stay by the door to watch for truants of their side; there\nis carte blanche to the School-house fags to go where they like. \"They\ntrust to our honour,\" as East proudly informs Tom; \"they know very well\nthat no School-house boy would cut the match. If he did, we'd very soon\ncut him, I can tell you.\"\n\nThe master of the week being short-sighted, and the prepostors of the\nweek small and not well up to their work, the lower-school boys employ\nthe ten minutes which elapse before their names are called in pelting\none another vigorously with acorns, which fly about in all directions.\nThe small prepostors dash in every now and then, and generally chastise\nsome quiet, timid boy who is equally afraid of acorns and canes,\nwhile the principal performers get dexterously out of the way. And so\ncalling-over rolls on somehow, much like the big world, punishments\nlighting on wrong shoulders, and matters going generally in a queer,\ncross-grained way, but the end coming somehow, which is, after all, the\ngreat point. And now the master of the week has finished, and locked up\nthe big school; and the prepostors of the week come out, sweeping the\nlast remnant of the school fags, who had been loafing about the corners\nby the fives court, in hopes of a chance of bolting, before them into\nthe close.\n\n\"Hold the punt-about!\" \"To the goals!\" are the cries; and all stray\nballs are impounded by the authorities, and the whole mass of boys moves\nup towards the two goals, dividing as they go into three bodies. That\nlittle band on the left, consisting of from fifteen to twenty boys, Tom\namongst them, who are making for the goal under the School-house wall,\nare the School-house boys who are not to play up, and have to stay in\ngoal. The larger body moving to the island goal are the School boys in a\nlike predicament. The great mass in the middle are the players-up, both\nsides mingled together; they are hanging their jackets (and all who mean\nreal work), their hats, waistcoats, neck-handkerchiefs, and braces, on\nthe railings round the small trees; and there they go by twos and\nthrees up to their respective grounds. There is none of the colour and\ntastiness of get-up, you will perceive, which lends such a life to\nthe present game at Rugby, making the dullest and worst-fought match a\npretty sight. Now each house has its own uniform of cap and jersey, of\nsome lively colour; but at the time we are speaking of plush caps have\nnot yet come in, or uniforms of any sort, except the School-house\nwhite trousers, which are abominably cold to-day. Let us get to work,\nbare-headed, and girded with our plain leather straps. But we mean\nbusiness, gentlemen.\n\nAnd now that the two sides have fairly sundered, and each occupies its\nown ground, and we get a good look at them, what absurdity is this? You\ndon't mean to say that those fifty or sixty boys in white trousers, many\nof them quite small, are going to play that huge mass opposite? Indeed I\ndo, gentlemen. They're going to try, at any rate, and won't make such\na bad fight of it either, mark my word; for hasn't old Brooke won the\ntoss, with his lucky halfpenny, and got choice of goals and kick-off?\nThe new ball you may see lie there quite by itself, in the middle,\npointing towards the School or island goal; in another minute it will be\nwell on its way there. Use that minute in remarking how the Schoolhouse\nside is drilled. You will see, in the first place, that the sixth-form\nboy, who has the charge of goal, has spread his force (the goalkeepers)\nso as to occupy the whole space behind the goal-posts, at distances of\nabout five yards apart. A safe and well-kept goal is the foundation of\nall good play. Old Brooke is talking to the captain of quarters, and\nnow he moves away. See how that youngster spreads his men (the light\nbrigade) carefully over the ground, half-way between their own goal and\nthe body of their own players-up (the heavy brigade). These again play\nin several bodies. There is young Brooke and the bull-dogs. Mark them\nwell. They are the \"fighting brigade,\" the \"die-hards,\" larking about\nat leap-frog to keep themselves warm, and playing tricks on one another.\nAnd on each side of old Brooke, who is now standing in the middle of\nthe ground and just going to kick off, you see a separate wing of\nplayers-up, each with a boy of acknowledged prowess to look to--here\nWarner, and there Hedge; but over all is old Brooke, absolute as he\nof Russia, but wisely and bravely ruling over willing and worshipping\nsubjects, a true football king. His face is earnest and careful as he\nglances a last time over his array, but full of pluck and hope--the sort\nof look I hope to see in my general when I go out to fight.\n\nThe School side is not organized in the same way. The goal-keepers\nare all in lumps, anyhow and nohow; you can't distinguish between the\nplayers-up and the boys in quarters, and there is divided leadership.\nBut with such odds in strength and weight it must take more than that to\nhinder them from winning; and so their leaders seem to think, for they\nlet the players-up manage themselves.\n\nBut now look! there is a slight move forward of the School-house wings,\na shout of \"Are you ready?\" and loud affirmative reply. Old Brooke takes\nhalf a dozen quick steps, and away goes the ball spinning towards the\nSchool goal, seventy yards before it touches ground, and at no\npoint above twelve or fifteen feet high, a model kick-off; and the\nSchool-house cheer and rush on. The ball is returned, and they meet it\nand drive it back amongst the masses of the School already in motion.\nThen the two sides close, and you can see nothing for minutes but a\nswaying crowd of boys, at one point violently agitated. That is where\nthe ball is, and there are the keen players to be met, and the glory and\nthe hard knocks to be got. You hear the dull thud, thud of the ball, and\nthe shouts of \"Off your side,\" \"Down with him,\" \"Put him over,\" \"Bravo.\"\nThis is what we call \"a scrummage,\" gentlemen, and the first scrummage\nin a School-house match was no joke in the consulship of Plancus.\n\nBut see! it has broken; the ball is driven out on the School-house side,\nand a rush of the School carries it past the School-house players-up.\n\"Look out in quarters,\" Brooke's and twenty other voices ring out. No\nneed to call, though: the School-house captain of quarters has caught it\non the bound, dodges the foremost School boys, who are heading the rush,\nand sends it back with a good drop-kick well into the enemy's country.\nAnd then follows rush upon rush, and scrummage upon scrummage, the ball\nnow driven through into the School-house quarters, and now into the\nSchool goal; for the School-house have not lost the advantage which the\nkick-off and a slight wind gave them at the outset, and are slightly\n\"penning\" their adversaries. You say you don't see much in it\nall--nothing but a struggling mass of boys, and a leather ball which\nseems to excite them all to great fury, as a red rag does a bull. My\ndear sir, a battle would look much the same to you, except that the\nboys would be men, and the balls iron; but a battle would be worth\nyour looking at for all that, and so is a football match. You can't be\nexpected to appreciate the delicate strokes of play, the turns by which\na game is lost and won--it takes an old player to do that; but the broad\nphilosophy of football you can understand if you will. Come along with\nme a little nearer, and let us consider it together.\n\nThe ball has just fallen again where the two sides are thickest, and\nthey close rapidly around it in a scrummage. It must be driven through\nnow by force or skill, till it flies out on one side or the other.\nLook how differently the boys face it! Here come two of the bulldogs,\nbursting through the outsiders; in they go, straight to the heart of the\nscrummage, bent on driving that ball out on the opposite side. That is\nwhat they mean to do. My sons, my sons! you are too hot; you have gone\npast the ball, and must struggle now right through the scrummage, and\nget round and back again to your own side, before you can be of any\nfurther use. Here comes young Brooke; he goes in as straight as you, but\nkeeps his head, and backs and bends, holding himself still behind the\nball, and driving it furiously when he gets the chance. Take a leaf out\nof his book, you young chargers. Here comes Speedicut, and Flashman the\nSchool-house bully, with shouts and great action. Won't you two come up\nto young Brooke, after locking-up, by the School-house fire, with \"Old\nfellow, wasn't that just a splendid scrummage by the three trees?\" But\nhe knows you, and so do we. You don't really want to drive that\nball through that scrummage, chancing all hurt for the glory of the\nSchool-house, but to make us think that's what you want--a vastly\ndifferent thing; and fellows of your kidney will never go through more\nthan the skirts of a scrummage, where it's all push and no kicking. We\nrespect boys who keep out of it, and don't sham going in; but you--we\nhad rather not say what we think of you.\n\nThen the boys who are bending and watching on the outside, mark them:\nthey are most useful players, the dodgers, who seize on the ball the\nmoment it rolls out from amongst the chargers, and away with it across\nto the opposite goal. They seldom go into the scrummage, but must have\nmore coolness than the chargers. As endless as are boys' characters, so\nare their ways of facing or not facing a scrummage at football.\n\nThree-quarters of an hour are gone; first winds are failing, and weight\nand numbers beginning to tell. Yard by yard the School-house have been\ndriven back, contesting every inch of ground. The bull-dogs are the\ncolour of mother earth from shoulder to ankle, except young Brooke, who\nhas a marvellous knack of keeping his legs. The School-house are being\npenned in their turn, and now the ball is behind their goal, under the\nDoctor's wall. The Doctor and some of his family are there looking on,\nand seem as anxious as any boy for the success of the School-house. We\nget a minute's breathing-time before old Brooke kicks out, and he gives\nthe word to play strongly for touch, by the three trees. Away goes the\nball, and the bull-dogs after it, and in another minute there is shout\nof \"In touch!\" \"Our ball!\" Now's your time, old Brooke, while your men\nare still fresh. He stands with the ball in his hand, while the two\nsides form in deep lines opposite one another; he must strike it\nstraight out between them. The lines are thickest close to him, but\nyoung Brooke and two or three of his men are shifting up farther,\nwhere the opposite line is weak. Old Brooke strikes it out straight and\nstrong, and it falls opposite his brother. Hurrah! that rush has taken\nit right through the School line, and away past the three trees, far\ninto their quarters, and young Brooke and the bull-dogs are close upon\nit. The School leaders rush back, shouting, \"Look out in goal!\" and\nstrain every nerve to catch him, but they are after the fleetest foot\nin Rugby. There they go straight for the School goal-posts, quarters\nscattering before them. One after another the bull-dogs go down, but\nyoung Brooke holds on. \"He is down.\" No! a long stagger, but the danger\nis past. That was the shock of Crew, the most dangerous of dodgers. And\nnow he is close to the School goal, the ball not three yards before\nhim. There is a hurried rush of the School fags to the spot, but no\none throws himself on the ball, the only chance, and young Brooke has\ntouched it right under the School goal-posts.\n\nThe School leaders come up furious, and administer toco to the wretched\nfags nearest at hand. They may well be angry, for it is all Lombard\nStreet to a china orange that the School-house kick a goal with the ball\ntouched in such a good place. Old Brooke, of course, will kick it\nout, but who shall catch and place it? Call Crab Jones. Here he comes,\nsauntering along with a straw in his mouth, the queerest, coolest fish\nin Rugby. If he were tumbled into the moon this minute, he would just\npick himself up without taking his hands out of his pockets or turning\na hair. But it is a moment when the boldest charger's heart beats quick.\nOld Brooke stands with the ball under his arm motioning the School back;\nhe will not kick out till they are all in goal, behind the posts. They\nare all edging forwards, inch by inch, to get nearer for the rush at\nCrab Jones, who stands there in front of old Brooke to catch the ball.\nIf they can reach and destroy him before he catches, the danger is over;\nand with one and the same rush they will carry it right away to the\nSchool-house goal. Fond hope! it is kicked out and caught beautifully.\nCrab strikes his heel into the ground, to mark the spot where the ball\nwas caught, beyond which the school line may not advance; but there they\nstand, five deep, ready to rush the moment the ball touches the ground.\nTake plenty of room. Don't give the rush a chance of reaching you. Place\nit true and steady. Trust Crab Jones. He has made a small hole with his\nheel for the ball to lie on, by which he is resting on one knee, with\nhis eye on old Brooke. \"Now!\" Crab places the ball at the word, old\nBrooke kicks, and it rises slowly and truly as the School rush forward.\n\nThen a moment's pause, while both sides look up at the spinning ball.\nThere it flies, straight between the two posts, some five feet above the\ncross-bar, an unquestioned goal; and a shout of real, genuine joy rings\nout from the School-house players-up, and a faint echo of it comes over\nthe close from the goal-keepers under the Doctor's wall. A goal in the\nfirst hour--such a thing hasn't been done in the School-house match\nthese five years.\n\n\"Over!\" is the cry. The two sides change goals, and the School-house\ngoal-keepers come threading their way across through the masses of\nthe School, the most openly triumphant of them--amongst whom is Tom, a\nSchool-house boy of two hours' standing--getting their ears boxed in\nthe transit. Tom indeed is excited beyond measure, and it is all the\nsixth-form boy, kindest and safest of goal-keepers, has been able to do,\nto keep him from rushing out whenever the ball has been near their\ngoal. So he holds him by his side, and instructs him in the science of\ntouching.\n\nAt this moment Griffith, the itinerant vender of oranges from Hill\nMorton, enters the close with his heavy baskets. There is a rush of\nsmall boys upon the little pale-faced man, the two sides mingling\ntogether, subdued by the great goddess Thirst, like the English and\nFrench by the streams in the Pyrenees. The leaders are past oranges and\napples, but some of them visit their coats, and apply innocent-looking\nginger-beer bottles to their mouths. It is no ginger-beer though, I\nfear, and will do you no good. One short mad rush, and then a stitch in\nthe side, and no more honest play. That's what comes of those bottles.\n\nBut now Griffith's baskets are empty, the ball is placed again midway,\nand the School are going to kick off. Their leaders have sent their\nlumber into goal, and rated the rest soundly, and one hundred and twenty\npicked players-up are there, bent on retrieving the game. They are to\nkeep the ball in front of the School-house goal, and then to drive it in\nby sheer strength and weight. They mean heavy play and no mistake, and\nso old Brooke sees, and places Crab Jones in quarters just before the\ngoal, with four or five picked players who are to keep the ball away to\nthe sides, where a try at goal, if obtained, will be less dangerous than\nin front. He himself, and Warner and Hedge, who have saved themselves\ntill now, will lead the charges.\n\n\"Are you ready?\" \"Yes.\" And away comes the ball, kicked high in the air,\nto give the School time to rush on and catch it as it falls. And here\nthey are amongst us. Meet them like Englishmen, you Schoolhouse boys,\nand charge them home. Now is the time to show what mettle is in you;\nand there shall be a warm seat by the hall fire, and honour, and lots of\nbottled beer to-night for him who does his duty in the next half-hour.\nAnd they are well met. Again and again the cloud of their players-up\ngathers before our goal, and comes threatening on, and Warner or Hedge,\nwith young Brooke and the relics of the bull-dogs, break through\nand carry the ball back; and old Brooke ranges the field like Job's\nwar-horse. The thickest scrummage parts asunder before his rush, like\nthe waves before a clipper's bows; his cheery voice rings out over the\nfield, and his eye is everywhere. And if these miss the ball, and it\nrolls dangerously in front of our goal, Crab Jones and his men\nhave seized it and sent it away towards the sides with the unerring\ndrop-kick. This is worth living for--the whole sum of school-boy\nexistence gathered up into one straining, struggling half-hour, a\nhalf-hour worth a year of common life.\n\nThe quarter to five has struck, and the play slackens for a minute\nbefore goal; but there is Crew, the artful dodger, driving the ball in\nbehind our goal, on the island side, where our quarters are weakest. Is\nthere no one to meet him? Yes; look at little East! The ball is just at\nequal distances between the two, and they rush together, the young man\nof seventeen and the boy of twelve, and kick it at the same moment. Crew\npasses on without a stagger; East is hurled forward by the shock, and\nplunges on his shoulder, as if he would bury himself in the ground;\nbut the ball rises straight into the air, and falls behind Crew's back,\nwhile the \"bravoes\" of the School-house attest the pluckiest charge of\nall that hard-fought day. Warner picks East up lame and half stunned,\nand he hobbles back into goal, conscious of having played the man.\n\nAnd now the last minutes are come, and the School gather for their last\nrush, every boy of the hundred and twenty who has a run left in him.\nReckless of the defence of their own goal, on they come across the level\nbig-side ground, the ball well down amongst them, straight for our goal,\nlike the column of the Old Guard up the slope at Waterloo. All former\ncharges have been child's play to this. Warner and Hedge have met them,\nbut still on they come. The bull-dogs rush in for the last time; they\nare hurled over or carried back, striving hand, foot, and eyelids. Old\nBrooke comes sweeping round the skirts of the play, and turning short\nround, picks out the very heart of the scrummage, and plunges in. It\nwavers for a moment; he has the ball. No, it has passed him, and his\nvoice rings out clear over the advancing tide, \"Look out in goal!\" Crab\nJones catches it for a moment; but before he can kick, the rush is upon\nhim and passes over him; and he picks himself up behind them with his\nstraw in his mouth, a little dirtier, but as cool as ever.\n\nThe ball rolls slowly in behind the School-house goal, not three yards\nin front of a dozen of the biggest School players-up.\n\nThere stands the School-house prepostor, safest of goal-keepers, and Tom\nBrown by his side, who has learned his trade by this time. Now is\nyour time, Tom. The blood of all the Browns is up, and the two rush in\ntogether, and throw themselves on the ball, under the very feet of the\nadvancing column--the prepostor on his hands and knees, arching his\nback, and Tom all along on his face. Over them topple the leaders of the\nrush, shooting over the back of the prepostor, but falling flat on Tom,\nand knocking all the wind out of his small carcass. \"Our ball,\" says the\nprepostor, rising with his prize; \"but get up there; there's a little\nfellow under you.\" They are hauled and roll off him, and Tom is\ndiscovered, a motionless body.\n\nOld Brooke picks him up. \"Stand back, give him air,\" he says; and then\nfeeling his limbs, adds, \"No bones broken.--How do you feel, young un?\"\n\n\"Hah-hah!\" gasps Tom, as his wind comes back; \"pretty well, thank\nyou--all right.\"\n\n\"Who is he?\" says Brooke.\n\n\"Oh, it's Brown; he's a new boy; I know him,\" says East, coming up.\n\n\"Well, he is a plucky youngster, and will make a player,\" says Brooke.\n\nAnd five o'clock strikes. \"No side\" is called, and the first day of the\nSchool-house match is over.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI--AFTER THE MATCH.\n\n     \"Some food we had.\"--Shakespeare.\n     [Greek text]--Theocr. Id.\n\nAs the boys scattered away from the ground, and East, leaning on Tom's\narm, and limping along, was beginning to consider what luxury they\nshould go and buy for tea to celebrate that glorious victory, the two\nBrookes came striding by. Old Brooke caught sight of East, and stopped;\nput his hand kindly on his shoulder, and said, \"Bravo, youngster; you\nplayed famously. Not much the matter, I hope?\"\n\n\"No, nothing at all,\" said East--\"only a little twist from that\ncharge.\"\n\n\"Well, mind and get all right for next Saturday.\" And the leader passed\non, leaving East better for those few words than all the opodeldoc in\nEngland would have made him, and Tom ready to give one of his ears for\nas much notice. Ah! light words of those whom we love and honour, what\na power ye are, and how carelessly wielded by those who can use you!\nSurely for these things also God will ask an account.\n\n\"Tea's directly after locking-up, you see,\" said East, hobbling along as\nfast as he could, \"so you come along down to Sally Harrowell's; that's\nour School-house tuck-shop. She bakes such stunning murphies, we'll have\na penn'orth each for tea. Come along, or they'll all be gone.\"\n\nTom's new purse and money burnt in his pocket; he wondered, as they\ntoddled through the quadrangle and along the street, whether East\nwould be insulted if he suggested further extravagance, as he had not\nsufficient faith in a pennyworth of potatoes. At last he blurted out,--\n\n\"I say, East, can't we get something else besides potatoes? I've got\nlots of money, you know.\"\n\n\"Bless us, yes; I forgot,\" said East, \"you've only just come. You see\nall my tin's been gone this twelve weeks--it hardly ever lasts beyond\nthe first fortnight; and our allowances were all stopped this morning\nfor broken windows, so I haven't got a penny. I've got a tick at\nSally's, of course; but then I hate running it high, you see, towards\nthe end of the half, 'cause one has to shell out for it all directly one\ncomes back, and that's a bore.\"\n\nTom didn't understand much of this talk, but seized on the fact that\nEast had no money, and was denying himself some little pet luxury in\nconsequence. \"Well, what shall I buy?\" said he, \"I'm uncommon hungry.\"\n\n\"I say,\" said East, stopping to look at him and rest his leg, \"you're a\ntrump, Brown. I'll do the same by you next half. Let's have a pound of\nsausages then. That's the best grub for tea I know of.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" said Tom, as pleased as possible; \"where do they sell\nthem?\"\n\n\"Oh, over here, just opposite.\" And they crossed the street and walked\ninto the cleanest little front room of a small house, half parlour,\nhalf shop, and bought a pound of most particular sausages, East talking\npleasantly to Mrs. Porter while she put them in paper, and Tom doing the\npaying part.\n\nFrom Porter's they adjourned to Sally Harrowell's, where they found a\nlot of School-house boys waiting for the roast potatoes, and relating\ntheir own exploits in the day's match at the top of their voices. The\nstreet opened at once into Sally's kitchen, a low brick-floored room,\nwith large recess for fire, and chimney-corner seats. Poor little Sally,\nthe most good-natured and much-enduring of womankind, was bustling\nabout, with a napkin in her hand, from her own oven to those of the\nneighbours' cottages up the yard at the back of the house. Stumps, her\nhusband, a short, easy-going shoemaker, with a beery, humorous eye and\nponderous calves, who lived mostly on his wife's earnings, stood in\na corner of the room, exchanging shots of the roughest description of\nrepartee with every boy in turn. \"Stumps, you lout, you've had too\nmuch beer again to-day.\" \"'Twasn't of your paying for, then.\" \"Stumps's\ncalves are running down into his ankles; they want to get to grass.\"\n\"Better be doing that than gone altogether like yours,\" etc. Very poor\nstuff it was, but it served to make time pass; and every now and then\nSally arrived in the middle with a smoking tin of potatoes, which was\ncleared off in a few seconds, each boy as he seized his lot running\noff to the house with \"Put me down two-penn'orth, Sally;\" \"Put down\nthree-penn'orth between me and Davis,\" etc. How she ever kept the\naccounts so straight as she did, in her head and on her slate, was a\nperfect wonder.\n\nEast and Tom got served at last, and started back for the School-house,\njust as the locking-up bell began to ring, East on the way recounting\nthe life and adventures of Stumps, who was a character. Amongst his\nother small avocations, he was the hind carrier of a sedan-chair, the\nlast of its race, in which the Rugby ladies still went out to tea, and\nin which, when he was fairly harnessed and carrying a load, it was the\ndelight of small and mischievous boys to follow him and whip his calves.\nThis was too much for the temper even of Stumps, and he would pursue his\ntormentors in a vindictive and apoplectic manner when released, but was\neasily pacified by twopence to buy beer with.\n\nThe lower-school boys of the School-house, some fifteen in number, had\ntea in the lower-fifth school, and were presided over by the old verger\nor head-porter. Each boy had a quarter of a loaf of bread and pat of\nbutter, and as much tea as he pleased; and there was scarcely one\nwho didn't add to this some further luxury, such as baked potatoes, a\nherring, sprats, or something of the sort. But few at this period of the\nhalf-year could live up to a pound of Porter's sausages, and East was\nin great magnificence upon the strength of theirs. He had produced a\ntoasting-fork from his study, and set Tom to toast the sausages,\nwhile he mounted guard over their butter and potatoes. \"'Cause,\" as he\nexplained, \"you're a new boy, and they'll play you some trick and get\nour butter; but you can toast just as well as I.\" So Tom, in the midst\nof three or four more urchins similarly employed, toasted his face and\nthe sausages at the same time before the huge fire, till the latter\ncracked; when East from his watch-tower shouted that they were done, and\nthen the feast proceeded, and the festive cups of tea were filled\nand emptied, and Tom imparted of the sausages in small bits to many\nneighbours, and thought he had never tasted such good potatoes or seen\nsuch jolly boys. They on their parts waived all ceremony, and pegged\naway at the sausages and potatoes, and remembering Tom's performance in\ngoal, voted East's new crony a brick. After tea, and while the things\nwere being cleared away, they gathered round the fire, and the talk on\nthe match still went on; and those who had them to show pulled up their\ntrousers and showed the hacks they had received in the good cause.\n\nThey were soon, however, all turned out of the school; and East\nconducted Tom up to his bedroom, that he might get on clean things, and\nwash himself before singing.\n\n\"What's singing?\" said Tom, taking his head out of his basin, where he\nhad been plunging it in cold water.\n\n\"Well, you are jolly green,\" answered his friend, from a neighbouring\nbasin. \"Why, the last six Saturdays of every half we sing of course; and\nthis is the first of them. No first lesson to do, you know, and lie in\nbed to-morrow morning.\"\n\n\"But who sings?\"\n\n\"Why, everybody, of course; you'll see soon enough. We begin directly\nafter supper, and sing till bed-time. It ain't such good fun now,\nthough, as in the summer half; 'cause then we sing in the little fives\ncourt, under the library, you know. We take out tables, and the big boys\nsit round and drink beer--double allowance on Saturday nights; and we\ncut about the quadrangle between the songs, and it looks like a lot of\nrobbers in a cave. And the louts come and pound at the great gates, and\nwe pound back again, and shout at them. But this half we only sing in\nthe hall. Come along down to my study.\"\n\nTheir principal employment in the study was to clear out East's table;\nremoving the drawers and ornaments and tablecloth; for he lived in the\nbottom passage, and his table was in requisition for the singing.\n\nSupper came in due course at seven o'clock, consisting of bread and\ncheese and beer, which was all saved for the singing; and directly\nafterwards the fags went to work to prepare the hall. The School-house\nhall, as has been said, is a great long high room, with two large fires\non one side, and two large iron-bound tables, one running down the\nmiddle, and the other along the wall opposite the fireplaces. Around the\nupper fire the fags placed the tables in the form of a horse-shoe, and\nupon them the jugs with the Saturday night's allowance of beer. Then\nthe big boys used to drop in and take their seats, bringing with them\nbottled beer and song books; for although they all knew the songs by\nheart, it was the thing to have an old manuscript book descended from\nsome departed hero, in which they were all carefully written out.\n\nThe sixth-form boys had not yet appeared; so, to fill up the gap, an\ninteresting and time-honoured ceremony was gone through. Each new boy\nwas placed on the table in turn, and made to sing a solo, under the\npenalty of drinking a large mug of salt and water if he resisted or\nbroke down. However, the new boys all sing like nightingales to-night,\nand the salt water is not in requisition--Tom, as his part, performing\nthe old west-country song of \"The Leather Bottel\" with considerable\napplause. And at the half-hour down come the sixth and fifth form boys,\nand take their places at the tables, which are filled up by the next\nbiggest boys, the rest, for whom there is no room at the table, standing\nround outside.\n\nThe glasses and mugs are filled, and then the fugleman strikes up the\nold sea-song,\n\n     \"A wet sheet and a flowing sea,\n     And a wind that follows fast,\" etc.,\n\nwhich is the invariable first song in the School-house; and all the\nseventy voices join in, not mindful of harmony, but bent on noise, which\nthey attain decidedly, but the general effect isn't bad. And then follow\n\"The British Grenadiers,\" \"Billy Taylor,\" \"The Siege of Seringapatam,\"\n\"Three Jolly Postboys,\" and other vociferous songs in rapid succession,\nincluding \"The Chesapeake and Shannon,\" a song lately introduced in\nhonour of old Brooke; and when they come to the words,\n\n     \"Brave Broke he waved his sword, crying, Now, my lads, aboard,\n     And we'll stop their playing Yankee-doodle-dandy oh!\"\n\nyou expect the roof to come down. The sixth and fifth know that \"brave\nBroke\" of the Shannon was no sort of relation to our old Brooke. The\nfourth form are uncertain in their belief, but for the most part hold\nthat old Brooke was a midshipman then on board his uncle's ship. And the\nlower school never doubt for a moment that it was our old Brooke who led\nthe boarders, in what capacity they care not a straw. During the pauses\nthe bottled-beer corks fly rapidly, and the talk is fast and merry, and\nthe big boys--at least all of them who have a fellow-feeling for dry\nthroats--hand their mugs over their shoulders to be emptied by the small\nones who stand round behind.\n\nThen Warner, the head of the house, gets up and wants to speak; but he\ncan't, for every boy knows what's coming. And the big boys who sit at\nthe tables pound them and cheer; and the small boys who stand behind\npound one another, and cheer, and rush about the hall cheering. Then\nsilence being made, Warner reminds them of the old School-house custom\nof drinking the healths, on the first night of singing, of those who are\ngoing to leave at the end of the half. \"He sees that they know what he\nis going to say already\" (loud cheers), \"and so won't keep them, but\nonly ask them to treat the toast as it deserves. It is the head of the\neleven, the head of big-side football, their leader on this glorious\nday--Pater Brooke!\"\n\nAnd away goes the pounding and cheering again, becoming deafening when\nold Brooke gets on his legs; till, a table having broken down, and a\ngallon or so of beer been upset, and all throats getting dry, silence\nensues, and the hero speaks, leaning his hands on the table, and bending\na little forwards. No action, no tricks of oratory--plain, strong, and\nstraight, like his play.\n\n\"Gentlemen of the School-house! I am very proud of the way in which\nyou have received my name, and I wish I could say all I should like in\nreturn. But I know I shan't. However, I'll do the best I can to say what\nseems to me ought to be said by a fellow who's just going to leave,\nand who has spent a good slice of his life here. Eight years it is, and\neight such years as I can never hope to have again. So now I hope you'll\nall listen to me\" (loud cheers of \"That we will\"), \"for I'm going to\ntalk seriously. You're bound to listen to me for what's the use of\ncalling me 'pater,' and all that, if you don't mind what I say? And\nI'm going to talk seriously, because I feel so. It's a jolly time,\ntoo, getting to the end of the half, and a goal kicked by us first day\"\n(tremendous applause), \"after one of the hardest and fiercest day's play\nI can remember in eight years.\" (Frantic shoutings.) \"The School played\nsplendidly, too, I will say, and kept it up to the last. That last\ncharge of theirs would have carried away a house. I never thought to see\nanything again of old Crab there, except little pieces, when I saw him\ntumbled over by it.\" (Laughter and shouting, and great slapping on\nthe back of Jones by the boys nearest him.) \"Well, but we beat 'em.\"\n(Cheers.) \"Ay, but why did we beat 'em? Answer me that.\" (Shouts of\n\"Your play.\") \"Nonsense! 'Twasn't the wind and kick-off either--that\nwouldn't do it. 'Twasn't because we've half a dozen of the best players\nin the school, as we have. I wouldn't change Warner, and Hedge, and\nCrab, and the young un, for any six on their side.\" (Violent cheers.)\n\"But half a dozen fellows can't keep it up for two hours against two\nhundred. Why is it, then? I'll tell you what I think. It's because we've\nmore reliance on one another, more of a house feeling, more fellowship\nthan the School can have. Each of us knows and can depend on his\nnext-hand man better. That's why we beat 'em to-day. We've union,\nthey've division--there's the secret.\" (Cheers.) \"But how's this to be\nkept up? How's it to be improved? That's the question. For I take it\nwe're all in earnest about beating the School, whatever else we care\nabout. I know I'd sooner win two School-house matches running than get\nthe Balliol scholarship any day.\" (Frantic cheers.)\n\n\"Now, I'm as proud of the house as any one. I believe it's the best\nhouse in the school, out and out.\" (Cheers.) \"But it's a long way from\nwhat I want to see it. First, there's a deal of bullying going on. I\nknow it well. I don't pry about and interfere; that only makes it\nmore underhand, and encourages the small boys to come to us with their\nfingers in their eyes telling tales, and so we should be worse off than\never. It's very little kindness for the sixth to meddle generally--you\nyoungsters mind that. You'll be all the better football players for\nlearning to stand it, and to take your own parts, and fight it through.\nBut depend on it, there's nothing breaks up a house like bullying.\nBullies are cowards, and one coward makes many; so good-bye to the\nSchool-house match if bullying gets ahead here.\" (Loud applause from\nthe small boys, who look meaningly at Flashman and other boys at the\ntables.) \"Then there's fuddling about in the public-house, and drinking\nbad spirits, and punch, and such rot-gut stuff. That won't make good\ndrop-kicks or chargers of you, take my word for it. You get plenty of\ngood beer here, and that's enough for you; and drinking isn't fine or\nmanly, whatever some of you may think of it.\n\n\"One other thing I must have a word about. A lot of you think and say,\nfor I've heard you, 'There's this new Doctor hasn't been here so long\nas some of us, and he's changing all the old customs. Rugby, and the\nSchoolhouse especially, are going to the dogs. Stand up for the good old\nways, and down with the Doctor!' Now I'm as fond of old Rugby customs\nand ways as any of you, and I've been here longer than any of you, and\nI'll give you a word of advice in time, for I shouldn't like to see any\nof you getting sacked. 'Down with the Doctor's' easier said than done.\nYou'll find him pretty tight on his perch, I take it, and an awkwardish\ncustomer to handle in that line. Besides now, what customs has he put\ndown? There was the good old custom of taking the linchpins out of the\nfarmers' and bagmen's gigs at the fairs, and a cowardly, blackguard\ncustom it was. We all know what came of it, and no wonder the Doctor\nobjected to it. But come now, any of you, name a custom that he has put\ndown.\"\n\n\"The hounds,\" calls out a fifth-form boy, clad in a green cutaway with\nbrass buttons and cord trousers, the leader of the sporting interest,\nand reputed a great rider and keen hand generally.\n\n\"Well, we had six or seven mangy harriers and beagles belonging to the\nhouse, I'll allow, and had had them for years, and that the Doctor\nput them down. But what good ever came of them? Only rows with all the\nkeepers for ten miles round; and big-side hare-and-hounds is better fun\nten times over. What else?\"\n\nNo answer.\n\n\"Well, I won't go on. Think it over for yourselves. You'll find, I\nbelieve, that he don't meddle with any one that's worth keeping. And\nmind now, I say again, look out for squalls if you will go your own way,\nand that way ain't the Doctor's, for it'll lead to grief. You all know\nthat I'm not the fellow to back a master through thick and thin. If I\nsaw him stopping football, or cricket, or bathing, or sparring, I'd be\nas ready as any fellow to stand up about it. But he don't; he encourages\nthem. Didn't you see him out to-day for half an hour watching us?\" (loud\ncheers for the Doctor); \"and he's a strong, true man, and a wise one\ntoo, and a public-school man too\" (cheers), \"and so let's stick to him,\nand talk no more rot, and drink his health as the head of the house.\"\n(Loud cheers.) \"And now I've done blowing up, and very glad I am to have\ndone. But it's a solemn thing to be thinking of leaving a place which\none has lived in and loved for eight years; and if one can say a word\nfor the good of the old house at such a time, why, it should be said,\nwhether bitter or sweet. If I hadn't been proud of the house and\nyou--ay, no one knows how proud--I shouldn't be blowing you up. And now\nlet's get to singing. But before I sit down I must give you a toast to\nbe drunk with three-times-three and all the honours. It's a toast which\nI hope every one of us, wherever he may go hereafter, will never fail\nto drink when he thinks of the brave, bright days of his boyhood. It's a\ntoast which should bind us all together, and to those who've gone before\nand who'll come after us here. It is the dear old School-house--the best\nhouse of the best school in England!\"\n\nMy dear boys, old and young, you who have belonged, or do belong, to\nother schools and other houses, don't begin throwing my poor little book\nabout the room, and abusing me and it, and vowing you'll read no more\nwhen you get to this point. I allow you've provocation for it. But come\nnow--would you, any of you, give a fig for a fellow who didn't believe\nin and stand up for his own house and his own school? You know you\nwouldn't. Then don't object to me cracking up the old School house,\nRugby. Haven't I a right to do it, when I'm taking all the trouble\nof writing this true history for all of your benefits? If you ain't\nsatisfied, go and write the history of your own houses in your own\ntimes, and say all you know for your own schools and houses, provided\nit's true, and I'll read it without abusing you.\n\nThe last few words hit the audience in their weakest place. They had\nbeen not altogether enthusiastic at several parts of old Brooke's\nspeech; but \"the best house of the best school in England\" was too much\nfor them all, and carried even the sporting and drinking interests off\ntheir legs into rapturous applause, and (it is to be hoped) resolutions\nto lead a new life and remember old Brooke's words--which, however, they\ndidn't altogether do, as will appear hereafter.\n\nBut it required all old Brooke's popularity to carry down parts of his\nspeech--especially that relating to the Doctor. For there are no such\nbigoted holders by established forms and customs, be they never so\nfoolish or meaningless, as English school-boys--at least, as the\nschool-boys of our generation. We magnified into heroes every boy who\nhad left, and looked upon him with awe and reverence when he revisited\nthe place a year or so afterwards, on his way to or from Oxford or\nCambridge; and happy was the boy who remembered him, and sure of an\naudience as he expounded what he used to do and say, though it were sad\nenough stuff to make angels, not to say head-masters, weep.\n\nWe looked upon every trumpery little custom and habit which had obtained\nin the School as though it had been a law of the Medes and Persians, and\nregarded the infringement or variation of it as a sort of sacrilege. And\nthe Doctor, than whom no man or boy had a stronger liking for old school\ncustoms which were good and sensible, had, as has already been hinted,\ncome into most decided collision with several which were neither the one\nnor the other. And as old Brooke had said, when he came into collision\nwith boys or customs, there was nothing for them but to give in or take\nthemselves off; because what he said had to be done, and no mistake\nabout it. And this was beginning to be pretty clearly understood. The\nboys felt that there was a strong man over them, who would have things\nhis own way, and hadn't yet learnt that he was a wise and loving man\nalso. His personal character and influence had not had time to make\nitself felt, except by a very few of the bigger boys with whom he came\nmore directly into contact; and he was looked upon with great fear and\ndislike by the great majority even of his own house. For he had found\nSchool and School-house in a state of monstrous license and misrule,\nand was still employed in the necessary but unpopular work of setting up\norder with a strong hand.\n\nHowever, as has been said, old Brooke triumphed, and the boys cheered\nhim and then the Doctor. And then more songs came, and the healths of\nthe other boys about to leave, who each made a speech, one flowery,\nanother maudlin, a third prosy, and so on, which are not necessary to be\nhere recorded.\n\nHalf-past nine struck in the middle of the performance of \"Auld Lang\nSyne,\" a most obstreperous proceeding, during which there was an immense\namount of standing with one foot on the table, knocking mugs together\nand shaking hands, without which accompaniments it seems impossible\nfor the youths of Britain to take part in that famous old song. The\nunder-porter of the School-house entered during the performance, bearing\nfive or six long wooden candlesticks with lighted dips in them, which he\nproceeded to stick into their holes in such part of the great tables\nas he could get at; and then stood outside the ring till the end of the\nsong, when he was hailed with shouts.\n\n\"Bill you old muff, the half-hour hasn't struck.\" \"Here, Bill, drink\nsome cocktail.\" \"Sing us a song, old boy.\" \"Don't you wish you may\nget the table?\" Bill drank the proffered cocktail not unwillingly, and\nputting down the empty glass, remonstrated. \"Now gentlemen, there's only\nten minutes to prayers, and we must get the hall straight.\"\n\nShouts of \"No, no!\" and a violent effort to strike up \"Billy Taylor\" for\nthe third time. Bill looked appealingly to old Brooke, who got up and\nstopped the noise. \"Now then, lend a hand, you youngsters, and get the\ntables back; clear away the jugs and glasses. Bill's right. Open\nthe windows, Warner.\" The boy addressed, who sat by the long ropes,\nproceeded to pull up the great windows, and let in a clear, fresh rush\nof night air, which made the candles flicker and gutter, and the fires\nroar. The circle broke up, each collaring his own jug, glass, and\nsong-book; Bill pounced on the big table, and began to rattle it away to\nits place outside the buttery door. The lower-passage boys carried off\ntheir small tables, aided by their friends; while above all, standing\non the great hall-table, a knot of untiring sons of harmony made night\ndoleful by a prolonged performance of \"God Save the King.\" His Majesty\nKing William the Fourth then reigned over us, a monarch deservedly\npopular amongst the boys addicted to melody, to whom he was chiefly\nknown from the beginning of that excellent if slightly vulgar song in\nwhich they much delighted,--\n\n     \"Come, neighbours all, both great and small,\n     Perform your duties here,\n     And loudly sing, 'Live Billy, our king,'\n     For bating the tax upon veer.\"\n\nOthers of the more learned in songs also celebrated his praises in\na sort of ballad, which I take to have been written by some Irish\nloyalist. I have forgotten all but the chorus, which ran,--\n\n     \"God save our good King William,\n     Be his name for ever blest;\n     He's the father of all his people,\n     And the guardian of all the rest.\"\n\nIn troth we were loyal subjects in those days, in a rough way. I trust\nthat our successors make as much of her present Majesty, and, having\nregard to the greater refinement of the times, have adopted or written\nother songs equally hearty, but more civilized, in her honour.\n\nThen the quarter to ten struck, and the prayer-bell rang. The sixth and\nfifth form boys ranged themselves in their school order along the wall,\non either side of the great fires, the middle-fifth and upper-school\nboys round the long table in the middle of the hall, and the\nlower-school boys round the upper part of the second long table, which\nran down the side of the hall farthest from the fires. Here Tom found\nhimself at the bottom of all, in a state of mind and body not at all fit\nfor prayers, as he thought; and so tried hard to make himself serious,\nbut couldn't, for the life of him, do anything but repeat in his head\nthe choruses of some of the songs, and stare at all the boys opposite,\nwondering at the brilliancy of their waistcoats, and speculating what\nsort of fellows they were. The steps of the head-porter are heard on the\nstairs, and a light gleams at the door. \"Hush!\" from the fifth-form boys\nwho stand there, and then in strides the Doctor, cap on head, book\nin one hand, and gathering up his gown in the other. He walks up the\nmiddle, and takes his post by Warner, who begins calling over the names.\nThe Doctor takes no notice of anything, but quietly turns over his book\nand finds the place, and then stands, cap in hand and finger in book,\nlooking straight before his nose. He knows better than any one when to\nlook, and when to see nothing. To-night is singing night, and there's\nbeen lots of noise and no harm done--nothing but beer drunk, and nobody\nthe worse for it, though some of them do look hot and excited. So the\nDoctor sees nothing, but fascinates Tom in a horrible manner as he\nstands there, and reads out the psalm, in that deep, ringing, searching\nvoice of his. Prayers are over, and Tom still stares open-mouthed after\nthe Doctor's retiring figure, when he feels a pull at his sleeve, and\nturning round, sees East.\n\n\"I say, were you ever tossed in a blanket?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Tom; \"why?\"\n\n\"'Cause there'll be tossing to-night, most likely, before the sixth come\nup to bed. So if you funk, you just come along and hide, or else they'll\ncatch you and toss you.\"\n\n\"Were you ever tossed? Does it hurt?\" inquired Tom.\n\n\"Oh yes, bless you, a dozen times,\" said East, as he hobbled along by\nTom's side upstairs. \"It don't hurt unless you fall on the floor. But\nmost fellows don't like it.\"\n\nThey stopped at the fireplace in the top passage, where were a crowd of\nsmall boys whispering together, and evidently unwilling to go up\ninto the bedrooms. In a minute, however, a study door opened, and a\nsixth-form boy came out, and off they all scuttled up the stairs, and\nthen noiselessly dispersed to their different rooms. Tom's heart beat\nrather quick as he and East reached their room, but he had made up his\nmind. \"I shan't hide, East,\" said he.\n\n\"Very well, old fellow,\" replied East, evidently pleased; \"no more shall\nI. They'll be here for us directly.\"\n\nThe room was a great big one, with a dozen beds in it, but not a boy\nthat Tom could see except East and himself. East pulled off his coat and\nwaistcoat, and then sat on the bottom of his bed whistling and pulling\noff his boots. Tom followed his example.\n\nA noise and steps are heard in the passage, the door opens, and in rush\nfour or five great fifth-form boys, headed by Flashman in his glory.\n\nTom and East slept in the farther corner of the room, and were not seen\nat first.\n\n\"Gone to ground, eh?\" roared Flashman. \"Push 'em out then, boys; look\nunder the beds.\" And he pulled up the little white curtain of the one\nnearest him. \"Who-o-op!\" he roared, pulling away at the leg of a small\nboy, who held on tight to the leg of the bed, and sang out lustily for\nmercy.\n\n\"Here, lend a hand, one of you, and help me pull out this young howling\nbrute.--Hold your tongue, sir, or I'll kill you.\"\n\n\"Oh, please, Flashman, please, Walker, don't toss me! I'll fag for\nyou--I'll do anything--only don't toss me.\"\n\n\"You be hanged,\" said Flashman, lugging the wretched boy along; \"'twon't\nhurt you,--you!--Come along, boys; here he is.\"\n\n\"I say, Flashey,\" sang out another of the big boys; \"drop that; you\nheard what old Pater Brooke said to-night. I'll be hanged if we'll toss\nany one against their will. No more bullying. Let him go, I say.\"\n\nFlashman, with an oath and a kick, released his prey, who rushed\nheadlong under his bed again, for fear they should change their minds,\nand crept along underneath the other beds, till he got under that of the\nsixth-form boy, which he knew they daren't disturb.\n\n\"There's plenty of youngsters don't care about it,\" said Walker. \"Here,\nhere's Scud East--you'll be tossed, won't you, young un?\" Scud was\nEast's nickname, or Black, as we called it, gained by his fleetness of\nfoot.\n\n\"Yes,\" said East, \"if you like, only mind my foot.\"\n\n\"And here's another who didn't hide.--Hullo! new boy; what's your name,\nsir?\"\n\n\"Brown.\"\n\n\"Well, Whitey Brown, you don't mind being tossed?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Tom, setting his teeth.\n\n\"Come along then, boys,\" sang out Walker; and away they all went,\ncarrying along Tom and East, to the intense relief of four or five other\nsmall boys, who crept out from under the beds and behind them.\n\n\"What a trump Scud is!\" said one. \"They won't come back here now.\"\n\n\"And that new boy, too; he must be a good-plucked one.\"\n\n\"Ah! wait till he has been tossed on to the floor; see how he'll like it\nthen!\"\n\nMeantime the procession went down the passage to Number 7, the largest\nroom, and the scene of the tossing, in the middle of which was a great\nopen space. Here they joined other parties of the bigger boys, each\nwith a captive or two, some willing to be tossed, some sullen, and some\nfrightened to death. At Walker's suggestion all who were afraid were let\noff, in honour of Pater Brooke's speech.\n\nThen a dozen big boys seized hold of a blanket, dragged from one of the\nbeds. \"In with Scud; quick! there's no time to lose.\" East was chucked\ninto the blanket. \"Once, twice, thrice, and away!\" Up he went like a\nshuttlecock, but not quite up to the ceiling.\n\n\"Now, boys, with a will,\" cried Walker; \"once, twice, thrice, and away!\"\nThis time he went clean up, and kept himself from touching the ceiling\nwith his hand, and so again a third time, when he was turned out, and\nup went another boy. And then came Tom's turn. He lay quite still, by\nEast's advice, and didn't dislike the \"once, twice, thrice;\" but the\n\"away\" wasn't so pleasant. They were in good wind now, and sent him\nslap up to the ceiling first time, against which his knees came rather\nsharply. But the moment's pause before descending was the rub--the\nfeeling of utter helplessness and of leaving his whole inside behind him\nsticking to the ceiling. Tom was very near shouting to be set down when\nhe found himself back in the blanket, but thought of East, and didn't;\nand so took his three tosses without a kick or a cry, and was called a\nyoung trump for his pains.\n\nHe and East, having earned it, stood now looking on. No catastrophe\nhappened, as all the captives were cool hands, and didn't struggle. This\ndidn't suit Flashman. What your real bully likes in tossing is when the\nboys kick and struggle, or hold on to one side of the blanket, and so\nget pitched bodily on to the floor; it's no fun to him when no one is\nhurt or frightened.\n\n\"Let's toss two of them together, Walker,\" suggested he.\n\n\"What a cursed bully you are, Flashey!\" rejoined the other. \"Up with\nanother one.\"\n\nAnd so now two boys were tossed together, the peculiar hardship of which\nis, that it's too much for human nature to lie still then and share\ntroubles; and so the wretched pair of small boys struggle in the air\nwhich shall fall a-top in the descent, to the no small risk of both\nfalling out of the blanket, and the huge delight of brutes like\nFlashman.\n\nBut now there's a cry that the prepostor of the room is coming; so the\ntossing stops, and all scatter to their different rooms; and Tom is\nleft to turn in, with the first day's experience of a public school to\nmeditate upon.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII--SETTLING TO THE COLLAR.\n\n     \"Says Giles, ''Tis mortal hard to go,\n     But if so be's I must\n     I means to follow arter he\n     As goes hisself the fust.'\"--Ballad.\n\nEverybody, I suppose, knows the dreamy, delicious state in which one\nlies, half asleep, half awake, while consciousness begins to return\nafter a sound night's rest in a new place which we are glad to be in,\nfollowing upon a day of unwonted excitement and exertion. There are\nfew pleasanter pieces of life. The worst of it is that they last such\na short time; for nurse them as you will, by lying perfectly passive\nin mind and body, you can't make more than five minutes or so of them.\nAfter which time the stupid, obtrusive, wakeful entity which we call\n\"I\", as impatient as he is stiff-necked, spite of our teeth will force\nhimself back again, and take possession of us down to our very toes.\n\nIt was in this state that Master Tom lay at half-past seven on the\nmorning following the day of his arrival, and from his clean little\nwhite bed watched the movements of Bogle (the generic name by which the\nsuccessive shoeblacks of the School-house were known), as he marched\nround from bed to bed, collecting the dirty shoes and boots, and\ndepositing clean ones in their places.\n\nThere he lay, half doubtful as to where exactly in the universe he was,\nbut conscious that he had made a step in life which he had been anxious\nto make. It was only just light as he looked lazily out of the wide\nwindows, and saw the tops of the great elms, and the rooks circling\nabout and cawing remonstrances to the lazy ones of their commonwealth\nbefore starting in a body for the neighbouring ploughed fields. The\nnoise of the room-door closing behind Bogle, as he made his exit with\nthe shoebasket under his arm, roused him thoroughly, and he sat up in\nbed and looked round the room. What in the world could be the matter\nwith his shoulders and loins? He felt as if he had been severely beaten\nall down his back--the natural results of his performance at his first\nmatch. He drew up his knees and rested his chin on them, and went over\nall the events of yesterday, rejoicing in his new life, what he had seen\nof it, and all that was to come.\n\nPresently one or two of the other boys roused themselves, and began to\nsit up and talk to one another in low tones. Then East, after a roll\nor two, came to an anchor also, and nodding to Tom, began examining his\nankle.\n\n\"What a pull,\" said he, \"that it's lie-in-bed, for I shall be as lame as\na tree, I think.\"\n\nIt was Sunday morning, and Sunday lectures had not yet been established;\nso that nothing but breakfast intervened between bed and eleven o'clock\nchapel--a gap by no means easy to fill up: in fact, though received with\nthe correct amount of grumbling, the first lecture instituted by\nthe Doctor shortly afterwards was a great boon to the School. It was\nlie-in-bed, and no one was in a hurry to get up, especially in rooms\nwhere the sixth-form boy was a good-tempered fellow, as was the case in\nTom's room, and allowed the small boys to talk and laugh and do pretty\nmuch what they pleased, so long as they didn't disturb him. His bed was\na bigger one than the rest, standing in the corner by the fireplace,\nwith a washing-stand and large basin by the side, where he lay in state\nwith his white curtains tucked in so as to form a retiring place--an\nawful subject of contemplation to Tom, who slept nearly opposite, and\nwatched the great man rouse himself and take a book from under his\npillow, and begin reading, leaning his head on his hand, and turning his\nback to the room. Soon, however, a noise of striving urchins arose, and\nmuttered encouragements from the neighbouring boys of \"Go it, Tadpole!\"\n\"Now, young Green!\" \"Haul away his blanket!\" \"Slipper him on the hands!\"\nYoung Green and little Hall, commonly called Tadpole, from his great\nblack head and thin legs, slept side by side far away by the door, and\nwere for ever playing one another tricks, which usually ended, as on\nthis morning, in open and violent collision; and now, unmindful of all\norder and authority, there they were, each hauling away at the other's\nbedclothes with one hand, and with the other, armed with a slipper,\nbelabouring whatever portion of the body of his adversary came within\nreach.\n\n\"Hold that noise up in the corner,\" called out the prepostor, sitting\nup and looking round his curtains; and the Tadpole and young Green sank\ndown into their disordered beds; and then, looking at his watch, added,\n\"Hullo! past eight. Whose turn for hot water?\"\n\n(Where the prepostor was particular in his ablutions, the fags in his\nroom had to descend in turn to the kitchen, and beg or steal hot water\nfor him; and often the custom extended farther, and two boys went down\nevery morning to get a supply for the whole room.)\n\n\"East's and Tadpole's,\" answered the senior fag, who kept the rota.\n\n\"I can't go,\" said East; \"I'm dead lame.\"\n\n\"Well, be quick some of you, that's all,\" said the great man, as he\nturned out of bed, and putting on his slippers, went out into the great\npassage, which runs the whole length of the bedrooms, to get his Sunday\nhabiliments out of his portmanteau.\n\n\"Let me go for you,\" said Tom to East; \"I should like it.\"\n\n\"Well, thank 'ee, that's a good fellow. Just pull on your trousers, and\ntake your jug and mine. Tadpole will show you the way.\"\n\nAnd so Tom and the Tadpole, in nightshirts and trousers, started off\ndownstairs, and through \"Thos's hole,\" as the little buttery, where\ncandles and beer and bread and cheese were served out at night, was\ncalled, across the School-house court, down a long passage, and into the\nkitchen; where, after some parley with the stalwart, handsome cook, who\ndeclared that she had filled a dozen jugs already, they got their hot\nwater, and returned with all speed and great caution. As it was, they\nnarrowly escaped capture by some privateers from the fifth-form rooms,\nwho were on the lookout for the hot-water convoys, and pursued them up\nto the very door of their room, making them spill half their load in the\npassage.\n\n\"Better than going down again though,\" as Tadpole remarked, \"as we\nshould have had to do if those beggars had caught us.\"\n\nBy the time that the calling-over bell rang, Tom and his new\ncomrades were all down, dressed in their best clothes, and he had the\nsatisfaction of answering \"here\" to his name for the first time, the\nprepostor of the week having put it in at the bottom of his list. And\nthen came breakfast and a saunter about the close and town with East,\nwhose lameness only became severe when any fagging had to be done. And\nso they whiled away the time until morning chapel.\n\nIt was a fine November morning, and the close soon became alive with\nboys of all ages, who sauntered about on the grass, or walked round the\ngravel walk, in parties of two or three. East, still doing the cicerone,\npointed out all the remarkable characters to Tom as they passed: Osbert,\nwho could throw a cricket-ball from the little-side ground over\nthe rook-trees to the Doctor's wall; Gray, who had got the Balliol\nscholarship, and, what East evidently thought of much more importance,\na half-holiday for the School by his success; Thorne, who had run ten\nmiles in two minutes over the hour; Black, who had held his own against\nthe cock of the town in the last row with the louts; and many more\nheroes, who then and there walked about and were worshipped, all trace\nof whom has long since vanished from the scene of their fame. And the\nfourth-form boy who reads their names rudely cut on the old hall tables,\nor painted upon the big-side cupboard (if hall tables and big-side\ncupboards still exist), wonders what manner of boys they were. It will\nbe the same with you who wonder, my sons, whatever your prowess may be\nin cricket, or scholarship, or football. Two or three years, more or\nless, and then the steadily advancing, blessed wave will pass over your\nnames as it has passed over ours. Nevertheless, play your games and do\nyour work manfully--see only that that be done--and let the remembrance\nof it take care of itself.\n\nThe chapel-bell began to ring at a quarter to eleven, and Tom got in\nearly and took his place in the lowest row, and watched all the other\nboys come in and take their places, filling row after row; and tried\nto construe the Greek text which was inscribed over the door with the\nslightest possible success, and wondered which of the masters, who\nwalked down the chapel and took their seats in the exalted boxes at the\nend, would be his lord. And then came the closing of the doors, and the\nDoctor in his robes, and the service, which, however, didn't impress him\nmuch, for his feeling of wonder and curiosity was too strong. And the\nboy on one side of him was scratching his name on the oak panelling\nin front, and he couldn't help watching to see what the name was, and\nwhether it was well scratched; and the boy on the other side went to\nsleep, and kept falling against him; and on the whole, though many boys\neven in that part of the school were serious and attentive, the general\natmosphere was by no means devotional; and when he got out into the\nclose again, he didn't feel at all comfortable, or as if he had been to\nchurch.\n\nBut at afternoon chapel it was quite another thing. He had spent the\ntime after dinner in writing home to his mother, and so was in a better\nframe of mind; and his first curiosity was over, and he could attend\nmore to the service. As the hymn after the prayers was being sung, and\nthe chapel was getting a little dark, he was beginning to feel that he\nhad been really worshipping. And then came that great event in his, as\nin every Rugby boy's life of that day--the first sermon from the Doctor.\n\nMore worthy pens than mine have described that scene--the oak pulpit\nstanding out by itself above the School seats; the tall, gallant form,\nthe kindling eye, the voice, now soft as the low notes of a flute, now\nclear and stirring as the call of the light-infantry bugle, of him who\nstood there Sunday after Sunday, witnessing and pleading for his Lord,\nthe King of righteousness and love and glory, with whose Spirit he was\nfilled, and in whose power he spoke; the long lines of young faces,\nrising tier above tier down the whole length of the chapel, from the\nlittle boy's who had just left his mother to the young man's who was\ngoing out next week into the great world, rejoicing in his strength.\nIt was a great and solemn sight, and never more so than at this time of\nyear, when the only lights in the chapel were in the pulpit and at the\nseats of the prepostors of the week, and the soft twilight stole over\nthe rest of the chapel, deepening into darkness in the high gallery\nbehind the organ.\n\nBut what was it, after all, which seized and held these three hundred\nboys, dragging them out of themselves, willing or unwilling, for twenty\nminutes, on Sunday afternoons? True, there always were boys scattered up\nand down the School, who in heart and head were worthy to hear and able\nto carry away the deepest and wisest words there spoken. But these were\na minority always, generally a very small one, often so small a one as\nto be countable on the fingers of your hand. What was it that moved\nand held us, the rest of the three hundred reckless, childish boys, who\nfeared the Doctor with all our hearts, and very little besides in heaven\nor earth; who thought more of our sets in the School than of the Church\nof Christ, and put the traditions of Rugby and the public opinion of\nboys in our daily life above the laws of God? We couldn't enter into\nhalf that we heard; we hadn't the knowledge of our own hearts or the\nknowledge of one another, and little enough of the faith, hope, and love\nneeded to that end. But we listened, as all boys in their better moods\nwill listen (ay, and men too for the matter of that), to a man whom we\nfelt to be, with all his heart and soul and strength, striving against\nwhatever was mean and unmanly and unrighteous in our little world. It\nwas not the cold, clear voice of one giving advice and warning from\nserene heights to those who were struggling and sinning below, but the\nwarm, living voice of one who was fighting for us and by our sides, and\ncalling on us to help him and ourselves and one another. And so, wearily\nand little by little, but surely and steadily on the whole, was brought\nhome to the young boy, for the first time, the meaning of his life--that\nit was no fool's or sluggard's paradise into which he had wandered\nby chance, but a battlefield ordained from of old, where there are no\nspectators, but the youngest must take his side, and the stakes are life\nand death. And he who roused this consciousness in them showed them at\nthe same time, by every word he spoke in the pulpit, and by his whole\ndaily life, how that battle was to be fought, and stood there before\nthem their fellow-soldier and the captain of their band--the true sort\nof captain, too, for a boy's army--one who had no misgivings, and gave\nno uncertain word of command, and, let who would yield or make truce,\nwould fight the fight out (so every boy felt) to the last gasp and the\nlast drop of blood. Other sides of his character might take hold of\nand influence boys here and there; but it was this thoroughness and\nundaunted courage which, more than anything else, won his way to the\nhearts of the great mass of those on whom he left his mark, and made\nthem believe first in him and then in his Master.\n\nIt was this quality above all others which moved such boys as our\nhero, who had nothing whatever remarkable about him except excess of\nboyishness--by which I mean animal life in its fullest measure, good\nnature and honest impulses, hatred of injustice and meanness, and\nthoughtlessness enough to sink a three-decker. And so, during the next\ntwo years, in which it was more than doubtful whether he would get good\nor evil from the School, and before any steady purpose or principle grew\nup in him, whatever his week's sins and shortcomings might have been, he\nhardly ever left the chapel on Sunday evenings without a serious resolve\nto stand by and follow the Doctor, and a feeling that it was only\ncowardice (the incarnation of all other sins in such a boy's mind) which\nhindered him from doing so with all his heart.\n\nThe next day Tom was duly placed in the third form, and began his\nlessons in a corner of the big School. He found the work very easy, as\nhe had been well grounded, and knew his grammar by heart; and, as he had\nno intimate companions to make him idle (East and his other School-house\nfriends being in the lower fourth, the form above him), soon gained\ngolden opinions from his master, who said he was placed too low, and\nshould be put out at the end of the half-year. So all went well with him\nin School, and he wrote the most flourishing letters home to his mother,\nfull of his own success and the unspeakable delights of a public school.\n\nIn the house, too, all went well. The end of the half-year was drawing\nnear, which kept everybody in a good humour, and the house was ruled\nwell and strongly by Warner and Brooke. True, the general system was\nrough and hard, and there was bullying in nooks and corners--bad signs\nfor the future; but it never got farther, or dared show itself openly,\nstalking about the passages and hall and bedrooms, and making the life\nof the small boys a continual fear.\n\nTom, as a new boy, was of right excused fagging for the first month, but\nin his enthusiasm for his new life this privilege hardly pleased him;\nand East and others of his young friends, discovering this, kindly\nallowed him to indulge his fancy, and take their turns at night fagging\nand cleaning studies. These were the principal duties of the fags in the\nhouse. From supper until nine o'clock three fags taken in order stood in\nthe passages, and answered any prepostor who called \"Fag,\" racing to the\ndoor, the last comer having to do the work. This consisted generally of\ngoing to the buttery for beer and bread and cheese (for the great men\ndid not sup with the rest, but had each his own allowance in his study\nor the fifth-form room), cleaning candlesticks and putting in new\ncandles, toasting cheese, bottling beer, and carrying messages about the\nhouse; and Tom, in the first blush of his hero-worship, felt it a high\nprivilege to receive orders from and be the bearer of the supper of old\nBrooke. And besides this night-work, each prepostor had three or four\nfags specially allotted to him, of whom he was supposed to be the guide,\nphilosopher, and friend, and who in return for these good offices had to\nclean out his study every morning by turns, directly after first lesson\nand before he returned from breakfast. And the pleasure of seeing the\ngreat men's studies, and looking at their pictures, and peeping into\ntheir books, made Tom a ready substitute for any boy who was too lazy to\ndo his own work. And so he soon gained the character of a good-natured,\nwilling fellow, who was ready to do a turn for any one.\n\nIn all the games, too, he joined with all his heart, and soon became\nwell versed in all the mysteries of football, by continual practice at\nthe School-house little-side, which played daily.\n\nThe only incident worth recording here, however, was his first run at\nhare-and-hounds. On the last Tuesday but one of the half-year he was\npassing through the hall after dinner, when he was hailed with shouts\nfrom Tadpole and several other fags seated at one of the long tables,\nthe chorus of which was, \"Come and help us tear up scent.\"\n\nTom approached the table in obedience to the mysterious summons, always\nready to help, and found the party engaged in tearing up old newspapers,\ncopy-books, and magazines, into small pieces, with which they were\nfilling four large canvas bags.\n\n\"It's the turn of our house to find scent for big-side hare-and-hounds,\"\nexclaimed Tadpole. \"Tear away; there's no time to lose before\ncalling-over.\"\n\n\"I think it's a great shame,\" said another small boy, \"to have such a\nhard run for the last day.\"\n\n\"Which run is it?\" said Tadpole.\n\n\"Oh, the Barby run, I hear,\" answered the other; \"nine miles at least,\nand hard ground; no chance of getting in at the finish, unless you're a\nfirst-rate scud.\"\n\n\"Well, I'm going to have a try,\" said Tadpole; \"it's the last run of the\nhalf, and if a fellow gets in at the end big-side stands ale and bread\nand cheese and a bowl of punch; and the Cock's such a famous place for\nale.\"\n\n\"I should like to try too,\" said Tom.\n\n\"Well, then, leave your waistcoat behind, and listen at the door, after\ncalling-over, and you'll hear where the meet is.\"\n\nAfter calling-over, sure enough there were two boys at the door, calling\nout, \"Big-side hare-and-hounds meet at White Hall;\" and Tom, having\ngirded himself with leather strap, and left all superfluous clothing\nbehind, set off for White Hall, an old gable-ended house some quarter\nof a mile from the town, with East, whom he had persuaded to join,\nnotwithstanding his prophecy that they could never get in, as it was the\nhardest run of the year.\n\nAt the meet they found some forty or fifty boys, and Tom felt sure, from\nhaving seen many of them run at football, that he and East were more\nlikely to get in than they.\n\nAfter a few minutes' waiting, two well-known runners, chosen for the\nhares, buckled on the four bags filled with scent, compared their\nwatches with those of young Brooke and Thorne, and started off at a\nlong, slinging trot across the fields in the direction of Barby.\n\nThen the hounds clustered round Thorne, who explained shortly, \"They're\nto have six minutes' law. We run into the Cock, and every one who comes\nin within a quarter of an hour of the hares'll be counted, if he has\nbeen round Barby church.\" Then came a minute's pause or so, and then the\nwatches are pocketed, and the pack is led through the gateway into the\nfield which the hares had first crossed. Here they break into a trot,\nscattering over the field to find the first traces of the scent which\nthe hares throw out as they go along. The old hounds make straight for\nthe likely points, and in a minute a cry of \"Forward\" comes from one\nof them, and the whole pack, quickening their pace, make for the spot,\nwhile the boy who hit the scent first, and the two or three nearest to\nhim, are over the first fence, and making play along the hedgerow in the\nlong grass-field beyond. The rest of the pack rush at the gap already\nmade, and scramble through, jostling one another. \"Forward\" again,\nbefore they are half through. The pace quickens into a sharp run, the\ntail hounds all straining to get up to the lucky leaders. They are\ngallant hares, and the scent lies thick right across another meadow and\ninto a ploughed field, where the pace begins to tell; then over a good\nwattle with a ditch on the other side, and down a large pasture studded\nwith old thorns, which slopes down to the first brook. The great\nLeicestershire sheep charge away across the field as the pack comes\nracing down the slope. The brook is a small one, and the scent lies\nright ahead up the opposite slope, and as thick as ever--not a turn or\na check to favour the tail hounds, who strain on, now trailing in a long\nline, many a youngster beginning to drag his legs heavily, and feel his\nheart beat like a hammer, and the bad-plucked ones thinking that after\nall it isn't worth while to keep it up.\n\nTom, East, and the Tadpole had a good start, and are well up for such\nyoung hands, and after rising the slope and crossing the next field,\nfind themselves up with the leading hounds, who have overrun the scent,\nand are trying back. They have come a mile and a half in about eleven\nminutes, a pace which shows that it is the last day. About twenty-five\nof the original starters only show here, the rest having already given\nin; the leaders are busy making casts into the fields on the left and\nright, and the others get their second winds.\n\nThen comes the cry of \"Forward\" again from young Brooke, from the\nextreme left, and the pack settles down to work again steadily and\ndoggedly, the whole keeping pretty well together. The scent, though\nstill good, is not so thick; there is no need of that, for in this part\nof the run every one knows the line which must be taken, and so there\nare no casts to be made, but good downright running and fencing to be\ndone. All who are now up mean coming in, and they come to the foot of\nBarby Hill without losing more than two or three more of the pack. This\nlast straight two miles and a half is always a vantage ground for the\nhounds, and the hares know it well; they are generally viewed on the\nside of Barby Hill, and all eyes are on the lookout for them to-day. But\nnot a sign of them appears, so now will be the hard work for the hounds,\nand there is nothing for it but to cast about for the scent, for it is\nnow the hares' turn, and they may baffle the pack dreadfully in the next\ntwo miles.\n\nIll fares it now with our youngsters, that they are School-house boys,\nand so follow young Brooke, for he takes the wide casts round to the\nleft, conscious of his own powers, and loving the hard work. For if you\nwould consider for a moment, you small boys, you would remember that the\nCock, where the run ends and the good ale will be going, lies far out to\nthe right on the Dunchurch road, so that every cast you take to the left\nis so much extra work. And at this stage of the run, when the evening is\nclosing in already, no one remarks whether you run a little cunning or\nnot; so you should stick to those crafty hounds who keep edging away to\nthe right, and not follow a prodigal like young Brooke, whose legs are\ntwice as long as yours and of cast-iron, wholly indifferent to one or\ntwo miles more or less. However, they struggle after him, sobbing and\nplunging along, Tom and East pretty close, and Tadpole, whose big head\nbegins to pull him down, some thirty yards behind.\n\nNow comes a brook, with stiff clay banks, from which they can hardly\ndrag their legs, and they hear faint cries for help from the wretched\nTadpole, who has fairly stuck fast. But they have too little run left\nin themselves to pull up for their own brothers. Three fields more, and\nanother check, and then \"Forward\" called away to the extreme right.\n\nThe two boys' souls die within them; they can never do it. Young Brooke\nthinks so too, and says kindly, \"You'll cross a lane after next field;\nkeep down it, and you'll hit the Dunchurch road below the Cock,\" and\nthen steams away for the run in, in which he's sure to be first, as\nif he were just starting. They struggle on across the next field, the\n\"forwards\" getting fainter and fainter, and then ceasing. The whole hunt\nis out of ear-shot, and all hope of coming in is over.\n\n\"Hang it all!\" broke out East, as soon as he had got wind enough,\npulling off his hat and mopping at his face, all spattered with dirt and\nlined with sweat, from which went up a thick steam into the still, cold\nair. \"I told you how it would be. What a thick I was to come! Here we\nare, dead beat, and yet I know we're close to the run in, if we knew the\ncountry.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Tom, mopping away, and gulping down his disappointment,\n\"it can't be helped. We did our best anyhow. Hadn't we better find this\nlane, and go down it, as young Brooke told us?\"\n\n\"I suppose so--nothing else for it,\" grunted East. \"If ever I go out\nlast day again.\" Growl, growl, growl.\n\nSo they tried back slowly and sorrowfully, and found the lane, and went\nlimping down it, plashing in the cold puddly ruts, and beginning to feel\nhow the run had taken it out of them. The evening closed in fast, and\nclouded over, dark, cold, and dreary.\n\n\"I say, it must be locking-up, I should think,\" remarked East, breaking\nthe silence--\"it's so dark.\"\n\n\"What if we're late?\" said Tom.\n\n\"No tea, and sent up to the Doctor,\" answered East.\n\nThe thought didn't add to their cheerfulness. Presently a faint halloo\nwas heard from an adjoining field. They answered it and stopped, hoping\nfor some competent rustic to guide them, when over a gate some twenty\nyards ahead crawled the wretched Tadpole, in a state of collapse. He had\nlost a shoe in the brook, and had been groping after it up to his elbows\nin the stiff, wet clay, and a more miserable creature in the shape of\nboy seldom has been seen.\n\nThe sight of him, notwithstanding, cheered them, for he was some degrees\nmore wretched than they. They also cheered him, as he was no longer\nunder the dread of passing his night alone in the fields. And so, in\nbetter heart, the three plashed painfully down the never-ending lane. At\nlast it widened, just as utter darkness set in, and they came out on\na turnpike road, and there paused, bewildered, for they had lost all\nbearings, and knew not whether to turn to the right or left.\n\nLuckily for them they had not to decide, for lumbering along the road,\nwith one lamp lighted and two spavined horses in the shafts, came a\nheavy coach, which after a moment's suspense they recognized as the\nOxford coach, the redoubtable Pig and Whistle.\n\nIt lumbered slowly up, and the boys, mustering their last run, caught\nit as it passed, and began clambering up behind, in which exploit East\nmissed his footing and fell flat on his nose along the road. Then the\nothers hailed the old scarecrow of a coachman, who pulled up and agreed\nto take them in for a shilling; so there they sat on the back seat,\ndrubbing with their heels, and their teeth chattering with cold, and\njogged into Rugby some forty minutes after locking-up.\n\nFive minutes afterwards three small, limping, shivering figures steal\nalong through the Doctor's garden, and into the house by the servants'\nentrance (all the other gates have been closed long since), where the\nfirst thing they light upon in the passage is old Thomas, ambling along,\ncandle in one hand and keys in the other.\n\nHe stops and examines their condition with a grim smile. \"Ah! East,\nHall, and Brown, late for locking-up. Must go up to the Doctor's study\nat once.\"\n\n\"Well but, Thomas, mayn't we go and wash first? You can put down the\ntime, you know.\"\n\n\"Doctor's study d'rectly you come in--that's the orders,\" replied old\nThomas, motioning towards the stairs at the end of the passage which led\nup into the Doctor's house; and the boys turned ruefully down it, not\ncheered by the old verger's muttered remark, \"What a pickle they boys be\nin!\" Thomas referred to their faces and habiliments, but they construed\nit as indicating the Doctor's state of mind. Upon the short flight of\nstairs they paused to hold counsel.\n\n\"Who'll go in first?\" inquires Tadpole.\n\n\"You--you're the senior,\" answered East.\n\n\"Catch me. Look at the state I'm in,\" rejoined Hall, showing the arms of\nhis jacket. \"I must get behind you two.\"\n\n\"Well, but look at me,\" said East, indicating the mass of clay behind\nwhich he was standing; \"I'm worse than you, two to one. You might grow\ncabbages on my trousers.\"\n\n\"That's all down below, and you can keep your legs behind the sofa,\"\nsaid Hall.\n\n\"Here, Brown; you're the show-figure. You must lead.\"\n\n\"But my face is all muddy,\" argued Tom.\n\n\"Oh, we're all in one boat for that matter; but come on; we're only\nmaking it worse, dawdling here.\"\n\n\"Well, just give us a brush then,\" said Tom. And they began trying to\nrub off the superfluous dirt from each other's jackets; but it was not\ndry enough, and the rubbing made them worse; so in despair they pushed\nthrough the swing-door at the head of the stairs, and found themselves\nin the Doctor's hall.\n\n\"That's the library door,\" said East in a whisper, pushing Tom forwards.\nThe sound of merry voices and laughter came from within, and his first\nhesitating knock was unanswered. But at the second, the Doctor's voice\nsaid, \"Come in;\" and Tom turned the handle, and he, with the others\nbehind him, sidled into the room.\n\nThe Doctor looked up from his task; he was working away with a great\nchisel at the bottom of a boy's sailing boat, the lines of which he was\nno doubt fashioning on the model of one of Nicias's galleys. Round him\nstood three or four children; the candles burnt brightly on a large\ntable at the farther end, covered with books and papers, and a great\nfire threw a ruddy glow over the rest of the room. All looked so kindly,\nand homely, and comfortable that the boys took heart in a moment, and\nTom advanced from behind the shelter of the great sofa. The Doctor\nnodded to the children, who went out, casting curious and amused glances\nat the three young scarecrows.\n\n\"Well, my little fellows,\" began the Doctor, drawing himself up with\nhis back to the fire, the chisel in one hand and his coat-tails in the\nother, and his eyes twinkling as he looked them over; \"what makes you so\nlate?\"\n\n\"Please, sir, we've been out big-side hare-and-hounds, and lost our\nway.\"\n\n\"Hah! you couldn't keep up, I suppose?\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" said East, stepping out, and not liking that the Doctor\nshould think lightly of his running powers, \"we got round Barby all\nright; but then--\"\n\n\"Why, what a state you're in, my boy!\" interrupted the Doctor, as the\npitiful condition of East's garments was fully revealed to him.\n\n\"That's the fall I got, sir, in the road,\" said East, looking down at\nhimself; \"the Old Pig came by--\"\n\n\"The what?\" said the Doctor.\n\n\"The Oxford coach, sir,\" explained Hall.\n\n\"Hah! yes, the Regulator,\" said the Doctor.\n\n\"And I tumbled on my face, trying to get up behind,\" went on East.\n\n\"You're not hurt, I hope?\" said the Doctor.\n\n\"Oh no, sir.\"\n\n\"Well now, run upstairs, all three of you, and get clean things on, and\nthen tell the housekeeper to give you some tea. You're too young to try\nsuch long runs. Let Warner know I've seen you. Good-night.\"\n\n\"Good-night, sir.\" And away scuttled the three boys in high glee.\n\n\"What a brick, not to give us even twenty lines to learn!\" said the\nTadpole, as they reached their bedroom; and in half an hour afterwards\nthey were sitting by the fire in the housekeeper's room at a sumptuous\ntea, with cold meat--\"Twice as good a grub as we should have got in the\nhall,\" as the Tadpole remarked with a grin, his mouth full of buttered\ntoast. All their grievances were forgotten, and they were resolving to\ngo out the first big-side next half, and thinking hare-and-hounds the\nmost delightful of games.\n\nA day or two afterwards the great passage outside the bedrooms was\ncleared of the boxes and portmanteaus, which went down to be packed by\nthe matron, and great games of chariot-racing, and cock-fighting, and\nbolstering went on in the vacant space, the sure sign of a closing\nhalf-year.\n\nThen came the making up of parties for the journey home, and Tom joined\na party who were to hire a coach, and post with four horses to Oxford.\n\nThen the last Saturday, on which the Doctor came round to each form to\ngive out the prizes, and hear the master's last reports of how they\nand their charges had been conducting themselves; and Tom, to his huge\ndelight, was praised, and got his remove into the lower fourth, in which\nall his School-house friends were.\n\nOn the next Tuesday morning at four o'clock hot coffee was going on in\nthe housekeeper's and matron's rooms; boys wrapped in great-coats and\nmufflers were swallowing hasty mouthfuls, rushing about, tumbling over\nluggage, and asking questions all at once of the matron; outside the\nSchool-gates were drawn up several chaises and the four-horse coach\nwhich Tom's party had chartered, the postboys in their best jackets and\nbreeches, and a cornopean player, hired for the occasion, blowing away\n\"A southerly wind and a cloudy sky,\" waking all peaceful inhabitants\nhalf-way down the High Street.\n\nEvery minute the bustle and hubbub increased: porters staggered about\nwith boxes and bags, the cornopean played louder. Old Thomas sat in\nhis den with a great yellow bag by his side, out of which he was paying\njourney-money to each boy, comparing by the light of a solitary dip the\ndirty, crabbed little list in his own handwriting with the Doctor's list\nand the amount of his cash; his head was on one side, his mouth screwed\nup, and his spectacles dim from early toil. He had prudently locked the\ndoor, and carried on his operations solely through the window, or he\nwould have been driven wild and lost all his money.\n\n\"Thomas, do be quick; we shall never catch the Highflyer at Dunchurch.\"\n\n\"That's your money all right, Green.\"\n\n\"Hullo, Thomas, the Doctor said I was to have two pound ten; you've only\ngiven me two pound.\" (I fear that Master Green is not confining himself\nstrictly to truth.) Thomas turns his head more on one side than ever,\nand spells away at the dirty list. Green is forced away from the window.\n\n\"Here, Thomas--never mind him; mine's thirty shillings.\" \"And mine too,\"\n\"And mine,\" shouted others.\n\nOne way or another, the party to which Tom belonged all got packed and\npaid, and sallied out to the gates, the cornopean playing frantically\n\"Drops of Brandy,\" in allusion, probably, to the slight potations in\nwhich the musician and postboys had been already indulging. All luggage\nwas carefully stowed away inside the coach and in the front and hind\nboots, so that not a hat-box was visible outside. Five or six small\nboys, with pea-shooters, and the cornopean player, got up behind; in\nfront the big boys, mostly smoking, not for pleasure, but because they\nare now gentlemen at large, and this is the most correct public method\nof notifying the fact.\n\n\"Robinson's coach will be down the road in a minute; it has gone up to\nBird's to pick up. We'll wait till they're close, and make a race of\nit,\" says the leader. \"Now, boys, half a sovereign apiece if you beat\n'em into Dunchurch by one hundred yards.\"\n\n\"All right, sir,\" shouted the grinning postboys.\n\nDown comes Robinson's coach in a minute or two, with a rival cornopean,\nand away go the two vehicles, horses galloping, boys cheering, horns\nplaying loud. There is a special providence over school-boys as well\nas sailors, or they must have upset twenty times in the first five\nmiles--sometimes actually abreast of one another, and the boys on the\nroofs exchanging volleys of peas; now nearly running over a post-chaise\nwhich had started before them; now half-way up a bank; now with a wheel\nand a half over a yawning ditch: and all this in a dark morning, with\nnothing but their own lamps to guide them. However, it's all over at\nlast, and they have run over nothing but an old pig in Southam Street.\nThe last peas are distributed in the Corn Market at Oxford, where they\narrive between eleven and twelve, and sit down to a sumptuous breakfast\nat the Angel, which they are made to pay for accordingly. Here the party\nbreaks up, all going now different ways; and Tom orders out a chaise and\npair as grand as a lord, though he has scarcely five shillings left in\nhis pocket, and more than twenty miles to get home.\n\n\"Where to, sir?\"\n\n\"Red Lion, Farringdon,\" says Tom, giving hostler a shilling.\n\n\"All right, sir.--Red Lion, Jem,\" to the postboy; and Tom rattles away\ntowards home. At Farringdon, being known to the innkeeper, he gets that\nworthy to pay for the Oxford horses, and forward him in another chaise\nat once; and so the gorgeous young gentleman arrives at the paternal\nmansion, and Squire Brown looks rather blue at having to pay two pound\nten shillings for the posting expenses from Oxford. But the boy's\nintense joy at getting home, and the wonderful health he is in, and the\ngood character he brings, and the brave stories he tells of Rugby, its\ndoings and delights, soon mollify the Squire, and three happier people\ndidn't sit down to dinner that day in England (it is the boy's first\ndinner at six o'clock at home--great promotion already) than the Squire\nand his wife and Tom Brown, at the end of his first half-year at Rugby.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII--THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE.\n\n     \"They are slaves who will not choose\n     Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,\n     Rather than in silence shrink\n     From the truth they needs must think;\n     They are slaves who dare not be\n     In the right with two or three.\"\n     --LOWELL, Stanzas on Freedom.\n\nThe lower-fourth form, in which Tom found himself at the beginning\nof the next half-year, was the largest form in the lower school, and\nnumbered upwards of forty boys. Young gentlemen of all ages from nine to\nfifteen were to be found there, who expended such part of their energies\nas was devoted to Latin and Greek upon a book of Livy, the \"Bucolics\"\nof Virgil, and the \"Hecuba\" of Euripides, which were ground out in small\ndaily portions. The driving of this unlucky lower-fourth must have been\ngrievous work to the unfortunate master, for it was the most unhappily\nconstituted of any in the school. Here stuck the great stupid boys,\nwho, for the life of them, could never master the accidence--the objects\nalternately of mirth and terror to the youngsters, who were daily taking\nthem up and laughing at them in lesson, and getting kicked by them for\nso doing in play-hours. There were no less than three unhappy fellows in\ntail coats, with incipient down on their chins, whom the Doctor and\nthe master of the form were always endeavouring to hoist into the upper\nschool, but whose parsing and construing resisted the most well-meant\nshoves. Then came the mass of the form, boys of eleven and twelve, the\nmost mischievous and reckless age of British youth, of whom East and Tom\nBrown were fair specimens. As full of tricks as monkeys, and of excuses\nas Irishwomen, making fun of their master, one another, and their\nlessons, Argus himself would have been puzzled to keep an eye on them;\nand as for making them steady or serious for half an hour together,\nit was simply hopeless. The remainder of the form consisted of young\nprodigies of nine and ten, who were going up the school at the rate of\na form a half-year, all boys' hands and wits being against them in their\nprogress. It would have been one man's work to see that the precocious\nyoungsters had fair play; and as the master had a good deal besides\nto do, they hadn't, and were for ever being shoved down three or four\nplaces, their verses stolen, their books inked, their jackets whitened,\nand their lives otherwise made a burden to them.\n\nThe lower-fourth, and all the forms below it, were heard in the great\nschool, and were not trusted to prepare their lessons before coming in,\nbut were whipped into school three-quarters of an hour before the lesson\nbegan by their respective masters, and there, scattered about on the\nbenches, with dictionary and grammar, hammered out their twenty lines\nof Virgil and Euripides in the midst of babel. The masters of the\nlower school walked up and down the great school together during this\nthree-quarters of an hour, or sat in their desks reading or looking over\ncopies, and keeping such order as was possible. But the lower-fourth\nwas just now an overgrown form, too large for any one man to attend\nto properly, and consequently the elysium or ideal form of the young\nscapegraces who formed the staple of it.\n\nTom, as has been said, had come up from the third with a good character,\nbut the temptations of the lower-fourth soon proved too strong for him,\nand he rapidly fell away, and became as unmanageable as the rest.\nFor some weeks, indeed, he succeeded in maintaining the appearance of\nsteadiness, and was looked upon favourably by his new master, whose eyes\nwere first opened by the following little incident.\n\nBesides the desk which the master himself occupied, there was another\nlarge unoccupied desk in the corner of the great school, which was\nuntenanted. To rush and seize upon this desk, which was ascended by\nthree steps and held four boys, was the great object of ambition of the\nlower-fourthers; and the contentions for the occupation of it bred such\ndisorder that at last the master forbade its use altogether. This, of\ncourse, was a challenge to the more adventurous spirits to occupy it;\nand as it was capacious enough for two boys to lie hid there completely,\nit was seldom that it remained empty, notwithstanding the veto. Small\nholes were cut in the front, through which the occupants watched the\nmasters as they walked up and down; and as lesson time approached, one\nboy at a time stole out and down the steps, as the masters' backs were\nturned, and mingled with the general crowd on the forms below. Tom and\nEast had successfully occupied the desk some half-dozen times, and were\ngrown so reckless that they were in the habit of playing small games\nwith fives balls inside when the masters were at the other end of the\nbig school. One day, as ill-luck would have it, the game became more\nexciting than usual, and the ball slipped through East's fingers, and\nrolled slowly down the steps and out into the middle of the school, just\nas the masters turned in their walk and faced round upon the desk. The\nyoung delinquents watched their master, through the lookout holes, march\nslowly down the school straight upon their retreat, while all the boys\nin the neighbourhood, of course, stopped their work to look on; and not\nonly were they ignominiously drawn out, and caned over the hand then\nand there, but their characters for steadiness were gone from that time.\nHowever, as they only shared the fate of some three-fourths of the rest\nof the form, this did not weigh heavily upon them.\n\nIn fact, the only occasions on which they cared about the matter were\nthe monthly examinations, when the Doctor came round to examine their\nform, for one long, awful hour, in the work which they had done in the\npreceding month. The second monthly examination came round soon after\nTom's fall, and it was with anything but lively anticipations that he\nand the other lower-fourth boys came in to prayers on the morning of the\nexamination day.\n\nPrayers and calling-over seemed twice as short as usual, and before they\ncould get construes of a tithe of the hard passages marked in the margin\nof their books, they were all seated round, and the Doctor was standing\nin the middle, talking in whispers to the master. Tom couldn't hear a\nword which passed, and never lifted his eyes from his book; but he knew\nby a sort of magnetic instinct that the Doctor's under-lip was coming\nout, and his eye beginning to burn, and his gown getting gathered up\nmore and more tightly in his left hand. The suspense was agonizing, and\nTom knew that he was sure on such occasions to make an example of the\nSchool-house boys. \"If he would only begin,\" thought Tom, \"I shouldn't\nmind.\"\n\nAt last the whispering ceased, and the name which was called out was not\nBrown. He looked up for a moment, but the Doctor's face was too awful;\nTom wouldn't have met his eye for all he was worth, and buried himself\nin his book again.\n\nThe boy who was called up first was a clever, merry School-house boy,\none of their set; he was some connection of the Doctor's, and a great\nfavourite, and ran in and out of his house as he liked, and so was\nselected for the first victim.\n\n\"Triste lupus stabulis,\" began the luckless youngster, and stammered\nthrough some eight or ten lines.\n\n\"There, that will do,\" said the Doctor; \"now construe.\"\n\nOn common occasions the boy could have construed the passage well enough\nprobably, but now his head was gone.\n\n\"Triste lupus, the sorrowful wolf,\" he began.\n\nA shudder ran through the whole form, and the Doctor's wrath fairly\nboiled over. He made three steps up to the construer, and gave him a\ngood box on the ear. The blow was not a hard one, but the boy was so\ntaken by surprise that he started back; the form caught the back of his\nknees, and over he went on to the floor behind. There was a dead silence\nover the whole school. Never before and never again while Tom was at\nschool did the Doctor strike a boy in lesson. The provocation must have\nbeen great. However, the victim had saved his form for that occasion,\nfor the Doctor turned to the top bench, and put on the best boys for the\nrest of the hour and though, at the end of the lesson, he gave them all\nsuch a rating as they did not forget, this terrible field-day passed\nover without any severe visitations in the shape of punishments or\nfloggings. Forty young scapegraces expressed their thanks to the\n\"sorrowful wolf\" in their different ways before second lesson.\n\nBut a character for steadiness once gone is not easily recovered, as Tom\nfound; and for years afterwards he went up the school without it,\nand the masters' hands were against him, and his against them. And he\nregarded them, as a matter of course, as his natural enemies.\n\nMatters were not so comfortable, either, in the house as they had\nbeen; for old Brooke left at Christmas, and one or two others of the\nsixth-form boys at the following Easter. Their rule had been rough, but\nstrong and just in the main, and a higher standard was beginning to be\nset up; in fact, there had been a short foretaste of the good time which\nfollowed some years later. Just now, however, all threatened to return\ninto darkness and chaos again. For the new prepostors were either small\nyoung boys, whose cleverness had carried them up to the top of the\nschool, while in strength of body and character they were not yet\nfit for a share in the government; or else big fellows of the wrong\nsort--boys whose friendships and tastes had a downward tendency, who had\nnot caught the meaning of their position and work, and felt none of its\nresponsibilities. So under this no-government the School-house began to\nsee bad times. The big fifth-form boys, who were a sporting and drinking\nset, soon began to usurp power, and to fag the little boys as if they\nwere prepostors, and to bully and oppress any who showed signs of\nresistance. The bigger sort of sixth-form boys just described soon made\ncommon cause with the fifth, while the smaller sort, hampered by their\ncolleagues' desertion to the enemy, could not make head against them.\nSo the fags were without their lawful masters and protectors, and ridden\nover rough-shod by a set of boys whom they were not bound to obey, and\nwhose only right over them stood in their bodily powers; and, as old\nBrooke had prophesied, the house by degrees broke up into small sets and\nparties, and lost the strong feeling of fellowship which he set so much\nstore by, and with it much of the prowess in games and the lead in all\nschool matters which he had done so much to keep up.\n\nIn no place in the world has individual character more weight than at\na public school. Remember this, I beseech you, all you boys who are\ngetting into the upper forms. Now is the time in all your lives,\nprobably, when you may have more wide influence for good or evil on the\nsociety you live in than you ever can have again. Quit yourselves like\nmen, then; speak up, and strike out if necessary, for whatsoever\nis true, and manly, and lovely, and of good report; never try to be\npopular, but only to do your duty and help others to do theirs, and you\nmay leave the tone of feeling in the school higher than you found it,\nand so be doing good which no living soul can measure to generations of\nyour countrymen yet unborn. For boys follow one another in herds like\nsheep, for good or evil; they hate thinking, and have rarely any settled\nprinciples. Every school, indeed, has its own traditionary standard of\nright and wrong, which cannot be transgressed with impunity, marking\ncertain things as low and blackguard, and certain others as lawful and\nright. This standard is ever varying, though it changes only slowly and\nlittle by little; and, subject only to such standard, it is the leading\nboys for the time being who give the tone to all the rest, and make\nthe School either a noble institution for the training of Christian\nEnglishmen, or a place where a young boy will get more evil than he\nwould if he were turned out to make his way in London streets, or\nanything between these two extremes.\n\nThe change for the worse in the School-house, however, didn't press very\nheavily on our youngsters for some time. They were in a good bedroom,\nwhere slept the only prepostor left who was able to keep thorough order,\nand their study was in his passage. So, though they were fagged more or\nless, and occasionally kicked or cuffed by the bullies, they were, on\nthe whole, well off; and the fresh, brave school-life, so full of games,\nadventures, and good-fellowship, so ready at forgetting, so capacious\nat enjoying, so bright at forecasting, outweighed a thousand-fold their\ntroubles with the master of their form, and the occasional ill-usage\nof the big boys in the house. It wasn't till some year or so after the\nevents recorded above that the prepostor of their room and passage left.\nNone of the other sixth-form boys would move into their passage, and, to\nthe disgust and indignation of Tom and East, one morning after breakfast\nthey were seized upon by Flashman, and made to carry down his books and\nfurniture into the unoccupied study, which he had taken. From this\ntime they began to feel the weight of the tyranny of Flashman and his\nfriends, and, now that trouble had come home to their own doors, began\nto look out for sympathizers and partners amongst the rest of the fags;\nand meetings of the oppressed began to be held, and murmurs to arise,\nand plots to be laid as to how they should free themselves and be\navenged on their enemies.\n\nWhile matters were in this state, East and Tom were one evening sitting\nin their study. They had done their work for first lesson, and Tom was\nin a brown study, brooding, like a young William Tell, upon the wrongs\nof fags in general, and his own in particular.\n\n\"I say, Scud,\" said he at last, rousing himself to snuff the candle,\n\"what right have the fifth-form boys to fag us as they do?\"\n\n\"No more right than you have to fag them,\" answered East, without\nlooking up from an early number of \"Pickwick,\" which was just coming\nout, and which he was luxuriously devouring, stretched on his back on\nthe sofa.\n\nTom relapsed into his brown study, and East went on reading and\nchuckling. The contrast of the boys' faces would have given infinite\namusement to a looker-on--the one so solemn and big with mighty purpose,\nthe other radiant and bubbling over with fun.\n\n\"Do you know, old fellow, I've been thinking it over a good deal,\" began\nTom again.\n\n\"Oh yes, I know--fagging you are thinking of. Hang it all! But listen\nhere, Tom--here's fun. Mr. Winkle's horse--\"\n\n\"And I've made up my mind,\" broke in Tom, \"that I won't fag except for\nthe sixth.\"\n\n\"Quite right too, my boy,\" cried East, putting his finger on the place\nand looking up; \"but a pretty peck of troubles you'll get into, if\nyou're going to play that game. However, I'm all for a strike myself, if\nwe can get others to join. It's getting too bad.\"\n\n\"Can't we get some sixth-form fellow to take it up?\" asked Tom.\n\n\"Well, perhaps we might. Morgan would interfere, I think. Only,\" added\nEast, after a moment's pause, \"you see, we should have to tell him about\nit, and that's against School principles. Don't you remember what old\nBrooke said about learning to take our own parts?\"\n\n\"Ah, I wish old Brooke were back again. It was all right in his time.\"\n\n\"Why, yes, you see, then the strongest and best fellows were in the\nsixth, and the fifth-form fellows were afraid of them, and they kept\ngood order; but now our sixth-form fellows are too small, and the fifth\ndon't care for them, and do what they like in the house.\"\n\n\"And so we get a double set of masters,\" cried Tom indignantly--\"the\nlawful ones, who are responsible to the Doctor at any rate, and the\nunlawful, the tyrants, who are responsible to nobody.\"\n\n\"Down with the tyrants!\" cried East; \"I'm all for law and order, and\nhurrah for a revolution.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't mind if it were only for young Brooke now,\" said Tom; \"he's\nsuch a good-hearted, gentlemanly fellow, and ought to be in the sixth.\nI'd do anything for him. But that blackguard Flashman, who never speaks\nto one without a kick or an oath--\"\n\n\"The cowardly brute,\" broke in East--\"how I hate him! And he knows it\ntoo; he knows that you and I think him a coward. What a bore that he's\ngot a study in this passage! Don't you hear them now at supper in his\nden? Brandy-punch going, I'll bet. I wish the Doctor would come out and\ncatch him. We must change our study as soon as we can.\"\n\n\"Change or no change, I'll never fag for him again,\" said Tom, thumping\nthe table.\n\n\"Fa-a-a-ag!\" sounded along the passage from Flashman's study. The\ntwo boys looked at one another in silence. It had struck nine, so the\nregular night-fags had left duty, and they were the nearest to the\nsupper-party. East sat up, and began to look comical, as he always did\nunder difficulties.\n\n\"Fa-a-a-ag!\" again. No answer.\n\n\"Here, Brown! East! you cursed young skulks,\" roared out Flashman,\ncoming to his open door; \"I know you're in; no shirking.\"\n\nTom stole to their door, and drew the bolts as noiselessly as he could;\nEast blew out the candle.\n\n\"Barricade the first,\" whispered he. \"Now, Tom, mind, no surrender.\"\n\n\"Trust me for that,\" said Tom between his teeth.\n\nIn another minute they heard the supper-party turn out and come down the\npassage to their door. They held their breaths, and heard whispering, of\nwhich they only made out Flashman's words, \"I know the young brutes are\nin.\"\n\nThen came summonses to open, which being unanswered, the assault\ncommenced. Luckily the door was a good strong oak one, and resisted the\nunited weight of Flashman's party. A pause followed, and they heard a\nbesieger remark, \"They're in safe enough. Don't you see how the door\nholds at top and bottom? So the bolts must be drawn. We should have\nforced the lock long ago.\" East gave Tom a nudge, to call attention to\nthis scientific remark.\n\nThen came attacks on particular panels, one of which at last gave way\nto the repeated kicks; but it broke inwards, and the broken pieces got\njammed across (the door being lined with green baize), and couldn't\neasily be removed from outside: and the besieged, scorning further\nconcealment, strengthened their defences by pressing the end of their\nsofa against the door. So, after one or two more ineffectual efforts,\nFlashman and Company retired, vowing vengeance in no mild terms.\n\nThe first danger over, it only remained for the besieged to effect a\nsafe retreat, as it was now near bed-time. They listened intently, and\nheard the supper-party resettle themselves, and then gently drew back\nfirst one bolt and then the other. Presently the convivial noises began\nagain steadily. \"Now then, stand by for a run,\" said East, throwing the\ndoor wide open and rushing into the passage, closely followed by Tom.\nThey were too quick to be caught; but Flashman was on the lookout, and\nsent an empty pickle-jar whizzing after them, which narrowly missed\nTom's head, and broke into twenty pieces at the end of the passage.\n\"He wouldn't mind killing one, if he wasn't caught,\" said East, as they\nturned the corner.\n\nThere was no pursuit, so the two turned into the hall, where they found\na knot of small boys round the fire. Their story was told. The war of\nindependence had broken out. Who would join the revolutionary forces?\nSeveral others present bound themselves not to fag for the fifth form\nat once. One or two only edged off, and left the rebels. What else could\nthey do? \"I've a good mind to go to the Doctor straight,\" said Tom.\n\n\"That'll never do. Don't you remember the levy of the school last half?\"\nput in another.\n\nIn fact, the solemn assembly, a levy of the School, had been held, at\nwhich the captain of the School had got up, and after premising that\nseveral instances had occurred of matters having been reported to the\nmasters; that this was against public morality and School tradition;\nthat a levy of the sixth had been held on the subject, and they had\nresolved that the practice must be stopped at once; and given out that\nany boy, in whatever form, who should thenceforth appeal to a master,\nwithout having first gone to some prepostor and laid the case before\nhim, should be thrashed publicly, and sent to Coventry.\n\n\"Well, then, let's try the sixth. Try Morgan,\" suggested another. \"No\nuse\"--\"Blabbing won't do,\" was the general feeling.\n\n\"I'll give you fellows a piece of advice,\" said a voice from the end\nof the hall. They all turned round with a start, and the speaker got up\nfrom a bench on which he had been lying unobserved, and gave himself a\nshake. He was a big, loose-made fellow, with huge limbs which had grown\ntoo far through his jacket and trousers. \"Don't you go to anybody at\nall--you just stand out; say you won't fag. They'll soon get tired of\nlicking you. I've tried it on years ago with their forerunners.\"\n\n\"No! Did you? Tell us how it was?\" cried a chorus of voices, as they\nclustered round him.\n\n\"Well, just as it is with you. The fifth form would fag us, and I and\nsome more struck, and we beat 'em. The good fellows left off directly,\nand the bullies who kept on soon got afraid.\"\n\n\"Was Flashman here then?\"\n\n\"Yes; and a dirty, little, snivelling, sneaking fellow he was too. He\nnever dared join us, and used to toady the bullies by offering to fag\nfor them, and peaching against the rest of us.\"\n\n\"Why wasn't he cut, then?\" said East.\n\n\"Oh, toadies never get cut; they're too useful. Besides, he has no end\nof great hampers from home, with wine and game in them; so he toadied\nand fed himself into favour.\"\n\nThe quarter-to-ten bell now rang, and the small boys went off upstairs,\nstill consulting together, and praising their new counsellor, who\nstretched himself out on the bench before the hall fire again. There\nhe lay, a very queer specimen of boyhood, by name Diggs, and familiarly\ncalled \"the Mucker.\" He was young for his size, and a very clever\nfellow, nearly at the top of the fifth. His friends at home, having\nregard, I suppose, to his age, and not to his size and place in the\nschool, hadn't put him into tails; and even his jackets were always too\nsmall; and he had a talent for destroying clothes and making himself\nlook shabby. He wasn't on terms with Flashman's set, who sneered at his\ndress and ways behind his back; which he knew, and revenged himself\nby asking Flashman the most disagreeable questions, and treating him\nfamiliarly whenever a crowd of boys were round him. Neither was he\nintimate with any of the other bigger boys, who were warned off by\nhis oddnesses, for he was a very queer fellow; besides, amongst other\nfailings, he had that of impecuniosity in a remarkable degree. He\nbrought as much money as other boys to school, but got rid of it in no\ntime, no one knew how; and then, being also reckless, borrowed from any\none; and when his debts accumulated and creditors pressed, would have\nan auction in the hall of everything he possessed in the world, selling\neven his school-books, candlestick, and study table. For weeks after\none of these auctions, having rendered his study uninhabitable, he would\nlive about in the fifth-form room and hall, doing his verses on old\nletter-backs and odd scraps of paper, and learning his lessons no one\nknew how. He never meddled with any little boy, and was popular with\nthem, though they all looked on him with a sort of compassion, and\ncalled him \"Poor Diggs,\" not being able to resist appearances, or to\ndisregard wholly even the sneers of their enemy Flashman. However, he\nseemed equally indifferent to the sneers of big boys and the pity of\nsmall ones, and lived his own queer life with much apparent enjoyment to\nhimself. It is necessary to introduce Diggs thus particularly, as he not\nonly did Tom and East good service in their present warfare, as is about\nto be told, but soon afterwards, when he got into the sixth, chose them\nfor his fags, and excused them from study-fagging, thereby earning unto\nhimself eternal gratitude from them and all who are interested in their\nhistory.\n\nAnd seldom had small boys more need of a friend, for the morning after\nthe siege the storm burst upon the rebels in all its violence. Flashman\nlaid wait, and caught Tom before second lesson, and receiving a\npoint-blank \"No\" when told to fetch his hat, seized him and twisted his\narm, and went through the other methods of torture in use. \"He couldn't\nmake me cry, though,\" as Tom said triumphantly to the rest of the\nrebels; \"and I kicked his shins well, I know.\" And soon it crept\nout that a lot of the fags were in league, and Flashman excited his\nassociates to join him in bringing the young vagabonds to their senses;\nand the house was filled with constant chasings, and sieges, and\nlickings of all sorts; and in return, the bullies' beds were pulled to\npieces and drenched with water, and their names written up on the walls\nwith every insulting epithet which the fag invention could furnish. The\nwar, in short, raged fiercely; but soon, as Diggs had told them, all\nthe better fellows in the fifth gave up trying to fag them, and public\nfeeling began to set against Flashman and his two or three intimates,\nand they were obliged to keep their doings more secret, but being\nthorough bad fellows, missed no opportunity of torturing in private.\nFlashman was an adept in all ways, but above all in the power of saying\ncutting and cruel things, and could often bring tears to the eyes of\nboys in this way, which all the thrashings in the world wouldn't have\nwrung from them.\n\nAnd as his operations were being cut short in other directions, he now\ndevoted himself chiefly to Tom and East, who lived at his own door, and\nwould force himself into their study whenever he found a chance, and sit\nthere, sometimes alone, and sometimes with a companion, interrupting all\ntheir work, and exulting in the evident pain which every now and then he\ncould see he was inflicting on one or the other.\n\nThe storm had cleared the air for the rest of the house, and a better\nstate of things now began than there had been since old Brooke had left;\nbut an angry, dark spot of thunder-cloud still hung over the end of the\npassage where Flashman's study and that of East and Tom lay.\n\nHe felt that they had been the first rebels, and that the rebellion had\nbeen to a great extent successful; but what above all stirred the\nhatred and bitterness of his heart against them was that in the frequent\ncollisions which there had been of late they had openly called him\ncoward and sneak. The taunts were too true to be forgiven. While he\nwas in the act of thrashing them, they would roar out instances of his\nfunking at football, or shirking some encounter with a lout of half his\nown size. These things were all well enough known in the house, but\nto have his own disgrace shouted out by small boys, to feel that they\ndespised him, to be unable to silence them by any amount of torture, and\nto see the open laugh and sneer of his own associates (who were looking\non, and took no trouble to hide their scorn from him, though they\nneither interfered with his bullying nor lived a bit the less intimately\nwith him), made him beside himself. Come what might, he would make those\nboys' lives miserable. So the strife settled down into a personal affair\nbetween Flashman and our youngsters--a war to the knife, to be fought\nout in the little cockpit at the end of the bottom passage.\n\nFlashman, be it said, was about seventeen years old, and big and strong\nof his age. He played well at all games where pluck wasn't much wanted,\nand managed generally to keep up appearances where it was; and having\na bluff, off-hand manner, which passed for heartiness, and considerable\npowers of being pleasant when he liked, went down with the school in\ngeneral for a good fellow enough. Even in the School-house, by dint of\nhis command of money, the constant supply of good things which he kept\nup, and his adroit toadyism, he had managed to make himself not only\ntolerated, but rather popular amongst his own contemporaries; although\nyoung Brooke scarcely spoke to him, and one or two others of the right\nsort showed their opinions of him whenever a chance offered. But the\nwrong sort happened to be in the ascendant just now, and so Flashman\nwas a formidable enemy for small boys. This soon became plain enough.\nFlashman left no slander unspoken, and no deed undone, which could in\nany way hurt his victims, or isolate them from the rest of the\nhouse. One by one most of the other rebels fell away from them, while\nFlashman's cause prospered, and several other fifth-form boys began to\nlook black at them and ill-treat them as they passed about the house. By\nkeeping out of bounds, or at all events out of the house and quadrangle,\nall day, and carefully barring themselves in at night, East and Tom\nmanaged to hold on without feeling very miserable; but it was as much as\nthey could do. Greatly were they drawn then towards old Diggs, who, in\nan uncouth way, began to take a good deal of notice of them, and once\nor twice came to their study when Flashman was there, who immediately\ndecamped in consequence. The boys thought that Diggs must have been\nwatching.\n\nWhen therefore, about this time, an auction was one night announced to\ntake place in the hall, at which, amongst the superfluities of other\nboys, all Diggs's penates for the time being were going to the hammer,\nEast and Tom laid their heads together, and resolved to devote their\nready cash (some four shillings sterling) to redeem such articles as\nthat sum would cover. Accordingly, they duly attended to bid, and\nTom became the owner of two lots of Diggs's things:--Lot 1, price\none-and-threepence, consisting (as the auctioneer remarked) of a\n\"valuable assortment of old metals,\" in the shape of a mouse-trap, a\ncheese-toaster without a handle, and a saucepan: Lot 2, of a\nvillainous dirty table-cloth and green-baize curtain; while East, for\none-and-sixpence, purchased a leather paper-case, with a lock but no\nkey, once handsome, but now much the worse for wear. But they had still\nthe point to settle of how to get Diggs to take the things without\nhurting his feelings. This they solved by leaving them in his study,\nwhich was never locked when he was out. Diggs, who had attended the\nauction, remembered who had bought the lots, and came to their study\nsoon after, and sat silent for some time, cracking his great red\nfinger-joints. Then he laid hold of their verses, and began looking over\nand altering them, and at last got up, and turning his back to them,\nsaid, \"You're uncommon good-hearted little beggars, you two. I value\nthat paper-case; my sister gave it to me last holidays. I won't\nforget.\" And so he tumbled out into the passage, leaving them somewhat\nembarrassed, but not sorry that he knew what they had done.\n\nThe next morning was Saturday, the day on which the allowances of one\nshilling a week were paid--an important event to spendthrift youngsters;\nand great was the disgust amongst the small fry to hear that all the\nallowances had been impounded for the Derby lottery. That great event\nin the English year, the Derby, was celebrated at Rugby in those days\nby many lotteries. It was not an improving custom, I own, gentle reader,\nand led to making books, and betting, and other objectionable results;\nbut when our great Houses of Palaver think it right to stop the nation's\nbusiness on that day and many of the members bet heavily themselves, can\nyou blame us boys for following the example of our betters? At any rate\nwe did follow it. First there was the great school lottery, where the\nfirst prize was six or seven pounds; then each house had one or more\nseparate lotteries. These were all nominally voluntary, no boy being\ncompelled to put in his shilling who didn't choose to do so. But besides\nFlashman, there were three or four other fast, sporting young gentlemen\nin the Schoolhouse, who considered subscription a matter of duty and\nnecessity; and so, to make their duty come easy to the small\nboys, quietly secured the allowances in a lump when given out for\ndistribution, and kept them. It was no use grumbling--so many fewer\ntartlets and apples were eaten and fives balls bought on that Saturday;\nand after locking-up, when the money would otherwise have been spent,\nconsolation was carried to many a small boy by the sound of the\nnight-fags shouting along the passages, \"Gentlemen sportsmen of the\nSchool-house; the lottery's going to be drawn in the hall.\" It was\npleasant to be called a gentleman sportsman, also to have a chance of\ndrawing a favourite horse.\n\nThe hall was full of boys, and at the head of one of the long tables\nstood the sporting interest, with a hat before them, in which were the\ntickets folded up. One of them then began calling out the list of the\nhouse. Each boy as his name was called drew a ticket from the hat, and\nopened it; and most of the bigger boys, after drawing, left the hall\ndirectly to go back to their studies or the fifth-form room. The\nsporting interest had all drawn blanks, and they were sulky accordingly;\nneither of the favourites had yet been drawn, and it had come down to\nthe upper-fourth. So now, as each small boy came up and drew his ticket,\nit was seized and opened by Flashman, or some other of the standers-by.\nBut no great favourite is drawn until it comes to the Tadpole's turn,\nand he shuffles up and draws, and tries to make off, but is caught, and\nhis ticket is opened like the rest.\n\n\"Here you are! Wanderer--the third favourite!\" shouts the opener.\n\n\"I say, just give me my ticket, please,\" remonstrates Tadpole.\n\n\"Hullo! don't be in a hurry,\" breaks in Flashman; \"what'll you sell\nWanderer for now?\"\n\n\"I don't want to sell,\" rejoins Tadpole.\n\n\"Oh, don't you! Now listen, you young fool: you don't know anything\nabout it; the horse is no use to you. He won't win, but I want him as a\nhedge. Now, I'll give you half a crown for him.\" Tadpole holds out, but\nbetween threats and cajoleries at length sells half for one shilling and\nsixpence--about a fifth of its fair market value; however, he is glad to\nrealize anything, and, as he wisely remarks, \"Wanderer mayn't win, and\nthe tizzy is safe anyhow.\"\n\nEast presently comes up and draws a blank. Soon after comes Tom's turn.\nHis ticket, like the others, is seized and opened. \"Here you are then,\"\nshouts the opener, holding it up--\"Harkaway!--By Jove, Flashey, your\nyoung friend's in luck.\"\n\n\"Give me the ticket,\" says Flashman, with an oath, leaning across the\ntable with open hand and his face black with rage.\n\n\"Wouldn't you like it?\" replies the opener, not a bad fellow at the\nbottom, and no admirer of Flashman. \"Here, Brown, catch hold.\" And he\nhands the ticket to Tom, who pockets it. Whereupon Flashman makes for\nthe door at once, that Tom and the ticket may not escape, and there\nkeeps watch until the drawing is over and all the boys are gone, except\nthe sporting set of five or six, who stay to compare books, make bets,\nand so on; Tom, who doesn't choose to move while Flashman is at the\ndoor; and East, who stays by his friend, anticipating trouble. The\nsporting set now gathered round Tom. Public opinion wouldn't allow them\nactually to rob him of his ticket, but any humbug or intimidation by\nwhich he could be driven to sell the whole or part at an undervalue was\nlawful.\n\n\"Now, young Brown, come, what'll you sell me Harkaway for? I hear he\nisn't going to start. I'll give you five shillings for him,\" begins\nthe boy who had opened the ticket. Tom, remembering his good deed, and\nmoreover in his forlorn state wishing to make a friend, is about\nto accept the offer, when another cries out, \"I'll give you seven\nshillings.\" Tom hesitated and looked from one to the other.\n\n\"No, no!\" said Flashman, pushing in, \"leave me to deal with him; we'll\ndraw lots for it afterwards. Now sir, you know me: you'll sell Harkaway\nto us for five shillings, or you'll repent it.\"\n\n\"I won't sell a bit of him,\" answered Tom shortly.\n\n\"You hear that now!\" said Flashman, turning to the others. \"He's the\ncoxiest young blackguard in the house. I always told you so. We're\nto have all the trouble and risk of getting up the lotteries for the\nbenefit of such fellows as he.\"\n\nFlashman forgets to explain what risk they ran, but he speaks to willing\nears. Gambling makes boys selfish and cruel as well as men.\n\n\"That's true. We always draw blanks,\" cried one.--\"Now, sir, you shall\nsell half, at any rate.\"\n\n\"I won't,\" said Tom, flushing up to his hair, and lumping them all in\nhis mind with his sworn enemy.\n\n\"Very well then; let's roast him,\" cried Flashman, and catches hold of\nTom by the collar. One or two boys hesitate, but the rest join in. East\nseizes Tom's arm, and tries to pull him away, but is knocked back by\none of the boys, and Tom is dragged along struggling. His shoulders are\npushed against the mantelpiece, and he is held by main force before the\nfire, Flashman drawing his trousers tight by way of extra torture. Poor\nEast, in more pain even than Tom, suddenly thinks of Diggs, and darts\noff to find him. \"Will you sell now for ten shillings?\" says one boy who\nis relenting.\n\nTom only answers by groans and struggles.\n\n\"I say, Flashey, he has had enough,\" says the same boy, dropping the arm\nhe holds.\n\n\"No, no; another turn'll do it,\" answers Flashman. But poor Tom is done\nalready, turns deadly pale, and his head falls forward on his breast,\njust as Diggs, in frantic excitement, rushes into the hall with East at\nhis heels.\n\n\"You cowardly brutes!\" is all he can say, as he catches Tom from them\nand supports him to the hall table. \"Good God! he's dying. Here, get\nsome cold water--run for the housekeeper.\"\n\nFlashman and one or two others slink away; the rest, ashamed and\nsorry, bend over Tom or run for water, while East darts off for the\nhousekeeper. Water comes, and they throw it on his hands and face, and\nhe begins to come to. \"Mother!\"--the words came feebly and slowly--\"it's\nvery cold to-night.\" Poor old Diggs is blubbering like a child. \"Where\nam I?\" goes on Tom, opening his eyes, \"Ah! I remember now.\" And he shut\nhis eyes again and groaned.\n\n\"I say,\" is whispered, \"we can't do any good, and the housekeeper will\nbe here in a minute.\" And all but one steal away. He stays with Diggs,\nsilent and sorrowful, and fans Tom's face.\n\nThe housekeeper comes in with strong salts, and Tom soon recovers enough\nto sit up. There is a smell of burning. She examines his clothes, and\nlooks up inquiringly. The boys are silent.\n\n\"How did he come so?\" No answer. \"There's been some bad work here,\" she\nadds, looking very serious, \"and I shall speak to the Doctor about it.\"\nStill no answer.\n\n\"Hadn't we better carry him to the sick-room?\" suggests Diggs.\n\n\"Oh, I can walk now,\" says Tom; and, supported by East and the\nhousekeeper, goes to the sick-room. The boy who held his ground is soon\namongst the rest, who are all in fear of their lives. \"Did he peach?\"\n\"Does she know about it?\"\n\n\"Not a word; he's a stanch little fellow.\" And pausing a moment, he\nadds, \"I'm sick of this work; what brutes we've been!\"\n\nMeantime Tom is stretched on the sofa in the housekeeper's room, with\nEast by his side, while she gets wine and water and other restoratives.\n\n\"Are you much hurt, dear old boy?\" whispers East.\n\n\"Only the back of my legs,\" answers Tom. They are indeed badly scorched,\nand part of his trousers burnt through. But soon he is in bed with\ncold bandages. At first he feels broken, and thinks of writing home and\ngetting taken away; and the verse of a hymn he had learned years ago\nsings through his head, and he goes to sleep, murmuring,--\n\n\n\"Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.\"\n\n\nBut after a sound night's rest, the old boy-spirit comes back again.\nEast comes in, reporting that the whole house is with him; and he\nforgets everything, except their old resolve never to be beaten by that\nbully Flashman.\n\nNot a word could the housekeeper extract from either of them, and though\nthe Doctor knew all that she knew that morning, he never knew any more.\n\nI trust and believe that such scenes are not possible now at school,\nand that lotteries and betting-books have gone out; but I am writing of\nschools as they were in our time, and must give the evil with the good.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX--A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS.\n\n     \"Wherein I [speak] of most disastrous chances,\n     Of moving accidents by flood and field,\n     Of hair-breadth 'scapes.\"--SHAKESPEARE.\n\nWhen Tom came back into school after a couple of days in the sick-room,\nhe found matters much changed for the better, as East had led him to\nexpect. Flashman's brutality had disgusted most even of his intimate\nfriends, and his cowardice had once more been made plain to the house;\nfor Diggs had encountered him on the morning after the lottery, and\nafter high words on both sides, had struck him, and the blow was not\nreturned. However, Flashey was not unused to this sort of thing, and had\nlived through as awkward affairs before, and, as Diggs had said, fed and\ntoadied himself back into favour again. Two or three of the boys who had\nhelped to roast Tom came up and begged his pardon, and thanked him for\nnot telling anything. Morgan sent for him, and was inclined to take the\nmatter up warmly, but Tom begged him not to do it; to which he agreed,\non Tom's promising to come to him at once in future--a promise which, I\nregret to say, he didn't keep. Tom kept Harkaway all to himself, and\nwon the second prize in the lottery, some thirty shillings, which he and\nEast contrived to spend in about three days in the purchase of pictures\nfor their study, two new bats and a cricket-ball--all the best that\ncould be got--and a supper of sausages, kidneys, and beef-steak pies\nto all the rebels. Light come, light go; they wouldn't have been\ncomfortable with money in their pockets in the middle of the half.\n\nThe embers of Flashman's wrath, however, were still smouldering, and\nburst out every now and then in sly blows and taunts, and they both\nfelt that they hadn't quite done with him yet. It wasn't long, however,\nbefore the last act of that drama came, and with it the end of bullying\nfor Tom and East at Rugby. They now often stole out into the hall at\nnights, incited thereto partly by the hope of finding Diggs there and\nhaving a talk with him, partly by the excitement of doing something\nwhich was against rules; for, sad to say, both of our youngsters, since\ntheir loss of character for steadiness in their form, had got into\nthe habit of doing things which were forbidden, as a matter of\nadventure,--just in the same way, I should fancy, as men fall into\nsmuggling, and for the same sort of reasons--thoughtlessness in the\nfirst place. It never occurred to them to consider why such and such\nrules were laid down: the reason was nothing to them, and they only\nlooked upon rules as a sort of challenge from the rule-makers, which it\nwould be rather bad pluck in them not to accept; and then again, in the\nlower parts of the school they hadn't enough to do. The work of the form\nthey could manage to get through pretty easily, keeping a good enough\nplace to get their regular yearly remove; and not having much ambition\nbeyond this, their whole superfluous steam was available for games and\nscrapes. Now, one rule of the house which it was a daily pleasure of all\nsuch boys to break was that after supper all fags, except the three\non duty in the passages, should remain in their own studies until nine\no'clock; and if caught about the passages or hall, or in one another's\nstudies, they were liable to punishments or caning. The rule was\nstricter than its observance; for most of the sixth spent their evenings\nin the fifth-form room, where the library was, and the lessons were\nlearnt in common. Every now and then, however, a prepostor would be\nseized with a fit of district visiting, and would make a tour of\nthe passages and hall and the fags' studies. Then, if the owner were\nentertaining a friend or two, the first kick at the door and ominous\n\"Open here\" had the effect of the shadow of a hawk over a chicken-yard:\nevery one cut to cover--one small boy diving under the sofa, another\nunder the table, while the owner would hastily pull down a book or\ntwo and open them, and cry out in a meek voice, \"Hullo, who's there?\"\ncasting an anxious eye round to see that no protruding leg or elbow\ncould betray the hidden boys. \"Open, sir, directly; it's Snooks.\"\n\"Oh, I'm very sorry; I didn't know it was you, Snooks.\" And then with\nwell-feigned zeal the door would be opened, young hopeful praying that\nthat beast Snooks mightn't have heard the scuffle caused by his coming.\nIf a study was empty, Snooks proceeded to draw the passages and hall to\nfind the truants.\n\nWell, one evening, in forbidden hours, Tom and East were in the hall.\nThey occupied the seats before the fire nearest the door, while Diggs\nsprawled as usual before the farther fire. He was busy with a copy of\nverses, and East and Tom were chatting together in whispers by the light\nof the fire, and splicing a favourite old fives bat which had sprung.\nPresently a step came down the bottom passage. They listened a moment,\nassured themselves that it wasn't a prepostor, and then went on with\ntheir work, and the door swung open, and in walked Flashman. He didn't\nsee Diggs, and thought it a good chance to keep his hand in; and as the\nboys didn't move for him, struck one of them, to make them get out of\nhis way.\n\n\"What's that for?\" growled the assaulted one.\n\n\"Because I choose. You've no business here. Go to your study.\"\n\n\"You can't send us.\"\n\n\"Can't I? Then I'll thrash you if you stay,\" said Flashman savagely.\n\n\"I say, you two,\" said Diggs, from the end of the hall, rousing up and\nresting himself on his elbow--\"you'll never get rid of that fellow till\nyou lick him. Go in at him, both of you. I'll see fair play.\"\n\nFlashman was taken aback, and retreated two steps. East looked at\nTom. \"Shall we try!\" said he. \"Yes,\" said Tom desperately. So the two\nadvanced on Flashman, with clenched fists and beating hearts. They were\nabout up to his shoulder, but tough boys of their age, and in perfect\ntraining; while he, though strong and big, was in poor condition from\nhis monstrous habit of stuffing and want of exercise. Coward as he was,\nhowever, Flashman couldn't swallow such an insult as this; besides, he\nwas confident of having easy work, and so faced the boys, saying, \"You\nimpudent young blackguards!\" Before he could finish his abuse, they\nrushed in on him, and began pummelling at all of him which they could\nreach. He hit out wildly and savagely; but the full force of his blows\ndidn't tell--they were too near to him. It was long odds, though, in\npoint of strength; and in another minute Tom went spinning backwards\nover a form, and Flashman turned to demolish East with a savage grin.\nBut now Diggs jumped down from the table on which he had seated himself.\n\"Stop there,\" shouted he; \"the round's over--half-minute time allowed.\"\n\n\"What the --- is it to you?\" faltered Flashman, who began to lose heart.\n\n\"I'm going to see fair, I tell you,\" said Diggs, with a grin, and\nsnapping his great red fingers; \"'taint fair for you to be fighting one\nof them at a time.--Are you ready, Brown? Time's up.\"\n\nThe small boys rushed in again. Closing, they saw, was their best\nchance, and Flashman was wilder and more flurried than ever: he caught\nEast by the throat, and tried to force him back on the iron-bound table.\nTom grasped his waist, and remembering the old throw he had learned\nin the Vale from Harry Winburn, crooked his leg inside Flashman's, and\nthrew his whole weight forward. The three tottered for a moment, and\nthen over they went on to the floor, Flashman striking his head against\na form in the hall.\n\nThe two youngsters sprang to their legs, but he lay there still. They\nbegan to be frightened. Tom stooped down, and then cried out, scared\nout of his wits, \"He's bleeding awfully. Come here, East! Diggs, he's\ndying!\"\n\n\"Not he,\" said Diggs, getting leisurely off the table; \"it's all sham;\nhe's only afraid to fight it out.\"\n\nEast was as frightened as Tom. Diggs lifted Flashman's head, and he\ngroaned.\n\n\"What's the matter?\" shouted Diggs.\n\n\"My skull's fractured,\" sobbed Flashman.\n\n\"Oh, let me run for the housekeeper!\" cried Tom. \"What shall we do?\"\n\n\"Fiddlesticks! It's nothing but the skin broken,\" said the relentless\nDiggs, feeling his head. \"Cold water and a bit of rag's all he'll want.\"\n\n\"Let me go,\" said Flashman surlily, sitting up; \"I don't want your\nhelp.\"\n\n\"We're really very sorry--\" began East.\n\n\"Hang your sorrow!\" answered Flashman, holding his handkerchief to the\nplace; \"you shall pay for this, I can tell you, both of you.\" And he\nwalked out of the hall.\n\n\"He can't be very bad,\" said Tom, with a deep sigh, much relieved to see\nhis enemy march so well.\n\n\"Not he,\" said Diggs; \"and you'll see you won't be troubled with him any\nmore. But, I say, your head's broken too; your collar is covered with\nblood.\"\n\n\"Is it though?\" said Tom, putting up his hand; \"I didn't know it.\"\n\n\"Well, mop it up, or you'll have your jacket spoilt. And you have got a\nnasty eye, Scud. You'd better go and bathe it well in cold water.\"\n\n\"Cheap enough too, if we're done with our old friend Flashey,\" said\nEast, as they made off upstairs to bathe their wounds.\n\nThey had done with Flashman in one sense, for he never laid finger on\neither of them again; but whatever harm a spiteful heart and venomous\ntongue could do them, he took care should be done. Only throw dirt\nenough, and some of it is sure to stick; and so it was with the fifth\nform and the bigger boys in general, with whom he associated more or\nless, and they not at all. Flashman managed to get Tom and East into\ndisfavour, which did not wear off for some time after the author of it\nhad disappeared from the School world. This event, much prayed for\nby the small fry in general, took place a few months after the above\nencounter. One fine summer evening Flashman had been regaling himself on\ngin-punch, at Brownsover; and, having exceeded his usual limits, started\nhome uproarious. He fell in with a friend or two coming back from\nbathing, proposed a glass of beer, to which they assented, the weather\nbeing hot, and they thirsty souls, and unaware of the quantity of drink\nwhich Flashman had already on board. The short result was, that Flashey\nbecame beastly drunk. They tried to get him along, but couldn't; so they\nchartered a hurdle and two men to carry him. One of the masters came\nupon them, and they naturally enough fled. The flight of the rest raised\nthe master's suspicions, and the good angel of the fags incited him\nto examine the freight, and, after examination, to convoy the hurdle\nhimself up to the School-house; and the Doctor, who had long had his eye\non Flashman, arranged for his withdrawal next morning.\n\nThe evil that men and boys too do lives after them: Flashman was gone,\nbut our boys, as hinted above, still felt the effects of his hate.\nBesides, they had been the movers of the strike against unlawful\nfagging. The cause was righteous--the result had been triumphant to a\ngreat extent; but the best of the fifth--even those who had never fagged\nthe small boys, or had given up the practice cheerfully--couldn't help\nfeeling a small grudge against the first rebels. After all, their form\nhad been defied, on just grounds, no doubt--so just, indeed, that they\nhad at once acknowledged the wrong, and remained passive in the strife.\nHad they sided with Flashman and his set, the rebels must have given way\nat once. They couldn't help, on the whole, being glad that they had so\nacted, and that the resistance had been successful against such of their\nown form as had shown fight; they felt that law and order had gained\nthereby, but the ringleaders they couldn't quite pardon at once.\n\"Confoundedly coxy those young rascals will get, if we don't mind,\" was\nthe general feeling.\n\nSo it is, and must be always, my dear boys. If the angel Gabriel were\nto come down from heaven, and head a successful rise against the most\nabominable and unrighteous vested interest which this poor old world\ngroans under, he would most certainly lose his character for many years,\nprobably for centuries, not only with the upholders of said vested\ninterest, but with the respectable mass of the people whom he had\ndelivered. They wouldn't ask him to dinner, or let their names appear\nwith his in the papers; they would be very careful how they spoke of\nhim in the Palaver, or at their clubs. What can we expect, then, when we\nhave only poor gallant blundering men like Kossuth, Garibaldi, Mazzini,\nand righteous causes which do not triumph in their hands--men who\nhave holes enough in their armour, God knows, easy to be hit by\nrespectabilities sitting in their lounging chairs, and having large\nbalances at their bankers'? But you are brave, gallant boys, who hate\neasy-chairs, and have no balances or bankers. You only want to have\nyour heads set straight, to take the right side; so bear in mind that\nmajorities, especially respectable ones, are nine times out of ten in\nthe wrong; and that if you see a man or boy striving earnestly on the\nweak side, however wrong-headed or blundering he may be, you are not to\ngo and join the cry against him. If you can't join him and help him, and\nmake him wiser, at any rate remember that he has found something in the\nworld which he will fight and suffer for, which is just what you have\ngot to do for yourselves; and so think and speak of him tenderly.\n\nSo East and Tom, the Tadpole, and one or two more, became a sort of\nyoung Ishmaelites, their hands against every one, and every one's hand\nagainst them. It has been already told how they got to war with the\nmasters and the fifth form, and with the sixth it was much the same.\nThey saw the prepostors cowed by or joining with the fifth and shirking\ntheir own duties; so they didn't respect them, and rendered no willing\nobedience. It had been one thing to clean out studies for sons of heroes\nlike old Brooke, but was quite another to do the like for Snooks and\nGreen, who had never faced a good scrummage at football, and couldn't\nkeep the passages in order at night. So they only slurred through their\nfagging just well enough to escape a licking, and not always that, and\ngot the character of sulky, unwilling fags. In the fifth-form room,\nafter supper, when such matters were often discussed and arranged, their\nnames were for ever coming up.\n\n\"I say, Green,\" Snooks began one night, \"isn't that new boy, Harrison,\nyour fag?\"\n\n\"Yes; why?\"\n\n\"Oh, I know something of him at home, and should like to excuse him.\nWill you swop?\"\n\n\"Who will you give me?\"\n\n\"Well, let's see. There's Willis, Johnson. No, that won't do. Yes, I\nhave it. There's young East; I'll give you him.\"\n\n\"Don't you wish you may get it?\" replied Green. \"I'll give you two for\nWillis, if you like.\"\n\n\"Who, then?\" asked Snooks. \"Hall and Brown.\"\n\n\"Wouldn't have 'em at a gift.\"\n\n\"Better than East, though; for they ain't quite so sharp,\" said Green,\ngetting up and leaning his back against the mantelpiece. He wasn't a bad\nfellow, and couldn't help not being able to put down the unruly fifth\nform. His eye twinkled as he went on, \"Did I ever tell you how the young\nvagabond sold me last half?\"\n\n\"No; how?\"\n\n\"Well, he never half cleaned my study out--only just stuck the\ncandlesticks in the cupboard, and swept the crumbs on to the floor. So\nat last I was mortal angry, and had him up, and made him go through the\nwhole performance under my eyes. The dust the young scamp made nearly\nchoked me, and showed that he hadn't swept the carpet before. Well, when\nit was all finished, 'Now, young gentleman,' says I, 'mind, I expect\nthis to be done every morning--floor swept, table-cloth taken off and\nshaken, and everything dusted.' 'Very well,' grunts he. Not a bit of\nit though. I was quite sure, in a day or two, that he never took the\ntable-cloth off even. So I laid a trap for him. I tore up some paper,\nand put half a dozen bits on my table one night, and the cloth over them\nas usual. Next morning after breakfast up I came, pulled off the cloth,\nand, sure enough, there was the paper, which fluttered down on to the\nfloor. I was in a towering rage. 'I've got you now,' thought I, and sent\nfor him, while I got out my cane. Up he came as cool as you please, with\nhis hands in his pockets. 'Didn't I tell you to shake my table-cloth\nevery morning?' roared I. 'Yes,' says he. 'Did you do it this morning?'\n'Yes.' 'You young liar! I put these pieces of paper on the table last\nnight, and if you'd taken the table-cloth off you'd have seen them, so\nI'm going to give you a good licking.' Then my youngster takes one hand\nout of his pocket, and just stoops down and picks up two of the bits\nof paper, and holds them out to me. There was written on each, in great\nround text, 'Harry East, his mark.' The young rogue had found my\ntrap out, taken away my paper, and put some of his there, every bit\near-marked. I'd a great mind to lick him for his impudence; but, after\nall, one has no right to be laying traps, so I didn't. Of course I was\nat his mercy till the end of the half, and in his weeks my study was so\nfrowzy I couldn't sit in it.\"\n\n\"They spoil one's things so, too,\" chimed in a third boy. \"Hall and\nBrown were night-fags last week. I called 'fag,' and gave them my\ncandlesticks to clean. Away they went, and didn't appear again. When\nthey'd had time enough to clean them three times over, I went out to\nlook after them. They weren't in the passages so down I went into the\nhall, where I heard music; and there I found them sitting on the table,\nlistening to Johnson, who was playing the flute, and my candlesticks\nstuck between the bars well into the fire, red-hot, clean spoiled.\nThey've never stood straight since, and I must get some more. However, I\ngave them a good licking; that's one comfort.\"\n\nSuch were the sort of scrapes they were always getting into; and so,\npartly by their own faults, partly from circumstances, partly from the\nfaults of others, they found themselves outlaws, ticket-of-leave men, or\nwhat you will in that line--in short, dangerous parties--and lived the\nsort of hand-to-mouth, wild, reckless life which such parties generally\nhave to put up with. Nevertheless they never quite lost favour with\nyoung Brooke, who was now the cock of the house, and just getting into\nthe sixth; and Diggs stuck to them like a man, and gave them store of\ngood advice, by which they never in the least profited.\n\nAnd even after the house mended, and law and order had been restored,\nwhich soon happened after young Brooke and Diggs got into the sixth,\nthey couldn't easily or at once return into the paths of steadiness, and\nmany of the old, wild, out-of-bounds habits stuck to them as firmly as\never. While they had been quite little boys, the scrapes they got into\nin the School hadn't much mattered to any one; but now they were in the\nupper school, all wrong-doers from which were sent up straight to the\nDoctor at once. So they began to come under his notice; and as they were\na sort of leaders in a small way amongst their own contemporaries, his\neye, which was everywhere, was upon them.\n\nIt was a toss-up whether they turned out well or ill, and so they were\njust the boys who caused most anxiety to such a master. You have been\ntold of the first occasion on which they were sent up to the Doctor, and\nthe remembrance of it was so pleasant that they had much less fear of\nhim than most boys of their standing had. \"It's all his look,\" Tom used\nto say to East, \"that frightens fellows. Don't you remember, he never\nsaid anything to us my first half-year for being an hour late for\nlocking-up?\"\n\nThe next time that Tom came before him, however, the interview was of\na very different kind. It happened just about the time at which we have\nnow arrived, and was the first of a series of scrapes into which our\nhero managed now to tumble.\n\nThe river Avon at Rugby is a slow and not very clear stream, in which\nchub, dace, roach, and other coarse fish are (or were) plentiful\nenough, together with a fair sprinkling of small jack, but no fish worth\nsixpence either for sport or food. It is, however, a capital river for\nbathing, as it has many nice small pools and several good reaches for\nswimming, all within about a mile of one another, and at an easy twenty\nminutes' walk from the school. This mile of water is rented, or used to\nbe rented, for bathing purposes by the trustees of the School, for the\nboys. The footpath to Brownsover crosses the river by \"the Planks,\" a\ncurious old single-plank bridge running for fifty or sixty yards into\nthe flat meadows on each side of the river--for in the winter there\nare frequent floods. Above the Planks were the bathing-places for the\nsmaller boys--Sleath's, the first bathing-place, where all new boys\nhad to begin, until they had proved to the bathing men (three steady\nindividuals, who were paid to attend daily through the summer to prevent\naccidents) that they could swim pretty decently, when they were allowed\nto go on to Anstey's, about one hundred and fifty yards below. Here\nthere was a hole about six feet deep and twelve feet across, over which\nthe puffing urchins struggled to the opposite side, and thought no small\nbeer of themselves for having been out of their depths. Below the Planks\ncame larger and deeper holes, the first of which was Wratislaw's, and\nthe last Swift's, a famous hole, ten or twelve feet deep in parts, and\nthirty yards across, from which there was a fine swimming reach right\ndown to the mill. Swift's was reserved for the sixth and fifth forms,\nand had a spring board and two sets of steps: the others had one set of\nsteps each, and were used indifferently by all the lower boys, though\neach house addicted itself more to one hole than to another. The\nSchool-house at this time affected Wratislaw's hole, and Tom and East,\nwho had learnt to swim like fishes, were to be found there as regular as\nthe clock through the summer, always twice, and often three times a day.\n\nNow the boys either had, or fancied they had, a right also to fish at\ntheir pleasure over the whole of this part of the river, and would not\nunderstand that the right (if any) only extended to the Rugby side. As\nill-luck would have it, the gentleman who owned the opposite bank, after\nallowing it for some time without interference, had ordered his keepers\nnot to let the boys fish on his side--the consequence of which had been\nthat there had been first wranglings and then fights between the keepers\nand boys; and so keen had the quarrel become that the landlord and his\nkeepers, after a ducking had been inflicted on one of the latter, and\na fierce fight ensued thereon, had been up to the great school at\ncalling-over to identify the delinquents, and it was all the Doctor\nhimself and five or six masters could do to keep the peace. Not even his\nauthority could prevent the hissing; and so strong was the feeling that\nthe four prepostors of the week walked up the school with their canes,\nshouting \"S-s-s-s-i-lenc-c-c-c-e\" at the top of their voices. However,\nthe chief offenders for the time were flogged and kept in bounds; but\nthe victorious party had brought a nice hornet's nest about their ears.\nThe landlord was hissed at the School-gates as he rode past, and when he\ncharged his horse at the mob of boys, and tried to thrash them with\nhis whip, was driven back by cricket-bats and wickets, and pursued with\npebbles and fives balls; while the wretched keepers' lives were a burden\nto them, from having to watch the waters so closely.\n\nThe School-house boys of Tom's standing, one and all, as a protest\nagainst this tyranny and cutting short of their lawful amusements, took\nto fishing in all ways, and especially by means of night-lines. The\nlittle tacklemaker at the bottom of the town would soon have made his\nfortune had the rage lasted, and several of the barbers began to lay in\nfishing-tackle. The boys had this great advantage over their enemies,\nthat they spent a large portion of the day in nature's garb by the\nriver-side, and so, when tired of swimming, would get out on the other\nside and fish, or set night-lines, till the keepers hove in sight, and\nthen plunge in and swim back and mix with the other bathers, and the\nkeepers were too wise to follow across the stream.\n\nWhile things were in this state, one day Tom and three or four others\nwere bathing at Wratislaw's, and had, as a matter of course, been taking\nup and re-setting night-lines. They had all left the water, and were\nsitting or standing about at their toilets, in all costumes, from\na shirt upwards, when they were aware of a man in a velveteen\nshooting-coat approaching from the other side. He was a new keeper, so\nthey didn't recognize or notice him, till he pulled up right opposite,\nand began:\n\n\"I see'd some of you young gentlemen over this side a-fishing just now.\"\n\n\"Hullo! who are you? What business is that of yours, old Velveteens?\"\n\n\"I'm the new under-keeper, and master's told me to keep a sharp lookout\non all o' you young chaps. And I tells 'ee I means business, and you'd\nbetter keep on your own side, or we shall fall out.\"\n\n\"Well, that's right, Velveteens; speak out, and let's know your mind at\nonce.\"\n\n\"Look here, old boy,\" cried East, holding up a miserable, coarse fish\nor two and a small jack; \"would you like to smell 'em and see which bank\nthey lived under?\"\n\n\"I'll give you a bit of advice, keeper,\" shouted Tom, who was sitting\nin his shirt paddling with his feet in the river: \"you'd better go down\nthere to Swift's, where the big boys are; they're beggars at setting\nlines, and'll put you up to a wrinkle or two for catching the\nfive-pounders.\" Tom was nearest to the keeper, and that officer, who was\ngetting angry at the chaff, fixed his eyes on our hero, as if to take a\nnote of him for future use. Tom returned his gaze with a steady stare,\nand then broke into a laugh, and struck into the middle of a favourite\nSchool-house song,--\n\n     \"As I and my companions\n     Were setting of a snare\n     The gamekeeper was watching us;\n     For him we did not care:\n     For we can wrestle and fight, my boys,\n     And jump out anywhere.\n     For it's my delight of a likely night,\n     In the season of the year.\"\n\nThe chorus was taken up by the other boys with shouts of laughter, and\nthe keeper turned away with a grunt, but evidently bent on mischief. The\nboys thought no more of the matter.\n\nBut now came on the May-fly season; the soft, hazy summer weather lay\nsleepily along the rich meadows by Avon side, and the green and gray\nflies flickered with their graceful, lazy up-and-down flight over\nthe reeds and the water and the meadows, in myriads upon myriads.\nThe May-flies must surely be the lotus-eaters of the ephemerae--the\nhappiest, laziest, carelessest fly that dances and dreams out his few\nhours of sunshiny life by English rivers.\n\nEvery little pitiful, coarse fish in the Avon was on the alert for\nthe flies, and gorging his wretched carcass with hundreds daily, the\ngluttonous rogues! and every lover of the gentle craft was out to avenge\nthe poor May-flies.\n\nSo one fine Thursday afternoon, Tom, having borrowed East's new rod,\nstarted by himself to the river. He fished for some time with small\nsuccess--not a fish would rise at him; but as he prowled along the bank,\nhe was presently aware of mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite\nside, under the shade of a huge willow-tree. The stream was deep\nhere, but some fifty yards below was a shallow, for which he made off\nhot-foot; and forgetting landlords, keepers, solemn prohibitions of the\nDoctor, and everything else, pulled up his trousers, plunged across, and\nin three minutes was creeping along on all fours towards the clump of\nwillows.\n\nIt isn't often that great chub, or any other coarse fish, are in earnest\nabout anything; but just then they were thoroughly bent on feeding, and\nin half an hour Master Tom had deposited three thumping fellows at the\nfoot of the giant willow. As he was baiting for a fourth pounder, and\njust going to throw in again, he became aware of a man coming up the\nbank not one hundred yards off. Another look told him that it was the\nunder-keeper. Could he reach the shallow before him? No, not carrying\nhis rod. Nothing for it but the tree. So Tom laid his bones to it,\nshinning up as fast as he could, and dragging up his rod after him. He\nhad just time to reach and crouch along upon a huge branch some ten feet\nup, which stretched out over the river, when the keeper arrived at the\nclump. Tom's heart beat fast as he came under the tree; two steps more\nand he would have passed, when, as ill-luck would have it, the gleam on\nthe scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a dead point\nat the foot of the tree. He picked up the fish one by one; his eye and\ntouch told him that they had been alive and feeding within the hour. Tom\ncrouched lower along the branch, and heard the keeper beating the clump.\n\"If I could only get the rod hidden,\" thought he, and began gently\nshifting it to get it alongside of him; \"willowtrees don't throw out\nstraight hickory shoots twelve feet long, with no leaves, worse luck.\"\nAlas! the keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight of the rod, and\nthen of Tom's hand and arm.\n\n\"Oh, be up ther', be 'ee?\" says he, running under the tree. \"Now you\ncome down this minute.\"\n\n\"Tree'd at last,\" thinks Tom, making no answer, and keeping as close as\npossible, but working away at the rod, which he takes to pieces. \"I'm\nin for it, unless I can starve him out.\" And then he begins to meditate\ngetting along the branch for a plunge, and scramble to the other side;\nbut the small branches are so thick, and the opposite bank so difficult,\nthat the keeper will have lots of time to get round by the ford before\nhe can get out, so he gives that up. And now he hears the keeper\nbeginning to scramble up the trunk. That will never do; so he scrambles\nhimself back to where his branch joins the trunk; and stands with lifted\nrod.\n\n\"Hullo, Velveteens; mind your fingers if you come any higher.\"\n\nThe keeper stops and looks up, and then with a grin says, \"Oh! be you,\nbe it, young measter? Well, here's luck. Now I tells 'ee to come down at\nonce, and 't'll be best for 'ee.\"\n\n\"Thank 'ee, Velveteens; I'm very comfortable,\" said Tom, shortening the\nrod in his hand, and preparing for battle.\n\n\"Werry well; please yourself,\" says the keeper, descending, however,\nto the ground again, and taking his seat on the bank. \"I bean't in no\nhurry, so you may take your time. I'll l'arn 'ee to gee honest folk\nnames afore I've done with 'ee.\"\n\n\"My luck as usual,\" thinks Tom; \"what a fool I was to give him a black!\nIf I'd called him 'keeper,' now, I might get off. The return match is\nall his way.\"\n\nThe keeper quietly proceeded to take out his pipe, fill, and light it,\nkeeping an eye on Tom, who now sat disconsolately across the branch,\nlooking at keeper--a pitiful sight for men and fishes. The more he\nthought of it the less he liked it. \"It must be getting near second\ncalling-over,\" thinks he. Keeper smokes on stolidly. \"If he takes me up,\nI shall be flogged safe enough. I can't sit here all night. Wonder if\nhe'll rise at silver.\"\n\n\"I say, keeper,\" said he meekly, \"let me go for two bob?\"\n\n\"Not for twenty neither,\" grunts his persecutor.\n\nAnd so they sat on till long past second calling-over, and the sun came\nslanting in through the willow-branches, and telling of locking-up near\nat hand.\n\n\"I'm coming down, keeper,\" said Tom at last, with a sigh, fairly tired\nout. \"Now what are you going to do?\"\n\n\"Walk 'ee up to School, and give 'ee over to the Doctor; them's my\norders,\" says Velveteens, knocking the ashes out of his fourth pipe, and\nstanding up and shaking himself.\n\n\"Very good,\" said Tom; \"but hands off, you know. I'll go with you\nquietly, so no collaring or that sort of thing.\"\n\nKeeper looked at him a minute. \"Werry good,\" said he at last. And so Tom\ndescended, and wended his way drearily by the side of the keeper, up to\nthe Schoolhouse, where they arrived just at locking-up. As they passed\nthe School-gates, the Tadpole and several others who were standing there\ncaught the state of things, and rushed out, crying, \"Rescue!\" But Tom\nshook his head; so they only followed to the Doctor's gate, and went\nback sorely puzzled.\n\nHow changed and stern the Doctor seemed from the last time that Tom was\nup there, as the keeper told the story, not omitting to state how Tom\nhad called him blackguard names. \"Indeed, sir,\" broke in the culprit,\n\"it was only Velveteens.\" The Doctor only asked one question.\n\n\"You know the rule about the banks, Brown?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir.\"\n\n\"Then wait for me to-morrow, after first lesson.\"\n\n\"I thought so,\" muttered Tom.\n\n\"And about the rod, sir?\" went on the keeper. \"Master's told we as we\nmight have all the rods--\"\n\n\"Oh, please, sir,\" broke in Tom, \"the rod isn't mine.\"\n\nThe Doctor looked puzzled; but the keeper, who was a good-hearted\nfellow, and melted at Tom's evident distress, gave up his claim. Tom\nwas flogged next morning, and a few days afterwards met Velveteens, and\npresented him with half a crown for giving up the rod claim, and they\nbecame sworn friends; and I regret to say that Tom had many more fish\nfrom under the willow that May-fly season, and was never caught again by\nVelveteens.\n\nIt wasn't three weeks before Tom, and now East by his side, were\nagain in the awful presence. This time, however, the Doctor was not so\nterrible. A few days before, they had been fagged at fives to fetch the\nballs that went off the court. While standing watching the game, they\nsaw five or six nearly new balls hit on the top of the School. \"I say,\nTom,\" said East, when they were dismissed, \"couldn't we get those balls\nsomehow?\"\n\n\"Let's try, anyhow.\"\n\nSo they reconnoitred the walls carefully, borrowed a coal-hammer from\nold Stumps, bought some big nails, and after one or two attempts, scaled\nthe Schools, and possessed themselves of huge quantities of fives balls.\nThe place pleased them so much that they spent all their spare time\nthere, scratching and cutting their names on the top of every tower; and\nat last, having exhausted all other places, finished up with inscribing\nH.EAST, T.BROWN, on the minute-hand of the great clock; in the doing of\nwhich they held the minute-hand, and disturbed the clock's economy. So\nnext morning, when masters and boys came trooping down to prayers, and\nentered the quadrangle, the injured minute-hand was indicating three\nminutes to the hour. They all pulled up, and took their time. When the\nhour struck, doors were closed, and half the school late. Thomas being\nset to make inquiry, discovers their names on the minute-hand, and\nreports accordingly; and they are sent for, a knot of their friends\nmaking derisive and pantomimic allusions to what their fate will be as\nthey walk off.\n\nBut the Doctor, after hearing their story, doesn't make much of it, and\nonly gives them thirty lines of Homer to learn by heart, and a lecture\non the likelihood of such exploits ending in broken bones.\n\nAlas! almost the next day was one of the great fairs in the town; and as\nseveral rows and other disagreeable accidents had of late taken place\non these occasions, the Doctor gives out, after prayers in the morning,\nthat no boy is to go down into the town. Wherefore East and Tom, for\nno earthly pleasure except that of doing what they are told not to do,\nstart away, after second lesson, and making a short circuit through the\nfields, strike a back lane which leads into the town, go down it, and\nrun plump upon one of the masters as they emerge into the High Street.\nThe master in question, though a very clever, is not a righteous man.\nHe has already caught several of his own pupils, and gives them lines\nto learn, while he sends East and Tom, who are not his pupils, up to the\nDoctor, who, on learning that they had been at prayers in the morning,\nflogs them soundly.\n\nThe flogging did them no good at the time, for the injustice of their\ncaptor was rankling in their minds; but it was just the end of the half,\nand on the next evening but one Thomas knocks at their door, and says\nthe Doctor wants to see them. They look at one another in silent dismay.\nWhat can it be now? Which of their countless wrong-doings can he have\nheard of officially? However, it's no use delaying, so up they go to the\nstudy. There they find the Doctor, not angry, but very graver. \"He has\nsent for them to speak to very seriously before they go home. They have\neach been flogged several times in the half-year for direct and\nwilful breaches of rules. This cannot go on. They are doing no good to\nthemselves or others, and now they are getting up in the School, and\nhave influence. They seem to think that rules are made capriciously, and\nfor the pleasure of the masters; but this is not so. They are made for\nthe good of the whole School, and must and shall be obeyed. Those who\nthoughtlessly or wilfully break them will not be allowed to stay at the\nSchool. He should be sorry if they had to leave, as the School might\ndo them both much good, and wishes them to think very seriously in the\nholidays over what he has said. Good-night.\"\n\nAnd so the two hurry off horribly scared; the idea of having to leave\nhas never crossed their minds, and is quite unbearable.\n\nAs they go out, they meet at the door old Holmes, a sturdy, cheery\nprepostor of another house, who goes in to the Doctor; and they hear\nhis genial, hearty greeting of the newcomer, so different to their own\nreception, as the door closes, and return to their study with heavy\nhearts, and tremendous resolves to break no more rules.\n\nFive minutes afterwards the master of their form--a late arrival and a\nmodel young master--knocks at the Doctor's study-door. \"Come in!\" And\nas he enters, the Doctor goes on, to Holmes--\"You see, I do not know\nanything of the case officially, and if I take any notice of it at all,\nI must publicly expel the boy. I don't wish to do that, for I think\nthere is some good in him. There's nothing for it but a good sound\nthrashing.\" He paused to shake hands with the master, which Holmes does\nalso, and then prepares to leave.\n\n\"I understand. Good-night, sir.\"\n\n\"Good-night, Holmes. And remember,\" added the Doctor, emphasizing the\nwords, \"a good sound thrashing before the whole house.\"\n\nThe door closed on Holmes; and the Doctor, in answer to the puzzled\nlook of his lieutenant, explained shortly. \"A gross case of bullying.\nWharton, the head of the house, is a very good fellow, but slight and\nweak, and severe physical pain is the only way to deal with such a\ncase; so I have asked Holmes to take it up. He is very careful and\ntrustworthy, and has plenty of strength. I wish all the sixth had as\nmuch. We must have it here, if we are to keep order at all.\"\n\nNow I don't want any wiseacres to read this book, but if they should, of\ncourse they will prick up their long ears, and howl, or rather bray, at\nthe above story. Very good--I don't object; but what I have to add for\nyou boys is this, that Holmes called a levy of his house after breakfast\nnext morning, made them a speech on the case of bullying in question,\nand then gave the bully a \"good sound thrashing;\" and that years\nafterwards, that boy sought out Holmes, and thanked him, saying it\nhad been the kindest act which had ever been done upon him, and the\nturning-point in his character; and a very good fellow he became, and a\ncredit to his School.\n\nAfter some other talk between them, the Doctor said, \"I want to speak\nto you about two boys in your form, East and Brown. I have just been\nspeaking to them. What do you think of them?\"\n\n\"Well, they are not hard workers, and very thoughtless and full of\nspirits; but I can't help liking them. I think they are sound, good\nfellows at the bottom.\"\n\n\"I'm glad of it. I think so too: But they make me very uneasy. They are\ntaking the lead a good deal amongst the fags in my house, for they are\nvery active, bold fellows. I should be sorry to lose them, but I shan't\nlet them stay if I don't see them gaining character and manliness. In\nanother year they may do great harm to all the younger boys.\"\n\n\"Oh, I hope you won't send them away,\" pleaded their master.\n\n\"Not if I can help it. But now I never feel sure, after any\nhalf-holiday, that I shan't have to flog one of them next morning, for\nsome foolish, thoughtless scrape. I quite dread seeing either of them.\"\n\nThey were both silent for a minute. Presently the Doctor began again:--\n\n\"They don't feel that they have any duty or work to do in the school,\nand how is one to make them feel it?\"\n\n\"I think if either of them had some little boy to take care of, it would\nsteady them. Brown is the most reckless of the two, I should say. East\nwouldn't get into so many scrapes without him.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the Doctor, with something like a sigh, \"I'll think of it.\"\nAnd they went on to talk of other subjects.\n\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\n     \"I [hold] it truth, with him who sings,\n     To one clear harp in divers tones,\n     That men may rise on stepping-stones\n     Of their dead selves to higher things.\"\n     --TENNYSON.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I--HOW THE TIDE TURNED.\n\n     \"Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,\n     In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side.\n     . . . .\n     Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside,\n     Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified.\"\n     --LOWELL.\n\nThe turning-point in our hero's school career had now come, and the\nmanner of it was as follows. On the evening of the first day of the next\nhalf-year, Tom, East, and another School-house boy, who had just been\ndropped at the Spread Eagle by the old Regulator, rushed into the\nmatron's room in high spirits, such as all real boys are in when they\nfirst get back, however fond they may be of home.\n\n\"Well, Mrs. Wixie,\" shouted one, seizing on the methodical, active,\nlittle dark-eyed woman, who was busy stowing away the linen of the boys\nwho had already arrived into their several pigeon-holes, \"here we are\nagain, you see, as jolly as ever. Let us help you put the things away.\"\n\n\"And, Mary,\" cried another (she was called indifferently by either\nname), \"who's come back? Has the Doctor made old Jones leave? How many\nnew boys are there?\"\n\n\"Am I and East to have Gray's study? You know you promised to get it for\nus if you could,\" shouted Tom.\n\n\"And am I to sleep in Number 4?\" roared East.\n\n\"How's old Sam, and Bogle, and Sally?\"\n\n\"Bless the boys!\" cries Mary, at last getting in a word; \"why, you'll\nshake me to death. There, now, do go away up to the housekeeper's room\nand get your suppers; you know I haven't time to talk. You'll find\nplenty more in the house.--Now, Master East, do let those things alone.\nYou're mixing up three new boys' things.\" And she rushed at East, who\nescaped round the open trunks holding up a prize.\n\n\"Hullo! look here, Tommy,\" shouted he; \"here's fun!\" and he brandished\nabove his head some pretty little night-caps, beautifully made and\nmarked, the work of loving fingers in some distant country home. The\nkind mother and sisters who sewed that delicate stitching with aching\nhearts little thought of the trouble they might be bringing on the\nyoung head for which they were meant. The little matron was wiser, and\nsnatched the caps from East before he could look at the name on them.\n\n\"Now, Master East, I shall be very angry if you don't go,\" said she;\n\"there's some capital cold beef and pickles upstairs, and I won't have\nyou old boys in my room first night.\"\n\n\"Hurrah for the pickles! Come along, Tommy--come along, Smith. We shall\nfind out who the young count is, I'll be bound. I hope he'll sleep in my\nroom. Mary's always vicious first week.\"\n\nAs the boys turned to leave the room, the matron touched Tom's arm, and\nsaid, \"Master Brown, please stop a minute; I want to speak to you.\"\n\n\"Very well, Mary. I'll come in a minute, East. Don't finish the\npickles.\"\n\n\"O Master Brown,\" went on the little matron, when the rest had gone,\n\"you're to have Gray's study, Mrs. Arnold says. And she wants you to\ntake in this young gentleman. He's a new boy, and thirteen years old\nthough he don't look it. He's very delicate, and has never been from\nhome before. And I told Mrs. Arnold I thought you'd be kind to him, and\nsee that they don't bully him at first. He's put into your form, and\nI've given him the bed next to yours in Number 4; so East can't sleep\nthere this half.\"\n\nTom was rather put about by this speech. He had got the double study\nwhich he coveted, but here were conditions attached which greatly\nmoderated his joy. He looked across the room, and in the far corner of\nthe sofa was aware of a slight, pale boy, with large blue eyes and light\nfair hair, who seemed ready to shrink through the floor. He saw at a\nglance that the little stranger was just the boy whose first half-year\nat a public school would be misery to himself if he were left alone, or\nconstant anxiety to any one who meant to see him through his troubles.\nTom was too honest to take in the youngster, and then let him shift for\nhimself; and if he took him as his chum instead of East, where were\nall his pet plans of having a bottled-beer cellar under his window, and\nmaking night-lines and slings, and plotting expeditions to Brownsover\nMills and Caldecott's Spinney? East and he had made up their minds to\nget this study, and then every night from locking-up till ten they would\nbe together to talk about fishing, drink bottled-beer, read Marryat's\nnovels, and sort birds' eggs. And this new boy would most likely never\ngo out of the close, and would be afraid of wet feet, and always getting\nlaughed at, and called Molly, or Jenny, or some derogatory feminine\nnickname.\n\nThe matron watched him for a moment, and saw what was passing in his\nmind, and so, like a wise negotiator, threw in an appeal to his warm\nheart. \"Poor little fellow,\" said she, in almost a whisper; \"his\nfather's dead, and he's got no brothers. And his mamma--such a kind,\nsweet lady--almost broke her heart at leaving him this morning; and she\nsaid one of his sisters was like to die of decline, and so--\"\n\n\"Well, well,\" burst in Tom, with something like a sigh at the effort,\n\"I suppose I must give up East.--Come along, young un. What's your name?\nWe'll go and have some supper, and then I'll show you our study.\"\n\n\"His name's George Arthur,\" said the matron, walking up to him with Tom,\nwho grasped his little delicate hand as the proper preliminary to making\na chum of him, and felt as if he could have blown him away. \"I've had\nhis books and things put into the study, which his mamma has had new\npapered, and the sofa covered, and new green-baize curtains over the\ndoor\" (the diplomatic matron threw this in, to show that the new boy was\ncontributing largely to the partnership comforts). \"And Mrs. Arnold told\nme to say,\" she added, \"that she should like you both to come up to tea\nwith her. You know the way, Master Brown, and the things are just gone\nup, I know.\"\n\nHere was an announcement for Master Tom! He was to go up to tea the\nfirst night, just as if he were a sixth or fifth form boy, and of\nimportance in the School world, instead of the most reckless young\nscapegrace amongst the fags. He felt himself lifted on to a higher\nsocial and moral platform at once. Nevertheless he couldn't give up\nwithout a sigh the idea of the jolly supper in the housekeeper's room\nwith East and the rest, and a rush round to all the studies of his\nfriends afterwards, to pour out the deeds and wonders of the holidays,\nto plot fifty plans for the coming half-year, and to gather news of who\nhad left and what new boys had come, who had got who's study, and where\nthe new prepostors slept. However, Tom consoled himself with thinking\nthat he couldn't have done all this with the new boy at his heels, and\nso marched off along the passages to the Doctor's private house with his\nyoung charge in tow, in monstrous good-humour with himself and all the\nworld.\n\nIt is needless, and would be impertinent, to tell how the two young boys\nwere received in that drawing-room. The lady who presided there is still\nliving, and has carried with her to her peaceful home in the north the\nrespect and love of all those who ever felt and shared that gentle and\nhigh-bred hospitality. Ay, many is the brave heart, now doing its work\nand bearing its load in country curacies, London chambers, under the\nIndian sun, and in Australian towns and clearings, which looks back with\nfond and grateful memory to that School-house drawing-room, and dates\nmuch of its highest and best training to the lessons learnt there.\n\nBesides Mrs. Arnold and one or two of the elder children, there were one\nof the younger masters, young Brooke (who was now in the sixth, and\nhad succeeded to his brother's position and influence), and another\nsixth-form boy, talking together before the fire. The master and young\nBrooke, now a great strapping fellow six feet high, eighteen years old,\nand powerful as a coal-heaver, nodded kindly to Tom, to his intense\nglory, and then went on talking. The other did not notice them.\nThe hostess, after a few kind words, which led the boys at once and\ninsensibly to feel at their ease and to begin talking to one another,\nleft them with her own children while she finished a letter. The young\nones got on fast and well, Tom holding forth about a prodigious pony he\nhad been riding out hunting, and hearing stories of the winter glories\nof the lakes, when tea came in, and immediately after the Doctor\nhimself.\n\nHow frank, and kind, and manly was his greeting to the party by the\nfire! It did Tom's heart good to see him and young Brooke shake hands,\nand look one another in the face; and he didn't fail to remark that\nBrooke was nearly as tall and quite as broad as the Doctor. And his cup\nwas full when in another moment his master turned to him with another\nwarm shake of the hand, and, seemingly oblivious of all the late scrapes\nwhich he had been getting into, said, \"Ah, Brown, you here! I hope you\nleft your father and all well at home?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir, quite well.\"\n\n\"And this is the little fellow who is to share your study. Well, he\ndoesn't look as we should like to see him. He wants some Rugby air, and\ncricket. And you must take him some good long walks, to Bilton Grange,\nand Caldecott's Spinney, and show him what a little pretty country we\nhave about here.\"\n\nTom wondered if the Doctor knew that his visits to Bilton Grange\nwere for the purpose of taking rooks' nests (a proceeding strongly\ndiscountenanced by the owner thereof), and those to Caldecott's Spinney\nwere prompted chiefly by the conveniences for setting night-lines. What\ndidn't the Doctor know? And what a noble use he always made of it! He\nalmost resolved to abjure rook-pies and night-lines for ever. The tea\nwent merrily off, the Doctor now talking of holiday doings, and then of\nthe prospects of the half-year--what chance there was for the Balliol\nscholarship, whether the eleven would be a good one. Everybody was at\nhis ease, and everybody felt that he, young as he might be, was of some\nuse in the little School world, and had a work to do there.\n\nSoon after tea the Doctor went off to his study, and the young boys a\nfew minutes afterwards took their leave and went out of the private door\nwhich led from the Doctor's house into the middle passage.\n\nAt the fire, at the farther end of the passage, was a crowd of boys in\nloud talk and laughter. There was a sudden pause when the door opened,\nand then a great shout of greeting, as Tom was recognized marching down\nthe passage.\n\n\"Hullo, Brown! where do you come from?\"\n\n\"Oh, I've been to tea with the Doctor,\" says Tom, with great dignity.\n\n\"My eye!\" cried East, \"Oh! so that's why Mary called you back, and you\ndidn't come to supper. You lost something. That beef and pickles was no\nend good.\"\n\n\"I say, young fellow,\" cried Hall, detecting Arthur and catching him by\nthe collar, \"what's your name? Where do you come from? How old are you?\"\n\nTom saw Arthur shrink back and look scared as all the group turned to\nhim, but thought it best to let him answer, just standing by his side to\nsupport in case of need.\n\n\"Arthur, sir. I come from Devonshire.\"\n\n\"Don't call me 'sir,' you young muff. How old are you?\"\n\n\"Thirteen.\"\n\n\"Can you sing?\"\n\nThe poor boy was trembling and hesitating. Tom struck in--\"You be\nhanged, Tadpole. He'll have to sing, whether he can or not, Saturday\ntwelve weeks, and that's long enough off yet.\"\n\n\"Do you know him at home, Brown?\"\n\n\"No; but he's my chum in Gray's old study, and it's near prayer-time,\nand I haven't had a look at it yet.--Come along, Arthur.\"\n\nAway went the two, Tom longing to get his charge safe under cover, where\nhe might advise him on his deportment.\n\n\"What a queer chum for Tom Brown,\" was the comment at the fire; and it\nmust be confessed so thought Tom himself, as he lighted his candle, and\nsurveyed the new green-baize curtains and the carpet and sofa with much\nsatisfaction.\n\n\"I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is to make us so cozy! But look\nhere now; you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you, and\ndon't be afraid. If you're afraid, you'll get bullied. And don't you\nsay you can sing; and don't you ever talk about home, or your mother and\nsisters.\"\n\nPoor little Arthur looked ready to cry.\n\n\"But, please,\" said he, \"mayn't I talk about--about home to you?\"\n\n\"Oh yes; I like it. But don't talk to boys you don't know, or they'll\ncall you home-sick, or mamma's darling, or some such stuff. What a jolly\ndesk! Is that yours? And what stunning binding! Why, your school-books\nlook like novels.\"\n\nAnd Tom was soon deep in Arthur's goods and chattels, all new, and good\nenough for a fifth-form boy, and hardly thought of his friends outside\ntill the prayer-bell rang.\n\nI have already described the School-house prayers. They were the same on\nthe first night as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused by the\nabsence of those boys who came late, and the line of new boys who stood\nall together at the farther table--of all sorts and sizes, like young\nbears with all their troubles to come, as Tom's father had said to him\nwhen he was in the same position. He thought of it as he looked at the\nline, and poor little slight Arthur standing with them, and as he was\nleading him upstairs to Number 4, directly after prayers, and showing\nhim his bed. It was a huge, high, airy room, with two large windows\nlooking on to the School close. There were twelve beds in the room. The\none in the farthest corner by the fireplace, occupied by the sixth-form\nboy, who was responsible for the discipline of the room, and the rest\nby boys in the lower-fifth and other junior forms, all fags (for the\nfifth-form boys, as has been said, slept in rooms by themselves). Being\nfags, the eldest of them was not more than about sixteen years old, and\nwere all bound to be up and in bed by ten. The sixth-form boys came to\nbed from ten to a quarter-past (at which time the old verger came round\nto put the candles out), except when they sat up to read.\n\nWithin a few minutes therefore of their entry, all the other boys who\nslept in Number 4 had come up. The little fellows went quietly to their\nown beds, and began undressing, and talking to each other in whispers;\nwhile the elder, amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one\nanother's beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off. Poor little\nArthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his position. The idea of\nsleeping in the room with strange boys had clearly never crossed his\nmind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. He could\nhardly bear to take his jacket off; however, presently, with an effort,\noff it came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at\nthe bottom of his bed talking and laughing.\n\n\"Please, Brown,\" he whispered, \"may I wash my face and hands?\"\n\n\"Of course, if you like,\" said Tom, staring; \"that's your\nwashhand-stand, under the window, second from your bed. You'll have to\ngo down for more water in the morning if you use it all.\" And on he went\nwith his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between the beds out\nto his washhand-stand, and began his ablutions, thereby drawing for a\nmoment on himself the attention of the room.\n\nOn went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his washing and\nundressing, and put on his night-gown. He then looked round more\nnervously than ever. Two or three of the little boys were already in\nbed, sitting up with their chins on their knees. The light burned clear,\nthe noise went on. It was a trying moment for the poor little lonely\nboy; however, this time he didn't ask Tom what he might or might not do,\nbut dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he had done every day from\nhis childhood, to open his heart to Him who heareth the cry and beareth\nthe sorrows of the tender child, and the strong man in agony.\n\nTom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so that his\nback was towards Arthur, and he didn't see what had happened, and looked\nup in wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys laughed and\nsneered, and a big, brutal fellow who was standing in the middle of the\nroom picked up a slipper, and shied it at the kneeling boy, calling him\na snivelling young shaver. Then Tom saw the whole, and the next moment\nthe boot he had just pulled off flew straight at the head of the bully,\nwho had just time to throw up his arm and catch it on his elbow.\n\n\"Confound you, Brown! what's that for?\" roared he, stamping with pain.\n\n\"Never mind what I mean,\" said Tom, stepping on to the floor, every drop\nof blood in his body tingling; \"if any fellow wants the other boot, he\nknows how to get it.\"\n\nWhat would have been the result is doubtful, for at this moment the\nsixth-form boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom and\nthe rest rushed into bed and finished their unrobing there, and the\nold verger, as punctual as the clock, had put out the candle in another\nminute, and toddled on to the next room, shutting their door with his\nusual \"Good-night, gen'lm'n.\"\n\nThere were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was taken to\nheart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the pillow of\npoor Tom. For some time his excitement, and the flood of memories\nwhich chased one another through his brain, kept him from thinking or\nresolving. His head throbbed, his heart leapt, and he could hardly keep\nhimself from springing out of bed and rushing about the room. Then the\nthought of his own mother came across him, and the promise he had made\nat her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel by his bedside, and\ngive himself up to his Father, before he laid his head on the pillow,\nfrom which it might never rise; and he lay down gently, and cried as if\nhis heart would break. He was only fourteen years old.\n\nIt was no light act of courage in those days, my dear boys, for a little\nfellow to say his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A few years later,\nwhen Arnold's manly piety had begun to leaven the School, the tables\nturned; before he died, in the School-house at least, and I believe in\nthe other house, the rule was the other way. But poor Tom had come to\nschool in other times. The first few nights after he came he did not\nkneel down because of the noise, but sat up in bed till the candle was\nout, and then stole out and said his prayers, in fear lest some one\nshould find him out. So did many another poor little fellow. Then he\nbegan to think that he might just as well say his prayers in bed, and\nthen that it didn't matter whether he was kneeling, or sitting, or lying\ndown. And so it had come to pass with Tom, as with all who will not\nconfess their Lord before men; and for the last year he had probably not\nsaid his prayers in earnest a dozen times.\n\nPoor Tom! the first and bitterest feeling which was like to break his\nheart was the sense of his own cowardice. The vice of all others which\nhe loathed was brought in and burnt in on his own soul. He had lied to\nhis mother, to his conscience, to his God. How could he bear it? And\nthen the poor little weak boy, whom he had pitied and almost scorned for\nhis weakness, had done that which he, braggart as he was, dared not do.\nThe first dawn of comfort came to him in swearing to himself that he\nwould stand by that boy through thick and thin, and cheer him, and help\nhim, and bear his burdens for the good deed done that night. Then he\nresolved to write home next day and tell his mother all, and what a\ncoward her son had been. And then peace came to him as he resolved,\nlastly, to bear his testimony next morning. The morning would be harder\nthan the night to begin with, but he felt that he could not afford to\nlet one chance slip. Several times he faltered, for the devil showed him\nfirst all his old friends calling him \"Saint\" and \"Square-toes,\" and\na dozen hard names, and whispered to him that his motives would be\nmisunderstood, and he would only be left alone with the new boy; whereas\nit was his duty to keep all means of influence, that he might do good to\nthe largest number. And then came the more subtle temptation, \"Shall I\nnot be showing myself braver than others by doing this? Have I any right\nto begin it now? Ought I not rather to pray in my own study, letting\nother boys know that I do so, and trying to lead them to it, while in\npublic at least I should go on as I have done?\" However, his good angel\nwas too strong that night, and he turned on his side and slept, tired of\ntrying to reason, but resolved to follow the impulse which had been so\nstrong, and in which he had found peace.\n\nNext morning he was up and washed and dressed, all but his jacket and\nwaistcoat, just as the ten minutes' bell began to ring, and then in\nthe face of the whole room knelt down to pray. Not five words could\nhe say--the bell mocked him; he was listening for every whisper in\nthe room--what were they all thinking of him? He was ashamed to go on\nkneeling, ashamed to rise from his knees. At last, as it were from his\ninmost heart, a still, small voice seemed to breathe forth the words of\nthe publican, \"God be merciful to me a sinner!\" He repeated them over\nand over, clinging to them as for his life, and rose from his knees\ncomforted and humbled, and ready to face the whole world. It was not\nneeded: two other boys besides Arthur had already followed his example,\nand he went down to the great School with a glimmering of another lesson\nin his heart--the lesson that he who has conquered his own coward spirit\nhas conquered the whole outward world; and that other one which the old\nprophet learnt in the cave in Mount Horeb, when he hid his face, and the\nstill, small voice asked, \"What doest thou here, Elijah?\" that however\nwe may fancy ourselves alone on the side of good, the King and Lord\nof men is nowhere without His witnesses; for in every society, however\nseemingly corrupt and godless, there are those who have not bowed the\nknee to Baal.\n\nHe found, too, how greatly he had exaggerated the effect to be produced\nby his act. For a few nights there was a sneer or a laugh when he knelt\ndown, but this passed off soon, and one by one all the other boys but\nthree or four followed the lead. I fear that this was in some measure\nowing to the fact that Tom could probably have thrashed any boy in the\nroom except the prepostor; at any rate, every boy knew that he would\ntry upon very slight provocation, and didn't choose to run the risk of a\nhard fight because Tom Brown had taken a fancy to say his prayers. Some\nof the small boys of Number 4 communicated the new state of things to\ntheir chums, and in several other rooms the poor little fellows tried\nit on--in one instance or so, where the prepostor heard of it and\ninterfered very decidedly, with partial success; but in the rest, after\na short struggle, the confessors were bullied or laughed down, and the\nold state of things went on for some time longer. Before either Tom\nBrown or Arthur left the School-house, there was no room in which it had\nnot become the regular custom. I trust it is so still, and that the old\nheathen state of things has gone out for ever.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II--THE NEW BOY.\n\n     \"And Heaven's rich instincts in him grew\n     As effortless as woodland nooks\n     Send violets up and paint them blue.\"--LOWELL.\n\nI do not mean to recount all the little troubles and annoyances which\nthronged upon Tom at the beginning of this half-year, in his new\ncharacter of bear-leader to a gentle little boy straight from home. He\nseemed to himself to have become a new boy again, without any of the\nlong-suffering and meekness indispensable for supporting that character\nwith moderate success. From morning till night he had the feeling of\nresponsibility on his mind, and even if he left Arthur in their study\nor in the close for an hour, was never at ease till he had him in sight\nagain. He waited for him at the doors of the school after every lesson\nand every calling-over; watched that no tricks were played him, and none\nbut the regulation questions asked; kept his eye on his plate at dinner\nand breakfast, to see that no unfair depredations were made upon his\nviands; in short, as East remarked, cackled after him like a hen with\none chick.\n\nArthur took a long time thawing, too, which made it all the harder work;\nwas sadly timid; scarcely ever spoke unless Tom spoke to him first; and,\nworst of all, would agree with him in everything--the hardest thing in\nthe world for a Brown to bear. He got quite angry sometimes, as they\nsat together of a night in their study, at this provoking habit of\nagreement, and was on the point of breaking out a dozen times with a\nlecture upon the propriety of a fellow having a will of his own and\nspeaking out, but managed to restrain himself by the thought that he\nmight only frighten Arthur, and the remembrance of the lesson he had\nlearnt from him on his first night at Number 4. Then he would resolve to\nsit still and not say a word till Arthur began; but he was always beat\nat that game, and had presently to begin talking in despair, fearing\nlest Arthur might think he was vexed at something if he didn't, and\ndog-tired of sitting tongue-tied.\n\nIt was hard work. But Tom had taken it up, and meant to stick to it, and\ngo through with it so as to satisfy himself; in which resolution he\nwas much assisted by the chafing of East and his other old friends, who\nbegan to call him \"dry-nurse,\" and otherwise to break their small wit\non him. But when they took other ground, as they did every now and then,\nTom was sorely puzzled.\n\n\"Tell you what, Tommy,\" East would say; \"you'll spoil young Hopeful with\ntoo much coddling. Why can't you let him go about by himself and find\nhis own level? He'll never be worth a button if you go on keeping him\nunder your skirts.\"\n\n\"Well, but he ain't fit to fight his own way yet; I'm trying to get him\nto it every day, but he's very odd. Poor little beggar! I can't make him\nout a bit. He ain't a bit like anything I've ever seen or heard of--he\nseems all over nerves; anything you say seems to hurt him like a cut or\na blow.\"\n\n\"That sort of boy's no use here,\" said East; \"he'll only spoil. Now I'll\ntell you what to do, Tommy. Go and get a nice large band-box made, and\nput him in with plenty of cotton-wool and a pap-bottle, labelled 'With\ncare--this side up,' and send him back to mamma.\"\n\n\"I think I shall make a hand of him though,\" said Tom, smiling, \"say\nwhat you will. There's something about him, every now and then, which\nshows me he's got pluck somewhere in him. That's the only thing after\nall that'll wash, ain't it, old Scud? But how to get at it and bring it\nout?\"\n\nTom took one hand out of his breeches-pocket and stuck it in his back\nhair for a scratch, giving his hat a tilt over his nose, his one method\nof invoking wisdom. He stared at the ground with a ludicrously puzzled\nlook, and presently looked up and met East's eyes. That young gentleman\nslapped him on the back, and then put his arm round his shoulder, as\nthey strolled through the quadrangle together. \"Tom,\" said he, \"blest if\nyou ain't the best old fellow ever was. I do like to see you go into a\nthing. Hang it, I wish I could take things as you do; but I never\ncan get higher than a joke. Everything's a joke. If I was going to be\nflogged next minute, I should be in a blue funk, but I couldn't help\nlaughing at it for the life of me.\"\n\n\"Brown and East, you go and fag for Jones on the great fives court.\"\n\n\"Hullo, though, that's past a joke,\" broke out East, springing at\nthe young gentleman who addressed them, and catching him by the\ncollar.--\"Here, Tommy, catch hold of him t'other side before he can\nholla.\"\n\nThe youth was seized, and dragged, struggling, out of the quadrangle\ninto the School-house hall. He was one of the miserable little pretty\nwhite-handed, curly-headed boys, petted and pampered by some of the big\nfellows, who wrote their verses for them, taught them to drink and use\nbad language, and did all they could to spoil them for everything *\nin this world and the next. One of the avocations in which these young\ngentlemen took particular delight was in going about and getting fags\nfor their protectors, when those heroes were playing any game. They\ncarried about pencil and paper with them, putting down the names of all\nthe boys they sent, always sending five times as many as were wanted,\nand getting all those thrashed who didn't go. The present youth belonged\nto a house which was very jealous of the School-house, and always picked\nout School-house fags when he could find them. However, this time he'd\ngot the wrong sow by the ear. His captors slammed the great door of the\nhall, and East put his back against it, while Tom gave the prisoner a\nshake up, took away his list, and stood him up on the floor, while he\nproceeded leisurely to examine that document.\n\n     * A kind and wise critic, an old Rugboean, notes here in the\n     margin: \"The small friend system was not so utterly bad from\n     1841-1847.\" Before that, too, there were many noble\n     friendships between big and little boys; but I can't strike\n     out the passage. Many boys will know why it is left in.\n\n\"Let me out, let me go!\" screamed the boy, in a furious passion. \"I'll\ngo and tell Jones this minute, and he'll give you both the --- thrashing\nyou ever had.\"\n\n\"Pretty little dear,\" said East, patting the top of his hat.--\"Hark how\nhe swears, Tom. Nicely brought up young man, ain't he, I don't think.\"\n\n\"Let me alone, --- you,\" roared the boy, foaming with rage, and kicking\nat East, who quietly tripped him up, and deposited him on the floor in a\nplace of safety.\n\n\"Gently, young fellow,\" said he; \"'tain't improving for little\nwhippersnappers like you to be indulging in blasphemy; so you stop that,\nor you'll get something you won't like.\"\n\n\"I'll have you both licked when I get out, that I will,\" rejoined the\nboy, beginning to snivel.\n\n\"Two can play at that game, mind you,\" said Tom, who had finished his\nexamination of the list. \"Now you just listen here. We've just come\nacross the fives court, and Jones has four fags there already--two\nmore than he wants. If he'd wanted us to change, he'd have stopped us\nhimself. And here, you little blackguard, you've got seven names down on\nyour list besides ours, and five of them School-house.\" Tom walked up to\nhim, and jerked him on to his legs; he was by this time whining like a\nwhipped puppy. \"Now just listen to me. We ain't going to fag for\nJones. If you tell him you've sent us, we'll each of us give you such\na thrashing as you'll remember.\" And Tom tore up the list and threw the\npieces into the fire.\n\n\"And mind you, too,\" said East, \"don't let me catch you again sneaking\nabout the School-house, and picking up our fags. You haven't got the\nsort of hide to take a sound licking kindly.\" And he opened the door and\nsent the young gentleman flying into the quadrangle with a parting kick.\n\n\"Nice boy, Tommy,\" said East, shoving his hands in his pockets, and\nstrolling to the fire.\n\n\"Worst sort we breed,\" responded Tom, following his example. \"Thank\ngoodness, no big fellow ever took to petting me.\"\n\n\"You'd never have been like that,\" said East. \"I should like to have put\nhim in a museum: Christian young gentleman, nineteenth century, highly\neducated. Stir him up with a long pole, Jack, and hear him swear like a\ndrunken sailor. He'd make a respectable public open its eyes, I think.\"\n\n\"Think he'll tell Jones?\" said Tom.\n\n\"No,\" said East. \"Don't care if he does.\"\n\n\"Nor I,\" said Tom. And they went back to talk about Arthur.\n\nThe young gentleman had brains enough not to tell Jones, reasoning\nthat East and Brown, who were noted as some of the toughest fags in\nthe School, wouldn't care three straws for any licking Jones might give\nthem, and would be likely to keep their words as to passing it on with\ninterest.\n\nAfter the above conversation, East came a good deal to their study, and\ntook notice of Arthur, and soon allowed to Tom that he was a thorough\nlittle gentleman, and would get over his shyness all in good time; which\nmuch comforted our hero. He felt every day, too, the value of having an\nobject in his life--something that drew him out of himself; and it being\nthe dull time of the year, and no games going about for which he much\ncared, was happier than he had ever yet been at school, which was saying\na great deal.\n\nThe time which Tom allowed himself away from his charge was from\nlocking-up till supper-time. During this hour or hour and a half he used\nto take his fling, going round to the studies of all his acquaintance,\nsparring or gossiping in the hall, now jumping the old iron-bound\ntables, or carving a bit of his name on them, then joining in some\nchorus of merry voices--in fact, blowing off his steam, as we should now\ncall it.\n\nThis process was so congenial to his temper, and Arthur showed himself\nso pleased at the arrangement, that it was several weeks before Tom was\never in their study before supper. One evening, however, he rushed in to\nlook for an old chisel, or some corks, or other article essential to his\npursuit for the time being, and while rummaging about in the cupboards,\nlooked up for a moment, and was caught at once by the figure of poor\nlittle Arthur. The boy was sitting with his elbows on the table, and\nhis head leaning on his hands, and before him an open book, on which his\ntears were falling fast. Tom shut the door at once, and sat down on the\nsofa by Arthur, putting his arm round his neck.\n\n\"Why, young un, what's the matter?\" said he kindly; \"you ain't unhappy,\nare you?\"\n\n\"Oh no, Brown,\" said the little boy, looking up with the great tears in\nhis eyes; \"you are so kind to me, I'm very happy.\"\n\n\"Why don't you call me Tom? Lots of boys do that I don't like half so\nmuch as you. What are you reading, then? Hang it! you must come about\nwith me, and not mope yourself.\" And Tom cast down his eyes on the book,\nand saw it was the Bible. He was silent for a minute, and thought to\nhimself, \"Lesson Number 2, Tom Brown;\" and then said gently, \"I'm very\nglad to see this, Arthur, and ashamed that I don't read the Bible more\nmyself. Do you read it every night before supper while I'm out?\"\n\n\"Yes.\"\n\n\"Well, I wish you'd wait till afterwards, and then we'd read together.\nBut, Arthur, why does it make you cry?\"\n\n\"Oh, it isn't that I'm unhappy. But at home, while my father was alive,\nwe always read the lessons after tea; and I love to read them over now,\nand try to remember what he said about them. I can't remember all and I\nthink I scarcely understand a great deal of what I do remember. But\nit all comes back to me so fresh that I can't help crying sometimes to\nthink I shall never read them again with him.\"\n\nArthur had never spoken of his home before, and Tom hadn't encouraged\nhim to do so, as his blundering schoolboy reasoning made him think that\nArthur would be softened and less manly for thinking of home. But now\nhe was fairly interested, and forgot all about chisels and bottled\nbeer; while with very little encouragement Arthur launched into his home\nhistory, and the prayer-bell put them both out sadly when it rang to\ncall them to the hall.\n\nFrom this time Arthur constantly spoke of his home, and above all, of\nhis father, who had been dead about a year, and whose memory Tom soon\ngot to love and reverence almost as much as his own son did.\n\nArthur's father had been the clergyman of a parish in the Midland\ncounties, which had risen into a large town during the war, and upon\nwhich the hard years which followed had fallen with fearful weight. The\ntrade had been half ruined; and then came the old, sad story, of masters\nreducing their establishments, men turned off and wandering about,\nhungry and wan in body, and fierce in soul, from the thought of wives\nand children starving at home, and the last sticks of furniture going to\nthe pawnshop; children taken from school, and lounging about the dirty\nstreets and courts, too listless almost to play, and squalid in rags\nand misery; and then the fearful struggle between the employers and\nmen--lowerings of wages, strikes, and the long course of oft-repeated\ncrime, ending every now and then with a riot, a fire, and the county\nyeomanry. There is no need here to dwell upon such tales: the Englishman\ninto whose soul they have not sunk deep is not worthy the name. You\nEnglish boys, for whom this book is meant (God bless your bright faces\nand kind hearts!), will learn it all soon enough.\n\nInto such a parish and state of society Arthur's father had been thrown\nat the age of twenty-five--a young married parson, full of faith,\nhope, and love. He had battled with it like a man, and had lots of fine\nUtopian ideas about the perfectibility of mankind, glorious humanity,\nand such-like, knocked out of his head, and a real, wholesome Christian\nlove for the poor, struggling, sinning men, of whom he felt himself one,\nand with and for whom he spent fortune, and strength, and life, driven\ninto his heart. He had battled like a man, and gotten a man's reward--no\nsilver tea-pots or salvers, with flowery inscriptions setting forth\nhis virtues and the appreciation of a genteel parish; no fat living or\nstall, for which he never looked, and didn't care; no sighs and praises\nof comfortable dowagers and well-got-up young women, who worked him\nslippers, sugared his tea, and adored him as \"a devoted man;\" but a\nmanly respect, wrung from the unwilling souls of men who fancied his\norder their natural enemies; the fear and hatred of every one who was\nfalse or unjust in the district, were he master or man; and the blessed\nsight of women and children daily becoming more human and more homely, a\ncomfort to themselves and to their husbands and fathers.\n\nThese things, of course, took time, and had to be fought for with toil\nand sweat of brain and heart, and with the life-blood poured out. All\nthat, Arthur had laid his account to give, and took as a matter of\ncourse, neither pitying himself, nor looking on himself as a martyr,\nwhen he felt the wear and tear making him feel old before his time, and\nthe stifling air of fever-dens telling on his health. His wife seconded\nhim in everything. She had been rather fond of society, and much admired\nand run after before her marriage; and the London world to which she had\nbelonged pitied poor Fanny Evelyn when she married the young clergyman,\nand went to settle in that smoky hole Turley; a very nest of Chartism\nand Atheism, in a part of the country which all the decent families had\nhad to leave for years. However, somehow or other she didn't seem to\ncare. If her husband's living had been amongst green fields and near\npleasant neighbours she would have liked it better--that she never\npretended to deny. But there they were. The air wasn't bad, after all;\nthe people were very good sort of people--civil to you if you were civil\nto them, after the first brush; and they didn't expect to work miracles,\nand convert them all off-hand into model Christians. So he and she went\nquietly among the folk, talking to and treating them just as they would\nhave done people of their own rank. They didn't feel that they were\ndoing anything out of the common way, and so were perfectly natural,\nand had none of that condescension or consciousness of manner which so\noutrages the independent poor. And thus they gradually won respect and\nconfidence; and after sixteen years he was looked up to by the whole\nneighbourhood as the just man, the man to whom masters and men could\ngo in their strikes, and in all their quarrels and difficulties, and by\nwhom the right and true word would be said without fear or favour. And\nthe women had come round to take her advice, and go to her as a friend\nin all their troubles; while the children all worshipped the very ground\nshe trod on.\n\nThey had three children, two daughters and a son, little Arthur, who\ncame between his sisters. He had been a very delicate boy from his\nchildhood; they thought he had a tendency to consumption, and so he had\nbeen kept at home and taught by his father, who had made a companion of\nhim, and from whom he had gained good scholarship, and a knowledge of\nand interest in many subjects which boys in general never come across\ntill they are many years older.\n\nJust as he reached his thirteenth year, and his father had settled that\nhe was strong enough to go to school, and, after much debating with\nhimself, had resolved to send him there, a desperate typhus fever broke\nout in the town. Most of the other clergy, and almost all the doctors,\nran away; the work fell with tenfold weight on those who stood to their\nwork. Arthur and his wife both caught the fever, of which he died in a\nfew days; and she recovered, having been able to nurse him to the end,\nand store up his last words. He was sensible to the last, and calm and\nhappy, leaving his wife and children with fearless trust for a few years\nin the hands of the Lord and Friend who had lived and died for him, and\nfor whom he, to the best of his power, had lived and died. His widow's\nmourning was deep and gentle. She was more affected by the request of\nthe committee of a freethinking club, established in the town by some of\nthe factory hands (which he had striven against with might and main, and\nnearly suppressed), that some of their number might be allowed to help\nbear the coffin, than by anything else. Two of them were chosen, who,\nwith six other labouring men, his own fellow-workmen and friends, bore\nhim to his grave--a man who had fought the Lord's fight even unto the\ndeath. The shops were closed and the factories shut that day in the\nparish, yet no master stopped the day's wages; but for many a year\nafterwards the townsfolk felt the want of that brave, hopeful, loving\nparson and his wife, who had lived to teach them mutual forbearance and\nhelpfulness, and had almost at last given them a glimpse of what this\nold world would be if people would live for God and each other instead\nof for themselves.\n\nWhat has all this to do with our story? Well, my dear boys, let a fellow\ngo on his own way, or you won't get anything out of him worth having.\nI must show you what sort of a man it was who had begotten and trained\nlittle Arthur, or else you won't believe in him, which I am resolved you\nshall do; and you won't see how he, the timid, weak boy, had points in\nhim from which the bravest and strongest recoiled, and made his presence\nand example felt from the first on all sides, unconsciously to himself,\nand without the least attempt at proselytizing. The spirit of his father\nwas in him, and the Friend to whom his father had left him did not\nneglect the trust.\n\nAfter supper that night, and almost nightly for years afterwards,\nTom and Arthur, and by degrees East occasionally, and sometimes one,\nsometimes another, of their friends, read a chapter of the Bible\ntogether, and talked it over afterwards. Tom was at first utterly\nastonished, and almost shocked, at the sort of way in which Arthur read\nthe book and talked about the men and women whose lives were there told.\nThe first night they happened to fall on the chapters about the famine\nin Egypt, and Arthur began talking about Joseph as if he were a living\nstatesman--just as he might have talked about Lord Grey and the Reform\nBill, only that they were much more living realities to him. The book\nwas to him, Tom saw, the most vivid and delightful history of real\npeople, who might do right or wrong, just like any one who was walking\nabout in Rugby--the Doctor, or the masters, or the sixth-form boys. But\nthe astonishment soon passed off, the scales seemed to drop from his\neyes, and the book became at once and for ever to him the great human\nand divine book, and the men and women, whom he had looked upon\nas something quite different from himself, became his friends and\ncounsellors.\n\nFor our purposes, however, the history of one night's reading will be\nsufficient, which must be told here, now we are on the subject, though\nit didn't happen till a year afterwards, and long after the events\nrecorded in the next chapter of our story.\n\nArthur, Tom, and East were together one night, and read the story of\nNaaman coming to Elisha to be cured of his leprosy. When the chapter was\nfinished, Tom shut his Bible with a slap.\n\n\"I can't stand that fellow Naaman,\" said he, \"after what he'd seen and\nfelt, going back and bowing himself down in the house of Rimmon, because\nhis effeminate scoundrel of a master did it. I wonder Elisha took the\ntrouble to heal him. How he must have despised him!\"\n\n\"Yes; there you go off as usual, with a shell on your head,\" struck\nin East, who always took the opposite side to Tom, half from love of\nargument, half from conviction. \"How do you know he didn't think better\nof it? How do you know his master was a scoundrel? His letter don't look\nlike it, and the book don't say so.\"\n\n\"I don't care,\" rejoined Tom; \"why did Naaman talk about bowing down,\nthen, if he didn't mean to do it? He wasn't likely to get more in\nearnest when he got back to court, and away from the prophet.\"\n\n\"Well, but, Tom,\" said Arthur, \"look what Elisha says to him--'Go in\npeace.' He wouldn't have said that if Naaman had been in the wrong.\"\n\n\"I don't see that that means more than saying, 'You're not the man I\ntook you for.'\"\n\n\"No, no; that won't do at all,\" said East. \"Read the words fairly, and\ntake men as you find them. I like Naaman, and think he was a very fine\nfellow.\"\n\n\"I don't,\" said Tom positively.\n\n\"Well, I think East is right,\" said Arthur; \"I can't see but what it's\nright to do the best you can, though it mayn't be the best absolutely.\nEvery man isn't born to be a martyr.\"\n\n\"Of course, of course,\" said East; \"but he's on one of his pet\nhobbies.--How often have I told you, Tom, that you must drive a nail\nwhere it'll go.\"\n\n\"And how often have I told you,\" rejoined Tom, \"that it'll always go\nwhere you want, if you only stick to it and hit hard enough. I hate\nhalf-measures and compromises.\"\n\n\"Yes, he's a whole-hog man, is Tom. Must have the whole animal-hair and\nteeth, claws and tail,\" laughed East. \"Sooner have no bread any day than\nhalf the loaf.\"\n\n\"I don't know;\" said Arthur--\"it's rather puzzling; but ain't most right\nthings got by proper compromises--I mean where the principle isn't given\nup?\"\n\n\"That's just the point,\" said Tom; \"I don't object to a compromise,\nwhere you don't give up your principle.\"\n\n\"Not you,\" said East laughingly.--\"I know him of old, Arthur, and you'll\nfind him out some day. There isn't such a reasonable fellow in the\nworld, to hear him talk. He never wants anything but what's right\nand fair; only when you come to settle what's right and fair, it's\neverything that he wants, and nothing that you want. And that's his idea\nof a compromise. Give me the Brown compromise when I'm on his side.\"\n\n\"Now, Harry,\" said Tom, \"no more chaff. I'm serious. Look here. This is\nwhat makes my blood tingle.\" And he turned over the pages of his Bible\nand read, \"Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego answered and said to the\nking, O Nebuchadnezzar, we are not careful to answer thee in this\nmatter. If it be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from\nthe burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of thine hand, O\nking. But if not, be it known unto thee, O king, that we will not serve\nthy gods, nor worship the golden image which thou hast set up.\" He read\nthe last verse twice, emphasizing the nots, and dwelling on them as if\nthey gave him actual pleasure, and were hard to part with.\n\nThey were silent a minute, and then Arthur said, \"Yes, that's a glorious\nstory, but it don't prove your point, Tom, I think. There are times when\nthere is only one way, and that the highest, and then the men are found\nto stand in the breach.\"\n\n\"There's always a highest way, and it's always the right one,\" said Tom.\n\"How many times has the Doctor told us that in his sermons in the last\nyear, I should like to know?\"\n\n\"Well, you ain't going to convince us--is he, Arthur? No Brown\ncompromise to-night,\" said East, looking at his watch. \"But it's past\neight, and we must go to first lesson. What a bore!\"\n\nSo they took down their books and fell to work; but Arthur didn't\nforget, and thought long and often over the conversation.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III--ARTHUR MAKES A FRIEND.\n\n     \"Let Nature be your teacher:\n     Sweet is the lore which Nature brings.\n     Our meddling intellect\n     Misshapes the beauteous forms of things.\n     We murder to dissect.\n     Enough of Science and of Art:\n     Close up those barren leaves;\n     Come forth, and bring with you a heart\n     That watches and receives.\"--WORDSWORTH.\n\nAbout six weeks after the beginning of the half, as Tom and Arthur were\nsitting one night before supper beginning their verses, Arthur suddenly\nstopped, and looked up, and said, \"Tom, do you know anything of Martin?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Tom, taking his hand out of his back hair, and delighted to\nthrow his Gradus ad Parnassum on to the sofa; \"I know him pretty well.\nHe's a very good fellow, but as mad as a hatter. He's called Madman, you\nknow. And never was such a fellow for getting all sorts of rum things\nabout him. He tamed two snakes last half, and used to carry them about\nin his pocket; and I'll be bound he's got some hedgehogs and rats in his\ncupboard now, and no one knows what besides.\"\n\n\"I should like very much to know him,\" said Arthur; \"he was next to me\nin the form to-day, and he'd lost his book and looked over mine, and he\nseemed so kind and gentle that I liked him very much.\"\n\n\"Ah, poor old Madman, he's always losing his books,\" said Tom, \"and\ngetting called up and floored because he hasn't got them.\"\n\n\"I like him all the better,\" said Arthur.\n\n\"Well, he's great fun, I can tell you,\" said Tom, throwing himself back\non the sofa, and chuckling at the remembrance. \"We had such a game with\nhim one day last half. He had been kicking up horrid stinks for some\ntime in his study, till I suppose some fellow told Mary, and she told\nthe Doctor. Anyhow, one day a little before dinner, when he came down\nfrom the library, the Doctor, instead of going home, came striding into\nthe hall. East and I and five or six other fellows were at the fire, and\npreciously we stared, for he don't come in like that once a year, unless\nit is a wet day and there's a fight in the hall. 'East,' says he, 'just\ncome and show me Martin's study.' 'Oh, here's a game,' whispered the\nrest of us; and we all cut upstairs after the Doctor, East leading. As\nwe got into the New Row, which was hardly wide enough to hold the Doctor\nand his gown, click, click, click, we heard in the old Madman's den.\nThen that stopped all of a sudden, and the bolts went to like fun. The\nMadman knew East's step, and thought there was going to be a siege.\n\n\"'It's the Doctor, Martin. He's here and wants to see you,' sings out\nEast.\n\n\"Then the bolts went back slowly, and the door opened, and there was\nthe old Madman standing, looking precious scared--his jacket off, his\nshirt-sleeves up to his elbows, and his long skinny arms all covered\nwith anchors and arrows and letters, tattooed in with gunpowder like a\nsailor-boy's, and a stink fit to knock you down coming out. 'Twas\nall the Doctor could do to stand his ground, and East and I, who were\nlooking in under his arms, held our noses tight. The old magpie was\nstanding on the window-sill, all his feathers drooping, and looking\ndisgusted and half-poisoned.\n\n\"'What can you be about, Martin?' says the Doctor. 'You really mustn't\ngo on in this way; you're a nuisance to the whole passage.'\n\n\"'Please, sir, I was only mixing up this powder; there isn't any harm\nin it. And the Madman seized nervously on his pestle and mortar, to\nshow the Doctor the harmlessness of his pursuits, and went on\npounding--click, click, click. He hadn't given six clicks before, puff!\nup went the whole into a great blaze, away went the pestle and mortar\nacross the study, and back we tumbled into the passage. The magpie\nfluttered down into the court, swearing, and the Madman danced out,\nhowling, with his fingers in his mouth. The Doctor caught hold of him,\nand called to us to fetch some water. 'There, you silly fellow,' said\nhe, quite pleased, though, to find he wasn't much hurt, 'you see you\ndon't know the least what you're doing with all these things; and now,\nmind, you must give up practising chemistry by yourself.' Then he took\nhold of his arm and looked at it, and I saw he had to bite his lip, and\nhis eyes twinkled; but he said, quite grave, 'Here, you see, you've been\nmaking all these foolish marks on yourself, which you can never get out,\nand you'll be very sorry for it in a year or two. Now come down to the\nhousekeeper's room, and let us see if you are hurt.' And away went\nthe two, and we all stayed and had a regular turn-out of the den, till\nMartin came back with his hand bandaged and turned us out. However, I'll\ngo and see what he's after, and tell him to come in after prayers to\nsupper.\" And away went Tom to find the boy in question, who dwelt in a\nlittle study by himself, in New Row.\n\nThe aforesaid Martin, whom Arthur had taken such a fancy for, was one of\nthose unfortunates who were at that time of day (and are, I fear, still)\nquite out of their places at a public school. If we knew how to use\nour boys, Martin would have been seized upon and educated as a natural\nphilosopher. He had a passion for birds, beasts, and insects, and knew\nmore of them and their habits than any one in Rugby--except perhaps the\nDoctor, who knew everything. He was also an experimental chemist on a\nsmall scale, and had made unto himself an electric machine, from which\nit was his greatest pleasure and glory to administer small shocks to any\nsmall boys who were rash enough to venture into his study. And this\nwas by no means an adventure free from excitement; for besides the\nprobability of a snake dropping on to your head or twining lovingly up\nyour leg, or a rat getting into your breeches-pocket in search of food,\nthere was the animal and chemical odour to be faced, which always hung\nabout the den, and the chance of being blown up in some of the many\nexperiments which Martin was always trying, with the most wondrous\nresults in the shape of explosions and smells that mortal boy ever heard\nof. Of course, poor Martin, in consequence of his pursuits, had become\nan Ishmaelite in the house. In the first place, he half-poisoned all his\nneighbours, and they in turn were always on the lookout to pounce upon\nany of his numerous live-stock, and drive him frantic by enticing his\npet old magpie out of his window into a neighbouring study, and making\nthe disreputable old bird drunk on toast soaked in beer and sugar. Then\nMartin, for his sins, inhabited a study looking into a small court some\nten feet across, the window of which was completely commanded by those\nof the studies opposite in the Sick-room Row, these latter being at\na slightly higher elevation. East, and another boy of an equally\ntormenting and ingenious turn of mind, now lived exactly opposite, and\nhad expended huge pains and time in the preparation of instruments of\nannoyance for the behoof of Martin and his live colony. One morning\nan old basket made its appearance, suspended by a short cord outside\nMartin's window, in which were deposited an amateur nest containing four\nyoung hungry jackdaws, the pride and glory of Martin's life, for the\ntime being, and which he was currently asserted to have hatched upon\nhis own person. Early in the morning and late at night he was to be\nseen half out of window, administering to the varied wants of his callow\nbrood. After deep cogitation, East and his chum had spliced a knife on\nto the end of a fishing-rod; and having watched Martin out, had, after\nhalf an hour's severe sawing, cut the string by which the basket\nwas suspended, and tumbled it on to the pavement below, with hideous\nremonstrance from the occupants. Poor Martin, returning from his short\nabsence, collected the fragments and replaced his brood (except one\nwhose neck had been broken in the descent) in their old location,\nsuspending them this time by string and wire twisted together, defiant\nof any sharp instrument which his persecutors could command. But, like\nthe Russian engineers at Sebastopol, East and his chum had an answer for\nevery move of the adversary, and the next day had mounted a gun in the\nshape of a pea-shooter upon the ledge of their window, trained so as to\nbear exactly upon the spot which Martin had to occupy while tending his\nnurslings. The moment he began to feed they began to shoot. In vain did\nthe enemy himself invest in a pea-shooter, and endeavour to answer the\nfire while he fed the young birds with his other hand; his attention was\ndivided, and his shots flew wild, while every one of theirs told on his\nface and hands, and drove him into howlings and imprecations. He\nhad been driven to ensconce the nest in a corner of his already\ntoo-well-filled den.\n\nHis door was barricaded by a set of ingenious bolts of his own\ninvention, for the sieges were frequent by the neighbours when any\nunusually ambrosial odour spread itself from the den to the neighbouring\nstudies. The door panels were in a normal state of smash, but the frame\nof the door resisted all besiegers, and behind it the owner carried on\nhis varied pursuits--much in the same state of mind, I should fancy,\nas a border-farmer lived in, in the days of the moss-troopers, when his\nhold might be summoned or his cattle carried off at any minute of night\nor day.\n\n\"Open, Martin, old boy; it's only I, Tom Brown.\"\n\n\"Oh, very well; stop a moment.\" One bolt went back. \"You're sure East\nisn't there?\"\n\n\"No, no; hang it, open.\" Tom gave a kick, the other bolt creaked, and he\nentered the den.\n\nDen indeed it was--about five feet six inches long by five wide, and\nseven feet high. About six tattered school-books, and a few chemical\nbooks, Taxidermy, Stanley on Birds, and an odd volume of Bewick, the\nlatter in much better preservation, occupied the top shelves. The other\nshelves, where they had not been cut away and used by the owner for\nother purposes, were fitted up for the abiding-places of birds, beasts,\nand reptiles. There was no attempt at carpet or curtain. The table was\nentirely occupied by the great work of Martin, the electric machine,\nwhich was covered carefully with the remains of his table-cloth. The\njackdaw cage occupied one wall; and the other was adorned by a small\nhatchet, a pair of climbing irons, and his tin candle-box, in which he\nwas for the time being endeavouring to raise a hopeful young family of\nfield-mice. As nothing should be let to lie useless, it was well that\nthe candle-box was thus occupied, for candles Martin never had. A pound\nwas issued to him weekly, as to the other boys; but as candles were\navailable capital, and easily exchangeable for birds' eggs or young\nbirds, Martin's pound invariably found its way in a few hours to\nHowlett's the bird-fancier's, in the Bilton road, who would give a\nhawk's or nightingale's egg or young linnet in exchange. Martin's\ningenuity was therefore for ever on the rack to supply himself with\na light. Just now he had hit upon a grand invention, and the den was\nlighted by a flaring cotton wick issuing from a ginger-beer bottle full\nof some doleful composition. When light altogether failed him, Martin\nwould loaf about by the fires in the passages or hall, after the manner\nof Diggs, and try to do his verses or learn his lines by the firelight.\n\n\"Well, old boy, you haven't got any sweeter in the den this half. How\nthat stuff in the bottle stinks! Never mind; I ain't going to stop; but\nyou come up after prayers to our study. You know young Arthur. We've got\nGray's study. We'll have a good supper and talk about bird-nesting.\"\n\nMartin was evidently highly pleased at the invitation, and promised to\nbe up without fail.\n\nAs soon as prayers were over, and the sixth and fifth form boys had\nwithdrawn to the aristocratic seclusion of their own room, and the rest,\nor democracy, had sat down to their supper in the hall, Tom and Arthur,\nhaving secured their allowances of bread and cheese, started on their\nfeet to catch the eye of the prepostor of the week, who remained in\ncharge during supper, walking up and down the hall. He happened to be an\neasy-going fellow, so they got a pleasant nod to their \"Please may I go\nout?\" and away they scrambled to prepare for Martin a sumptuous banquet.\nThis Tom had insisted on, for he was in great delight on the occasion,\nthe reason of which delight must be expounded. The fact was that this\nwas the first attempt at a friendship of his own which Arthur had made,\nand Tom hailed it as a grand step. The ease with which he himself became\nhail-fellow-well-met with anybody, and blundered into and out of twenty\nfriendships a half-year, made him sometimes sorry and sometimes angry at\nArthur's reserve and loneliness. True, Arthur was always pleasant, and\neven jolly, with any boys who came with Tom to their study; but Tom felt\nthat it was only through him, as it were, that his chum associated\nwith others, and that but for him Arthur would have been dwelling in\na wilderness. This increased his consciousness of responsibility;\nand though he hadn't reasoned it out and made it clear to himself yet\nsomehow he knew that this responsibility, this trust which he had taken\non him without thinking about it, head over heels in fact, was the\ncentre and turning-point of his school-life, that which was to make him\nor mar him, his appointed work and trial for the time being. And Tom\nwas becoming a new boy, though with frequent tumbles in the dirt and\nperpetual hard battle with himself, and was daily growing in manfulness\nand thoughtfulness, as every high-couraged and well-principled boy must,\nwhen he finds himself for the first time consciously at grips with self\nand the devil. Already he could turn almost without a sigh from the\nSchool-gates, from which had just scampered off East and three or four\nothers of his own particular set, bound for some jolly lark not quite\naccording to law, and involving probably a row with louts, keepers,\nor farm-labourers, the skipping dinner or calling-over, some of Phoebe\nJennings's beer, and a very possible flogging at the end of all as a\nrelish. He had quite got over the stage in which he would grumble to\nhimself--\"Well, hang it, it's very hard of the Doctor to have saddled me\nwith Arthur. Why couldn't he have chummed him with Fogey, or Thomkin, or\nany of the fellows who never do anything but walk round the close, and\nfinish their copies the first day they're set?\" But although all this\nwas past, he longed, and felt that he was right in longing, for more\ntime for the legitimate pastimes of cricket, fives, bathing, and\nfishing, within bounds, in which Arthur could not yet be his companion;\nand he felt that when the \"young un\" (as he now generally called him)\nhad found a pursuit and some other friend for himself, he should be\nable to give more time to the education of his own body with a clear\nconscience.\n\nAnd now what he so wished for had come to pass; he almost hailed it as\na special providence (as indeed it was, but not for the reasons he\ngave for it--what providences are?) that Arthur should have singled out\nMartin of all fellows for a friend. \"The old Madman is the very fellow,\"\nthought he; \"he will take him scrambling over half the country after\nbirds' eggs and flowers, make him run and swim and climb like an Indian,\nand not teach him a word of anything bad, or keep him from his lessons.\nWhat luck!\" And so, with more than his usual heartiness, he dived into\nhis cupboard, and hauled out an old knuckle-bone of ham, and two or\nthree bottles of beer, together with the solemn pewter only used on\nstate occasions; while Arthur, equally elated at the easy accomplishment\nof his first act of volition in the joint establishment, produced from\nhis side a bottle of pickles and a pot of jam, and cleared the table. In\na minute or two the noise of the boys coming up from supper was heard,\nand Martin knocked and was admitted, bearing his bread and cheese; and\nthe three fell to with hearty good-will upon the viands, talking faster\nthan they ate, for all shyness disappeared in a moment before Tom's\nbottled-beer and hospitable ways. \"Here's Arthur, a regular young\ntown-mouse, with a natural taste for the woods, Martin, longing to break\nhis neck climbing trees, and with a passion for young snakes.\"\n\n\"Well, I say,\" sputtered out Martin eagerly, \"will you come to-morrow,\nboth of you, to Caldecott's Spinney then? for I know of a kestrel's\nnest, up a fir-tree. I can't get at it without help; and, Brown, you can\nclimb against any one.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, do let us go,\" said Arthur; \"I never saw a hawk's nest nor a\nhawk's egg.\"\n\n\"You just come down to my study, then, and I'll show you five sorts,\"\nsaid Martin.\n\n\"Ay, the old Madman has got the best collection in the house, out and\nout,\" said Tom; and then Martin, warming with unaccustomed good cheer\nand the chance of a convert, launched out into a proposed bird-nesting\ncampaign, betraying all manner of important secrets--a golden-crested\nwren's nest near Butlin's Mound, a moor-hen who was sitting on nine eggs\nin a pond down the Barby road, and a kingfisher's nest in a corner of\nthe old canal above Brownsover Mill. He had heard, he said, that no\none had ever got a kingfisher's nest out perfect, and that the British\nMuseum, or the Government, or somebody, had offered 100 pounds to any\none who could bring them a nest and eggs not damaged. In the middle of\nwhich astounding announcement, to which the others were listening with\nopen ears, and already considering the application of the 100 pounds, a\nknock came to the door, and East's voice was heard craving admittance.\n\n\"There's Harry,\" said Tom; \"we'll let him in. I'll keep him steady,\nMartin. I thought the old boy would smell out the supper.\"\n\nThe fact was, that Tom's heart had already smitten him for not asking\nhis fidus Achates to the feast, although only an extempore affair; and\nthough prudence and the desire to get Martin and Arthur together alone\nat first had overcome his scruples, he was now heartily glad to open the\ndoor, broach another bottle of beer, and hand over the old ham-knuckle\nto the searching of his old friend's pocket-knife.\n\n\"Ah, you greedy vagabonds,\" said East, with his mouth full, \"I knew\nthere was something going on when I saw you cut off out of hall so\nquick with your suppers. What a stunning tap, Tom! You are a wunner for\nbottling the swipes.\"\n\n\"I've had practice enough for the sixth in my time, and it's hard if I\nhaven't picked up a wrinkle or two for my own benefit.\"\n\n\"Well, old Madman, and how goes the bird-nesting campaign? How's\nHowlett? I expect the young rooks'll be out in another fortnight, and\nthen my turn comes.\"\n\n\"There'll be no young rooks fit for pies for a month yet; shows how much\nyou know about it,\" rejoined Martin, who, though very good friends with\nEast, regarded him with considerable suspicion for his propensity to\npractical jokes.\n\n\"Scud knows nothing and cares for nothing but grub and mischief,\" said\nTom; \"but young rook pie, specially when you've had to climb for them,\nis very pretty eating.--However, I say, Scud, we're all going after a\nhawk's nest to-morrow, in Caldecott's Spinney; and if you'll come and\nbehave yourself, we'll have a stunning climb.\"\n\n\"And a bathe in Aganippe. Hooray! I'm your man.\"\n\n\"No, no; no bathing in Aganippe; that's where our betters go.\"\n\n\"Well, well, never mind. I'm for the hawk's nest, and anything that\nturns up.\"\n\nAnd the bottled-beer being finished, and his hunger appeased, East\ndeparted to his study, \"that sneak Jones,\" as he informed them, who had\njust got into the sixth, and occupied the next study, having instituted\na nightly visitation upon East and his chum, to their no small\ndiscomfort.\n\nWhen he was gone Martin rose to follow, but Tom stopped him. \"No one\ngoes near New Row,\" said he, \"so you may just as well stop here and do\nyour verses, and then we'll have some more talk. We'll be no end quiet.\nBesides, no prepostor comes here now. We haven't been visited once this\nhalf.\"\n\nSo the table was cleared, the cloth restored, and the three fell to work\nwith Gradus and dictionary upon the morning's vulgus.\n\nThey were three very fair examples of the way in which such tasks were\ndone at Rugby, in the consulship of Plancus. And doubtless the method\nis little changed, for there is nothing new under the sun, especially at\nschools.\n\nNow be it known unto all you boys who are at schools which do not\nrejoice in the time-honoured institution of the vulgus (commonly\nsupposed to have been established by William of Wykeham at Winchester,\nand imported to Rugby by Arnold more for the sake of the lines which\nwere learnt by heart with it than for its own intrinsic value, as I've\nalways understood), that it is a short exercise in Greek or Latin verse,\non a given subject, the minimum number of lines being fixed for each\nform.\n\nThe master of the form gave out at fourth lesson on the previous day the\nsubject for next morning's vulgus, and at first lesson each boy had to\nbring his vulgus ready to be looked over; and with the vulgus, a\ncertain number of lines from one of the Latin or Greek poets then being\nconstrued in the form had to be got by heart. The master at first lesson\ncalled up each boy in the form in order, and put him on in the lines.\nIf he couldn't say them, or seem to say them, by reading them off the\nmaster's or some other boy's book who stood near, he was sent back,\nand went below all the boys who did so say or seem to say them; but\nin either case his vulgus was looked over by the master, who gave and\nentered in his book, to the credit or discredit of the boy, so many\nmarks as the composition merited. At Rugby vulgus and lines were the\nfirst lesson every other day in the week, on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and\nSaturdays; and as there were thirty-eight weeks in the school year, it\nis obvious to the meanest capacity that the master of each form had\nto set one hundred and fourteen subjects every year, two hundred and\ntwenty-eight every two years, and so on. Now, to persons of moderate\ninvention this was a considerable task, and human nature being prone to\nrepeat itself, it will not be wondered that the masters gave the same\nsubjects sometimes over again after a certain lapse of time. To meet\nand rebuke this bad habit of the masters, the schoolboy mind, with its\naccustomed ingenuity, had invented an elaborate system of tradition.\nAlmost every boy kept his own vulgus written out in a book, and these\nbooks were duly handed down from boy to boy, till (if the tradition has\ngone on till now) I suppose the popular boys, in whose hands bequeathed\nvulgus-books have accumulated, are prepared with three or four vulguses\non any subject in heaven or earth, or in \"more worlds than one,\" which\nan unfortunate master can pitch upon. At any rate, such lucky fellows\nhad generally one for themselves and one for a friend in my time. The\nonly objection to the traditionary method of doing your vulguses was the\nrisk that the successions might have become confused, and so that you\nand another follower of traditions should show up the same identical\nvulgus some fine morning; in which case, when it happened, considerable\ngrief was the result. But when did such risk hinder boys or men from\nshort cuts and pleasant paths?\n\nNow in the study that night Tom was the upholder of the traditionary\nmethod of vulgus doing. He carefully produced two large vulgus-books,\nand began diving into them, and picking out a line here, and an ending\nthere (tags, as they were vulgarly called), till he had gotten all\nthat he thought he could make fit. He then proceeded to patch his tags\ntogether with the help of his Gradus, producing an incongruous and\nfeeble result of eight elegiac lines, the minimum quantity for his form,\nand finishing up with two highly moral lines extra, making ten in\nall, which he cribbed entire from one of his books, beginning \"O genus\nhumanum,\" and which he himself must have used a dozen times before,\nwhenever an unfortunate or wicked hero, of whatever nation or language\nunder the sun, was the subject. Indeed he began to have great doubts\nwhether the master wouldn't remember them, and so only throw them in as\nextra lines, because in any case they would call off attention from the\nother tags, and if detected, being extra lines, he wouldn't be sent back\nto do more in their place, while if they passed muster again he would\nget marks for them.\n\nThe second method, pursued by Martin, may be called the dogged or\nprosaic method. He, no more than Tom, took any pleasure in the task,\nbut having no old vulgus-books of his own, or any one's else, could\nnot follow the traditionary method, for which too, as Tom remarked, he\nhadn't the genius. Martin then proceeded to write down eight lines in\nEnglish, of the most matter-of-fact kind, the first that came into his\nhead; and to convert these, line by line, by main force of Gradus and\ndictionary into Latin that would scan. This was all he cared for--to\nproduce eight lines with no false quantities or concords: whether the\nwords were apt, or what the sense was, mattered nothing; and as the\narticle was all new, not a line beyond the minimum did the followers of\nthe dogged method ever produce.\n\nThe third, or artistic method, was Arthur's. He considered first what\npoint in the character or event which was the subject could most neatly\nbe brought out within the limits of a vulgus, trying always to get his\nidea into the eight lines, but not binding himself to ten or even twelve\nlines if he couldn't do this. He then set to work as much as possible\nwithout Gradus or other help, to clothe his idea in appropriate Latin or\nGreek, and would not be satisfied till he had polished it well up with\nthe aptest and most poetic words and phrases he could get at.\n\nA fourth method, indeed, was used in the school, but of too simple\na kind to require a comment. It may be called the vicarious method,\nobtained amongst big boys of lazy or bullying habits, and consisted\nsimply in making clever boys whom they could thrash do their whole\nvulgus for them, and construe it to them afterwards; which latter is a\nmethod not to be encouraged, and which I strongly advise you all not\nto practise. Of the others, you will find the traditionary most\ntroublesome, unless you can steal your vulguses whole (experto crede),\nand that the artistic method pays the best both in marks and other ways.\n\nThe vulguses being finished by nine o'clock, and Martin having rejoiced\nabove measure in the abundance of light, and of Gradus and dictionary,\nand other conveniences almost unknown to him for getting through the\nwork, and having been pressed by Arthur to come and do his verses there\nwhenever he liked, the three boys went down to Martin's den, and Arthur\nwas initiated into the lore of birds' eggs, to his great delight.\nThe exquisite colouring and forms astonished and charmed him, who had\nscarcely ever seen any but a hen's egg or an ostrich's, and by the time\nhe was lugged away to bed he had learned the names of at least twenty\nsorts, and dreamed of the glorious perils of tree-climbing, and that he\nhad found a roc's egg in the island as big as Sinbad's, and clouded like\na tit-lark's, in blowing which Martin and he had nearly been drowned in\nthe yolk.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV--THE BIRD-FANCIERS.\n\n     \"I have found out a gift for my fair--\n     I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;\n     But let me the plunder forbear,\n     She would say 'twas a barbarous deed.\"--ROWE.\n\n     \"And now, my lad, take them five shilling,\n     And on my advice in future think;\n     So Billy pouched them all so willing,\n     And got that night disguised in drink.\"--MS. Ballad.\n\nThe next morning, at first lesson, Tom was turned back in his lines,\nand so had to wait till the second round; while Martin and Arthur said\ntheirs all right, and got out of school at once. When Tom got out and\nran down to breakfast at Harrowell's they were missing, and Stumps\ninformed him that they had swallowed down their breakfasts and gone off\ntogether--where, he couldn't say. Tom hurried over his own breakfast,\nand went first to Martin's study and then to his own; but no signs of\nthe missing boys were to be found. He felt half angry and jealous of\nMartin. Where could they be gone?\n\nHe learnt second lesson with East and the rest in no very good temper,\nand then went out into the quadrangle. About ten minutes before school\nMartin and Arthur arrived in the quadrangle breathless; and catching\nsight of him, Arthur rushed up, all excitement, and with a bright glow\non his face.\n\n\"O Tom, look here!\" cried he, holding out three moor-hen's eggs; \"we've\nbeen down the Barby road, to the pool Martin told us of last night, and\njust see what we've got.\"\n\nTom wouldn't be pleased, and only looked out for something to find fault\nwith.\n\n\"Why, young un,\" said he, \"what have you been after? You don't mean to\nsay you've been wading?\"\n\nThe tone of reproach made poor little Arthur shrink up in a moment and\nlook piteous; and Tom with a shrug of his shoulders turned his anger on\nMartin.\n\n\"Well, I didn't think, Madman, that you'd have been such a muff as to\nlet him be getting wet through at this time of day. You might have done\nthe wading yourself.\"\n\n\"So I did, of course; only he would come in too, to see the nest. We\nleft six eggs in. They'll be hatched in a day or two.\"\n\n\"Hang the eggs!\" said Tom; \"a fellow can't turn his back for a moment\nbut all his work's undone. He'll be laid up for a week for this precious\nlark, I'll be bound.\"\n\n\"Indeed, Tom, now,\" pleaded Arthur, \"my feet ain't wet, for Martin made\nme take off my shoes and stockings and trousers.\"\n\n\"But they are wet, and dirty too; can't I see?\" answered Tom; \"and\nyou'll be called up and floored when the master sees what a state you're\nin. You haven't looked at second lesson, you know.\"\n\nO Tom, you old humbug! you to be upbraiding any one with not learning\ntheir lessons! If you hadn't been floored yourself now at first lesson,\ndo you mean to say you wouldn't have been with them? And you've taken\naway all poor little Arthur's joy and pride in his first birds' eggs,\nand he goes and puts them down in the study, and takes down his books\nwith a sigh, thinking he has done something horribly wrong, whereas he\nhas learnt on in advance much more than will be done at second lesson.\n\nBut the old Madman hasn't, and gets called up, and makes some frightful\nshots, losing about ten places, and all but getting floored. This\nsomewhat appeases Tom's wrath, and by the end of the lesson he has\nregained his temper. And afterwards in their study he begins to get\nright again, as he watches Arthur's intense joy at seeing Martin blowing\nthe eggs and gluing them carefully on to bits of cardboard, and notes\nthe anxious, loving looks which the little fellow casts sidelong at him.\nAnd then he thinks, \"What an ill-tempered beast I am! Here's just what I\nwas wishing for last night come about, and I'm spoiling it all,\" and in\nanother five minutes has swallowed the last mouthful of his bile, and is\nrepaid by seeing his little sensitive plant expand again and sun itself\nin his smiles.\n\nAfter dinner the Madman is busy with the preparations for their\nexpedition, fitting new straps on to his climbing-irons, filling large\npill-boxes with cotton-wool, and sharpening East's small axe. They carry\nall their munitions into calling-overs and directly afterwards, having\ndodged such prepostors as are on the lookout for fags at cricket, the\nfour set off at a smart trot down the Lawford footpath, straight for\nCaldecott's Spinney and the hawk's nest.\n\nMartin leads the way in high feather; it is quite a new sensation to\nhim, getting companions, and he finds it very pleasant, and means to\nshow them all manner of proofs of his science and skill. Brown and East\nmay be better at cricket and football and games, thinks he, but out in\nthe fields and woods see if I can't teach them something. He has\ntaken the leadership already, and strides away in front with his\nclimbing-irons strapped under one arm, his pecking-bag under the other,\nand his pockets and hat full of pill-boxes, cotton-wool, and other\netceteras. Each of the others carries a pecking-bag, and East his\nhatchet.\n\nWhen they had crossed three or four fields without a check, Arthur began\nto lag; and Tom seeing this shouted to Martin to pull up a bit. \"We\nain't out hare-and-hounds. What's the good of grinding on at this rate?\"\n\n\"There's the Spinney,\" said Martin, pulling up on the brow of a slope\nat the bottom of which lay Lawford brook, and pointing to the top of the\nopposite slope; \"the nest is in one of those high fir-trees at this end.\nAnd down by the brook there I know of a sedge-bird's nest. We'll go and\nlook at it coming back.\"\n\n\"Oh, come on, don't let us stop,\" said Arthur, who was getting excited\nat the sight of the wood. So they broke into a trot again, and were soon\nacross the brook, up the slope, and into the Spinney. Here they advanced\nas noiselessly as possible, lest keepers or other enemies should be\nabout, and stopped at the foot of a tall fir, at the top of which Martin\npointed out with pride the kestrel's nest, the object of their quest.\n\n\"Oh, where? which is it?\" asks Arthur, gaping up in the air, and having\nthe most vague idea of what it would be like.\n\n\"There, don't you see?\" said East, pointing to a lump of mistletoe in\nthe next tree, which was a beech. He saw that Martin and Tom were busy\nwith the climbing-irons, and couldn't resist the temptation of hoaxing.\nArthur stared and wondered more than ever.\n\n\"Well, how curious! It doesn't look a bit like what I expected,\" said\nhe.\n\n\"Very odd birds, kestrels,\" said East, looking waggishly at his victim,\nwho was still star-gazing.\n\n\"But I thought it was in a fir-tree?\" objected Arthur.\n\n\"Ah, don't you know? That's a new sort of fir which old Caldecott\nbrought from the Himalayas.\"\n\n\"Really!\" said Arthur; \"I'm glad I know that. How unlike our firs they\nare! They do very well too here, don't they? The Spinney's full of\nthem.\"\n\n\"What's that humbug he's telling you?\" cried Tom, looking up, having\ncaught the word Himalayas, and suspecting what East was after.\n\n\"Only about this fir,\" said Arthur, putting his hand on the stem of the\nbeech.\n\n\"Fir!\" shouted Tom; \"why, you don't mean to say, young un, you don't\nknow a beech when you see one?\"\n\nPoor little Arthur looked terribly ashamed, and East exploded in\nlaughter which made the wood ring.\n\n\"I've hardly ever seen any trees,\" faltered Arthur.\n\n\"What a shame to hoax him, Scud!\" cried Martin.--\"Never mind, Arthur;\nyou shall know more about trees than he does in a week or two.\"\n\n\"And isn't that the kestrel's nest, then?\" asked Arthur. \"That! Why,\nthat's a piece of mistletoe. There's the nest, that lump of sticks up\nthis fir.\"\n\n\"Don't believe him, Arthur,\" struck in the incorrigible East; \"I just\nsaw an old magpie go out of it.\"\n\nMartin did not deign to reply to this sally, except by a grunt, as\nhe buckled the last buckle of his climbing-irons, and Arthur looked\nreproachfully at East without speaking.\n\nBut now came the tug of war. It was a very difficult tree to climb until\nthe branches were reached, the first of which was some fourteen feet\nup, for the trunk was too large at the bottom to be swarmed; in fact,\nneither of the boys could reach more than half round it with their arms.\nMartin and Tom, both of whom had irons on, tried it without success at\nfirst; the fir bark broke away where they stuck the irons in as soon as\nthey leant any weight on their feet, and the grip of their arms wasn't\nenough to keep them up; so, after getting up three or four feet, down\nthey came slithering to the ground, barking their arms and faces. They\nwere furious, and East sat by laughing and shouting at each failure,\n\"Two to one on the old magpie!\"\n\n\"We must try a pyramid,\" said Tom at last. \"Now, Scud, you lazy rascal,\nstick yourself against the tree!\"\n\n\"I dare say! and have you standing on my shoulders with the irons on.\nWhat do you think my skin's made of?\" However, up he got, and leant\nagainst the tree, putting his head down and clasping it with his arms as\nfar as he could.\n\n\"Now then, Madman,\" said Tom, \"you next.\"\n\n\"No, I'm lighter than you; you go next.\" So Tom got on East's shoulders,\nand grasped the tree above, and then Martin scrambled up on to Tom's\nshoulders, amidst the totterings and groanings of the pyramid, and, with\na spring which sent his supporters howling to the ground, clasped the\nstem some ten feet up, and remained clinging. For a moment or two they\nthought he couldn't get up; but then, holding on with arms and teeth, he\nworked first one iron then the other firmly into the bark, got another\ngrip with his arms, and in another minute had hold of the lowest branch.\n\n\"All up with the old magpie now,\" said East; and after a minute's\nrest, up went Martin, hand over hand, watched by Arthur with fearful\neagerness.\n\n\"Isn't it very dangerous?\" said he.\n\n\"Not a bit,\" answered Tom; \"you can't hurt if you only get good\nhand-hold. Try every branch with a good pull before you trust it, and\nthen up you go.\"\n\nMartin was now amongst the small branches close to the nest, and\naway dashed the old bird, and soared up above the trees, watching the\nintruder.\n\n\"All right--four eggs!\" shouted he.\n\n\"Take 'em all!\" shouted East; \"that'll be one a-piece.\"\n\n\"No, no; leave one, and then she won't care,\" said Tom.\n\nWe boys had an idea that birds couldn't count, and were quite content as\nlong as you left one egg. I hope it is so.\n\nMartin carefully put one egg into each of his boxes and the third\ninto his mouth, the only other place of safety, and came down like a\nlamplighter. All went well till he was within ten feet of the ground,\nwhen, as the trunk enlarged, his hold got less and less firm, and at\nlast down he came with a run, tumbling on to his back on the turf,\nspluttering and spitting out the remains of the great egg, which had\nbroken by the jar of his fall.\n\n\"Ugh, ugh! something to drink--ugh! it was addled,\" spluttered he, while\nthe wood rang again with the merry laughter of East and Tom.\n\nThen they examined the prizes, gathered up their things, and went off to\nthe brook, where Martin swallowed huge draughts of water to get rid\nof the taste; and they visited the sedge-bird's nest, and from thence\nstruck across the country in high glee, beating the hedges and brakes as\nthey went along; and Arthur at last, to his intense delight, was allowed\nto climb a small hedgerow oak for a magpie's nest with Tom, who kept all\nround him like a mother, and showed him where to hold and how to throw\nhis weight; and though he was in a great fright, didn't show it, and was\napplauded by all for his lissomness.\n\nThey crossed a road soon afterwards, and there, close to them, lay a\ngreat heap of charming pebbles.\n\n\"Look here,\" shouted East; \"here's luck! I've been longing for some\ngood, honest pecking this half-hour. Let's fill the bags, and have no\nmore of this foozling bird-nesting.\"\n\nNo one objected, so each boy filled the fustian bag he carried full of\nstones. They crossed into the next field, Tom and East taking one side\nof the hedges, and the other two the other side. Noise enough they made\ncertainly, but it was too early in the season for the young birds, and\nthe old birds were too strong on the wing for our young marksmen,\nand flew out of shot after the first discharge. But it was great fun,\nrushing along the hedgerows, and discharging stone after stone at\nblackbirds and chaffinches, though no result in the shape of slaughtered\nbirds was obtained; and Arthur soon entered into it, and rushed to head\nback the birds, and shouted, and threw, and tumbled into ditches, and\nover and through hedges, as wild as the Madman himself.\n\nPresently the party, in full cry after an old blackbird (who was\nevidently used to the thing and enjoyed the fun, for he would wait till\nthey came close to him, and then fly on for forty yards or so, and, with\nan impudent flicker of his tail, dart into the depths of the quickset),\ncame beating down a high double hedge, two on each side.\n\n\"There he is again,\" \"Head him,\" \"Let drive,\" \"I had him there,\" \"Take\ncare where you're throwing, Madman.\" The shouts might have been heard a\nquarter of a mile off. They were heard some two hundred yards off by a\nfarmer and two of his shepherds, who were doctoring sheep in a fold in\nthe next field.\n\nNow, the farmer in question rented a house and yard situate at the end\nof the field in which the young bird-fanciers had arrived, which house\nand yard he didn't occupy or keep any one else in. Nevertheless, like\na brainless and unreasoning Briton, he persisted in maintaining on the\npremises a large stock of cocks, hens, and other poultry. Of course,\nall sorts of depredators visited the place from time to time: foxes and\ngipsies wrought havoc in the night; while in the daytime, I regret\nto have to confess that visits from the Rugby boys, and consequent\ndisappearances of ancient and respectable fowls were not unfrequent.\nTom and East had during the period of their outlawry visited the farm in\nquestion for felonious purposes, and on one occasion had conquered and\nslain a duck there, and borne away the carcass triumphantly, hidden in\ntheir handkerchiefs. However, they were sickened of the practice by the\ntrouble and anxiety which the wretched duck's body caused them. They\ncarried it to Sally Harrowell's, in hopes of a good supper; but she,\nafter examining it, made a long face, and refused to dress or have\nanything to do with it. Then they took it into their study, and began\nplucking it themselves; but what to do with the feathers, where to hide\nthem?\n\n\"Good gracious, Tom, what a lot of feathers a duck has!\" groaned East,\nholding a bagful in his hand, and looking disconsolately at the carcass,\nnot yet half plucked.\n\n\"And I do think he's getting high, too, already,\" said Tom, smelling at\nhim cautiously, \"so we must finish him up soon.\"\n\n\"Yes, all very well; but how are we to cook him? I'm sure I ain't going\nto try it on in the hall or passages; we can't afford to be roasting\nducks about--our character's too bad.\"\n\n\"I wish we were rid of the brute,\" said Tom, throwing him on the table\nin disgust. And after a day or two more it became clear that got rid of\nhe must be; so they packed him and sealed him up in brown paper, and put\nhim in the cupboard of an unoccupied study, where he was found in the\nholidays by the matron, a gruesome body.\n\nThey had never been duck-hunting there since, but others had, and the\nbold yeoman was very sore on the subject, and bent on making an example\nof the first boys he could catch. So he and his shepherds crouched\nbehind the hurdles, and watched the party, who were approaching all\nunconscious. Why should that old guinea-fowl be lying out in the\nhedge just at this particular moment of all the year? Who can say?\nGuinea-fowls always are; so are all other things, animals, and persons,\nrequisite for getting one into scrapes--always ready when any mischief\ncan come of them. At any rate, just under East's nose popped out the old\nguinea-hen, scuttling along and shrieking, \"Come back, come back,\"\nat the top of her voice. Either of the other three might perhaps have\nwithstood the temptation, but East first lets drive the stone he has in\nhis hand at her, and then rushes to turn her into the hedge again. He\nsucceeds, and then they are all at it for dear life, up and down the\nhedge in full cry, the \"Come back, come back,\" getting shriller and\nfainter every minute.\n\nMeantime, the farmer and his men steal over the hurdles and creep down\nthe hedge towards the scene of action. They are almost within a stone's\nthrow of Martin, who is pressing the unlucky chase hard, when Tom\ncatches sight of them, and sings out, \"Louts, 'ware louts, your side!\nMadman, look ahead!\" and then catching hold of Arthur, hurries him away\nacross the field towards Rugby as hard as they can tear. Had he been by\nhimself, he would have stayed to see it out with the others, but now\nhis heart sinks and all his pluck goes. The idea of being led up to the\nDoctor with Arthur for bagging fowls quite unmans and takes half the run\nout of him.\n\nHowever, no boys are more able to take care of themselves than East and\nMartin; they dodge the pursuers, slip through a gap, and come pelting\nafter Tom and Arthur, whom they catch up in no time. The farmer and his\nmen are making good running about a field behind. Tom wishes to himself\nthat they had made off in any other direction, but now they are all in\nfor it together, and must see it out.\n\n\"You won't leave the young un, will you?\" says he, as they haul poor\nlittle Arthur, already losing wind from the fright, through the next\nhedge. \"Not we,\" is the answer from both. The next hedge is a stiff\none; the pursuers gain horribly on them, and they only just pull Arthur\nthrough, with two great rents in his trousers, as the foremost shepherd\ncomes up on the other side. As they start into the next field, they are\naware of two figures walking down the footpath in the middle of it, and\nrecognize Holmes and Diggs taking a constitutional. Those good-natured\nfellows immediately shout, \"On.\" \"Let's go to them and surrender,\"\npants Tom. Agreed. And in another minute the four boys, to the great\nastonishment of those worthies, rush breathless up to Holmes and Diggs,\nwho pull up to see what is the matter; and then the whole is explained\nby the appearance of the farmer and his men, who unite their forces and\nbear down on the knot of boys.\n\nThere is no time to explain, and Tom's heart beats frightfully quick, as\nhe ponders, \"Will they stand by us?\"\n\nThe farmer makes a rush at East and collars him; and that young\ngentleman, with unusual discretion, instead of kicking his shins, looks\nappealingly at Holmes, and stands still.\n\n\"Hullo there; not so fast,\" says Holmes, who is bound to stand up for\nthem till they are proved in the wrong. \"Now what's all this about?\"\n\n\"I've got the young varmint at last, have I,\" pants the farmer; \"why,\nthey've been a-skulking about my yard and stealing my fowls--that's\nwhere 'tis; and if I doan't have they flogged for it, every one on 'em,\nmy name ain't Thompson.\"\n\nHolmes looks grave and Diggs's face falls. They are quite ready to\nfight--no boys in the school more so; but they are prepostors, and\nunderstand their office, and can't uphold unrighteous causes.\n\n\"I haven't been near his old barn this half,\" cries East. \"Nor I,\" \"Nor\nI,\" chime in Tom and Martin.\n\n\"Now, Willum, didn't you see 'em there last week?\"\n\n\"Ees, I seen 'em sure enough,\" says Willum, grasping a prong he carried,\nand preparing for action.\n\nThe boys deny stoutly, and Willum is driven to admit that \"if it worn't\nthey 'twas chaps as like 'em as two peas'n;\" and \"leastways he'll swear\nhe see'd them two in the yard last Martinmas,\" indicating East and Tom.\n\nHolmes has had time to meditate. \"Now, sir,\" says he to Willum, \"you see\nyou can't remember what you have seen, and I believe the boys.\"\n\n\"I doan't care,\" blusters the farmer; \"they was arter my fowls\nto-day--that's enough for I.--Willum, you catch hold o' t'other chap.\nThey've been a-sneaking about this two hours, I tells 'ee,\" shouted he,\nas Holmes stands between Martin and Willum, \"and have druv a matter of a\ndozen young pullets pretty nigh to death.\"\n\n\"Oh, there's a whacker!\" cried East; \"we haven't been within a hundred\nyards of his barn; we haven't been up here above ten minutes, and we've\nseen nothing but a tough old guinea-hen, who ran like a greyhound.\"\n\n\"Indeed, that's all true, Holmes, upon my honour,\" added Tom; \"we\nweren't after his fowls; guinea-hen ran out of the hedge under our feet,\nand we've seen nothing else.\"\n\n\"Drat their talk. Thee catch hold o' t'other, Willum, and come along wi'\nun.\"\n\n\"Farmer Thompson,\" said Holmes, warning off Willum and the prong with\nhis stick, while Diggs faced the other shepherd, cracking his fingers\nlike pistol-shots, \"now listen to reason. The boys haven't been after\nyour fowls, that's plain.\"\n\n\"Tells 'ee I see'd'em. Who be you, I should like to know?\"\n\n\"Never you mind, farmer,\" answered Holmes. \"And now I'll just tell you\nwhat it is: you ought to be ashamed of yourself for leaving all that\npoultry about, with no one to watch it, so near the School. You deserve\nto have it all stolen. So if you choose to come up to the Doctor with\nthem, I shall go with you, and tell him what I think of it.\"\n\nThe farmer began to take Holmes for a master; besides, he wanted to get\nback to his flock. Corporal punishment was out of the question, the odds\nwere too great; so he began to hint at paying for the damage. Arthur\njumped at this, offering to pay anything, and the farmer immediately\nvalued the guinea-hen at half a sovereign.\n\n\"Half a sovereign!\" cried East, now released from the farmer's grip;\n\"well, that is a good one! The old hen ain't hurt a bit, and she's seven\nyears old, I know, and as tough as whipcord; she couldn't lay another\negg to save her life.\"\n\nIt was at last settled that they should pay the farmer two shillings,\nand his man one shilling; and so the matter ended, to the unspeakable\nrelief of Tom, who hadn't been able to say a word, being sick at heart\nat the idea of what the Doctor would think of him; and now the whole\nparty of boys marched off down the footpath towards Rugby. Holmes, who\nwas one of the best boys in the School, began to improve the occasion.\n\"Now, you youngsters,\" said he, as he marched along in the middle of\nthem, \"mind this; you're very well out of this scrape. Don't you go near\nThompson's barn again; do you hear?\"\n\nProfuse promises from all, especially East.\n\n\"Mind, I don't ask questions,\" went on Mentor, \"but I rather think some\nof you have been there before this after his chickens. Now, knocking\nover other people's chickens, and running off with them, is stealing.\nIt's a nasty word, but that's the plain English of it. If the chickens\nwere dead and lying in a shop, you wouldn't take them, I know that, any\nmore than you would apples out of Griffith's basket; but there's no real\ndifference between chickens running about and apples on a tree, and the\nsame articles in a shop. I wish our morals were sounder in such matters.\nThere's nothing so mischievous as these school distinctions, which\njumble up right and wrong, and justify things in us for which poor boys\nwould be sent to prison.\" And good old Holmes delivered his soul on the\nwalk home of many wise sayings, and, as the song says,\n\n     \"Gee'd 'em a sight of good advice;\"\n\nwhich same sermon sank into them all, more or less, and very penitent\nthey were for several hours. But truth compels me to admit that East, at\nany rate, forgot it all in a week, but remembered the insult which had\nbeen put upon him by Farmer Thompson, and with the Tadpole and other\nhair-brained youngsters committed a raid on the barn soon afterwards,\nin which they were caught by the shepherds and severely handled, besides\nhaving to pay eight shillings--all the money they had in the world--to\nescape being taken up to the Doctor.\n\nMartin became a constant inmate in the joint study from this time, and\nArthur took to him so kindly that Tom couldn't resist slight fits of\njealousy, which, however, he managed to keep to himself. The kestrel's\neggs had not been broken, strange to say, and formed the nucleus\nof Arthur's collection, at which Martin worked heart and soul, and\nintroduced Arthur to Howlett the bird-fancier, and instructed him in\nthe rudiments of the art of stuffing. In token of his gratitude, Arthur\nallowed Martin to tattoo a small anchor on one of his wrists; which\ndecoration, however, he carefully concealed from Tom. Before the end of\nthe half-year he had trained into a bold climber and good runner, and,\nas Martin had foretold, knew twice as much about trees, birds, flowers,\nand many other things, as our good-hearted and facetious young friend\nHarry East.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V--THE FIGHT:\n\n     \"Surgebat Macnevisius\n     Et mox jactabat ultro,\n     Pugnabo tua gratia\n     Feroci hoc Mactwoltro.\"--Etonian.\n\nThere is a certain sort of fellow--we who are used to studying boys all\nknow him well enough--of whom you can predicate with almost positive\ncertainty, after he has been a month at school, that he is sure to have\na fight, and with almost equal certainty that he will have but one. Tom\nBrown was one of these; and as it is our well-weighed intention to give\na full, true, and correct account of Tom's only single combat with a\nschool-fellow in the manner of our old friend Bell's Life, let those\nyoung persons whose stomachs are not strong, or who think a good set-to\nwith the weapons which God has given us all an uncivilized, unchristian,\nor ungentlemanly affair, just skip this chapter at once, for it won't be\nto their taste.\n\nIt was not at all usual in those days for two School-house boys to\nhave a fight. Of course there were exceptions, when some cross-grained,\nhard-headed fellow came up who would never be happy unless he was\nquarrelling with his nearest neighbours, or when there was some\nclass-dispute, between the fifth form and the fags, for instance, which\nrequired blood-letting; and a champion was picked out on each side\ntacitly, who settled the matter by a good hearty mill. But, for the\nmost part, the constant use of those surest keepers of the peace, the\nboxing-gloves, kept the School-house boys from fighting one another. Two\nor three nights in every week the gloves were brought out, either in the\nhall or fifth-form room; and every boy who was ever likely to fight at\nall knew all his neighbours' prowess perfectly well, and could tell to a\nnicety what chance he would have in a stand-up fight with any other\nboy in the house. But, of course, no such experience could be gotten as\nregarded boys in other houses; and as most of the other houses were more\nor less jealous of the School-house, collisions were frequent.\n\nAfter all, what would life be without fighting, I should like to know?\nFrom the cradle to the grave, fighting, rightly understood, is the\nbusiness, the real highest, honestest business of every son of man.\nEvery one who is worth his salt has his enemies, who must be beaten, be\nthey evil thoughts and habits in himself, or spiritual wickednesses in\nhigh places, or Russians, or Border-ruffians, or Bill, Tom, or Harry,\nwho will not let him live his life in quiet till he has thrashed them.\n\nIt is no good for quakers, or any other body of men, to uplift their\nvoices against fighting. Human nature is too strong for them, and they\ndon't follow their own precepts. Every soul of them is doing his own\npiece of fighting, somehow and somewhere. The world might be a better\nworld without fighting, for anything I know, but it wouldn't be our\nworld; and therefore I am dead against crying peace when there is no\npeace, and isn't meant to be. I am as sorry as any man to see folk\nfighting the wrong people and the wrong things, but I'd a deal sooner\nsee them doing that than that they should have no fight in them. So\nhaving recorded, and being about to record, my hero's fights of all\nsorts, with all sorts of enemies, I shall now proceed to give an account\nof his passage-at-arms with the only one of his school-fellows whom he\never had to encounter in this manner.\n\nIt was drawing towards the close of Arthur's first half-year, and\nthe May evenings were lengthening out. Locking-up was not till eight\no'clock, and everybody was beginning to talk about what he would do in\nthe holidays. The shell, in which form all our dramatis personae now\nare, were reading, amongst other things, the last book of Homer's\n\"Iliad,\" and had worked through it as far as the speeches of the women\nover Hector's body. It is a whole school-day, and four or five of the\nSchool-house boys (amongst whom are Arthur, Tom, and East) are preparing\nthird lesson together. They have finished the regulation forty lines,\nand are for the most part getting very tired, notwithstanding\nthe exquisite pathos of Helen's lamentation. And now several long\nfour-syllabled words come together, and the boy with the dictionary\nstrikes work.\n\n\"I am not going to look out any more words,\" says he; \"we've done the\nquantity. Ten to one we shan't get so far. Let's go out into the close.\"\n\n\"Come along, boys,\" cries East, always ready to leave \"the grind,\" as he\ncalled it; \"our old coach is laid up, you know, and we shall have one of\nthe new masters, who's sure to go slow and let us down easy.\"\n\nSo an adjournment to the close was carried nem. con., little Arthur not\ndaring to uplift his voice; but, being deeply interested in what they\nwere reading, stayed quietly behind, and learnt on for his own pleasure.\n\nAs East had said, the regular master of the form was unwell, and they\nwere to be heard by one of the new masters--quite a young man, who had\nonly just left the university. Certainly it would be hard lines if,\nby dawdling as much as possible in coming in and taking their places,\nentering into long-winded explanations of what was the usual course of\nthe regular master of the form, and others of the stock contrivances of\nboys for wasting time in school, they could not spin out the lesson so\nthat he should not work them through more than the forty lines. As to\nwhich quantity there was a perpetual fight going on between the master\nand his form--the latter insisting, and enforcing by passive resistance,\nthat it was the prescribed quantity of Homer for a shell lesson; the\nformer, that there was no fixed quantity, but that they must always be\nready to go on to fifty or sixty lines if there were time within the\nhour. However, notwithstanding all their efforts, the new master got on\nhorribly quick. He seemed to have the bad taste to be really interested\nin the lesson, and to be trying to work them up into something like\nappreciation of it, giving them good, spirited English words, instead\nof the wretched bald stuff into which they rendered poor old Homer, and\nconstruing over each piece himself to them, after each boy, to show them\nhow it should be done.\n\nNow the clock strikes the three-quarters; there is only a quarter of an\nhour more, but the forty lines are all but done. So the boys, one after\nanother, who are called up, stick more and more, and make balder and\never more bald work of it. The poor young master is pretty near beat by\nthis time, and feels ready to knock his head against the wall, or his\nfingers against somebody else's head. So he gives up altogether the\nlower and middle parts of the form, and looks round in despair at the\nboys on the top bench, to see if there is one out of whom he can strike\na spark or two, and who will be too chivalrous to murder the most\nbeautiful utterances of the most beautiful woman of the old world. His\neye rests on Arthur, and he calls him up to finish construing Helen's\nspeech. Whereupon all the other boys draw long breaths, and begin to\nstare about and take it easy. They are all safe: Arthur is the head of\nthe form, and sure to be able to construe, and that will tide on safely\ntill the hour strikes.\n\nArthur proceeds to read out the passage in Greek before construing it,\nas the custom is. Tom, who isn't paying much attention, is suddenly\ncaught by the falter in his voice as he reads the two lines--\n\n[greek text deleted]\n\nHe looks up at Arthur. \"Why, bless us,\" thinks he, \"what can be the\nmatter with the young un? He's never going to get floored. He's sure\nto have learnt to the end.\" Next moment he is reassured by the spirited\ntone in which Arthur begins construing, and betakes himself to drawing\ndogs' heads in his notebook, while the master, evidently enjoying the\nchange, turns his back on the middle bench and stands before Arthur,\nbeating a sort of time with his hand and foot, and saying; \"Yes, yes,\"\n\"Very well,\" as Arthur goes on.\n\nBut as he nears the fatal two lines, Tom catches that falter, and again\nlooks up. He sees that there is something the matter; Arthur can hardly\nget on at all. What can it be?\n\nSuddenly at this point Arthur breaks down altogether, and fairly bursts\nout crying, and dashes the cuff of his jacket across his eyes, blushing\nup to the roots of his hair, and feeling as if he should like to go down\nsuddenly through the floor. The whole form are taken aback; most of them\nstare stupidly at him, while those who are gifted with presence of mind\nfind their places and look steadily at their books, in hopes of not\ncatching the master's eye and getting called up in Arthur's place.\n\nThe master looks puzzled for a moment, and then seeing, as the fact is,\nthat the boy is really affected to tears by the most touching thing in\nHomer, perhaps in all profane poetry put together, steps up to him and\nlays his hand kindly on his shoulder, saying, \"Never mind, my little\nman, you've construed very well. Stop a minute; there's no hurry.\"\n\nNow, as luck would have it, there sat next above Tom on that day, in\nthe middle bench of the form, a big boy, by name Williams, generally\nsupposed to be the cock of the shell, therefore of all the school below\nthe fifths. The small boys, who are great speculators on the prowess of\ntheir elders, used to hold forth to one another about Williams's great\nstrength, and to discuss whether East or Brown would take a licking from\nhim. He was called Slogger Williams, from the force with which it was\nsupposed he could hit. In the main, he was a rough, goodnatured fellow\nenough, but very much alive to his own dignity. He reckoned himself\nthe king of the form, and kept up his position with the strong hand,\nespecially in the matter of forcing boys not to construe more than the\nlegitimate forty lines. He had already grunted and grumbled to himself\nwhen Arthur went on reading beyond the forty lines; but now that he\nhad broken down just in the middle of all the long words, the Slogger's\nwrath was fairly roused.\n\n\"Sneaking little brute,\" muttered he, regardless of prudence--\"clapping\non the water-works just in the hardest place; see if I don't punch his\nhead after fourth lesson.\"\n\n\"Whose?\" said Tom, to whom the remark seemed to be addressed.\n\n\"Why, that little sneak, Arthur's,\" replied Williams.\n\n\"No, you shan't,\" said Tom.\n\n\"Hullo!\" exclaimed Williams, looking at Tom with great surprise for a\nmoment, and then giving him a sudden dig in the ribs with his elbow,\nwhich sent Tom's books flying on to the floor, and called the attention\nof the master, who turned suddenly round, and seeing the state of\nthings, said,--\n\n\"Williams, go down three places, and then go on.\"\n\nThe Slogger found his legs very slowly, and proceeded to go below Tom\nand two other boys with great disgust; and then, turning round and\nfacing the master, said, \"I haven't learnt any more, sir; our lesson is\nonly forty lines.\"\n\n\"Is that so?\" said the master, appealing generally to the top bench. No\nanswer.\n\n\"Who is the head boy of the form?\" said he, waxing wroth.\n\n\"Arthur, sir,\" answered three or four boys, indicating our friend.\n\n\"Oh, your name's Arthur. Well, now, what is the length of your regular\nlesson?\"\n\nArthur hesitated a moment, and then said, \"We call it only forty lines,\nsir.\"\n\n\"How do you mean--you call it?\"\n\n\"Well, sir, Mr. Graham says we ain't to stop there when there's time to\nconstrue more.\"\n\n\"I understand,\" said the master.--\"Williams, go down three more places,\nand write me out the lesson in Greek and English. And now, Arthur,\nfinish construing.\"\n\n\"Oh! would I be in Arthur's shoes after fourth lesson?\" said the little\nboys to one another; but Arthur finished Helen's speech without any\nfurther catastrophe, and the clock struck four, which ended third\nlesson.\n\nAnother hour was occupied in preparing and saying fourth lesson, during\nwhich Williams was bottling up his wrath; and when five struck, and the\nlessons for the day were over, he prepared to take summary vengeance on\nthe innocent cause of his misfortune.\n\nTom was detained in school a few minutes after the rest, and on coming\nout into the quadrangle, the first thing he saw was a small ring of\nboys, applauding Williams, who was holding Arthur by the collar.\n\n\"There, you young sneak,\" said he, giving Arthur a cuff on the head with\nhis other hand; \"what made you say that--\"\n\n\"Hullo!\" said Tom, shouldering into the crowd; \"you drop that, Williams;\nyou shan't touch him.\"\n\n\"Who'll stop me?\" said the Slogger, raising his hand again.\n\n\"I,\" said Tom; and suiting the action to the word he struck the arm\nwhich held Arthur's arm so sharply that the Slogger dropped it with a\nstart, and turned the full current of his wrath on Tom.\n\n\"Will you fight?\"\n\n\"Yes, of course.\"\n\n\"Huzza! There's going to be a fight between Slogger Williams and Tom\nBrown!\"\n\nThe news ran like wildfire about, and many boys who were on their way\nto tea at their several houses turned back, and sought the back of the\nchapel, where the fights come off.\n\n\"Just run and tell East to come and back me,\" said Tom to a small\nSchool-house boy, who was off like a rocket to Harrowell's, just\nstopping for a moment to poke his head into the School-house hall, where\nthe lower boys were already at tea, and sing out, \"Fight! Tom Brown and\nSlogger Williams.\"\n\nUp start half the boys at once, leaving bread, eggs, butter, sprats,\nand all the rest to take care of themselves. The greater part of the\nremainder follow in a minute, after swallowing their tea, carrying their\nfood in their hands to consume as they go. Three or four only remain,\nwho steal the butter of the more impetuous, and make to themselves an\nunctuous feast.\n\nIn another minute East and Martin tear through the quadrangle, carrying\na sponge, and arrive at the scene of action just as the combatants are\nbeginning to strip.\n\nTom felt he had got his work cut out for him, as he stripped off his\njacket, waistcoat, and braces. East tied his handkerchief round his\nwaist, and rolled up his shirtsleeves for him. \"Now, old boy, don't you\nopen your mouth to say a word, or try to help yourself a bit--we'll do\nall that; you keep all your breath and strength for the Slogger.\" Martin\nmeanwhile folded the clothes, and put them under the chapel rails; and\nnow Tom, with East to handle him, and Martin to give him a knee, steps\nout on the turf, and is ready for all that may come; and here is the\nSlogger too, all stripped, and thirsting for the fray.\n\nIt doesn't look a fair match at first glance: Williams is nearly two\ninches taller, and probably a long year older than his opponent, and he\nis very strongly made about the arms and shoulders--\"peels well,\" as the\nlittle knot of big fifth-form boys, the amateurs, say, who stand outside\nthe ring of little boys, looking complacently on, but taking no active\npart in the proceedings. But down below he is not so good by any\nmeans--no spring from the loins, and feeblish, not to say shipwrecky,\nabout the knees. Tom, on the contrary, though not half so strong in the\narms, is good all over, straight, hard, and springy, from neck to ankle,\nbetter perhaps in his legs than anywhere. Besides, you can see by the\nclear white of his eye, and fresh, bright look of his skin, that he is\nin tip-top training, able to do all he knows; while the Slogger looks\nrather sodden, as if he didn't take much exercise and ate too much\ntuck. The time-keeper is chosen, a large ring made, and the two stand\nup opposite one another for a moment, giving us time just to make our\nlittle observations.\n\n\"If Tom'll only condescend to fight with his head and heels,\" as East\nmutters to Martin, \"we shall do.\"\n\nBut seemingly he won't, for there he goes in, making play with both\nhands. Hard all is the word; the two stand to one another like men;\nrally follows rally in quick succession, each fighting as if he thought\nto finish the whole thing out of hand. \"Can't last at this rate,\" say\nthe knowing ones, while the partisans of each make the air ring\nwith their shouts and counter-shouts of encouragement, approval, and\ndefiance.\n\n\"Take it easy, take it easy; keep away; let him come after you,\"\nimplores East, as he wipes Tom's face after the first round with a wet\nsponge, while he sits back on Martin's knee, supported by the Madman's\nlong arms which tremble a little from excitement.\n\n\"Time's up,\" calls the time-keeper.\n\n\"There he goes again, hang it all!\" growls East, as his man is at it\nagain, as hard as ever. A very severe round follows, in which Tom gets\nout and out the worst of it, and is at last hit clean off his legs, and\ndeposited on the grass by a right-hander from the Slogger.\n\nLoud shouts rise from the boys of Slogger's house, and the School-house\nare silent and vicious, ready to pick quarrels anywhere.\n\n\"Two to one in half-crowns on the big un,\" says Rattle, one of the\namateurs, a tall fellow, in thunder-and-lightning waistcoat, and puffy,\ngood-natured face.\n\n\"Done!\" says Groove, another amateur of quieter look, taking out his\nnotebook to enter it, for our friend Rattle sometimes forgets these\nlittle things.\n\nMeantime East is freshening up Tom with the sponges for next round, and\nhas set two other boys to rub his hands.\n\n\"Tom, old boy,\" whispers he, \"this may be fun for you, but it's death to\nme. He'll hit all the fight out of you in another five minutes, and then\nI shall go and drown myself in the island ditch. Feint him; use your\nlegs; draw him about. He'll lose his wind then in no time, and you can\ngo into him. Hit at his body too; we'll take care of his frontispiece\nby-and-by.\"\n\nTom felt the wisdom of the counsel, and saw already that he couldn't go\nin and finish the Slogger off at mere hammer and tongs, so changed his\ntactics completely in the third round. He now fights cautiously, getting\naway from and parrying the Slogger's lunging hits, instead of trying\nto counter, and leading his enemy a dance all round the ring after\nhim. \"He's funking; go in, Williams,\" \"Catch him up,\" \"Finish him off,\"\nscream the small boys of the Slogger party.\n\n\"Just what we want,\" thinks East, chuckling to himself, as he sees\nWilliams, excited by these shouts, and thinking the game in his own\nhands, blowing himself in his exertions to get to close quarters again,\nwhile Tom is keeping away with perfect ease.\n\nThey quarter over the ground again and again, Tom always on the\ndefensive.\n\nThe Slogger pulls up at last for a moment, fairly blown.\n\n\"Now, then, Tom,\" sings out East, dancing with delight. Tom goes in in a\ntwinkling, and hits two heavy body blows, and gets away again before the\nSlogger can catch his wind, which when he does he rushes with blind fury\nat Tom, and being skilfully parried and avoided, overreaches himself and\nfalls on his face, amidst terrific cheers from the School-house boys.\n\n\"Double your two to one?\" says Groove to Rattle, notebook in hand.\n\n\"Stop a bit,\" says that hero, looking uncomfortably at Williams, who is\npuffing away on his second's knee, winded enough, but little the worse\nin any other way.\n\nAfter another round the Slogger too seems to see that he can't go in and\nwin right off, and has met his match or thereabouts. So he too begins\nto use his head, and tries to make Tom lose his patience, and come in\nbefore his time. And so the fight sways on, now one and now the other\ngetting a trifling pull.\n\nTom's face begins to look very one-sided--there are little queer bumps\non his forehead, and his mouth is bleeding; but East keeps the wet\nsponge going so scientifically that he comes up looking as fresh and\nbright as ever. Williams is only slightly marked in the face, but by\nthe nervous movement of his elbows you can see that Tom's body blows are\ntelling. In fact, half the vice of the Slogger's hitting is neutralized,\nfor he daren't lunge out freely for fear of exposing his sides. It is\ntoo interesting by this time for much shouting, and the whole ring is\nvery quiet.\n\n\"All right, Tommy,\" whispers East; \"hold on's the horse that's to win.\nWe've got the last. Keep your head, old boy.\"\n\nBut where is Arthur all this time? Words cannot paint the poor little\nfellow's distress. He couldn't muster courage to come up to the ring,\nbut wandered up and down from the great fives court to the corner of the\nchapel rails, now trying to make up his mind to throw himself between\nthem, and try to stop them; then thinking of running in and telling his\nfriend Mary, who, he knew, would instantly report to the Doctor.\nThe stories he had heard of men being killed in prize-fights rose up\nhorribly before him.\n\nOnce only, when the shouts of \"Well done, Brown!\" \"Huzza for the\nSchool-house!\" rose higher than ever, he ventured up to the ring,\nthinking the victory was won. Catching sight of Tom's face in the state\nI have described, all fear of consequences vanishing out of his mind;\nhe rushed straight off to the matron's room, beseeching her to get the\nfight stopped, or he should die.\n\nBut it's time for us to get back to the close. What is this fierce\ntumult and confusion? The ring is broken, and high and angry words are\nbeing bandied about. \"It's all fair\"--\"It isn't\"--\"No hugging!\" The\nfight is stopped. The combatants, however, sit there quietly, tended by\ntheir seconds, while their adherents wrangle in the middle. East can't\nhelp shouting challenges to two or three of the other side, though he\nnever leaves Tom for a moment, and plies the sponges as fast as ever.\n\nThe fact is, that at the end of the last round, Tom, seeing a good\nopening, had closed with his opponent, and after a moment's struggle,\nhad thrown him heavily, by help of the fall he had learnt from his\nvillage rival in the Vale of White Horse. Williams hadn't the ghost of\na chance with Tom at wrestling; and the conviction broke at once on\nthe Slogger faction that if this were allowed their man must be licked.\nThere was a strong feeling in the School against catching hold and\nthrowing, though it was generally ruled all fair within limits; so the\nring was broken and the fight stopped.\n\nThe School-house are overruled--the fight is on again, but there is to\nbe no throwing; and East, in high wrath, threatens to take his man away\nafter next round (which he don't mean to do, by the way), when suddenly\nyoung Brooke comes through the small gate at the end of the chapel. The\nSchool-house faction rush to him. \"Oh, hurrah! now we shall get fair\nplay.\"\n\n\"Please, Brooke, come up. They won't let Tom Brown throw him.\"\n\n\"Throw whom?\" says Brooke, coming up to the ring. \"Oh! Williams, I see.\nNonsense! Of course he may throw him, if he catches him fairly above the\nwaist.\"\n\nNow, young Brooke, you're in the sixth, you know, and you ought to stop\nall fights. He looks hard at both boys. \"Anything wrong?\" says he to\nEast, nodding at Tom.\n\n\"Not a bit.\"\n\n\"Not beat at all?\"\n\n\"Bless you, no! Heaps of fight in him.--Ain't there, Tom?\"\n\nTom looks at Brooke and grins.\n\n\"How's he?\" nodding at Williams.\n\n\"So so; rather done, I think, since his last fall. He won't stand above\ntwo more.\"\n\n\"Time's up!\" The boys rise again and face one another. Brooke can't find\nit in his heart to stop them just yet, so the round goes on, the Slogger\nwaiting for Tom, and reserving all his strength to hit him out should\nhe come in for the wrestling dodge again, for he feels that that must be\nstopped, or his sponge will soon go up in the air.\n\nAnd now another newcomer appears on the field, to wit, the under-porter,\nwith his long brush and great wooden receptacle for dust under his arm.\nHe has been sweeping out the schools.\n\n\"You'd better stop, gentlemen,\" he says; \"the Doctor knows that Brown's\nfighting--he'll be out in a minute.\"\n\n\"You go to Bath, Bill,\" is all that that excellent servitor gets by\nhis advice; and being a man of his hands, and a stanch upholder of the\nSchool-house, can't help stopping to look on for a bit, and see Tom\nBrown, their pet craftsman, fight a round.\n\nIt is grim earnest now, and no mistake. Both boys feel this, and summon\nevery power of head, hand, and eye to their aid. A piece of luck on\neither side, a foot slipping, a blow getting well home, or another fall,\nmay decide it. Tom works slowly round for an opening; he has all the\nlegs, and can choose his own time. The Slogger waits for the attack,\nand hopes to finish it by some heavy right-handed blow. As they quarter\nslowly over the ground, the evening sun comes out from behind a cloud\nand falls full on Williams's face. Tom darts in; the heavy right hand\nis delivered, but only grazes his head. A short rally at close quarters,\nand they close; in another moment the Slogger is thrown again heavily\nfor the third time.\n\n\"I'll give you three or two on the little one in half-crowns,\" said\nGroove to Rattle.\n\n\"No, thank 'ee,\" answers the other, diving his hands farther into his\ncoat-tails.\n\nJust at this stage of the proceedings, the door of the turret which\nleads to the Doctor's library suddenly opens, and he steps into the\nclose, and makes straight for the ring, in which Brown and the Slogger\nare both seated on their seconds' knees for the last time.\n\n\"The Doctor! the Doctor!\" shouts some small boy who catches sight of\nhim, and the ring melts away in a few seconds, the small boys tearing\noff, Tom collaring his jacket and waistcoat, and slipping through the\nlittle gate by the chapel, and round the corner to Harrowell's with his\nbackers, as lively as need be; Williams and his backers making off not\nquite so fast across the close; Groove, Rattle, and the other bigger\nfellows trying to combine dignity and prudence in a comical manner, and\nwalking off fast enough, they hope, not to be recognized, and not fast\nenough to look like running away.\n\nYoung Brooke alone remains on the ground by the time the Doctor gets\nthere, and touches his hat, not without a slight inward qualm.\n\n\"Hah! Brooke. I am surprised to see you here. Don't you know that I\nexpect the sixth to stop fighting?\"\n\nBrooke felt much more uncomfortable than he had expected, but he was\nrather a favourite with the Doctor for his openness and plainness of\nspeech, so blurted out, as he walked by the Doctor's side, who had\nalready turned back,--\n\n\"Yes, sir, generally. But I thought you wished us to exercise a\ndiscretion in the matter too--not to interfere too soon.\"\n\n\"But they have been fighting this half-hour and more,\" said the Doctor.\n\n\"Yes, sir; but neither was hurt. And they're the sort of boys who'll be\nall the better friends now, which they wouldn't have been if they had\nbeen stopped, any earlier--before it was so equal.\"\n\n\"Who was fighting with Brown?\" said the Doctor.\n\n\"Williams, sir, of Thompson's. He is bigger than Brown, and had the best\nof it at first, but not when you came up, sir. There's a good deal of\njealousy between our house and Thompson's, and there would have been\nmore fights if this hadn't been let go on, or if either of them had had\nmuch the worst of it.\"\n\n\"Well but, Brooke,\" said the Doctor, \"doesn't this look a little as\nif you exercised your discretion by only stopping a fight when the\nSchool-house boy is getting the worst of it?\"\n\nBrooke, it must be confessed, felt rather gravelled.\n\n\"Now remember,\" added the Doctor, as he stopped at the turret-door,\n\"this fight is not to go on; you'll see to that. And I expect you to\nstop all fights in future at once.\"\n\n\"Very well, sir,\" said young Brooke, touching his hat, and not sorry to\nsee the turret-door close behind the Doctor's back.\n\nMeantime Tom and the stanchest of his adherents had reached Harrowell's,\nand Sally was bustling about to get them a late tea, while Stumps had\nbeen sent off to Tew, the butcher, to get a piece of raw beef for Tom's\neye, which was to be healed off-hand, so that he might show well in the\nmorning. He was not a bit the worse, except a slight difficulty in his\nvision, a singing in his ears, and a sprained thumb, which he kept in\na cold-water bandage, while he drank lots of tea, and listened to the\nbabel of voices talking and speculating of nothing but the fight, and\nhow Williams would have given in after another fall (which he didn't in\nthe least believe), and how on earth the Doctor could have got to know\nof it--such bad luck! He couldn't help thinking to himself that he was\nglad he hadn't won; he liked it better as it was, and felt very friendly\nto the Slogger. And then poor little Arthur crept in and sat down\nquietly near him, and kept looking at him and the raw beef with such\nplaintive looks that Tom at last burst out laughing.\n\n\"Don't make such eyes, young un,\" said he; \"there's nothing the matter.\"\n\n\"Oh, but, Tom, are you much hurt? I can't bear thinking it was all for\nme.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it; don't flatter yourself. We were sure to have had it\nout sooner or later.\"\n\n\"Well, but you won't go on, will you? You'll promise me you won't go\non?\"\n\n\"Can't tell about that--all depends on the houses. We're in the hands\nof our countrymen, you know. Must fight for the School-house flag, if so\nbe.\"\n\nHowever, the lovers of the science were doomed to disappointment this\ntime. Directly after locking-up, one of the night-fags knocked at Tom's\ndoor.\n\n\"Brown, young Brooke wants you in the sixth-form room.\"\n\nUp went Tom to the summons, and found the magnates sitting at their\nsupper.\n\n\"Well, Brown,\" said young Brooke, nodding to him, \"how do you feel?\"\n\n\"Oh, very well, thank you, only I've sprained my thumb, I think.\"\n\n\"Sure to do that in a fight. Well, you hadn't the worst of it, I could\nsee. Where did you learn that throw?\"\n\n\"Down in the country when I was a boy.\"\n\n\"Hullo! why, what are you now? Well, never mind, you're a plucky fellow.\nSit down and have some supper.\"\n\nTom obeyed, by no means loath. And the fifth-form boy next filled him a\ntumbler of bottled beer, and he ate and drank, listening to the pleasant\ntalk, and wondering how soon he should be in the fifth, and one of that\nmuch-envied society.\n\nAs he got up to leave, Brooke said, \"You must shake hands to-morrow\nmorning; I shall come and see that done after first lesson.\"\n\nAnd so he did. And Tom and the Slogger shook hands with great\nsatisfaction and mutual respect. And for the next year or two, whenever\nfights were being talked of, the small boys who had been present shook\ntheir heads wisely, saying, \"Ah! but you should just have seen the fight\nbetween Slogger Williams and Tom Brown!\"\n\nAnd now, boys all, three words before we quit the subject. I have put\nin this chapter on fighting of malice prepense, partly because I want to\ngive you a true picture of what everyday school life was in my time, and\nnot a kid-glove and go-to-meeting-coat picture, and partly because of\nthe cant and twaddle that's talked of boxing and fighting with fists\nnowadays. Even Thackeray has given in to it; and only a few weeks ago\nthere was some rampant stuff in the Times on the subject, in an article\non field sports.\n\nBoys will quarrel, and when they quarrel will sometimes fight. Fighting\nwith fists is the natural and English way for English boys to settle\ntheir quarrels. What substitute for it is there, or ever was there,\namongst any nation under the sun? What would you like to see take its\nplace?\n\nLearn to box, then, as you learn to play cricket and football. Not one\nof you will be the worse, but very much the better, for learning to box\nwell. Should you never have to use it in earnest, there's no exercise\nin the world so good for the temper and for the muscles of the back and\nlegs.\n\nAs to fighting, keep out of it if you can, by all means. When the\ntime comes, if it ever should, that you have to say \"Yes\" or \"No\" to\na challenge to fight, say \"No\" if you can--only take care you make\nit clear to yourselves why you say \"No.\" It's a proof of the highest\ncourage, if done from true Christian motives. It's quite right and\njustifiable, if done from a simple aversion to physical pain and danger.\nBut don't say \"No\" because you fear a licking, and say or think it's\nbecause you fear God, for that's neither Christian nor honest. And if\nyou do fight, fight it out; and don't give in while you can stand and\nsee.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI--FEVER IN THE SCHOOL.\n\n     \"This our hope for all that's mortal\n     And we too shall burst the bond;\n     Death keeps watch beside the portal,\n     But 'tis life that dwells beyond.\"\n     --JOHN STERLING.\n\nTwo years have passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, and\nthe end of the summer half-year is again drawing on. Martin has left and\ngone on a cruise in the South Pacific, in one of his uncle's ships; the\nold magpie, as disreputable as ever, his last bequest to Arthur, lives\nin the joint study. Arthur is nearly sixteen, and at the head of the\ntwenty, having gone up the school at the rate of a form a half-year.\nEast and Tom have been much more deliberate in their progress, and are\nonly a little way up the fifth form. Great strapping boys they are,\nbut still thorough boys, filling about the same place in the house that\nyoung Brooke filled when they were new boys, and much the same sort\nof fellows. Constant intercourse with Arthur has done much for both of\nthem, especially for Tom; but much remains yet to be done, if they\nare to get all the good out of Rugby which is to be got there in these\ntimes. Arthur is still frail and delicate, with more spirit than body;\nbut, thanks to his intimacy with them and Martin, has learned to swim,\nand run, and play cricket, and has never hurt himself by too much\nreading.\n\nOne evening, as they were all sitting down to supper in the fifth-form\nroom, some one started a report that a fever had broken out at one of\nthe boarding-houses. \"They say,\" he added, \"that Thompson is very ill,\nand that Dr. Robertson has been sent for from Northampton.\"\n\n\"Then we shall all be sent home,\" cried another. \"Hurrah! five weeks'\nextra holidays, and no fifth-form examination!\"\n\n\"I hope not,\" said Tom; \"there'll be no Marylebone match then at the end\nof the half.\"\n\nSome thought one thing, some another, many didn't believe the report;\nbut the next day, Tuesday, Dr. Robertson arrived, and stayed all day,\nand had long conferences with the Doctor.\n\nOn Wednesday morning, after prayers, the Doctor addressed the whole\nschool. There were several cases of fever in different houses, he said;\nbut Dr. Robertson, after the most careful examination, had assured him\nthat it was not infectious, and that if proper care were taken,\nthere could be no reason for stopping the school-work at present. The\nexaminations were just coming on, and it would be very unadvisable to\nbreak up now. However, any boys who chose to do so were at liberty to\nwrite home, and, if their parents wished it, to leave at once. He should\nsend the whole school home if the fever spread.\n\nThe next day Arthur sickened, but there was no other case. Before the\nend of the week thirty or forty boys had gone, but the rest stayed on.\nThere was a general wish to please the Doctor, and a feeling that it was\ncowardly to run away.\n\nOn the Saturday Thompson died, in the bright afternoon, while the\ncricket-match was going on as usual on the big-side ground. The Doctor,\ncoming from his deathbed, passed along the gravel-walk at the side\nof the close, but no one knew what had happened till the next day. At\nmorning lecture it began to be rumoured, and by afternoon chapel was\nknown generally; and a feeling of seriousness and awe at the actual\npresence of death among them came over the whole school. In all the long\nyears of his ministry the Doctor perhaps never spoke words which sank\ndeeper than some of those in that day's sermon.\n\n\"When I came yesterday from visiting all but the very death-bed of him\nwho has been taken from us, and looked around upon all the familiar\nobjects and scenes within our own ground, where your common amusements\nwere going on with your common cheerfulness and activity, I felt there\nwas nothing painful in witnessing that; it did not seem in any way\nshocking or out of tune with those feelings which the sight of a dying\nChristian must be supposed to awaken. The unsuitableness in point of\nnatural feeling between scenes of mourning and scenes of liveliness did\nnot at all present itself. But I did feel that if at that moment any of\nthose faults had been brought before me which sometimes occur amongst\nus; had I heard that any of you had been guilty of falsehood, or of\ndrunkenness, or of any other such sin; had I heard from any quarter the\nlanguage of profaneness, or of unkindness, or of indecency; had I heard\nor seen any signs of that wretched folly which courts the laugh of\nfools by affecting not to dread evil and not to care for good, then the\nunsuitableness of any of these things with the scene I had just quitted\nwould indeed have been most intensely painful. And why? Not because such\nthings would really have been worse than at any other time, but because\nat such a moment the eyes are opened really to know good and evil,\nbecause we then feel what it is so to live as that death becomes an\ninfinite blessing, and what it is so to live also that it were good for\nus if we had never been born.\"\n\nTom had gone into chapel in sickening anxiety about Arthur, but he came\nout cheered and strengthened by those grand words, and walked up alone\nto their study. And when he sat down and looked round, and saw Arthur's\nstraw hat and cricket-jacket hanging on their pegs, and marked all his\nlittle neat arrangements, not one of which had been disturbed, the tears\nindeed rolled down his cheeks; but they were calm and blessed tears, and\nhe repeated to himself, \"Yes, Geordie's eyes are opened; he knows what\nit is so to live as that death becomes an infinite blessing. But do I? O\nGod, can I bear to lose him?\"\n\nThe week passed mournfully away. No more boys sickened, but Arthur was\nreported worse each day, and his mother arrived early in the week. Tom\nmade many appeals to be allowed to see him, and several times tried to\nget up to the sick-room; but the housekeeper was always in the way, and\nat last spoke to the Doctor, who kindly but peremptorily forbade him.\n\nThompson was buried on the Tuesday, and the burial service, so soothing\nand grand always, but beyond all words solemn when read over a boy's\ngrave to his companions, brought him much comfort, and many strange\nnew thoughts and longings. He went back to his regular life, and played\ncricket and bathed as usual. It seemed to him that this was the right\nthing to do, and the new thoughts and longings became more brave and\nhealthy for the effort. The crisis came on Saturday; the day week that\nThompson had died; and during that long afternoon Tom sat in his study\nreading his Bible, and going every half-hour to the housekeeper's room,\nexpecting each time to hear that the gentle and brave little spirit\nhad gone home. But God had work for Arthur to do. The crisis passed:\non Sunday evening he was declared out of danger; on Monday he sent a\nmessage to Tom that he was almost well, had changed his room, and was to\nbe allowed to see him the next day.\n\nIt was evening when the housekeeper summoned him to the sick-room.\nArthur was lying on the sofa by the open window, through which the rays\nof the western sun stole gently, lighting up his white face and golden\nhair. Tom remembered a German picture of an angel which he knew; often\nhad he thought how transparent and golden and spirit-like it was; and\nhe shuddered, to think how like it Arthur looked, and felt a shock as if\nhis blood had all stopped short, as he realized how near the other world\nhis friend must have been to look like that. Never till that moment had\nhe felt how his little chum had twined himself round his heart-strings,\nand as he stole gently across the room and knelt down, and put his arm\nround Arthur's head on the pillow, felt ashamed and half-angry at his\nown red and brown face, and the bounding sense of health and power which\nfilled every fibre of his body, and made every movement of mere living a\njoy to him. He needn't have troubled himself: it was this very strength\nand power so different from his own which drew Arthur so to him.\n\nArthur laid his thin, white hand, on which the blue veins stood out so\nplainly, on Tom's great brown fist, and smiled at him; and then looked\nout of the window again, as if he couldn't bear to lose a moment of the\nsunset, into the tops of the great feathery elms, round which the rooks\nwere circling and clanging, returning in flocks from their evening's\nforaging parties. The elms rustled, the sparrows in the ivy just outside\nthe window chirped and fluttered about, quarrelling, and making it up\nagain; the rooks, young and old, talked in chorus, and the merry shouts\nof the boys and the sweet click of the cricket-bats came up cheerily\nfrom below.\n\n\"Dear George,\" said Tom, \"I am so glad to be let up to see you at last.\nI've tried hard to come so often, but they wouldn't let me before.\"\n\n\"Oh, I know, Tom; Mary has told me every day about you, and how she was\nobliged to make the Doctor speak to you to keep you away. I'm very glad\nyou didn't get up, for you might have caught it; and you couldn't stand\nbeing ill, with all the matches going on. And you're in the eleven, too,\nI hear. I'm so glad.\"\n\n\"Yes; ain't it jolly?\" said Tom proudly. \"I'm ninth too. I made forty at\nthe last pie-match, and caught three fellows out. So I was put in\nabove Jones and Tucker. Tucker's so savage, for he was head of the\ntwenty-two.\"\n\n\"Well, I think you ought to be higher yet,\" said Arthur, who was as\njealous for the renown of Tom in games as Tom was for his as a scholar.\n\n\"Never mind. I don't care about cricket or anything now you're getting\nwell, Geordie; and I shouldn't have hurt, I know, if they'd have let me\ncome up. Nothing hurts me. But you'll get about now directly, won't you?\nYou won't believe how clean I've kept the study. All your things are\njust as you left them; and I feed the old magpie just when you used,\nthough I have to come in from big-side for him, the old rip. He won't\nlook pleased all I can do, and sticks his head first on one side and\nthen on the other, and blinks at me before he'll begin to eat, till I'm\nhalf inclined to box his ears. And whenever East comes in, you should\nsee him hop off to the window, dot and go one, though Harry wouldn't\ntouch a feather of him now.\"\n\nArthur laughed. \"Old Gravey has a good memory; he can't forget the\nsieges of poor Martin's den in old times.\" He paused a moment, and then\nwent on: \"You can't think how often I've been thinking of old Martin\nsince I've been ill. I suppose one's mind gets restless, and likes to\nwander off to strange, unknown places. I wonder what queer new pets the\nold boy has got. How he must be revelling in the thousand new birds,\nbeasts, and fishes!\"\n\nTom felt a pang of jealousy, but kicked it out in a moment. \"Fancy him\non a South Sea island, with the Cherokees, or Patagonians, or some\nsuch wild niggers!\" (Tom's ethnology and geography were faulty,\nbut sufficient for his needs.) \"They'll make the old Madman cock\nmedicine-man, and tattoo him all over. Perhaps he's cutting about now\nall blue, and has a squaw and a wigwam. He'll improve their boomerangs,\nand be able to throw them too, without having old Thomas sent after him\nby the Doctor to take them away.\"\n\nArthur laughed at the remembrance of the boomerang story, but then\nlooked grave again, and said, \"He'll convert all the island, I know.\"\n\n\"Yes, if he don't blow it up first.\"\n\n\"Do you remember, Tom, how you and East used to laugh at him and chaff\nhim, because he said he was sure the rooks all had calling-over or\nprayers, or something of the sort, when the locking-up bell rang? Well,\nI declare,\" said Arthur, looking up seriously into Tom's laughing eyes,\n\"I do think he was right. Since I've been lying here, I've watched them\nevery night; and, do you know, they really do come and perch, all of\nthem, just about locking-up time; and then first there's a regular\nchorus of caws; and then they stop a bit, and one old fellow, or perhaps\ntwo or three in different trees, caw solos; and then off they all go\nagain, fluttering about and cawing anyhow till they roost.\"\n\n\"I wonder if the old blackies do talk,\" said Tom, looking up at them.\n\"How they must abuse me and East, and pray for the Doctor for stopping\nthe slinging!\"\n\n\"There! look, look!\" cried Arthur; \"don't you see the old fellow without\na tail coming up? Martin used to call him the 'clerk.' He can't steer\nhimself. You never saw such fun as he is in a high wind, when he can't\nsteer himself home, and gets carried right past the trees, and has to\nbear up again and again before he can perch.\"\n\nThe locking-up bell began to toll, and the two boys were silent, and\nlistened to it. The sound soon carried Tom off to the river and the\nwoods, and he began to go over in his mind the many occasions on which\nhe had heard that toll coming faintly down the breeze, and had to pack\nhis rod in a hurry and make a run for it, to get in before the gates\nwere shut. He was roused with a start from his memories by Arthur's\nvoice, gentle and weak from his late illness.\n\n\"Tom, will you be angry if I talk to you very seriously?\"\n\n\"No, dear old boy, not I. But ain't you faint, Arthur, or ill? What can\nI get you? Don't say anything to hurt yourself now--you are very weak;\nlet me come up again.\"\n\n\"No, no; I shan't hurt myself. I'd sooner speak to you now, if you don't\nmind. I've asked Mary to tell the Doctor that you are with me, so you\nneedn't go down to calling-over; and I mayn't have another chance, for\nI shall most likely have to go home for change of air to get well, and\nmayn't come back this half.\"\n\n\"Oh, do you think you must go away before the end of the half? I'm\nso sorry. It's more than five weeks yet to the holidays, and all the\nfifth-form examination and half the cricket-matches to come yet. And\nwhat shall I do all that time alone in our study? Why, Arthur, it will\nbe more than twelve weeks before I see you again. Oh, hang it, I can't\nstand that! Besides who's to keep me up to working at the examination\nbooks? I shall come out bottom of the form, as sure as eggs is eggs.\"\n\nTom was rattling on, half in joke, half in earnest, for he wanted to\nget Arthur out of his serious vein, thinking it would do him harm; but\nArthur broke in,--\n\n\"Oh, please, Tom, stop, or you'll drive all I had to say out of my head.\nAnd I'm already horribly afraid I'm going to make you angry.\"\n\n\"Don't gammon, young un,\" rejoined Tom (the use of the old name, dear to\nhim from old recollections, made Arthur start and smile and feel quite\nhappy); \"you know you ain't afraid, and you've never made me angry since\nthe first month we chummed together. Now I'm going to be quite sober for\na quarter of an hour, which is more than I am once in a year; so make\nthe most of it; heave ahead, and pitch into me right and left.\"\n\n\"Dear Tom, I ain't going to pitch into you,\" said Arthur piteously; \"and\nit seems so cocky in me to be advising you, who've been my backbone ever\nsince I've been at Rugby, and have made the school a paradise to me. Ah,\nI see I shall never do it, unless I go head over heels at once, as\nyou said when you taught me to swim. Tom, I want you to give up using\nvulgus-books and cribs.\"\n\nArthur sank back on to his pillow with a sigh, as if the effort had been\ngreat; but the worst was now over, and he looked straight at Tom, who\nwas evidently taken aback. He leant his elbows on his knees, and stuck\nhis hands into his hair, whistled a verse of \"Billy Taylor,\" and then\nwas quite silent for another minute. Not a shade crossed his face,\nbut he was clearly puzzled. At last he looked up, and caught Arthur's\nanxious look, took his hand, and said simply,--\n\n\"Why, young un?\"\n\n\"Because you're the honestest boy in Rugby, and that ain't honest.\"\n\n\"I don't see that.\"\n\n\"What were you sent to Rugby for?\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know exactly--nobody ever told me. I suppose because all\nboys are sent to a public school in England.\"\n\n\"But what do you think yourself? What do you want to do here, and to\ncarry away?\"\n\nTom thought a minute. \"I want to be A1 at cricket and football, and all\nthe other games, and to make my hands keep my head against any fellow,\nlout or gentleman. I want to get into the sixth before I leave, and to\nplease the Doctor; and I want to carry away just as much Latin and Greek\nas will take me through Oxford respectably. There, now, young un; I\nnever thought of it before, but that's pretty much about my figure.\nAin't it all on the square? What have you got to say to that?\"\n\n\"Why, that you are pretty sure to do all that you want, then.\"\n\n\"Well, I hope so. But you've forgot one thing--what I want to leave\nbehind me. I want to leave behind me,\" said Tom, speaking slow, and\nlooking much moved, \"the name of a fellow who never bullied a little\nboy, or turned his back on a big one.\"\n\nArthur pressed his hand, and after a moment's silence went on, \"You say,\nTom, you want to please the Doctor. Now, do you want to please him by\nwhat he thinks you do, or by what you really do?\"\n\n\"By what I really do, of course.\"\n\n\"Does he think you use cribs and vulgus-books?\"\n\nTom felt at once that his flank was turned, but he couldn't give in. \"He\nwas at Winchester himself,\" said he; \"he knows all about it.\"\n\n\"Yes; but does he think you use them? Do you think he approves of it?\"\n\n\"You young villain!\" said Tom, shaking his fist at Arthur, half vexed\nand half pleased, \"I never think about it. Hang it! there, perhaps he\ndon't. Well, I suppose he don't.\"\n\nArthur saw that he had got his point; he knew his friend well, and was\nwise in silence as in speech. He only said, \"I would sooner have the\ndoctor's good opinion of me as I really am than any man's in the world.\"\n\nAfter another minute, Tom began again, \"Look here, young un. How on\nearth am I to get time to play the matches this half if I give up cribs?\nWe're in the middle of that long crabbed chorus in the Agamemnon. I can\nonly just make head or tail of it with the crib. Then there's Pericles's\nspeech coming on in Thucydides, and 'The Birds' to get up for the\nexamination, besides the Tacitus.\" Tom groaned at the thought of his\naccumulated labours. \"I say, young un, there's only five weeks or so\nleft to holidays. Mayn't I go on as usual for this half? I'll tell the\nDoctor about it some day, or you may.\"\n\nArthur looked out of the window. The twilight had come on, and all was\nsilent. He repeated in a low voice: \"In this thing the Lord pardon thy\nservant, that when my master goeth into the house of Rimmon to worship\nthere, and he leaneth on my hand, and I bow down myself in the house of\nRimmon, when I bow down myself in the house of Rimmon, the Lord pardon\nthy servant in this thing.\"\n\nNot a word more was said on the subject, and the boys were again\nsilent--one of those blessed, short silences in which the resolves which\ncolour a life are so often taken.\n\nTom was the first to break it. \"You've been very ill indeed, haven't\nyou, Geordie?\" said he, with a mixture of awe and curiosity, feeling as\nif his friend had been in some strange place or scene, of which he could\nform no idea, and full of the memory of his own thoughts during the last\nweek.\n\n\"Yes, very. I'm sure the Doctor thought I was going to die. He gave me\nthe Sacrament last Sunday, and you can't think what he is when one is\nill. He said such brave, and tender, and gentle things to me, I felt\nquite light and strong after it, and never had any more fear. My mother\nbrought our old medical man, who attended me when I was a poor sickly\nchild. He said my constitution was quite changed, and that I'm fit for\nanything now. If it hadn't, I couldn't have stood three days of this\nillness. That's all thanks to you, and the games you've made me fond\nof.\"\n\n\"More thanks to old Martin,\" said Tom; \"he's been your real friend.\"\n\n\"Nonsense, Tom; he never could have done for me what you have.\"\n\n\"Well, I don't know; I did little enough. Did they tell you--you won't\nmind hearing it now, I know--that poor Thompson died last week? The\nother three boys are getting quite round, like you.\"\n\n\"Oh yes, I heard of it.\"\n\nThen Tom, who was quite full of it, told Arthur of the burial-service\nin the chapel, and how it had impressed him, and, he believed, all the\nother boys. \"And though the Doctor never said a word about it,\" said he,\n\"and it was a half-holiday and match-day, there wasn't a game played in\nthe close all the afternoon, and the boys all went about as if it were\nSunday.\"\n\n\"I'm very glad of it,\" said Arthur. \"But, Tom, I've had such strange\nthoughts about death lately. I've never told a soul of them, not even my\nmother. Sometimes I think they're wrong, but, do you know, I don't think\nin my heart I could be sorry at the death of any of my friends.\"\n\nTom was taken quite aback. \"What in the world is the young un after\nnow?\" thought he; \"I've swallowed a good many of his crotchets, but this\naltogether beats me. He can't be quite right in his head.\" He didn't\nwant to say a word, and shifted about uneasily in the dark; however,\nArthur seemed to be waiting for an answer, so at last he said, \"I don't\nthink I quite see what you mean, Geordie. One's told so often to think\nabout death that I've tried it on sometimes, especially this last week.\nBut we won't talk of it now. I'd better go. You're getting tired, and I\nshall do you harm.\"\n\n\"No, no; indeed I ain't, Tom. You must stop till nine; there's only\ntwenty minutes. I've settled you shall stop till nine. And oh! do let me\ntalk to you--I must talk to you. I see it's just as I feared. You think\nI'm half mad. Don't you, now?\"\n\n\"Well, I did think it odd what you said, Geordie, as you ask me.\"\n\nArthur paused a moment, and then said quickly, \"I'll tell you how it all\nhappened. At first, when I was sent to the sick-room, and found I had\nreally got the fever, I was terribly frightened. I thought I should\ndie, and I could not face it for a moment. I don't think it was sheer\ncowardice at first, but I thought how hard it was to be taken away from\nmy mother and sisters and you all, just as I was beginning to see my way\nto many things, and to feel that I might be a man and do a man's work.\nTo die without having fought, and worked, and given one's life away,\nwas too hard to bear. I got terribly impatient, and accused God of\ninjustice, and strove to justify myself. And the harder I strove the\ndeeper I sank. Then the image of my dear father often came across me,\nbut I turned from it. Whenever it came, a heavy, numbing throb seemed to\ntake hold of my heart, and say, 'Dead-dead-dead.' And I cried out, 'The\nliving, the living shall praise Thee, O God; the dead cannot praise\nthee. There is no work in the grave; in the night no man can work. But\nI can work. I can do great things. I will do great things. Why wilt thou\nslay me?' And so I struggled and plunged, deeper and deeper, and went\ndown into a living black tomb. I was alone there, with no power to stir\nor think; alone with myself; beyond the reach of all human fellowship;\nbeyond Christ's reach, I thought, in my nightmare. You, who are brave\nand bright and strong, can have no idea of that agony. Pray to God you\nnever may. Pray as for your life.\"\n\nArthur stopped--from exhaustion, Tom thought; but what between his fear\nlest Arthur should hurt himself, his awe, and his longing for him to go\non, he couldn't ask, or stir to help him.\n\nPresently he went on, but quite calm and slow. \"I don't know how long\nI was in that state--for more than a day, I know; for I was quite\nconscious, and lived my outer life all the time, and took my medicines,\nand spoke to my mother, and heard what they said. But I didn't take much\nnote of time. I thought time was over for me, and that that tomb was\nwhat was beyond. Well, on last Sunday morning, as I seemed to lie in\nthat tomb, alone, as I thought, for ever and ever, the black, dead wall\nwas cleft in two, and I was caught up and borne through into the light\nby some great power, some living, mighty spirit. Tom, do you remember\nthe living creatures and the wheels in Ezekiel? It was just like that.\n'When they went, I heard the noise of their wings, like the noise of\ngreat waters, as the voice of the Almighty, the voice of speech, as the\nnoise of an host; when they stood, they let down their wings.' 'And\nthey went every one straight forward: whither the spirit was to go, they\nwent; and they turned not when they went.' And we rushed through the\nbright air, which was full of myriads of living creatures, and paused\non the brink of a great river. And the power held me up, and I knew that\nthat great river was the grave, and death dwelt there, but not the death\nI had met in the black tomb. That, I felt, was gone for ever. For on the\nother bank of the great river I saw men and women and children rising up\npure and bright, and the tears were wiped from their eyes, and they put\non glory and strength, and all weariness and pain fell away. And beyond\nwere a multitude which no man could number, and they worked at some\ngreat work; and they who rose from the river went on and joined in the\nwork. They all worked, and each worked in a different way, but all at\nthe same work. And I saw there my father, and the men in the old town\nwhom I knew when I was a child--many a hard, stern man, who never came\nto church, and whom they called atheist and infidel. There they were,\nside by side with my father, whom I had seen toil and die for them, and\nwomen and little children, and the seal was on the foreheads of all. And\nI longed to see what the work was, and could not; so I tried to plunge\nin the river, for I thought I would join them, but I could not. Then I\nlooked about to see how they got into the river. And this I could not\nsee, but I saw myriads on this side, and they too worked, and I knew\nthat it was the same work, and the same seal was on their foreheads. And\nthough I saw that there was toil and anguish in the work of these, and\nthat most that were working were blind and feeble, yet I longed no more\nto plunge into the river, but more and more to know what the work was.\nAnd as I looked I saw my mother and my sisters, and I saw the Doctor,\nand you, Tom, and hundreds more whom I knew; and at last I saw myself\ntoo, and I was toiling and doing ever so little a piece of the great\nwork. Then it all melted away, and the power left me, and as it left\nme I thought I heard a voice say, 'The vision is for an appointed time;\nthough it tarry, wait for it, for in the end it shall speak and not lie,\nit shall surely come, it shall not tarry.' It was early morning I know,\nthen--it was so quiet and cool, and my mother was fast asleep in the\nchair by my bedside; but it wasn't only a dream of mine. I know it\nwasn't a dream. Then I fell into a deep sleep, and only woke after\nafternoon chapel; and the Doctor came and gave me the Sacrament, as I\ntold you. I told him and my mother I should get well--I knew I should;\nbut I couldn't tell them why. Tom,\" said Arthur gently, after another\nminute, \"do you see why I could not grieve now to see my dearest friend\ndie? It can't be--it isn't--all fever or illness. God would never have\nlet me see it so clear if it wasn't true. I don't understand it all yet;\nit will take me my life and longer to do that--to find out what the work\nis.\"\n\nWhen Arthur stopped there was a long pause. Tom could not speak; he was\nalmost afraid to breathe, lest he should break the train of Arthur's\nthoughts. He longed to hear more, and to ask questions. In another\nminute nine o'clock struck, and a gentle tap at the door called them\nboth back into the world again. They did not answer, however, for a\nmoment; and so the door opened, and a lady came in carrying a candle.\n\nShe went straight to the sofa, and took hold of Arthur's hand, and then\nstooped down and kissed him.\n\n\"My dearest boy, you feel a little feverish again. Why didn't you have\nlights? You've talked too much, and excited yourself in the dark.\"\n\n\"Oh no, mother; you can't think how well I feel. I shall start with\nyou to-morrow for Devonshire. But, mother, here's my friend--here's Tom\nBrown. You know him?\"\n\n\"Yes, indeed; I've known him for years,\" she said, and held out her\nhand to Tom, who was now standing up behind the sofa. This was Arthur's\nmother: tall and slight and fair, with masses of golden hair drawn back\nfrom the broad, white forehead, and the calm blue eye meeting his so\ndeep and open--the eye that he knew so well, for it was his friend's\nover again, and the lovely, tender mouth that trembled while he\nlooked--she stood there, a woman of thirty-eight, old enough to be his\nmother, and one whose face showed the lines which must be written on the\nfaces of good men's wives and widows, but he thought he had never seen\nanything so beautiful. He couldn't help wondering if Arthur's sisters\nwere like her.\n\nTom held her hand, and looked on straight in her face; he could neither\nlet it go nor speak.\n\n\"Now, Tom,\" said Arthur, laughing, \"where are your manners? You'll stare\nmy mother out of countenance.\" Tom dropped the little hand with a sigh.\n\"There, sit down, both of you.--Here, dearest mother; there's room\nhere.\" And he made a place on the sofa for her.--\"Tom, you needn't go;\nI'm sure you won't be called up at first lesson.\" Tom felt that he\nwould risk being floored at every lesson for the rest of his natural\nschool-life sooner than go, so sat down. \"And now,\" said Arthur, \"I have\nrealized one of the dearest wishes of my life--to see you two together.\"\n\nAnd then he led away the talk to their home in Devonshire, and the\nred, bright earth, and the deep green combes, and the peat streams like\ncairngorm pebbles, and the wild moor with its high, cloudy tors for a\ngiant background to the picture, till Tom got jealous, and stood up for\nthe clear chalk streams, and the emerald water meadows and great elms\nand willows of the dear old royal county, as he gloried to call it. And\nthe mother sat on quiet and loving, rejoicing in their life. The quarter\nto ten struck, and the bell rang for bed, before they had well begun\ntheir talk, as it seemed.\n\nThen Tom rose with a sigh to go.\n\n\"Shall I see you in the morning, Geordie?\" said he, as he shook his\nfriend's hand. \"Never mind, though; you'll be back next half. And I\nshan't forget the house of Rimmon.\"\n\nArthur's mother got up and walked with him to the door, and there gave\nhim her hand again; and again his eyes met that deep, loving look, which\nwas like a spell upon him. Her voice trembled slightly as she said,\n\"Good-night. You are one who knows what our Father has promised to the\nfriend of the widow and the fatherless. May He deal with you as you have\ndealt with me and mine!\"\n\nTom was quite upset; he mumbled something about owing everything good in\nhim to Geordie, looked in her face again, pressed her hand to his lips,\nand rushed downstairs to his study, where he sat till old Thomas came\nkicking at the door, to tell him his allowance would be stopped if he\ndidn't go off to bed. (It would have been stopped anyhow, but that he\nwas a great favourite with the old gentleman, who loved to come out in\nthe afternoons into the close to Tom's wicket, and bowl slow twisters to\nhim, and talk of the glories of bygone Surrey heroes, with whom he\nhad played former generations.) So Tom roused himself, and took up\nhis candle to go to bed; and then for the first time was aware of\na beautiful new fishing-rod, with old Eton's mark on it, and a\nsplendidly-bound Bible, which lay on his table, on the title-page\nof which was written--\"TOM BROWN, from his affectionate and grateful\nfriends, Frances Jane Arthur; George Arthur.\"\n\nI leave you all to guess how he slept, and what he dreamt of.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII--HARRY EAST'S DILEMMAS AND DELIVERANCES.\n\n     \"The Holy Supper is kept indeed,\n     In whatso we share with another's need\n     Not that which we give, but what we share,\n     For the gift without the giver is bare.\n     Who bestows himself with his alms feeds three,\n     Himself, his hungering neighbour and Me.\"\n     --LOWELL, The Vision of Sir Launfal.\n\nThe next morning, after breakfast, Tom, East, and Gower met as usual\nto learn their second lesson together. Tom had been considering how to\nbreak his proposal of giving up the crib to the others, and having found\nno better way (as indeed none better can ever be found by man or boy),\ntold them simply what had happened; how he had been to see Arthur, who\nhad talked to him upon the subject, and what he had said, and for his\npart he had made up his mind, and wasn't going to use cribs any more;\nand not being quite sure of his ground, took the high and pathetic tone,\nand was proceeding to say \"how that, having learnt his lessons with\nthem for so many years, it would grieve him much to put an end to the\narrangement, and he hoped, at any rate, that if they wouldn't go on\nwith him, they should still be just as good friends, and respect one\nanother's motives; but--\"\n\nHere the other boys, who had been listening with open eyes and ears,\nburst in,--\n\n\"Stuff and nonsense!\" cried Gower. \"Here, East, get down the crib and\nfind the place.\"\n\n\"O Tommy, Tommy!\" said East, proceeding to do as he was bidden, \"that it\nshould ever have come to this! I knew Arthur'd be the ruin of you some\nday, and you of me. And now the time's come.\" And he made a doleful\nface.\n\n\"I don't know about ruin,\" answered Tom; \"I know that you and I would\nhave had the sack long ago if it hadn't been for him. And you know it as\nwell as I.\"\n\n\"Well, we were in a baddish way before he came, I own; but this new\ncrotchet of his is past a joke.\"\n\n\"Let's give it a trial, Harry; come. You know how often he has been\nright and we wrong.\"\n\n\"Now, don't you two be jawing away about young Square-toes,\" struck in\nGower. \"He's no end of a sucking wiseacre, I dare say; but we've no time\nto lose, and I've got the fives court at half-past nine.\"\n\n\"I say, Gower,\" said Tom appealingly, \"be a good fellow, and let's try\nif we can't get on without the crib.\"\n\n\"What! in this chorus? Why, we shan't get through ten lines.\"\n\n\"I say, Tom,\" cried East, having hit on a new idea, \"don't you remember,\nwhen we were in the upper fourth, and old Momus caught me construing\noff the leaf of a crib which I'd torn out and put in my book, and which\nwould float out on to the floor, he sent me up to be flogged for it?\"\n\n\"Yes, I remember it very well.\"\n\n\"Well, the Doctor, after he'd flogged me, told me himself that he didn't\nflog me for using a translation, but for taking it in to lesson, and\nusing it there when I hadn't learnt a word before I came in. He said\nthere was no harm in using a translation to get a clue to hard passages,\nif you tried all you could first to make them out without.\"\n\n\"Did he, though?\" said Tom; \"then Arthur must be wrong.\"\n\n\"Of course he is,\" said Gower--\"the little prig. We'll only use the crib\nwhen we can't construe without it.--Go ahead, East.\"\n\nAnd on this agreement they started--Tom, satisfied with having made his\nconfession, and not sorry to have a locus penitentiae, and not to be\ndeprived altogether of the use of his old and faithful friend.\n\nThe boys went on as usual, each taking a sentence in turn, and the crib\nbeing handed to the one whose turn it was to construe. Of course\nTom couldn't object to this, as, was it not simply lying there to be\nappealed to in case the sentence should prove too hard altogether for\nthe construer? But it must be owned that Gower and East did not make\nvery tremendous exertions to conquer their sentences before having\nrecourse to its help. Tom, however, with the most heroic virtue and\ngallantry, rushed into his sentence, searching in a high-minded manner\nfor nominative and verb, and turning over his dictionary frantically for\nthe first hard word that stopped him. But in the meantime Gower, who\nwas bent on getting to fives, would peep quietly into the crib, and then\nsuggest, \"Don't you think this is the meaning?\" \"I think you must take\nit this way, Brown.\" And as Tom didn't see his way to not profiting by\nthese suggestions, the lesson went on about as quickly as usual, and\nGower was able to start for the fives court within five minutes of the\nhalf-hour.\n\nWhen Tom and East were left face to face, they looked at one another for\na minute, Tom puzzled, and East chokefull of fun, and then burst into a\nroar of laughter.\n\n\"Well, Tom,\" said East, recovering himself, \"I don t see any objection\nto the new way. It's about as good as the old one, I think, besides the\nadvantage it gives one of feeling virtuous, and looking down on one's\nneighbours.\"\n\nTom shoved his hand into his back hair. \"I ain't so sure,\" said he; \"you\ntwo fellows carried me off my legs. I don't think we really tried one\nsentence fairly. Are you sure you remember what the Doctor said to you?\"\n\n\"Yes. And I'll swear I couldn't make out one of my sentences to-day--no,\nnor ever could. I really don't remember,\" said East, speaking slowly and\nimpressively, \"to have come across one Latin or Greek sentence this half\nthat I could go and construe by the light of nature. Whereby I am sure\nProvidence intended cribs to be used.\"\n\n\"The thing to find out,\" said Tom meditatively, \"is how long one ought\nto grind at a sentence without looking at the crib. Now I think if one\nfairly looks out all the words one don't know, and then can't hit it,\nthat's enough.\"\n\n\"To be sure, Tommy,\" said East demurely, but with a merry twinkle in his\neye. \"Your new doctrine too, old fellow,\" added he, \"when one comes to\nthink of it, is a cutting at the root of all school morality. You'll\ntake away mutual help, brotherly love, or, in the vulgar tongue, giving\nconstrues, which I hold to be one of our highest virtues. For how can\nyou distinguish between getting a construe from another boy and using a\ncrib? Hang it, Tom, if you're going to deprive all our school-fellows\nof the chance of exercising Christian benevolence and being good\nSamaritans, I shall cut the concern.\"\n\n\"I wish you wouldn't joke about it, Harry; it's hard enough to see one's\nway--a precious sight harder than I thought last night. But I suppose\nthere's a use and an abuse of both, and one'll get straight enough\nsomehow. But you can't make out, anyhow, that one has a right to use old\nvulgus-books and copy-books.\"\n\n\"Hullo, more heresy! How fast a fellow goes downhill when he once gets\nhis head before his legs. Listen to me, Tom. Not use old vulgus-books!\nWhy, you Goth, ain't we to take the benefit of the wisdom and admire and\nuse the work of past generations? Not use old copy-books! Why, you\nmight as well say we ought to pull down Westminster Abbey, and put up a\ngo-to-meeting shop with churchwarden windows; or never read Shakespeare,\nbut only Sheridan Knowles. Think of all the work and labour that our\npredecessors have bestowed on these very books; and are we to make their\nwork of no value?\"\n\n\"I say, Harry, please don't chaff; I'm really serious.\"\n\n\"And then, is it not our duty to consult the pleasure of others rather\nthan our own, and above all, that of our masters? Fancy, then, the\ndifference to them in looking over a vulgus which has been carefully\ntouched and retouched by themselves and others, and which must bring\nthem a sort of dreamy pleasure, as if they'd met the thought\nor expression of it somewhere or another--before they were born\nperhaps--and that of cutting up, and making picture-frames round all\nyour and my false quantities, and other monstrosities. Why, Tom, you\nwouldn't be so cruel as never to let old Momus hum over the 'O genus\nhumanum' again, and then look up doubtingly through his spectacles, and\nend by smiling and giving three extra marks for it--just for old sake's\nsake, I suppose.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Tom, getting up in something as like a huff as he was\ncapable of, \"it's deuced hard that when a fellow's really trying to do\nwhat he ought, his best friends'll do nothing but chaff him and try to\nput him down.\" And he stuck his books under his arm and his hat on his\nhead, preparatory to rushing out into the quadrangle, to testify with\nhis own soul of the faithlessness of friendships.\n\n\"Now don't be an ass, Tom,\" said East, catching hold of him; \"you know\nme well enough by this time; my bark's worse than my bite. You can't\nexpect to ride your new crotchet without anybody's trying to stick a\nnettle under his tail and make him kick you off--especially as we shall\nall have to go on foot still. But now sit down, and let's go over it\nagain. I'll be as serious as a judge.\"\n\nThen Tom sat himself down on the table, and waxed eloquent about all the\nrighteousnesses and advantages of the new plan, as was his wont whenever\nhe took up anything, going into it as if his life depended upon it, and\nsparing no abuse which he could think of, of the opposite method, which\nhe denounced as ungentlemanly, cowardly, mean, lying, and no one knows\nwhat besides. \"Very cool of Tom,\" as East thought, but didn't say,\n\"seeing as how he only came out of Egypt himself last night at bedtime.\"\n\n\"Well, Tom,\" said he at last, \"you see, when you and I came to school\nthere were none of these sort of notions. You may be right--I dare say\nyou are. Only what one has always felt about the masters is, that it's\na fair trial of skill and last between us and them--like a match at\nfootball or a battle. We're natural enemies in school--that's the fact.\nWe've got to learn so much Latin and Greek, and do so many verses, and\nthey've got to see that we do it. If we can slip the collar and do so\nmuch less without getting caught, that's one to us. If they can get more\nout of us, or catch us shirking, that's one to them. All's fair in war\nbut lying. If I run my luck against theirs, and go into school without\nlooking at my lessons, and don't get called up, why am I a snob or a\nsneak? I don't tell the master I've learnt it. He's got to find out\nwhether I have or not. What's he paid for? If he calls me up and I get\nfloored, he makes me write it out in Greek and English. Very good. He's\ncaught me, and I don't grumble. I grant you, if I go and snivel to him,\nand tell him I've really tried to learn it, but found it so hard without\na translation, or say I've had a toothache, or any humbug of that kind,\nI'm a snob. That's my school morality; it's served me, and you too, Tom,\nfor the matter of that, these five years. And it's all clear and fair,\nno mistake about it. We understand it, and they understand it, and I\ndon't know what we're to come to with any other.\"\n\nTom looked at him pleased and a little puzzled. He had never heard\nEast speak his mind seriously before, and couldn't help feeling how\ncompletely he had hit his own theory and practice up to that time.\n\n\"Thank you, old fellow,\" said he. \"You're a good old brick to be\nserious, and not put out with me. I said more than I meant, I dare say,\nonly you see I know I'm right. Whatever you and Gower and the rest do, I\nshall hold on. I must. And as it's all new and an uphill game, you see,\none must hit hard and hold on tight at first.\"\n\n\"Very good,\" said East; \"hold on and hit away, only don't hit under the\nline.\"\n\n\"But I must bring you over, Harry, or I shan't be comfortable. Now, I'll\nallow all you've said. We've always been honourable enemies with the\nmasters. We found a state of war when we came, and went into it of\ncourse. Only don't you think things are altered a good deal? I don't\nfeel as I used to the masters. They seem to me to treat one quite\ndifferently.\"\n\n\"Yes, perhaps they do,\" said East; \"there's a new set you see, mostly,\nwho don't feel sure of themselves yet. They don't want to fight till\nthey know the ground.\"\n\n\"I don't think it's only that,\" said Tom. \"And then the Doctor, he does\ntreat one so openly, and like a gentleman, and as if one was working\nwith him.\"\n\n\"Well, so he does,\" said East; \"he's a splendid fellow, and when I get\ninto the sixth I shall act accordingly. Only you know he has nothing to\ndo with our lessons now, except examining us. I say, though,\" looking at\nhis watch, \"it's just the quarter. Come along.\"\n\nAs they walked out they got a message, to say that Arthur was just\nstarting, and would like to say goodbye. So they went down to the\nprivate entrance of the School-house, and found an open carriage,\nwith Arthur propped up with pillows in it, looking already better, Tom\nthought.\n\nThey jumped up on to the steps to shake hands with him, and Tom mumbled\nthanks for the presents he had found in his study, and looked round\nanxiously for Arthur's mother.\n\nEast, who had fallen back into his usual humour, looked quaintly at\nArthur, and said,--\n\n\"So you've been at it again, through that hot-headed convert of yours\nthere. He's been making our lives a burden to us all the morning about\nusing cribs. I shall get floored to a certainty at second lesson, if I'm\ncalled up.\"\n\nArthur blushed and looked down. Tom struck in,--\n\n\"Oh, it's all right. He's converted already; he always comes through the\nmud after us, grumbling and sputtering.\"\n\nThe clock struck, and they had to go off to school, wishing Arthur a\npleasant holiday, Tom, lingering behind a moment to send his thanks and\nlove to Arthur's mother.\n\nTom renewed the discussion after second lesson, and succeeded so far as\nto get East to promise to give the new plan a fair trial.\n\nEncouraged by his success, in the evening, when they were sitting alone\nin the large study, where East lived now almost, \"vice Arthur on leave,\"\nafter examining the new fishing-rod, which both pronounced to be the\ngenuine article (\"play enough to throw a midge tied on a single\nhair against the wind, and strength enough to hold a grampus\"), they\nnaturally began talking about Arthur. Tom, who was still bubbling over\nwith last night's scene and all the thoughts of the last week, and\nwanting to clinch and fix the whole in his own mind, which he could\nnever do without first going through the process of belabouring somebody\nelse with it all, suddenly rushed into the subject of Arthur's illness,\nand what he had said about death.\n\nEast had given him the desired opening. After a serio-comic grumble,\n\"that life wasn't worth having, now they were tied to a young beggar\nwho was always 'raising his standard;' and that he, East, was like a\nprophet's donkey, who was obliged to struggle on after the donkey-man\nwho went after the prophet; that he had none of the pleasure of starting\nthe new crotchets, and didn't half understand them, but had to take the\nkicks and carry the luggage as if he had all the fun,\" he threw his legs\nup on to the sofa, and put his hands behind his head, and said,--\n\n\"Well, after all, he's the most wonderful little fellow I ever came\nacross. There ain't such a meek, humble boy in the school. Hanged if\nI don't think now, really, Tom, that he believes himself a much worse\nfellow than you or I, and that he don't think he has more influence in\nthe house than Dot Bowles, who came last quarter, and isn't ten yet. But\nhe turns you and me round his little finger, old boy--there's no mistake\nabout that.\" And East nodded at Tom sagaciously.\n\n\"Now or never!\" thought Tom; so, shutting his eyes and hardening his\nheart, he went straight at it, repeating all that Arthur had said, as\nnear as he could remember it, in the very words, and all he had himself\nthought. The life seemed to ooze out of it as he went on, and several\ntimes he felt inclined to stop, give it all up, and change the subject.\nBut somehow he was borne on; he had a necessity upon him to speak it all\nout, and did so. At the end he looked at East with some anxiety, and was\ndelighted to see that that young gentleman was thoughtful and attentive.\nThe fact is, that in the stage of his inner life at which Tom had lately\narrived, his intimacy with and friendship for East could not have lasted\nif he had not made him aware of, and a sharer in, the thoughts that were\nbeginning to exercise him. Nor indeed could the friendship have lasted\nif East had shown no sympathy with these thoughts; so that it was a\ngreat relief to have unbosomed himself, and to have found that his\nfriend could listen.\n\nTom had always had a sort of instinct that East's levity was only\nskin-deep, and this instinct was a true one. East had no want of\nreverence for anything he felt to be real; but his was one of those\nnatures that burst into what is generally called recklessness and\nimpiety the moment they feel that anything is being poured upon them for\ntheir good which does not come home to their inborn sense of right, or\nwhich appeals to anything like self-interest in them. Daring and\nhonest by nature, and outspoken to an extent which alarmed all\nrespectabilities, with a constant fund of animal health and spirits\nwhich he did not feel bound to curb in any way, he had gained for\nhimself with the steady part of the school (including as well those who\nwished to appear steady as those who really were so) the character of a\nboy with whom it would be dangerous to be intimate; while his own hatred\nof everything cruel, or underhand, or false, and his hearty respect for\nwhat he would see to be good and true, kept off the rest.\n\nTom, besides being very like East in many points of character, had\nlargely developed in his composition the capacity for taking the weakest\nside. This is not putting it strongly enough: it was a necessity with\nhim; he couldn't help it any more than he could eating or drinking. He\ncould never play on the strongest side with any heart at football or\ncricket, and was sure to make friends with any boy who was unpopular, or\ndown on his luck.\n\nNow, though East was not what is generally called unpopular, Tom felt\nmore and more every day, as their characters developed, that he\nstood alone, and did not make friends among their contemporaries, and\ntherefore sought him out. Tom was himself much more popular, for his\npower of detecting humbug was much less acute, and his instincts were\nmuch more sociable. He was at this period of his life, too, largely\ngiven to taking people for what they gave themselves out to be; but\nhis singleness of heart, fearlessness, and honesty were just what East\nappreciated, and thus the two had been drawn into great intimacy.\n\nThis intimacy had not been interrupted by Tom's guardianship of Arthur.\n\nEast had often, as has been said, joined them in reading the Bible; but\ntheir discussions had almost always turned upon the characters of the\nmen and women of whom they read, and not become personal to themselves.\nIn fact, the two had shrunk from personal religious discussion, not\nknowing how it might end, and fearful of risking a friendship very dear\nto both, and which they felt somehow, without quite knowing why,\nwould never be the same, but either tenfold stronger or sapped at its\nfoundation, after such a communing together.\n\nWhat a bother all this explaining is! I wish we could get on without\nit. But we can't. However, you'll all find, if you haven't found it out\nalready, that a time comes in every human friendship when you must go\ndown into the depths of yourself, and lay bare what is there to your\nfriend, and wait in fear for his answer. A few moments may do it; and\nit may be (most likely will be, as you are English boys) that you will\nnever do it but once. But done it must be, if the friendship is to be\nworth the name. You must find what is there, at the very root and bottom\nof one another's hearts; and if you are at one there, nothing on earth\ncan or at least ought to sunder you.\n\nEast had remained lying down until Tom finished speaking, as if fearing\nto interrupt him; he now sat up at the table, and leant his head on one\nhand, taking up a pencil with the other, and working little holes with\nit in the table-cover. After a bit he looked up, stopped the pencil,\nand said, \"Thank you very much, old fellow. There's no other boy in\nthe house would have done it for me but you or Arthur. I can see well\nenough,\" he went on, after a pause, \"all the best big fellows look on me\nwith suspicion; they think I'm a devil-may-care, reckless young scamp.\nSo I am--eleven hours out of twelve, but not the twelfth. Then all of\nour contemporaries worth knowing follow suit, of course: we're very good\nfriends at games and all that, but not a soul of them but you and\nArthur ever tried to break through the crust, and see whether there was\nanything at the bottom of me; and then the bad ones I won't stand and\nthey know that.\"\n\n\"Don't you think that's half fancy, Harry?\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it,\" said East bitterly, pegging away with his pencil.\n\"I see it all plain enough. Bless you, you think everybody's as\nstraightforward and kindhearted as you are.\"\n\n\"Well, but what's the reason of it? There must be a reason. You can play\nall the games as well as any one and sing the best song, and are the\nbest company in the house. You fancy you're not liked, Harry. It's all\nfancy.\"\n\n\"I only wish it was, Tom. I know I could be popular enough with all the\nbad ones, but that I won't have, and the good ones won't have me.\"\n\n\"Why not?\" persisted Tom; \"you don't drink or swear, or get out at\nnight; you never bully, or cheat at lessons. If you only showed you\nliked it, you'd have all the best fellows in the house running after\nyou.\"\n\n\"Not I,\" said East. Then with an effort he went on, \"I'll tell you what\nit is. I never stop the Sacrament. I can see, from the Doctor downwards,\nhow that tells against me.\"\n\n\"Yes, I've seen that,\" said Tom, \"and I've been very sorry for it, and\nArthur and I have talked about it. I've often thought of speaking to\nyou, but it's so hard to begin on such subjects. I'm very glad you've\nopened it. Now, why don't you?\"\n\n\"I've never been confirmed,\" said East.\n\n\"Not been confirmed!\" said Tom, in astonishment. \"I never thought of\nthat. Why weren't you confirmed with the rest of us nearly three years\nago? I always thought you'd been confirmed at home.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered East sorrowfully; \"you see this was how it happened. Last\nConfirmation was soon after Arthur came, and you were so taken up with\nhim I hardly saw either of you. Well, when the Doctor sent round for us\nabout it, I was living mostly with Green's set. You know the sort. They\nall went in. I dare say it was all right, and they got good by it; I\ndon't want to judge them. Only all I could see of their reasons drove me\njust the other way. 'Twas 'because the Doctor liked it;' 'no boy got\non who didn't stay the Sacrament;' it was the 'correct thing,' in fact,\nlike having a good hat to wear on Sundays. I couldn't stand it. I didn't\nfeel that I wanted to lead a different life. I was very well content\nas I was, and I wasn't going to sham religious to curry favour with the\nDoctor, or any one else.\"\n\nEast stopped speaking, and pegged away more diligently than ever with\nhis pencil. Tom was ready to cry. He felt half sorry at first that he\nhad been confirmed himself. He seemed to have deserted his earliest\nfriend--to have left him by himself at his worst need for those long\nyears. He got up and went and sat by East, and put his arm over his\nshoulder.\n\n\"Dear old boy,\" he said, \"how careless and selfish I've been. But why\ndidn't you come and talk to Arthur and me?\"\n\n\"I wish to Heaven I had,\" said East, \"but I was a fool. It's too late\ntalking of it now.\"\n\n\"Why too late? You want to be confirmed now, don't you?\"\n\n\"I think so,\" said East. \"I've thought about it a good deal; only, often\nI fancy I must be changing, because I see it's to do me good here--just\nwhat stopped me last time. And then I go back again.\"\n\n\"I'll tell you now how 'twas with me,\" said Tom warmly. \"If it hadn't\nbeen for Arthur, I should have done just as you did. I hope I should. I\nhonour you for it. But then he made it out just as if it was taking the\nweak side before all the world--going in once for all against everything\nthat's strong and rich, and proud and respectable, a little band of\nbrothers against the whole world. And the Doctor seemed to say so too,\nonly he said a great deal more.\"\n\n\"Ah!\" groaned East, \"but there again, that's just another of my\ndifficulties whenever I think about the matter. I don't want to be one\nof your saints, one of your elect, whatever the right phrase is. My\nsympathies are all the other way--with the many, the poor devils who run\nabout the streets and don't go to church. Don't stare, Tom; mind, I'm\ntelling you all that's in my heart--as far as I know it--but it's all a\nmuddle. You must be gentle with me if you want to land me. Now I've seen\na deal of this sort of religion; I was bred up in it, and I can't stand\nit. If nineteen-twentieths of the world are to be left to uncovenanted\nmercies, and that sort of thing, which means in plain English to go to\nhell, and the other twentieth are to rejoice at it all, why--\"\n\n\"Oh! but, Harry, they ain't, they don't,\" broke in Tom, really shocked.\n\"Oh, how I wish Arthur hadn't gone! I'm such a fool about these things.\nBut it's all you want too, East; it is indeed. It cuts both ways\nsomehow, being confirmed and taking the Sacrament. It makes you feel on\nthe side of all the good and all the bad too, of everybody in the world.\nOnly there's some great dark strong power, which is crushing you and\neverybody else. That's what Christ conquered, and we've got to fight.\nWhat a fool I am! I can't explain. If Arthur were only here!\"\n\n\"I begin to get a glimmering of what you mean,\" said East.\n\n\"I say, now,\" said Tom eagerly, \"do you remember how we both hated\nFlashman?\"\n\n\"Of course I do,\" said East; \"I hate him still. What then?\"\n\n\"Well, when I came to take the Sacrament, I had a great struggle about\nthat. I tried to put him out of my head; and when I couldn't do that, I\ntried to think of him as evil--as something that the Lord who was loving\nme hated, and which I might hate too. But it wouldn't do. I broke down;\nI believe Christ Himself broke me down. And when the Doctor gave me the\nbread and wine, and leant over me praying, I prayed for poor Flashman,\nas if it had been you or Arthur.\"\n\nEast buried his face in his hands on the table. Tom could feel the table\ntremble. At last he looked up. \"Thank you again, Tom,\" said he; \"you\ndon't know what you may have done for me to-night. I think I see now how\nthe right sort of sympathy with poor devils is got at.\"\n\n\"And you'll stop the Sacrament next time, won't you?\" said Tom.\n\n\"Can I, before I'm confirmed?\"\n\n\"Go and ask the Doctor.\"\n\n\"I will.\"\n\nThat very night, after prayers, East followed the Doctor, and the old\nverger bearing the candle, upstairs. Tom watched, and saw the Doctor\nturn round when he heard footsteps following him closer than usual, and\nsay, \"Hah, East! Do you want to speak to me, my man?\"\n\n\"If you please, sir.\" And the private door closed, and Tom went to his\nstudy in a state of great trouble of mind.\n\nIt was almost an hour before East came back. Then he rushed in\nbreathless.\n\n\"Well, it's all right,\" he shouted, seizing Tom by the hand. \"I feel as\nif a ton weight were off my mind.\"\n\n\"Hurrah,\" said Tom. \"I knew it would be; but tell us all about it.\"\n\n\"Well, I just told him all about it. You can't think how kind and gentle\nhe was, the great grim man, whom I've feared more than anybody on earth.\nWhen I stuck, he lifted me just as if I'd been a little child. And he\nseemed to know all I'd felt, and to have gone through it all. And I\nburst out crying--more than I've done this five years; and he sat down\nby me, and stroked my head; and I went blundering on, and told him\nall--much worse things than I've told you. And he wasn't shocked a bit,\nand didn't snub me, or tell me I was a fool, and it was all nothing but\npride or wickedness, though I dare say it was. And he didn't tell me\nnot to follow out my thoughts, and he didn't give me any cut-and-dried\nexplanation. But when I'd done he just talked a bit. I can hardly\nremember what he said yet; but it seemed to spread round me like\nhealing, and strength, and light, and to bear me up, and plant me on a\nrock, where I could hold my footing and fight for myself. I don't know\nwhat to do, I feel so happy. And it's all owing to you, dear old boy!\"\nAnd he seized Tom's hand again.\n\n\"And you're to come to the Communion?\" said Tom.\n\n\"Yes, and to be confirmed in the holidays.\"\n\nTom's delight was as great as his friend's. But he hadn't yet had\nout all his own talk, and was bent on improving the occasion: so he\nproceeded to propound Arthur's theory about not being sorry for his\nfriends' deaths, which he had hitherto kept in the background, and by\nwhich he was much exercised; for he didn't feel it honest to take what\npleased him, and throw over the rest, and was trying vigorously to\npersuade himself that he should like all his best friends to die\noff-hand.\n\nBut East's powers of remaining serious were exhausted, and in five\nminutes he was saying the most ridiculous things he could think of, till\nTom was almost getting angry again.\n\nDespite of himself, however, he couldn't help laughing and giving it up,\nwhen East appealed to him with, \"Well, Tom, you ain't going to punch my\nhead, I hope, because I insist upon being sorry when you got to earth?\"\n\nAnd so their talk finished for that time, and they tried to learn first\nlesson, with very poor success, as appeared next morning, when they were\ncalled up and narrowly escaped being floored, which ill-luck, however,\ndid not sit heavily on either of their souls.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII--TOM BROWN'S LAST MATCH.\n\n     \"Heaven grant the manlier heart, that timely ere\n     Youth fly, with life's real tempest would be coping;\n     The fruit of dreamy hoping\n     Is, waking, blank despair.\"--CLOUGH, Ambarvalia.\n\nThe curtain now rises upon the last act of our little drama, for\nhard-hearted publishers warn me that a single volume must of necessity\nhave an end. Well, well! the pleasantest things must come to an end.\nI little thought last long vacation, when I began these pages to help\nwhile away some spare time at a watering-place, how vividly many an old\nscene which had lain hid away for years in some dusty old corner of my\nbrain, would come back again, and stand before me as clear and bright as\nif it had happened yesterday. The book has been a most grateful task\nto me, and I only hope that all you, my dear young friends, who read it\n(friends assuredly you must be, if you get as far as this), will be half\nas sorry to come to the last stage as I am.\n\nNot but what there has been a solemn and a sad side to it. As the old\nscenes became living, and the actors in them became living too, many\na grave in the Crimea and distant India, as well as in the quiet\nchurchyards of our dear old country, seemed to open and send forth their\ndead, and their voices and looks and ways were again in one's ears and\neyes, as in the old School-days. But this was not sad. How should it be,\nif we believe as our Lord has taught us? How should it be, when one more\nturn of the wheel, and we shall be by their sides again, learning from\nthem again, perhaps, as we did when we were new boys.\n\nThen there were others of the old faces so dear to us once who had\nsomehow or another just gone clean out of sight. Are they dead or\nliving? We know not, but the thought of them brings no sadness with it.\nWherever they are, we can well believe they are doing God's work and\ngetting His wages.\n\nBut are there not some, whom we still see sometimes in the streets,\nwhose haunts and homes we know, whom we could probably find almost any\nday in the week if we were set to do it, yet from whom we are really\nfarther than we are from the dead, and from those who have gone out of\nour ken? Yes, there are and must be such; and therein lies the sadness\nof old School memories. Yet of these our old comrades, from whom more\nthan time and space separate us, there are some by whose sides we can\nfeel sure that we shall stand again when time shall be no more. We may\nthink of one another now as dangerous fanatics or narrow bigots, with\nwhom no truce is possible, from whom we shall only sever more and more\nto the end of our lives, whom it would be our respective duties to\nimprison or hang, if we had the power. We must go our way, and they\ntheirs, as long as flesh and spirit hold together; but let our own Rugby\npoet speak words of healing for this trial:--\n\n     \"To veer how vain! on, onward strain,\n     Brave barks, in light, in darkness too;\n     Through winds and tides one compass guides,--\n     To that, and your own selves, be true.\n\n     \"But, O blithe breeze, and O great seas,\n     Though ne'er that earliest parting past,\n     On your wide plain they join again;\n     Together lead them home at last.\n\n     \"One port, methought, alike they sought,\n     One purpose hold where'er they fare.\n     O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,\n     At last, at last, unite them there!\" *\n\n\n     * Clough, Ambarvalia.\n\nThis is not mere longing; it is prophecy. So over these too, our old\nfriends, who are friends no more, we sorrow not as men without hope. It\nis only for those who seem to us to have lost compass and purpose, and\nto be driven helplessly on rocks and quicksands, whose lives are spent\nin the service of the world, the flesh, and the devil, for self alone,\nand not for their fellow-men, their country, or their God, that we must\nmourn and pray without sure hope and without light, trusting only that\nHe, in whose hands they as well as we are, who has died for them as well\nas for us, who sees all His creatures\n\n     \"With larger other eyes than ours,\n     To make allowance for us all,\"\n\nwill, in His own way and at His own time, lead them also home.\n\nAnother two years have passed, and it is again the end of the summer\nhalf-year at Rugby; in fact, the School has broken up. The fifth-form\nexaminations were over last week, and upon them have followed the\nspeeches, and the sixth-form examinations for exhibitions; and they too\nare over now. The boys have gone to all the winds of heaven, except the\ntown boys and the eleven, and the few enthusiasts besides who have asked\nleave to stay in their houses to see the result of the cricket matches.\nFor this year the Wellesburn return match and the Marylebone match are\nplayed at Rugby, to the great delight of the town and neighbourhood, and\nthe sorrow of those aspiring young cricketers who have been reckoning\nfor the last three months on showing off at Lord's ground.\n\nThe Doctor started for the Lakes yesterday morning, after an interview\nwith the captain of the eleven, in the presence of Thomas, at which he\narranged in what school the cricket dinners were to be, and all other\nmatters necessary for the satisfactory carrying out of the festivities,\nand warned them as to keeping all spirituous liquors out of the close,\nand having the gates closed by nine o'clock.\n\nThe Wellesburn match was played out with great success yesterday, the\nSchool winning by three wickets; and to-day the great event of the\ncricketing year, the Marylebone match, is being played. What a match it\nhas been! The London eleven came down by an afternoon train yesterday,\nin time to see the end of the Wellesburn match; and as soon as it was\nover, their leading men and umpire inspected the ground, criticising it\nrather unmercifully. The captain of the School eleven, and one or\ntwo others, who had played the Lord's match before, and knew old Mr.\nAislabie and several of the Lord's men, accompanied them; while the rest\nof the eleven looked on from under the Three Trees with admiring eyes,\nand asked one another the names of the illustrious strangers, and\nrecounted how many runs each of them had made in the late matches in\nBell's Life. They looked such hard-bitten, wiry, whiskered fellows that\ntheir young adversaries felt rather desponding as to the result of the\nmorrow's match. The ground was at last chosen, and two men set to work\nupon it to water and roll; and then, there being yet some half-hour of\ndaylight, some one had suggested a dance on the turf. The close was\nhalf full of citizens and their families, and the idea was hailed\nwith enthusiasm. The cornopean player was still on the ground. In five\nminutes the eleven and half a dozen of the Wellesburn and Marylebone men\ngot partners somehow or another, and a merry country-dance was going on,\nto which every one flocked, and new couples joined in every minute, till\nthere were a hundred of them going down the middle and up again; and the\nlong line of school buildings looked gravely down on them, every window\nglowing with the last rays of the western sun; and the rooks clanged\nabout in the tops of the old elms, greatly excited, and resolved on\nhaving their country-dance too; and the great flag flapped lazily in the\ngentle western breeze. Altogether it was a sight which would have made\nglad the heart of our brave old founder, Lawrence Sheriff, if he were\nhalf as good a fellow as I take him to have been. It was a cheerful\nsight to see. But what made it so valuable in the sight of the captain\nof the School eleven was that he there saw his young hands shaking\noff their shyness and awe of the Lord's men, as they crossed hands and\ncapered about on the grass together; for the strangers entered into\nit all, and threw away their cigars, and danced and shouted like boys;\nwhile old Mr. Aislabie stood by looking on in his white hat, leaning on\na bat, in benevolent enjoyment. \"This hop will be worth thirty runs to\nus to-morrow, and will be the making of Raggles and Johnson,\" thinks the\nyoung leader, as he revolves many things in his mind, standing by the\nside of Mr. Aislabie, whom he will not leave for a minute, for he\nfeels that the character of the School for courtesy is resting on his\nshoulders.\n\nBut when a quarter to nine struck, and he saw old Thomas beginning\nto fidget about with the keys in his hand, he thought of the Doctor's\nparting monition, and stopped the cornopean at once, notwithstanding the\nloud-voiced remonstrances from all sides; and the crowd scattered away\nfrom the close, the eleven all going into the School-house, where supper\nand beds were provided for them by the Doctor's orders.\n\nDeep had been the consultations at supper as to the order of going in,\nwho should bowl the first over, whether it would be best to play steady\nor freely; and the youngest hands declared that they shouldn't be a\nbit nervous, and praised their opponents as the jolliest fellows in the\nworld, except perhaps their old friends the Wellesburn men. How far\na little good-nature from their elders will go with the right sort of\nboys!\n\nThe morning had dawned bright and warm, to the intense relief of many\nan anxious youngster, up betimes to mark the signs of the weather. The\neleven went down in a body before breakfast, for a plunge in the cold\nbath in a corner of the close. The ground was in splendid order, and\nsoon after ten o'clock, before spectators had arrived, all was ready,\nand two of the Lord's men took their places at the wickets--the School,\nwith the usual liberality of young hands, having put their adversaries\nin first. Old Bailey stepped up to the wicket, and called play, and the\nmatch has begun.\n\n\"Oh, well bowled! well bowled, Johnson!\" cries the captain, catching\nup the ball and sending it high above the rook trees, while the third\nMarylebone man walks away from the wicket, and old Bailey gravely sets\nup the middle stump again and puts the bails on.\n\n\"How many runs?\" Away scamper three boys to the scoring table, and are\nback again in a minute amongst the rest of the eleven, who are collected\ntogether in a knot between wicket. \"Only eighteen runs, and three\nwickets down!\" \"Huzza for old Rugby!\" sings out Jack Raggles, the\nlong-stop, toughest and burliest of boys, commonly called \"Swiper Jack,\"\nand forthwith stands on his head, and brandishes his legs in the air\nin triumph, till the next boy catches hold of his heels, and throws him\nover on to his back.\n\n\"Steady there; don't be such an ass, Jack,\" says the captain; \"we\nhaven't got the best wicket yet. Ah, look out now at cover-point,\" adds\nhe, as he sees a long-armed bare-headed, slashing-looking player coming\nto the wicket. \"And, Jack, mind your hits. He steals more runs than any\nman in England.\"\n\nAnd they all find that they have got their work to do now. The\nnewcomer's off-hitting is tremendous, and his running like a flash of\nlightning. He is never in his ground except when his wicket is down.\nNothing in the whole game so trying to boys. He has stolen three byes in\nthe first ten minutes, and Jack Raggles is furious, and begins throwing\nover savagely to the farther wicket, until he is sternly stopped by the\ncaptain. It is all that young gentlemen can do to keep his team steady,\nbut he knows that everything depends on it, and faces his work bravely.\nThe score creeps up to fifty; the boys begin to look blank; and the\nspectators, who are now mustering strong, are very silent. The ball\nflies off his bat to all parts of the field, and he gives no rest and\nno catches to any one. But cricket is full of glorious chances, and\nthe goddess who presides over it loves to bring down the most skilful\nplayers. Johnson, the young bowler, is getting wild, and bowls a ball\nalmost wide to the off; the batter steps out and cuts it beautifully to\nwhere cover-point is standing very deep--in fact almost off the ground.\nThe ball comes skimming and twisting along about three feet from the\nground; he rushes at it, and it sticks somehow or other in the fingers\nof his left hand, to the utter astonishment of himself and the whole\nfield. Such a catch hasn't been made in the close for years, and the\ncheering is maddening. \"Pretty cricket,\" says the captain, throwing\nhimself on the ground by the deserted wicket with a long breath. He\nfeels that a crisis has passed.\n\nI wish I had space to describe the match--how the captain stumped the\nnext man off a leg-shooter, and bowled small cobs to old Mr. Aislabie,\nwho came in for the last wicket; how the Lord's men were out by\nhalf-past twelve o'clock for ninety-eight runs; how the captain of\nthe School eleven went in first to give his men pluck, and scored\ntwenty-five in beautiful style; how Rugby was only four behind in\nthe first innings; what a glorious dinner they had in the fourth-form\nschool; and how the cover-point hitter sang the most topping comic\nsongs, and old Mr. Aislabie made the best speeches that ever were heard,\nafterwards. But I haven't space--that's the fact; and so you must fancy\nit all, and carry yourselves on to half-past seven o'clock, when the\nSchool are again in, with five wickets down, and only thirty-two runs\nto make to win. The Marylebone men played carelessly in their second\ninnings, but they are working like horses now to save the match.\n\nThere is much healthy, hearty, happy life scattered up and down the\nclose; but the group to which I beg to call your especial attention\nis there, on the slope of the island, which looks towards the\ncricket-ground. It consists of three figures; two are seated on a bench,\nand one on the ground at their feet. The first, a tall, slight and\nrather gaunt man, with a bushy eyebrow and a dry, humorous smile, is\nevidently a clergyman. He is carelessly dressed, and looks rather used\nup, which isn't much to be wondered at, seeing that he has just finished\nsix weeks of examination work; but there he basks, and spreads himself\nout in the evening sun, bent on enjoying life, though he doesn't quite\nknow what to do with his arms and legs. Surely it is our friend the\nyoung master, whom we have had glimpses of before, but his face has\ngained a great deal since we last came across him.\n\nAnd by his side, in white flannel shirt and trousers, straw hat, the\ncaptain's belt, and the untanned yellow cricket shoes which all the\neleven wear, sits a strapping figure, near six feet high, with ruddy,\ntanned face and whiskers, curly brown hair, and a laughing, dancing eye.\nHe is leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, and dandling\nhis favourite bat, with which he has made thirty or forty runs to-day,\nin his strong brown hands. It is Tom Brown, grown into a young man\nnineteen years old, a prepostor and captain of the eleven, spending\nhis last day as a Rugby boy, and, let us hope, as much wiser as he is\nbigger, since we last had the pleasure of coming across him.\n\nAnd at their feet on the warm, dry ground, similarly dressed, sits\nArthur, Turkish fashion, with his bat across his knees. He too is no\nlonger a boy--less of a boy, in fact, than Tom, if one may judge from\nthe thoughtfulness of his face, which is somewhat paler, too, than one\ncould wish; but his figure, though slight, is well knit and active, and\nall his old timidity has disappeared, and is replaced by silent, quaint\nfun, with which his face twinkles all over, as he listens to the broken\ntalk between the other two, in which he joins every now and then.\n\nAll three are watching the game eagerly, and joining in the cheering\nwhich follows every good hit. It is pleasing to see the easy, friendly\nfooting which the pupils are on with their master, perfectly respectful,\nyet with no reserve and nothing forced in their intercourse. Tom has\nclearly abandoned the old theory of \"natural enemies\" in this case at\nany rate.\n\nBut it is time to listen to what they are saying, and see what we can\ngather out of it.\n\n\"I don't object to your theory,\" says the master, \"and I allow you have\nmade a fair case for yourself. But now, in such books as Aristophanes,\nfor instance, you've been reading a play this half with the Doctor,\nhaven't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, the Knights,\" answered Tom.\n\n\"Well, I'm sure you would have enjoyed the wonderful humour of it twice\nas much if you had taken more pains with your scholarship.\"\n\n\"Well, sir, I don't believe any boy in the form enjoyed the sets-to\nbetween Cleon and the Sausage-seller more than I did--eh, Arthur?\" said\nTom, giving him a stir with his foot.\n\n\"Yes, I must say he did,\" said Arthur. \"I think, sir, you've hit upon\nthe wrong book there.\"\n\n\"Not a bit of it,\" said the master. \"Why, in those very passages of\narms, how can you thoroughly appreciate them unless you are master of\nthe weapons? and the weapons are the language, which you, Brown, have\nnever half worked at; and so, as I say, you must have lost all the\ndelicate shades of meaning which make the best part of the fun.\"\n\n\"Oh, well played! bravo, Johnson!\" shouted Arthur, dropping his bat and\nclapping furiously, and Tom joined in with a \"Bravo, Johnson!\" which\nmight have been heard at the chapel.\n\n\"Eh! what was it? I didn't see,\" inquired the master. \"They only got one\nrun, I thought?\"\n\n\"No, but such a ball, three-quarters length, and coming straight for his\nleg bail. Nothing but that turn of the wrist could have saved him, and\nhe drew it away to leg for a safe one.--Bravo, Johnson!\"\n\n\"How well they are bowling, though,\" said Arthur; \"they don't mean to be\nbeat, I can see.\"\n\n\"There now,\" struck in the master; \"you see that's just what I have been\npreaching this half-hour. The delicate play is the true thing. I don't\nunderstand cricket, so I don't enjoy those fine draws which you tell me\nare the best play, though when you or Raggles hit a ball hard away for\nsix I am as delighted as any one. Don't you see the analogy?\"\n\n\"Yes, sir,\" answered Tom, looking up roguishly, \"I see; only the\nquestion remains whether I should have got most good by understanding\nGreek particles or cricket thoroughly. I'm such a thick, I never should\nhave had time for both.\"\n\n\"I see you are an incorrigible,\" said the master, with a chuckle; \"but\nI refute you by an example. Arthur there has taken in Greek and cricket\ntoo.\"\n\n\"Yes, but no thanks to him; Greek came natural to him. Why, when he\nfirst came I remember he used to read Herodotus for pleasure as I did\nDon Quixote, and couldn't have made a false concord if he'd tried ever\nso hard; and then I looked after his cricket.\"\n\n\"Out! Bailey has given him out. Do you see, Tom?\" cries Arthur. \"How\nfoolish of them to run so hard.\"\n\n\"Well, it can't be helped; he has played very well. Whose turn is it to\ngo in?\"\n\n\"I don't know; they've got your list in the tent.\"\n\n\"Let's go and see,\" said Tom, rising; but at this moment Jack Raggles\nand two or three more came running to the island moat.\n\n\"O Brown, mayn't I go in next?\" shouts the Swiper.\n\n\"Whose name is next on the list?\" says the captain.\n\n\"Winter's, and then Arthur's,\" answers the boy who carries it; \"but\nthere are only twenty-six runs to get, and no time to lose. I heard\nMr. Aislabie say that the stumps must be drawn at a quarter past eight\nexactly.\"\n\n\"Oh, do let the Swiper go in,\" chorus the boys; so Tom yields against\nhis better judgment.\n\n\"I dare say now I've lost the match by this nonsense,\" he says, as he\nsits down again; \"they'll be sure to get Jack's wicket in three or four\nminutes; however, you'll have the chance, sir, of seeing a hard hit or\ntwo,\" adds he, smiling, and turning to the master.\n\n\"Come, none of your irony, Brown,\" answers the master. \"I'm beginning to\nunderstand the game scientifically. What a noble game it is, too!\"\n\n\"Isn't it? But it's more than a game. It's an institution,\" said Tom.\n\n\"Yes,\" said Arthur--\"the birthright of British boys old and young, as\nhabeas corpus and trial by jury are of British men.\"\n\n\"The discipline and reliance on one another which it teaches is\nso valuable, I think,\" went on the master, \"it ought to be such an\nunselfish game. It merges the individual in the eleven; he doesn't play\nthat he may win, but that his side may.\"\n\n\"That's very true,\" said Tom, \"and that's why football and cricket,\nnow one comes to think of it, are such much better games than fives or\nhare-and-hounds, or any others where the object is to come in first or\nto win for oneself, and not that one's side may win.\"\n\n\"And then the captain of the eleven!\" said the master; \"what a post is\nhis in our School-world! almost as hard as the Doctor's--requiring skill\nand gentleness and firmness, and I know not what other rare qualities.\"\n\n\"Which don't he may wish he may get!\" said Tom, laughing; \"at any rate\nhe hasn't got them yet, or he wouldn't have been such a flat to-night as\nto let Jack Raggles go in out of his turn.\"\n\n\"Ah, the Doctor never would have done that,\" said Arthur demurely. \"Tom,\nyou've a great deal to learn yet in the art of ruling.\"\n\n\"Well, I wish you'd tell the Doctor so then, and get him to let me stop\ntill I'm twenty. I don't want to leave, I'm sure.\"\n\n\"What a sight it is,\" broke in the master, \"the Doctor as a ruler!\nPerhaps ours is the only little corner of the British Empire which\nis thoroughly, wisely, and strongly ruled just now. I'm more and more\nthankful every day of my life that I came here to be under him.\"\n\n\"So am I, I'm sure,\" said Tom, \"and more and more sorry that I've got to\nleave.\"\n\n\"Every place and thing one sees here reminds one of some wise act of\nhis,\" went on the master. \"This island now--you remember the time,\nBrown, when it was laid out in small gardens, and cultivated by\nfrost-bitten fags in February and March?\"\n\n\"Of course I do,\" said Tom; \"didn't I hate spending two hours in the\nafternoon grubbing in the tough dirt with the stump of a fives bat? But\nturf-cart was good fun enough.\"\n\n\"I dare say it was, but it was always leading to fights with the\ntownspeople; and then the stealing flowers out of all the gardens in\nRugby for the Easter show was abominable.\"\n\n\"Well, so it was,\" said Tom, looking down, \"but we fags couldn't help\nourselves. But what has that to do with the Doctor's ruling?\"\n\n\"A great deal, I think,\" said the master; \"what brought island-fagging\nto an end?\"\n\n\"Why, the Easter speeches were put off till midsummer,\" said Tom, \"and\nthe sixth had the gymnastic poles put up here.\"\n\n\"Well, and who changed the time of the speeches, and put the idea of\ngymnastic poles into the heads of their worships the sixth form?\" said\nthe master.\n\n\"The Doctor, I suppose,\" said Tom. \"I never thought of that.\"\n\n\"Of course you didn't,\" said the master, \"or else, fag as you were,\nyou would have shouted with the whole school against putting down old\ncustoms. And that's the way that all the Doctor's reforms have been\ncarried out when he has been left to himself--quietly and naturally,\nputting a good thing in the place of a bad, and letting the bad die out;\nno wavering, and no hurry--the best thing that could be done for the\ntime being, and patience for the rest.\"\n\n\"Just Tom's own way,\" chimed in Arthur, nudging Tom with his\nelbow--\"driving a nail where it will go;\" to which allusion Tom answered\nby a sly kick.\n\n\"Exactly so,\" said the master, innocent of the allusion and by-play.\n\nMeantime Jack Raggles, with his sleeves tucked up above his great brown\nelbows, scorning pads and gloves, has presented himself at the wicket;\nand having run one for a forward drive of Johnson's, is about to receive\nhis first ball. There are only twenty-four runs to make, and four\nwickets to go down--a winning match if they play decently steady. The\nball is a very swift one, and rises fast, catching Jack on the outside\nof the thigh, and bounding away as if from india-rubber, while they\nrun two for a leg-bye amidst great applause and shouts from Jack's many\nadmirers. The next ball is a beautifully-pitched ball for the outer\nstump, which the reckless and unfeeling Jack catches hold of, and hits\nright round to leg for five, while the applause becomes deafening. Only\nseventeen runs to get with four wickets! The game is all but ours!\n\nIt is over now, and Jack walks swaggering about his wicket, with his bat\nover his shoulder, while Mr. Aislabie holds a short parley with his\nmen. Then the cover-point hitter, that cunning man, goes on to bowl slow\ntwisters. Jack waves his hand triumphantly towards the tent, as much as\nto say, \"See if I don't finish it all off now in three hits.\"\n\nAlas, my son Jack, the enemy is too old for thee. The first ball of the\nover Jack steps out and meets, swiping with all his force. If he had\nonly allowed for the twist! But he hasn't, and so the ball goes spinning\nup straight in the air, as if it would never come down again. Away runs\nJack, shouting and trusting to the chapter of accidents; but the bowler\nruns steadily under it, judging every spin, and calling out, \"I have\nit,\" catches it, and playfully pitches it on to the back of the stalwart\nJack, who is departing with a rueful countenance.\n\n\"I knew how it would be,\" says Tom, rising. \"Come along; the game's\ngetting very serious.\"\n\nSo they leave the island and go to the tent; and after deep\nconsultation, Arthur is sent in, and goes off to the wicket with a last\nexhortation from Tom to play steady and keep his bat straight. To the\nsuggestions that Winter is the best bat left, Tom only replies, \"Arthur\nis the steadiest, and Johnson will make the runs if the wicket is only\nkept up.\"\n\n\"I am surprised to see Arthur in the eleven,\" said the master, as they\nstood together in front of the dense crowd, which was now closing in\nround the ground.\n\n\"Well, I'm not quite sure that he ought to be in for his play,\" said\nTom, \"but I couldn't help putting him in. It will do him so much good,\nand you can't think what I owe him.\"\n\nThe master smiled. The clock strikes eight, and the whole field becomes\nfevered with excitement. Arthur, after two narrow escapes, scores one,\nand Johnson gets the ball. The bowling and fielding are superb, and\nJohnson's batting worthy the occasion. He makes here a two, and there a\none, managing to keep the ball to himself, and Arthur backs up and runs\nperfectly. Only eleven runs to make now, and the crowd scarcely breathe.\nAt last Arthur gets the ball again, and actually drives it forward\nfor two, and feels prouder than when he got the three best prizes, at\nhearing Tom's shout of joy, \"Well played, well played, young un!\"\n\nBut the next ball is too much for the young hand, and his bails fly\ndifferent ways. Nine runs to make, and two wickets to go down: it is too\nmuch for human nerves.\n\nBefore Winter can get in, the omnibus which is to take the Lord's men\nto the train pulls up at the side of the close, and Mr. Aislabie and Tom\nconsult, and give out that the stumps will be drawn after the next over.\nAnd so ends the great match. Winter and Johnson carry out their bats,\nand, it being a one day's match, the Lord's men are declared the\nwinners, they having scored the most in the first innings.\n\nBut such a defeat is a victory: so think Tom and all the School eleven,\nas they accompany their conquerors to the omnibus, and send them off\nwith three ringing cheers, after Mr. Aislabie has shaken hands all\nround, saying to Tom, \"I must compliment you, sir, on your eleven, and I\nhope we shall have you for a member if you come up to town.\"\n\nAs Tom and the rest of the eleven were turning back into the close, and\neverybody was beginning to cry out for another country-dance, encouraged\nby the success of the night before, the young master, who was just\nleaving the close, stopped him, and asked him to come up to tea at\nhalf-past eight, adding, \"I won't keep you more than half an hour, and\nask Arthur to come up too.\"\n\n\"I'll come up with you directly, if you'll let me,\" said Tom, \"for I\nfeel rather melancholy, and not quite up to the country-dance and supper\nwith the rest.\"\n\n\"Do, by all means,\" said the master; \"I'll wait here for you.\"\n\nSo Tom went off to get his boots and things from the tent, to tell\nArthur of the invitation, and to speak to his second in command about\nstopping the dancing and shutting up the close as soon as it grew dusk.\nArthur promised to follow as soon as he had had a dance. So Tom handed\nhis things over to the man in charge of the tent, and walked quietly\naway to the gate where the master was waiting, and the two took their\nway together up the Hillmorton road.\n\nOf course they found the master's house locked up, and all the servants\naway in the close--about this time, no doubt, footing it away on the\ngrass, with extreme delight to themselves, and in utter oblivion of the\nunfortunate bachelor their master, whose one enjoyment in the shape\nof meals was his \"dish of tea\" (as our grandmothers called it) in the\nevening; and the phrase was apt in his case, for he always poured his\nout into the saucer before drinking. Great was the good man's horror at\nfinding himself shut out of his own house. Had he been alone he\nwould have treated it as a matter of course, and would have strolled\ncontentedly up and down his gravel walk until some one came home; but he\nwas hurt at the stain on his character of host, especially as the guest\nwas a pupil. However, the guest seemed to think it a great joke, and\npresently, as they poked about round the house, mounted a wall, from\nwhich he could reach a passage window. The window, as it turned out, was\nnot bolted, so in another minute Tom was in the house and down at the\nfront door, which he opened from inside. The master chuckled grimly at\nthis burglarious entry, and insisted on leaving the hall-door and two\nof the front windows open, to frighten the truants on their return; and\nthen the two set about foraging for tea, in which operation the master\nwas much at fault, having the faintest possible idea of where to find\nanything, and being, moreover, wondrously short-sighted; but Tom, by a\nsort of instinct, knew the right cupboards in the kitchen and pantry,\nand soon managed to place on the snuggery table better materials for a\nmeal than had appeared there probably during the reign of his tutor, who\nwas then and there initiated, amongst other things, into the excellence\nof that mysterious condiment, a dripping-cake. The cake was newly baked,\nand all rich and flaky; Tom had found it reposing in the cook's private\ncupboard, awaiting her return; and as a warning to her they finished\nit to the last crumb. The kettle sang away merrily on the hob of the\nsnuggery, for, notwithstanding the time of year, they lighted a fire,\nthrowing both the windows wide open at the same time; the heaps of books\nand papers were pushed away to the other end of the table, and the great\nsolitary engraving of King's College Chapel over the mantelpiece looked\nless stiff than usual, as they settled themselves down in the twilight\nto the serious drinking of tea.\n\nAfter some talk on the match, and other indifferent subjects, the\nconversation came naturally back to Tom's approaching departure, over\nwhich he began again to make his moan.\n\n\"Well, we shall all miss you quite as much as you will miss us,\" said\nthe master. \"You are the Nestor of the School now, are you not?\"\n\n\"Yes, ever since East left,\" answered Tom. \"By-the-bye, have you heard\nfrom him?\"\n\n\"Yes, I had a letter in February, just before he started for India to\njoin his regiment.\"\n\n\"He will make a capital officer.\"\n\n\"Ay, won't he!\" said Tom, brightening. \"No fellow could handle boys\nbetter, and I suppose soldiers are very like boys. And he'll never tell\nthem to go where he won't go himself. No mistake about that. A braver\nfellow never walked.\"\n\n\"His year in the sixth will have taught him a good deal that will be\nuseful to him now.\"\n\n\"So it will,\"' said Tom, staring into the fire. \"Poor dear Harry,\" he\nwent on--\"how well I remember the day we were put out of the twenty! How\nhe rose to the situation, and burnt his cigar-cases, and gave away his\npistols, and pondered on the constitutional authority of the sixth, and\nhis new duties to the Doctor, and the fifth form, and the fags! Ay, and\nno fellow ever acted up to them better, though he was always a people's\nman--for the fags, and against constituted authorities. He couldn't\nhelp that, you know. I'm sure the Doctor must have liked him?\" said Tom,\nlooking up inquiringly.\n\n\"The Doctor sees the good in every one, and appreciates it,\" said the\nmaster dogmatically; \"but I hope East will get a good colonel. He won't\ndo if he can't respect those above him. How long it took him, even here,\nto learn the lesson of obeying!\"\n\n\"Well, I wish I were alongside of him,\" said Tom. \"If I can't be at\nRugby, I want to be at work in the world, and not dawdling away three\nyears at Oxford.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by 'at work in the world'?\" said the master, pausing\nwith his lips close to his saucerful of tea, and peering at Tom over it.\n\n\"Well, I mean real work--one's profession--whatever one will have really\nto do and make one's living by. I want to be doing some real good,\nfeeling that I am not only at play in the world,\" answered Tom, rather\npuzzled to find out himself what he really did mean.\n\n\"You are mixing up two very different things in your head, I think,\nBrown,\" said the master, putting down the empty saucer, \"and you ought\nto get clear about them. You talk of 'working to get your living,' and\n'doing some real good in the world,' in the same breath. Now, you may be\ngetting a very good living in a profession, and yet doing no good at all\nin the world, but quite the contrary, at the same time. Keep the latter\nbefore you as your one object, and you will be right, whether you make\na living or not; but if you dwell on the other, you'll very likely drop\ninto mere money-making, and let the world take care of itself for good\nor evil. Don't be in a hurry about finding your work in the world for\nyourself--you are not old enough to judge for yourself yet; but just\nlook about you in the place you find yourself in, and try to make things\na little better and honester there. You'll find plenty to keep your hand\nin at Oxford, or wherever else you go. And don't be led away to think\nthis part of the world important and that unimportant. Every corner of\nthe world is important. No man knows whether this part or that is most\nso, but every man may do some honest work in his own corner.\" And then\nthe good man went on to talk wisely to Tom of the sort of work which\nhe might take up as an undergraduate, and warned him of the prevalent\nuniversity sins, and explained to him the many and great differences\nbetween university and school life, till the twilight changed into\ndarkness, and they heard the truant servants stealing in by the back\nentrance.\n\n\"I wonder where Arthur can be,\" said Tom at last, looking at his watch;\n\"why, it's nearly half-past nine already.\"\n\n\"Oh, he is comfortably at supper with the eleven, forgetful of his\noldest friends,\" said the master. \"Nothing has given me greater\npleasure,\" he went on, \"than your friendship for him; it has been the\nmaking of you both.\"\n\n\"Of me, at any rate,\" answered Tom; \"I should never have been here now\nbut for him. It was the luckiest chance in the world that sent him to\nRugby and made him my chum.\"\n\n\"Why do you talk of lucky chances?\" said the master. \"I don't know that\nthere are any such things in the world; at any rate, there was neither\nluck nor chance in that matter.\"\n\nTom looked at him inquiringly, and he went on. \"Do you remember when the\nDoctor lectured you and East at the end of one half-year, when you were\nin the shell, and had been getting into all sorts of scrapes?\"\n\n\"Yes, well enough,\" said Tom; \"it was the half-year before Arthur came.\"\n\n\"Exactly so,\" answered the master. \"Now, I was with him a few minutes\nafterwards, and he was in great distress about you two. And after some\ntalk, we both agreed that you in particular wanted some object in the\nSchool beyond games and mischief; for it was quite clear that you never\nwould make the regular school work your first object. And so the Doctor,\nat the beginning of the next half-year, looked out the best of the new\nboys, and separated you and East, and put the young boy into your study,\nin the hope that when you had somebody to lean on you, you would\nbegin to stand a little steadier yourself, and get manliness and\nthoughtfulness. And I can assure you he has watched the experiment ever\nsince with great satisfaction. Ah! not one of you boys will ever know\nthe anxiety you have given him, or the care with which he has watched\nover every step in your school lives.\"\n\nUp to this time Tom had never given wholly in to or understood the\nDoctor. At first he had thoroughly feared him. For some years, as I have\ntried to show, he had learnt to regard him with love and respect, and\nto think him a very great and wise and good man. But as regarded his own\nposition in the School, of which he was no little proud, Tom had no idea\nof giving any one credit for it but himself, and, truth to tell, was a\nvery self-conceited young gentleman on the subject. He was wont to boast\nthat he had fought his own way fairly up the School, and had never made\nup to or been taken up by any big fellow or master, and that it was\nnow quite a different place from what it was when he first came. And,\nindeed, though he didn't actually boast of it, yet in his secret soul\nhe did to a great extent believe that the great reform in the School\nhad been owing quite as much to himself as to any one else. Arthur,\nhe acknowledged, had done him good, and taught him a good deal; so had\nother boys in different ways, but they had not had the same means of\ninfluence on the School in general. And as for the Doctor, why, he was\na splendid master; but every one knew that masters could do very little\nout of school hours. In short, he felt on terms of equality with his\nchief, so far as the social state of the School was concerned, and\nthought that the Doctor would find it no easy matter to get on without\nhim. Moreover, his School Toryism was still strong, and he looked still\nwith some jealousy on the Doctor, as somewhat of a fanatic in the matter\nof change, and thought it very desirable for the School that he should\nhave some wise person (such as himself) to look sharply after vested\nSchool-rights, and see that nothing was done to the injury of the\nrepublic without due protest.\n\nIt was a new light to him to find that, besides teaching the sixth, and\ngoverning and guiding the whole School, editing classics, and writing\nhistories, the great headmaster had found time in those busy years\nto watch over the career even of him, Tom Brown, and his particular\nfriends, and, no doubt, of fifty other boys at the same time, and all\nthis without taking the least credit to himself, or seeming to know, or\nlet any one else know, that he ever thought particularly of any boy at\nall.\n\nHowever, the Doctor's victory was complete from that moment over Tom\nBrown at any rate. He gave way at all points, and the enemy marched\nright over him--cavalry, infantry, and artillery, and the land transport\ncorps, and the camp followers. It had taken eight long years to do it;\nbut now it was done thoroughly, and there wasn't a corner of him left\nwhich didn't believe in the Doctor. Had he returned to School again, and\nthe Doctor begun the half-year by abolishing fagging, and football, and\nthe Saturday half-holiday, or all or any of the most cherished School\ninstitutions, Tom would have supported him with the blindest faith. And\nso, after a half confession of his previous shortcomings, and sorrowful\nadieus to his tutor, from whom he received two beautifully-bound volumes\nof the Doctor's sermons, as a parting present, he marched down to the\nSchoolhouse, a hero-worshipper, who would have satisfied the soul of\nThomas Carlyle himself.\n\nThere he found the eleven at high jinks after supper, Jack Raggles\nshouting comic songs and performing feats of strength, and was greeted\nby a chorus of mingled remonstrance at his desertion and joy at his\nreappearance. And falling in with the humour of the evening, he was soon\nas great a boy as all the rest; and at ten o'clock was chaired round\nthe quadrangle, on one of the hall benches, borne aloft by the eleven,\nshouting in chorus, \"For he's a jolly good fellow,\" while old Thomas, in\na melting mood, and the other School-house servants, stood looking on.\n\nAnd the next morning after breakfast he squared up all the cricketing\naccounts, went round to his tradesmen and other acquaintance, and said\nhis hearty good-byes; and by twelve o'clock was in the train, and away\nfor London, no longer a school-boy, and divided in his thoughts between\nhero-worship, honest regrets over the long stage of his life which was\nnow slipping out of sight behind him, and hopes and resolves for the\nnext stage upon which he was entering with all the confidence of a young\ntraveller.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX--FINIS.\n\n     \"Strange friend, past, present, and to be;\n     Loved deeplier, darklier understood;\n     Behold I dream a dream of good,\n     And mingle all the world with thee.\"--TENNYSON.\n\nIn the summer of 1842, our hero stopped once again at the well-known\nstation; and leaving his bag and fishing-rod with a porter, walked\nslowly and sadly up towards the town. It was now July. He had rushed\naway from Oxford the moment that term was over, for a fishing ramble in\nScotland with two college friends, and had been for three weeks living\non oatcake, mutton-hams, and whisky, in the wildest parts of Skye. They\nhad descended one sultry evening on the little inn at Kyle Rhea ferry;\nand while Tom and another of the party put their tackle together\nand began exploring the stream for a sea-trout for supper, the third\nstrolled into the house to arrange for their entertainment. Presently he\ncame out in a loose blouse and slippers, a short pipe in his mouth, and\nan old newspaper in his hand, and threw himself on the heathery scrub\nwhich met the shingle, within easy hail of the fishermen. There he lay,\nthe picture of free-and-easy, loafing, hand-to-mouth young England,\n\"improving his mind,\" as he shouted to them, by the perusal of the\nfortnight-old weekly paper, soiled with the marks of toddy-glasses and\ntobacco-ashes, the legacy of the last traveller, which he had hunted\nout from the kitchen of the little hostelry, and, being a youth of\na communicative turn of mind, began imparting the contents to the\nfishermen as he went on.\n\n\"What a bother they are making about these wretched corn-laws! Here's\nthree or four columns full of nothing but sliding scales and fixed\nduties. Hang this tobacco, it's always going out! Ah, here's something\nbetter--a splendid match between Kent and England, Brown, Kent winning\nby three wickets. Felix fifty-six runs without a chance, and not out!\"\n\nTom, intent on a fish which had risen at him twice, answered only with a\ngrunt.\n\n\"Anything about the Goodwood?\" called out the third man.\n\n\"Rory O'More drawn. Butterfly colt amiss,\" shouted the student.\n\n\"Just my luck,\" grumbled the inquirer, jerking his flies off the water,\nand throwing again with a heavy, sullen splash, and frightening Tom's\nfish.\n\n\"I say, can't you throw lighter over there? We ain't fishing for\ngrampuses,\" shouted Tom across the stream.\n\n\"Hullo, Brown! here's something for you,\" called out the reading man\nnext moment. \"Why, your old master, Arnold of Rugby, is dead.\"\n\nTom's hand stopped half-way in his cast, and his line and flies went all\ntangling round and round his rod; you might have knocked him over with a\nfeather. Neither of his companions took any notice of him, luckily; and\nwith a violent effort he set to work mechanically to disentangle his\nline. He felt completely carried off his moral and intellectual legs, as\nif he had lost his standing-point in the invisible world. Besides which,\nthe deep, loving loyalty which he felt for his old leader made the shock\nintensely painful. It was the first great wrench of his life, the first\ngap which the angel Death had made in his circle, and he felt numbed,\nand beaten down, and spiritless. Well, well! I believe it was good for\nhim and for many others in like case, who had to learn by that loss\nthat the soul of man cannot stand or lean upon any human prop, however\nstrong, and wise, and good; but that He upon whom alone it can stand and\nlean will knock away all such props in His own wise and merciful way,\nuntil there is no ground or stay left but Himself, the Rock of Ages,\nupon whom alone a sure foundation for every soul of man is laid.\n\nAs he wearily laboured at his line, the thought struck him, \"It may\nbe all false--a mere newspaper lie.\" And he strode up to the recumbent\nsmoker.\n\n\"Let me look at the paper,\" said he.\n\n\"Nothing else in it,\" answered the other, handing it up to him\nlistlessly. \"Hullo, Brown! what's the matter, old fellow? Ain't you\nwell?\"\n\n\"Where is it?\" said Tom, turning over the leaves, his hands trembling,\nand his eyes swimming, so that he could not read.\n\n\"What? What are you looking for?\" said his friend, jumping up and\nlooking over his shoulder.\n\n\"That--about Arnold,\" said Tom.\n\n\"Oh, here,\" said the other, putting his finger on the paragraph. Tom\nread it over and over again. There could be no mistake of identity,\nthough the account was short enough.\n\n\"Thank you,\" said he at last, dropping the paper. \"I shall go for a\nwalk. Don't you and Herbert wait supper for me.\" And away he strode,\nup over the moor at the back of the house, to be alone, and master his\ngrief if possible.\n\nHis friend looked after him, sympathizing and wondering, and, knocking\nthe ashes out of his pipe, walked over to Herbert. After a short parley\nthey walked together up to the house.\n\n\"I'm afraid that confounded newspaper has spoiled Brown's fun for this\ntrip.\"\n\n\"How odd that he should be so fond of his old master,\" said Herbert. Yet\nthey also were both public-school men.\n\nThe two, however, notwithstanding Tom's prohibition, waited supper\nfor him, and had everything ready when he came back some half an hour\nafterwards. But he could not join in their cheerful talk, and the party\nwas soon silent, notwithstanding the efforts of all three. One thing\nonly had Tom resolved, and that was, that he couldn't stay in Scotland\nany longer: he felt an irresistible longing to get to Rugby, and then\nhome, and soon broke it to the others, who had too much tact to oppose.\n\nSo by daylight the next morning he was marching through Ross-shire,\nand in the evening hit the Caledonian Canal, took the next steamer,\nand travelled as fast as boat and railway could carry him to the Rugby\nstation.\n\nAs he walked up to the town, he felt shy and afraid of being seen,\nand took the back streets--why, he didn't know, but he followed his\ninstinct. At the School-gates he made a dead pause; there was not a soul\nin the quadrangle--all was lonely, and silent, and sad. So with another\neffort he strode through the quadrangle, and into the School-house\noffices.\n\nHe found the little matron in her room in deep mourning; shook her hand,\ntried to talk, and moved nervously about. She was evidently thinking of\nthe same subject as he, but he couldn't begin talking.\n\n\"Where shall I find Thomas?\" said he at last, getting desperate.\n\n\"In the servants' hall, I think, sir. But won't you take anything?\" said\nthe matron, looking rather disappointed.\n\n\"No, thank you,\" said he, and strode off again to find the old\nverger, who was sitting in his little den, as of old, puzzling over\nhieroglyphics.\n\nHe looked up through his spectacles as Tom seized his hand and wrung it.\n\n\"Ah! you've heard all about it, sir, I see,\" said he. Tom nodded, and\nthen sat down on the shoe-board, while the old man told his tale, and\nwiped his spectacles, and fairly flowed over with quaint, homely, honest\nsorrow.\n\nBy the time he had done Tom felt much better.\n\n\"Where is he buried, Thomas?\" said he at last.\n\n\"Under the altar in the chapel, sir,\" answered Thomas. \"You'd like to\nhave the key, I dare say?\"\n\n\"Thank you, Thomas--yes, I should, very much.\"\n\nAnd the old man fumbled among his bunch, and then got up, as though\nhe would go with him; but after a few steps stopped short, and said,\n\"Perhaps you'd like to go by yourself, sir?\"\n\nTom nodded, and the bunch of keys were handed to him, with an injunction\nto be sure and lock the door after him, and bring them back before eight\no'clock.\n\nHe walked quickly through the quadrangle and out into the close. The\nlonging which had been upon him and driven him thus far, like the\ngad-fly in the Greek legends, giving him no rest in mind or body, seemed\nall of a sudden not to be satisfied, but to shrivel up and pall. \"Why\nshould I go on? It's no use,\" he thought, and threw himself at full\nlength on the turf, and looked vaguely and listlessly at all the\nwell-known objects. There were a few of the town boys playing cricket,\ntheir wicket pitched on the best piece in the middle of the big-side\nground--a sin about equal to sacrilege in the eyes of a captain of the\neleven. He was very nearly getting up to go and send them off. \"Pshaw!\nthey won't remember me. They've more right there than I,\" he muttered.\nAnd the thought that his sceptre had departed, and his mark was wearing\nout, came home to him for the first time, and bitterly enough. He was\nlying on the very spot where the fights came off--where he himself had\nfought six years ago his first and last battle. He conjured up the scene\ntill he could almost hear the shouts of the ring, and East's whisper in\nhis ear; and looking across the close to the Doctor's private door,\nhalf expected to see it open, and the tall figure in cap and gown come\nstriding under the elm-trees towards him.\n\nNo, no; that sight could never be seen again. There was no flag flying\non the round tower; the School-house windows were all shuttered up; and\nwhen the flag went up again, and the shutters came down, it would be\nto welcome a stranger. All that was left on earth of him whom he had\nhonoured was lying cold and still under the chapel floor. He would go in\nand see the place once more, and then leave it once for all. New men and\nnew methods might do for other people; let those who would, worship the\nrising star; he, at least, would be faithful to the sun which had\nset. And so he got up, and walked to the chapel door, and unlocked it,\nfancying himself the only mourner in all the broad land, and feeding on\nhis own selfish sorrow.\n\nHe passed through the vestibule, and then paused for a moment to glance\nover the empty benches. His heart was still proud and high, and he\nwalked up to the seat which he had last occupied as a sixth-form boy,\nand sat himself down there to collect his thoughts.\n\nAnd, truth to tell, they needed collecting and setting in order not a\nlittle. The memories of eight years were all dancing through his brain,\nand carrying him about whither they would; while, beneath them all, his\nheart was throbbing with the dull sense of a loss that could never be\nmade up to him. The rays of the evening sun came solemnly through the\npainted windows above his head, and fell in gorgeous colours on the\nopposite wall, and the perfect stillness soothed his spirit by little\nand little. And he turned to the pulpit, and looked at it, and then,\nleaning forward with his head on his hands, groaned aloud. If he could\nonly have seen the Doctor again for one five minutes--have told him all\nthat was in his heart, what he owed to him, how he loved and reverenced\nhim, and would, by God's help, follow his steps in life and death--he\ncould have borne it all without a murmur. But that he should have gone\naway for ever without knowing it all, was too much to bear. \"But am I\nsure that he does not know it all?\" The thought made him start. \"May he\nnot even now be near me, in this very chapel? If he be, am I sorrowing\nas he would have me sorrow, as I should wish to have sorrowed when I\nshall meet him again?\"\n\nHe raised himself up and looked round, and after a minute rose and\nwalked humbly down to the lowest bench, and sat down on the very seat\nwhich he had occupied on his first Sunday at Rugby. And then the old\nmemories rushed back again, but softened and subdued, and soothing him\nas he let himself be carried away by them. And he looked up at the great\npainted window above the altar, and remembered how, when a little boy,\nhe used to try not to look through it at the elm-trees and the rooks,\nbefore the painted glass came; and the subscription for the painted\nglass, and the letter he wrote home for money to give to it. And there,\ndown below, was the very name of the boy who sat on his right hand on\nthat first day, scratched rudely in the oak panelling.\n\nAnd then came the thought of all his old schoolfellows; and form after\nform of boys nobler, and braver, and purer than he rose up and seemed to\nrebuke him. Could he not think of them, and what they had felt and were\nfeeling--they who had honoured and loved from the first the man whom he\nhad taken years to know and love? Could he not think of those yet dearer\nto him who was gone, who bore his name and shared his blood, and were\nnow without a husband or a father? Then the grief which he began to\nshare with others became gentle and holy, and he rose up once more, and\nwalked up the steps to the altar, and while the tears flowed freely down\nhis cheeks, knelt down humbly and hopefully, to lay down there his share\nof a burden which had proved itself too heavy for him to bear in his own\nstrength.\n\nHere let us leave him. Where better could we leave him than at the\naltar before which he had first caught a glimpse of the glory of his\nbirthright, and felt the drawing of the bond which links all living\nsouls together in one brotherhood--at the grave beneath the altar of him\nwho had opened his eyes to see that glory, and softened his heart till\nit could feel that bond?\n\nAnd let us not be hard on him, if at that moment his soul is fuller of\nthe tomb and him who lies there than of the altar and Him of whom it\nspeaks. Such stages have to be gone through, I believe, by all young and\nbrave souls, who must win their way through hero-worship to the worship\nof Him who is the King and Lord of heroes. For it is only through our\nmysterious human relationships--through the love and tenderness and\npurity of mothers and sisters and wives, through the strength and\ncourage and wisdom of fathers and brothers and teachers--that we can\ncome to the knowledge of Him in whom alone the love, and the tenderness,\nand the purity, and the strength, and the courage, and the wisdom of all\nthese dwell for ever and ever in perfect fullness."