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This etext was prepared from the 1905 Thomas Nelson and Sons edition






TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS

By Thomas Hughes




PART I.



CHAPTER I--THE BROWN FAMILY

     “I'm the Poet of White Horse Vale, sir,
     With liberal notions under my cap.”--Ballad

The Browns have become illustrious by the pen of Thackeray and the
pencil of Doyle, within the memory of the young gentlemen who are now
matriculating at the universities. Notwithstanding the well-merited but
late fame which has now fallen upon them, any one at all acquainted with
the family must feel that much has yet to be written and said before the
British nation will be properly sensible of how much of its greatness it
owes to the Browns. For centuries, in their quiet, dogged, homespun way,
they have been subduing the earth in most English counties, and leaving
their mark in American forests and Australian uplands. Wherever the
fleets and armies of England have won renown, there stalwart sons of the
Browns have done yeomen's work. With the yew bow and cloth-yard shaft at
Cressy and Agincourt--with the brown bill and pike under the brave
Lord Willoughby--with culverin and demi-culverin against Spaniards and
Dutchmen--with hand-grenade and sabre, and musket and bayonet, under
Rodney and St. Vincent, Wolfe and Moore, Nelson and Wellington, they
have carried their lives in their hands, getting hard knocks and hard
work in plenty--which was on the whole what they looked for, and the
best thing for them--and little praise or pudding, which indeed they,
and most of us, are better without. Talbots and Stanleys, St. Maurs,
and such-like folk, have led armies and made laws time out of mind; but
those noble families would be somewhat astounded--if the accounts ever
came to be fairly taken--to find how small their work for England has
been by the side of that of the Browns.

These latter, indeed, have, until the present generation, rarely been
sung by poet, or chronicled by sage. They have wanted their sacer vates,
having been too solid to rise to the top by themselves, and not having
been largely gifted with the talent of catching hold of, and holding on
tight to, whatever good things happened to be going--the foundation of
the fortunes of so many noble families. But the world goes on its way,
and the wheel turns, and the wrongs of the Browns, like other wrongs,
seem in a fair way to get righted. And this present writer, having for
many years of his life been a devout Brown-worshipper, and, moreover,
having the honour of being nearly connected with an eminently
respectable branch of the great Brown family, is anxious, so far as in
him lies, to help the wheel over, and throw his stone on to the pile.

However, gentle reader, or simple reader, whichever you may be, lest you
should be led to waste your precious time upon these pages, I make so
bold as at once to tell you the sort of folk you'll have to meet and put
up with, if you and I are to jog on comfortably together. You shall hear
at once what sort of folk the Browns are--at least my branch of them;
and then, if you don't like the sort, why, cut the concern at once, and
let you and I cry quits before either of us can grumble at the other.

In the first place, the Browns are a fighting family. One may question
their wisdom, or wit, or beauty, but about their fight there can be no
question. Wherever hard knocks of any kind, visible or invisible, are
going; there the Brown who is nearest must shove in his carcass.
And these carcasses, for the most part, answer very well to the
characteristic propensity: they are a squareheaded and snake-necked
generation, broad in the shoulder, deep in the chest, and thin in
the flank, carrying no lumber. Then for clanship, they are as bad as
Highlanders; it is amazing the belief they have in one another.
With them there is nothing like the Browns, to the third and fourth
generation. “Blood is thicker than water,” is one of their pet sayings.
They can't be happy unless they are always meeting one another. Never
were such people for family gatherings; which, were you a stranger, or
sensitive, you might think had better not have been gathered together.
For during the whole time of their being together they luxuriate in
telling one another their minds on whatever subject turns up; and their
minds are wonderfully antagonistic, and all their opinions are downright
beliefs. Till you've been among them some time and understand them, you
can't think but that they are quarrelling. Not a bit of it. They love
and respect one another ten times the more after a good set family
arguing bout, and go back, one to his curacy, another to his chambers,
and another to his regiment, freshened for work, and more than ever
convinced that the Browns are the height of company.

This family training, too, combined with their turn for combativeness,
makes them eminently quixotic. They can't let anything alone which they
think going wrong. They must speak their mind about it, annoying all
easy-going folk, and spend their time and money in having a tinker at
it, however hopeless the job. It is an impossibility to a Brown to leave
the most disreputable lame dog on the other side of a stile. Most other
folk get tired of such work. The old Browns, with red faces, white
whiskers, and bald heads, go on believing and fighting to a green old
age. They have always a crotchet going, till the old man with the scythe
reaps and garners them away for troublesome old boys as they are.

And the most provoking thing is, that no failures knock them up, or make
them hold their hands, or think you, or me, or other sane people in
the right. Failures slide off them like July rain off a duck's back
feathers. Jem and his whole family turn out bad, and cheat them one
week, and the next they are doing the same thing for Jack; and when he
goes to the treadmill, and his wife and children to the workhouse, they
will be on the lookout for Bill to take his place.

However, it is time for us to get from the general to the particular;
so, leaving the great army of Browns, who are scattered over the whole
empire on which the sun never sets, and whose general diffusion I take
to be the chief cause of that empire's stability; let us at once fix our
attention upon the small nest of Browns in which our hero was hatched,
and which dwelt in that portion of the royal county of Berks which is
called the Vale of White Horse.

Most of you have probably travelled down the Great Western Railway as
far as Swindon. Those of you who did so with their eyes open have been
aware, soon after leaving the Didcot station, of a fine range of chalk
hills running parallel with the railway on the left-hand side as you go
down, and distant some two or three miles, more or less, from the line.
The highest point in the range is the White Horse Hill, which you come
in front of just before you stop at the Shrivenham station. If you love
English scenery, and have a few hours to spare, you can't do better,
the next time you pass, than stop at the Farringdon Road or Shrivenham
station, and make your way to that highest point. And those who care for
the vague old stories that haunt country-sides all about England, will
not, if they are wise, be content with only a few hours' stay; for,
glorious as the view is, the neighbourhood is yet more interesting
for its relics of bygone times. I only know two English neighbourhoods
thoroughly, and in each, within a circle of five miles, there is enough
of interest and beauty to last any reasonable man his life. I believe
this to be the case almost throughout the country, but each has a
special attraction, and none can be richer than the one I am speaking of
and going to introduce you to very particularly, for on this subject I
must be prosy; so those that don't care for England in detail may skip
the chapter.

O young England! young England! you who are born into these racing
railroad times, when there's a Great Exhibition, or some monster sight,
every year, and you can get over a couple of thousand miles of ground
for three pound ten in a five-weeks' holiday, why don't you know more of
your own birthplaces? You're all in the ends of the earth, it seems to
me, as soon as you get your necks out of the educational collar, for
midsummer holidays, long vacations, or what not--going round Ireland,
with a return ticket, in a fortnight; dropping your copies of Tennyson
on the tops of Swiss mountains; or pulling down the Danube in Oxford
racing boats. And when you get home for a quiet fortnight, you turn the
steam off, and lie on your backs in the paternal garden, surrounded by
the last batch of books from Mudie's library, and half bored to death.
Well, well! I know it has its good side. You all patter French more or
less, and perhaps German; you have seen men and cities, no doubt, and
have your opinions, such as they are, about schools of painting, high
art, and all that; have seen the pictures of Dresden and the Louvre,
and know the taste of sour krout. All I say is, you don't know your own
lanes and woods and fields. Though you may be choke-full of science, not
one in twenty of you knows where to find the wood-sorrel, or bee-orchis,
which grow in the next wood, or on the down three miles off, or what the
bog-bean and wood-sage are good for. And as for the country legends,
the stories of the old gable-ended farmhouses, the place where the last
skirmish was fought in the civil wars, where the parish butts stood,
where the last highwayman turned to bay, where the last ghost was laid
by the parson, they're gone out of date altogether.

Now, in my time, when we got home by the old coach, which put us down at
the cross-roads with our boxes, the first day of the holidays, and had
been driven off by the family coachman, singing “Dulce Domum” at the top
of our voices, there we were, fixtures, till black Monday came round. We
had to cut out our own amusements within a walk or a ride of home. And
so we got to know all the country folk and their ways and songs and
stories by heart, and went over the fields and woods and hills, again
and again, till we made friends of them all. We were Berkshire, or
Gloucestershire, or Yorkshire boys; and you're young cosmopolites,
belonging to all countries and no countries. No doubt it's all right; I
dare say it is. This is the day of large views, and glorious humanity,
and all that; but I wish back-sword play hadn't gone out in the Vale of
White Horse, and that that confounded Great Western hadn't carried away
Alfred's Hill to make an embankment.

But to return to the said Vale of White Horse, the country in which the
first scenes of this true and interesting story are laid. As I said, the
Great Western now runs right through it, and it is a land of large, rich
pastures bounded by ox-fences, and covered with fine hedgerow timber,
with here and there a nice little gorse or spinney, where abideth poor
Charley, having no other cover to which to betake himself for miles and
miles, when pushed out some fine November morning by the old Berkshire.
Those who have been there, and well mounted, only know how he and the
stanch little pack who dash after him--heads high and sterns low, with
a breast-high scent--can consume the ground at such times. There being
little ploughland, and few woods, the Vale is only an average sporting
country, except for hunting. The villages are straggling, queer,
old-fashioned places, the houses being dropped down without the least
regularity, in nooks and out-of-the-way corners, by the sides of shadowy
lanes and footpaths, each with its patch of garden. They are built
chiefly of good gray stone, and thatched; though I see that within the
last year or two the red-brick cottages are multiplying, for the Vale is
beginning to manufacture largely both bricks and tiles. There are lots
of waste ground by the side of the roads in every village, amounting
often to village greens, where feed the pigs and ganders of the people;
and these roads are old-fashioned, homely roads, very dirty and badly
made, and hardly endurable in winter, but still pleasant jog-trot roads
running through the great pasture-lands, dotted here and there with
little clumps of thorns, where the sleek kine are feeding, with no fence
on either side of them, and a gate at the end of each field, which makes
you get out of your gig (if you keep one), and gives you a chance of
looking about you every quarter of a mile.

One of the moralists whom we sat under in our youth--was it the great
Richard Swiveller, or Mr. Stiggins--says, “We are born in a vale, and
must take the consequences of being found in such a situation.” These
consequences I, for one, am ready to encounter. I pity people who
weren't born in a vale. I don't mean a flat country; but a vale--that
is, a flat country bounded by hills. The having your hill always in view
if you choose to turn towards him--that's the essence of a vale. There
he is for ever in the distance, your friend and companion. You never
lose him as you do in hilly districts.

And then what a hill is the White Horse Hill! There it stands right up
above all the rest, nine hundred feet above the sea, and the boldest,
bravest shape for a chalk hill that you ever saw. Let us go up to the
top of him, and see what is to be found there. Ay, you may well wonder
and think it odd you never heard of this before; but wonder or not, as
you please, there are hundreds of such things lying about England, which
wiser folk than you know nothing of, and care nothing for. Yes, it's a
magnificent Roman camp, and no mistake, with gates and ditch and mounds,
all as complete as it was twenty years after the strong old rogues left
it. Here, right up on the highest point, from which they say you can see
eleven counties, they trenched round all the table-land, some twelve or
fourteen acres, as was their custom, for they couldn't bear anybody to
overlook them, and made their eyrie. The ground falls away rapidly on
all sides. Was there ever such turf in the whole world? You sink up to
your ankles at every step, and yet the spring of it is delicious. There
is always a breeze in the “camp,” as it is called; and here it lies,
just as the Romans left it, except that cairn on the east side, left by
her Majesty's corps of sappers and miners the other day, when they and
the engineer officer had finished their sojourn there, and their surveys
for the ordnance map of Berkshire. It is altogether a place that you
won't forget, a place to open a man's soul, and make him prophesy, as
he looks down on that great Vale spread out as the garden of the Lord
before him, and wave on wave of the mysterious downs behind, and to the
right and left the chalk hills running away into the distance, along
which he can trace for miles the old Roman road, “the Ridgeway” (“the
Rudge,” as the country folk call it), keeping straight along the highest
back of the hills--such a place as Balak brought Balaam to, and told him
to prophesy against the people in the valley beneath. And he could not,
neither shall you, for they are a people of the Lord who abide there.

And now we leave the camp, and descend towards the west, and are on
the Ashdown. We are treading on heroes. It is sacred ground for
Englishmen--more sacred than all but one or two fields where their bones
lie whitening. For this is the actual place where our Alfred won his
great battle, the battle of Ashdown (“Aescendum” in the chroniclers),
which broke the Danish power, and made England a Christian land. The
Danes held the camp and the slope where we are standing--the whole crown
of the hill, in fact. “The heathen had beforehand seized the higher
ground,” as old Asser says, having wasted everything behind them from
London, and being just ready to burst down on the fair Vale, Alfred's
own birthplace and heritage. And up the heights came the Saxons, as
they did at the Alma. “The Christians led up their line from the
lower ground. There stood also on that same spot a single thorn-tree,
marvellous stumpy (which we ourselves with our very own eyes have
seen).” Bless the old chronicler! Does he think nobody ever saw the
“single thorn-tree” but himself? Why, there it stands to this very day,
just on the edge of the slope, and I saw it not three weeks since--an
old single thorn-tree, “marvellous stumpy.” At least, if it isn't the
same tree it ought to have been, for it's just in the place where the
battle must have been won or lost--“around which, as I was saying, the
two lines of foemen came together in battle with a huge shout. And in
this place one of the two kings of the heathen and five of his earls
fell down and died, and many thousands of the heathen side in the same
place.” * After which crowning mercy, the pious king, that there might
never be wanting a sign and a memorial to the country-side, carved out
on the northern side of the chalk hill, under the camp, where it is
almost precipitous, the great Saxon White Horse, which he who will may
see from the railway, and which gives its name to the Vale, over which
it has looked these thousand years and more.

     * “Pagani editiorem Iocum praeoccupaverant.  Christiani ab
     inferiori loco aciem dirigebant.  Erat quoque in eodem loco
     unica spinosa arbor, brevis admodum (quam nos ipsi nostris
     propriis oculis vidimus).  Circa quam ergo hostiles inter se
     acies cum ingenti clamore hostiliter conveniunt.  Quo in
     loco alter de duobus Paganorum regibus et quinque comites
     occisi occubuerunt, et multa millia Paganae partis in eodem
     loco. Cecidit illic ergo Boegsceg Rex, et Sidroc ille senex
     comes, et Sidroc Junior comes, et Obsbern comes,” etc.--
     Annales Rerum Gestarum AElfredi Magni, Auctore Asserio.
     Recensuit Franciscus Wise. Oxford, 1722, p.23.

Right down below the White Horse is a curious deep and broad gully
called “the Manger,” into one side of which the hills fall with a series
of the most lovely sweeping curves, known as “the Giant's Stairs.” They
are not a bit like stairs, but I never saw anything like them anywhere
else, with their short green turf, and tender bluebells, and gossamer
and thistle-down gleaming in the sun and the sheep-paths running along
their sides like ruled lines.

The other side of the Manger is formed by the Dragon's Hill, a curious
little round self-confident fellow, thrown forward from the range,
utterly unlike everything round him. On this hill some deliverer of
mankind--St. George, the country folk used to tell me--killed a dragon.
Whether it were St. George, I cannot say; but surely a dragon was killed
there, for you may see the marks yet where his blood ran down, and more
by token the place where it ran down is the easiest way up the hillside.

Passing along the Ridgeway to the west for about a mile, we come to a
little clump of young beech and firs, with a growth of thorn and privet
underwood. Here you may find nests of the strong down partridge and
peewit, but take care that the keeper isn't down upon you; and in the
middle of it is an old cromlech, a huge flat stone raised on seven or
eight others, and led up to by a path, with large single stones set up
on each side. This is Wayland Smith's cave, a place of classic fame now;
but as Sir Walter has touched it, I may as well let it alone, and refer
you to “Kenilworth” for the legend.

The thick, deep wood which you see in the hollow, about a mile off,
surrounds Ashdown Park, built by Inigo Jones. Four broad alleys are cut
through the wood from circumference to centre, and each leads to one
face of the house. The mystery of the downs hangs about house and wood,
as they stand there alone, so unlike all around, with the green slopes
studded with great stones just about this part, stretching away on all
sides. It was a wise Lord Craven, I think, who pitched his tent there.

Passing along the Ridgeway to the east, we soon come to cultivated land.
The downs, strictly so called, are no more. Lincolnshire farmers have
been imported, and the long, fresh slopes are sheep-walks no more, but
grow famous turnips and barley. One of these improvers lives over there
at the “Seven Barrows” farm, another mystery of the great downs. There
are the barrows still, solemn and silent, like ships in the calm sea,
the sepulchres of some sons of men. But of whom? It is three miles from
the White Horse--too far for the slain of Ashdown to be buried there.
Who shall say what heroes are waiting there? But we must get down into
the Vale again, and so away by the Great Western Railway to town,
for time and the printer's devil press, and it is a terrible long and
slippery descent, and a shocking bad road. At the bottom, however, there
is a pleasant public; whereat we must really take a modest quencher, for
the down air is provocative of thirst. So we pull up under an old oak
which stands before the door.

“What is the name of your hill, landlord?”

“Blawing STWUN Hill, sir, to be sure.”

[READER. “Stuym?”

AUTHOR: “Stone, stupid--the Blowing Stone.”]

“And of your house? I can't make out the sign.”

“Blawing Stwun, sir,” says the landlord, pouring out his old ale from a
Toby Philpot jug, with a melodious crash, into the long-necked glass.

“What queer names!” say we, sighing at the end of our draught, and
holding out the glass to be replenished.

“Bean't queer at all, as I can see, sir,” says mine host, handing back
our glass, “seeing as this here is the Blawing Stwun, his self,” putting
his hand on a square lump of stone, some three feet and a half high,
perforated with two or three queer holes, like petrified antediluvian
rat-holes, which lies there close under the oak, under our very nose. We
are more than ever puzzled, and drink our second glass of ale, wondering
what will come next. “Like to hear un, sir?” says mine host, setting
down Toby Philpot on the tray, and resting both hands on the “Stwun.” We
are ready for anything; and he, without waiting for a reply, applies his
mouth to one of the ratholes. Something must come of it, if he doesn't
burst. Good heavens! I hope he has no apoplectic tendencies. Yes, here
it comes, sure enough, a gruesome sound between a moan and a roar, and
spreads itself away over the valley, and up the hillside, and into the
woods at the back of the house, a ghost-like, awful voice. “Um do say,
sir,” says mine host, rising purple-faced, while the moan is still
coming out of the Stwun, “as they used in old times to warn the
country-side by blawing the Stwun when the enemy was a-comin', and as
how folks could make un heered then for seven mile round; leastways, so
I've heered Lawyer Smith say, and he knows a smart sight about them old
times.” We can hardly swallow Lawyer Smith's seven miles; but could the
blowing of the stone have been a summons, a sort of sending the fiery
cross round the neighbourhood in the old times? What old times? Who
knows? We pay for our beer, and are thankful.

“And what's the name of the village just below, landlord?”

“Kingstone Lisle, sir.”

“Fine plantations you've got here?”

“Yes, sir; the Squire's 'mazing fond of trees and such like.”

“No wonder. He's got some real beauties to be fond of. Good-day,
landlord.”

“Good-day, sir, and a pleasant ride to 'ee.”

And now, my boys, you whom I want to get for readers, have you had
enough? Will you give in at once, and say you're convinced, and let me
begin my story, or will you have more of it? Remember, I've only been
over a little bit of the hillside yet--what you could ride round easily
on your ponies in an hour. I'm only just come down into the Vale, by
Blowing Stone Hill; and if I once begin about the Vale, what's to stop
me? You'll have to hear all about Wantage, the birthplace of Alfred, and
Farringdon, which held out so long for Charles the First (the Vale was
near Oxford, and dreadfully malignant--full of Throgmortons, Puseys,
and Pyes, and such like; and their brawny retainers). Did you ever read
Thomas Ingoldsby's “Legend of Hamilton Tighe”? If you haven't, you ought
to have. Well, Farringdon is where he lived, before he went to sea;
his real name was Hamden Pye, and the Pyes were the great folk at
Farringdon. Then there's Pusey. You've heard of the Pusey horn, which
King Canute gave to the Puseys of that day, and which the gallant old
squire, lately gone to his rest (whom Berkshire freeholders turned out
of last Parliament, to their eternal disgrace, for voting according to
his conscience), used to bring out on high days, holidays, and bonfire
nights. And the splendid old cross church at Uffington, the Uffingas
town. How the whole countryside teems with Saxon names and memories!
And the old moated grange at Compton, nestled close under the hillside,
where twenty Marianas may have lived, with its bright water-lilies
in the moat, and its yew walk, “the cloister walk,” and its peerless
terraced gardens. There they all are, and twenty things beside, for
those who care about them, and have eyes. And these are the sort of
things you may find, I believe, every one of you, in any common English
country neighbourhood.

Will you look for them under your own noses, or will you not? Well,
well, I've done what I can to make you; and if you will go gadding over
half Europe now, every holidays, I can't help it. I was born and bred
a west-country man, thank God! a Wessex man, a citizen of the noblest
Saxon kingdom of Wessex, a regular “Angular Saxon,” the very soul of me
adscriptus glebae. There's nothing like the old country-side for me,
and no music like the twang of the real old Saxon tongue, as one gets
it fresh from the veritable chaw in the White Horse Vale; and I say with
“Gaarge Ridler,” the old west-country yeoman,--

     “Throo aall the waarld owld Gaarge would bwoast,
     Commend me to merry owld England mwoast;
     While vools gwoes prating vur and nigh,
     We stwops at whum, my dog and I.”

Here, at any rate, lived and stopped at home Squire Brown, J.P. for the
county of Berks, in a village near the foot of the White Horse range.
And here he dealt out justice and mercy in a rough way, and begat sons
and daughters, and hunted the fox, and grumbled at the badness of
the roads and the times. And his wife dealt out stockings, and calico
shirts, and smock frocks, and comforting drinks to the old folks with
the “rheumatiz,” and good counsel to all; and kept the coal and clothes'
clubs going, for yule-tide, when the bands of mummers came round,
dressed out in ribbons and coloured paper caps, and stamped round the
Squire's kitchen, repeating in true sing-song vernacular the legend of
St. George and his fight, and the ten-pound doctor, who plays his
part at healing the Saint--a relic, I believe, of the old Middle-age
mysteries. It was the first dramatic representation which greeted the
eyes of little Tom, who was brought down into the kitchen by his nurse
to witness it, at the mature age of three years. Tom was the eldest
child of his parents, and from his earliest babyhood exhibited the
family characteristics in great strength. He was a hearty, strong boy
from the first, given to fighting with and escaping from his nurse, and
fraternizing with all the village boys, with whom he made expeditions
all round the neighbourhood. And here, in the quiet old-fashioned
country village, under the shadow of the everlasting hills, Tom Brown
was reared, and never left it till he went first to school, when nearly
eight years of age, for in those days change of air twice a year was not
thought absolutely necessary for the health of all her Majesty's lieges.

I have been credibly informed, and am inclined to believe, that the
various boards of directors of railway companies, those gigantic jobbers
and bribers, while quarrelling about everything else, agreed together
some ten years back to buy up the learned profession of medicine, body
and soul. To this end they set apart several millions of money, which
they continually distribute judiciously among the doctors, stipulating
only this one thing, that they shall prescribe change of air to every
patient who can pay, or borrow money to pay, a railway fare, and see
their prescription carried out. If it be not for this, why is it that
none of us can be well at home for a year together? It wasn't so twenty
years ago, not a bit of it. The Browns didn't go out of the country once
in five years. A visit to Reading or Abingdon twice a year, at assizes
or quarter sessions, which the Squire made on his horse with a pair
of saddle-bags containing his wardrobe, a stay of a day or two at some
country neighbour's, or an expedition to a county ball or the yeomanry
review, made up the sum of the Brown locomotion in most years. A stray
Brown from some distant county dropped in every now and then; or from
Oxford, on grave nag, an old don, contemporary of the Squire; and were
looked upon by the Brown household and the villagers with the same sort
of feeling with which we now regard a man who has crossed the Rocky
Mountains, or launched a boat on the Great Lake in Central Africa. The
White Horse Vale, remember, was traversed by no great road--nothing but
country parish roads, and these very bad. Only one coach ran there, and
this one only from Wantage to London, so that the western part of the
Vale was without regular means of moving on, and certainly didn't
seem to want them. There was the canal, by the way, which supplied the
country-side with coal, and up and down which continually went the long
barges, with the big black men lounging by the side of the horses along
the towing-path, and the women in bright-coloured handkerchiefs standing
in the sterns steering. Standing I say, but you could never see whether
they were standing or sitting, all but their heads and shoulders being
out of sight in the cozy little cabins which occupied some eight feet of
the stern, and which Tom Brown pictured to himself as the most desirable
of residences. His nurse told him that those good-natured-looking women
were in the constant habit of enticing children into the barges, and
taking them up to London and selling them, which Tom wouldn't
believe, and which made him resolve as soon as possible to accept the
oft-proffered invitation of these sirens to “young master” to come in
and have a ride. But as yet the nurse was too much for Tom.

Yet why should I, after all, abuse the gadabout propensities of my
countrymen? We are a vagabond nation now, that's certain, for better
for worse. I am a vagabond; I have been away from home no less than five
distinct times in the last year. The Queen sets us the example: we are
moving on from top to bottom. Little dirty Jack, who abides in Clement's
Inn gateway, and blacks my boots for a penny, takes his month's
hop-picking every year as a matter of course. Why shouldn't he? I'm
delighted at it. I love vagabonds, only I prefer poor to rich ones.
Couriers and ladies'-maids, imperials and travelling carriages, are an
abomination unto me; I cannot away with them. But for dirty Jack, and
every good fellow who, in the words of the capital French song, moves
about,

     “Comme le limacon,
     Portant tout son bagage,
     Ses meubles, sa maison,”

on his own back, why, good luck to them, and many a merry roadside
adventure, and steaming supper in the chimney corners of roadside inns,
Swiss chalets, Hottentot kraals, or wherever else they like to go. So,
having succeeded in contradicting myself in my first chapter (which
gives me great hopes that you will all go on, and think me a good fellow
notwithstanding my crotchets), I shall here shut up for the present,
and consider my ways; having resolved to “sar' it out,” as we say in the
Vale, “holus bolus” just as it comes, and then you'll probably get the
truth out of me.



CHAPTER II--THE “VEAST.”

     “And the King commandeth and forbiddeth, that from
     henceforth neither fairs nor markets be kept in Churchyards,
     for the honour of the Church.”--STATUTES : 13 Edw. I. Stat.
     II. cap. vi.

As that venerable and learned poet (whose voluminous works we all think
it the correct thing to admire and talk about, but don't read often)
most truly says, “The child is father to the man;” a fortiori,
therefore, he must be father to the boy. So as we are going at any rate
to see Tom Brown through his boyhood, supposing we never get any farther
(which, if you show a proper sense of the value of this history, there
is no knowing but what we may), let us have a look at the life and
environments of the child in the quiet country village to which we were
introduced in the last chapter.

Tom, as has been already said, was a robust and combative urchin, and at
the age of four began to struggle against the yoke and authority of his
nurse. That functionary was a good-hearted, tearful, scatter-brained
girl, lately taken by Tom's mother, Madam Brown, as she was called, from
the village school to be trained as nurserymaid. Madam Brown was a rare
trainer of servants, and spent herself freely in the profession; for
profession it was, and gave her more trouble by half than many people
take to earn a good income. Her servants were known and sought after for
miles round. Almost all the girls who attained a certain place in the
village school were taken by her, one or two at a time, as housemaids,
laundrymaids, nurserymaids, or kitchenmaids, and after a year or two's
training were started in life amongst the neighbouring families, with
good principles and wardrobes. One of the results of this system was the
perpetual despair of Mrs. Brown's cook and own maid, who no sooner had
a notable girl made to their hands than missus was sure to find a good
place for her and send her off, taking in fresh importations from the
school. Another was, that the house was always full of young girls, with
clean, shining faces, who broke plates and scorched linen, but made an
atmosphere of cheerful, homely life about the place, good for every one
who came within its influence. Mrs. Brown loved young people, and in
fact human creatures in general, above plates and linen. They were more
like a lot of elder children than servants, and felt to her more as a
mother or aunt than as a mistress.

Tom's nurse was one who took in her instruction very slowly--she seemed
to have two left hands and no head; and so Mrs. Brown kept her on longer
than usual, that she might expend her awkwardness and forgetfulness upon
those who would not judge and punish her too strictly for them.

Charity Lamb was her name. It had been the immemorial habit of the
village to christen children either by Bible names, or by those of the
cardinal and other virtues; so that one was for ever hearing in the
village street or on the green, shrill sounds of “Prudence! Prudence!
thee cum' out o' the gutter;” or, “Mercy! drat the girl, what bist thee
a-doin' wi' little Faith?” and there were Ruths, Rachels, Keziahs,
in every corner. The same with the boys: they were Benjamins, Jacobs,
Noahs, Enochs. I suppose the custom has come down from Puritan times.
There it is, at any rate, very strong still in the Vale.

Well, from early morning till dewy eve, when she had it out of him in
the cold tub before putting him to bed, Charity and Tom were pitted
against one another. Physical power was as yet on the side of Charity,
but she hadn't a chance with him wherever headwork was wanted. This
war of independence began every morning before breakfast, when Charity
escorted her charge to a neighbouring farmhouse, which supplied the
Browns, and where, by his mother's wish, Master Tom went to drink whey
before breakfast. Tom had no sort of objection to whey, but he had a
decided liking for curds, which were forbidden as unwholesome; and there
was seldom a morning that he did not manage to secure a handful of hard
curds, in defiance of Charity and of the farmer's wife. The latter good
soul was a gaunt, angular woman, who, with an old black bonnet on the
top of her head, the strings dangling about her shoulders, and her
gown tucked through her pocket-holes, went clattering about the dairy,
cheese-room, and yard, in high pattens. Charity was some sort of niece
of the old lady's, and was consequently free of the farmhouse and
garden, into which she could not resist going for the purposes of gossip
and flirtation with the heir-apparent, who was a dawdling fellow, never
out at work as he ought to have been. The moment Charity had found her
cousin, or any other occupation, Tom would slip away; and in a minute
shrill cries would be heard from the dairy, “Charity, Charity, thee lazy
huzzy, where bist?” and Tom would break cover, hands and mouth full of
curds, and take refuge on the shaky surface of the great muck reservoir
in the middle of the yard, disturbing the repose of the great pigs. Here
he was in safety, as no grown person could follow without getting over
their knees; and the luckless Charity, while her aunt scolded her from
the dairy door, for being “allus hankering about arter our Willum,
instead of minding Master Tom,” would descend from threats to coaxing,
to lure Tom out of the muck, which was rising over his shoes, and would
soon tell a tale on his stockings, for which she would be sure to catch
it from missus's maid.

Tom had two abettors, in the shape of a couple of old boys, Noah and
Benjamin by name, who defended him from Charity, and expended much time
upon his education. They were both of them retired servants of former
generations of the Browns. Noah Crooke was a keen, dry old man of almost
ninety, but still able to totter about. He talked to Tom quite as if he
were one of his own family, and indeed had long completely identified
the Browns with himself. In some remote age he had been the attendant
of a Miss Brown, and had conveyed her about the country on a pillion. He
had a little round picture of the identical gray horse, caparisoned
with the identical pillion, before which he used to do a sort of
fetish worship, and abuse turnpike-roads and carriages. He wore an old
full-bottomed wig, the gift of some dandy old Brown whom he had valeted
in the middle of last century, which habiliment Master Tom looked upon
with considerable respect, not to say fear; and indeed his whole feeling
towards Noah was strongly tainted with awe. And when the old gentleman
was gathered to his fathers, Tom's lamentation over him was not
unaccompanied by a certain joy at having seen the last of the wig. “Poor
old Noah, dead and gone,” said he; “Tom Brown so sorry. Put him in the
coffin, wig and all.”

But old Benjy was young master's real delight and refuge. He was a
youth by the side of Noah, scarce seventy years old--a cheery, humorous,
kind-hearted old man, full of sixty years of Vale gossip, and of all
sorts of helpful ways for young and old, but above all for children.
It was he who bent the first pin with which Tom extracted his first
stickleback out of “Pebbly Brook,” the little stream which ran through
the village. The first stickleback was a splendid fellow, with fabulous
red and blue gills. Tom kept him in a small basin till the day of his
death, and became a fisherman from that day. Within a month from the
taking of the first stickleback, Benjy had carried off our hero to
the canal, in defiance of Charity; and between them, after a whole
afternoon's popjoying, they had caught three or four small, coarse fish
and a perch, averaging perhaps two and a half ounces each, which Tom
bore home in rapture to his mother as a precious gift, and which she
received like a true mother with equal rapture, instructing the cook
nevertheless, in a private interview, not to prepare the same for the
Squire's dinner. Charity had appealed against old Benjy in the meantime,
representing the dangers of the canal banks; but Mrs. Brown, seeing the
boy's inaptitude for female guidance, had decided in Benjy's favour, and
from thenceforth the old man was Tom's dry nurse. And as they sat by the
canal watching their little green-and-white float, Benjy would instruct
him in the doings of deceased Browns. How his grandfather, in the early
days of the great war, when there was much distress and crime in the
Vale, and the magistrates had been threatened by the mob, had ridden in
with a big stick in his hand, and held the petty sessions by himself.
How his great-uncle, the rector, had encountered and laid the last
ghost, who had frightened the old women, male and female, of the
parish out of their senses, and who turned out to be the blacksmith's
apprentice disguised in drink and a white sheet. It was Benjy, too,
who saddled Tom's first pony, and instructed him in the mysteries of
horsemanship, teaching him to throw his weight back and keep his hand
low, and who stood chuckling outside the door of the girls' school when
Tom rode his little Shetland into the cottage and round the table, where
the old dame and her pupils were seated at their work.

Benjy himself was come of a family distinguished in the Vale for their
prowess in all athletic games. Some half-dozen of his brothers and
kinsmen had gone to the wars, of whom only one had survived to come
home, with a small pension, and three bullets in different parts of his
body; he had shared Benjy's cottage till his death, and had left him his
old dragoon's sword and pistol, which hung over the mantelpiece, flanked
by a pair of heavy single-sticks with which Benjy himself had won renown
long ago as an old gamester, against the picked men of Wiltshire and
Somersetshire, in many a good bout at the revels and pastimes of the
country-side. For he had been a famous back-swordman in his young days,
and a good wrestler at elbow and collar.

Back-swording and wrestling were the most serious holiday pursuits of
the Vale--those by which men attained fame--and each village had its
champion. I suppose that, on the whole, people were less worked then
than they are now; at any rate, they seemed to have more time and energy
for the old pastimes. The great times for back-swording came round once
a year in each village; at the feast. The Vale “veasts” were not
the common statute feasts, but much more ancient business. They are
literally, so far as one can ascertain, feasts of the dedication--that
is, they were first established in the churchyard on the day on which
the village church was opened for public worship, which was on the wake
or festival of the patron saint, and have been held on the same day in
every year since that time.

There was no longer any remembrance of why the “veast” had been
instituted, but nevertheless it had a pleasant and almost sacred
character of its own; for it was then that all the children of the
village, wherever they were scattered, tried to get home for a holiday
to visit their fathers and mothers and friends, bringing with them their
wages or some little gift from up the country for the old folk. Perhaps
for a day or two before, but at any rate on “veast day” and the day
after, in our village, you might see strapping, healthy young men and
women from all parts of the country going round from house to house in
their best clothes, and finishing up with a call on Madam Brown,
whom they would consult as to putting out their earnings to the best
advantage, or how best to expend the same for the benefit of the old
folk. Every household, however poor, managed to raise a “feast-cake”
 and a bottle of ginger or raisin wine, which stood on the cottage table
ready for all comers, and not unlikely to make them remember feast-time,
for feast-cake is very solid, and full of huge raisins. Moreover,
feast-time was the day of reconciliation for the parish. If Job Higgins
and Noah Freeman hadn't spoken for the last six months, their “old
women” would be sure to get it patched up by that day. And though there
was a good deal of drinking and low vice in the booths of an evening,
it was pretty well confined to those who would have been doing the like,
“veast or no veast;” and on the whole, the effect was humanising and
Christian. In fact, the only reason why this is not the case still is
that gentlefolk and farmers have taken to other amusements, and have, as
usual, forgotten the poor. They don't attend the feasts themselves, and
call them disreputable; whereupon the steadiest of the poor leave them
also, and they become what they are called. Class amusements, be
they for dukes or ploughboys, always become nuisances and curses to a
country. The true charm of cricket and hunting is that they are still
more or less sociable and universal; there's a place for every man who
will come and take his part.

No one in the village enjoyed the approach of “veast day” more than Tom,
in the year in which he was taken under old Benjy's tutelage. The feast
was held in a large green field at the lower end of the village. The
road to Farringdon ran along one side of it, and the brook by the side
of the road; and above the brook was another large, gentle, sloping
pasture-land, with a footpath running down it from the churchyard; and
the old church, the originator of all the mirth, towered up with its
gray walls and lancet windows, overlooking and sanctioning the whole,
though its own share therein had been forgotten. At the point where the
footpath crossed the brook and road, and entered on the field where the
feast was held, was a long, low roadside inn; and on the opposite side
of the field was a large white thatched farmhouse, where dwelt an old
sporting farmer, a great promoter of the revels.

Past the old church, and down the footpath, pottered the old man and the
child hand-in-hand early on the afternoon of the day before the feast,
and wandered all round the ground, which was already being occupied
by the “cheap Jacks,” with their green-covered carts and marvellous
assortment of wares; and the booths of more legitimate small traders,
with their tempting arrays of fairings and eatables; and penny
peep-shows and other shows, containing pink-eyed ladies, and dwarfs, and
boa-constrictors, and wild Indians. But the object of most interest to
Benjy, and of course to his pupil also, was the stage of rough planks
some four feet high, which was being put up by the village carpenter for
the back-swording and wrestling. And after surveying the whole tenderly,
old Benjy led his charge away to the roadside inn, where he ordered a
glass of ale and a long pipe for himself, and discussed these unwonted
luxuries on the bench outside in the soft autumn evening with mine
host, another old servant of the Browns, and speculated with him on the
likelihood of a good show of old gamesters to contend for the morrow's
prizes, and told tales of the gallant bouts of forty years back, to
which Tom listened with all his ears and eyes.

But who shall tell the joy of the next morning, when the church bells
were ringing a merry peal, and old Benjy appeared in the servants' hall,
resplendent in a long blue coat and brass buttons, and a pair of old
yellow buckskins and top-boots which he had cleaned for and inherited
from Tom's grandfather, a stout thorn stick in his hand, and a nosegay
of pinks and lavender in his buttonhole, and led away Tom in his best
clothes, and two new shillings in his breeches-pockets? Those two, at
any rate, look like enjoying the day's revel.

They quicken their pace when they get into the churchyard, for already
they see the field thronged with country folk; the men in clean, white
smocks or velveteen or fustian coats, with rough plush waistcoats of
many colours, and the women in the beautiful, long scarlet cloak--the
usual out-door dress of west-country women in those days, and which
often descended in families from mother to daughter--or in new-fashioned
stuff shawls, which, if they would but believe it, don't become them
half so well. The air resounds with the pipe and tabor, and the drums
and trumpets of the showmen shouting at the doors of their caravans,
over which tremendous pictures of the wonders to be seen within hang
temptingly; while through all rises the shrill “root-too-too-too” of Mr.
Punch, and the unceasing pan-pipe of his satellite.

“Lawk a' massey, Mr. Benjamin,” cries a stout, motherly woman in a red
cloak, as they enter the field, “be that you? Well, I never! You do look
purely. And how's the Squire, and madam, and the family?”

Benjy graciously shakes hands with the speaker, who has left our village
for some years, but has come over for “veast” day on a visit to an old
gossip, and gently indicates the heir-apparent of the Browns.

“Bless his little heart! I must gi' un a kiss.--Here, Susannah,
Susannah!” cries she, raising herself from the embrace, “come and see
Mr. Benjamin and young Master Tom.--You minds our Sukey, Mr. Benjamin;
she be growed a rare slip of a wench since you seen her, though her'll
be sixteen come Martinmas. I do aim to take her to see madam to get her
a place.”

And Sukey comes bouncing away from a knot of old school-fellows, and
drops a curtsey to Mr. Benjamin. And elders come up from all parts to
salute Benjy, and girls who have been madam's pupils to kiss Master
Tom. And they carry him off to load him with fairings; and he returns
to Benjy, his hat and coat covered with ribbons, and his pockets crammed
with wonderful boxes which open upon ever new boxes, and popguns, and
trumpets, and apples, and gilt gingerbread from the stall of Angel
Heavens, sole vender thereof, whose booth groans with kings and queens,
and elephants and prancing steeds, all gleaming with gold. There
was more gold on Angel's cakes than there is ginger in those of
this degenerate age. Skilled diggers might yet make a fortune in the
churchyards of the Vale, by carefully washing the dust of the consumers
of Angel's gingerbread. Alas! he is with his namesakes, and his receipts
have, I fear, died with him.

And then they inspect the penny peep-show--at least Tom does--while old
Benjy stands outside and gossips and walks up the steps, and enters the
mysterious doors of the pink-eyed lady and the Irish giant, who do not
by any means come up to their pictures; and the boa will not swallow his
rabbit, but there the rabbit is waiting to be swallowed; and what can
you expect for tuppence? We are easily pleased in the Vale. Now there
is a rush of the crowd, and a tinkling bell is heard, and shouts of
laughter; and Master Tom mounts on Benjy's shoulders, and beholds a
jingling match in all its glory. The games are begun, and this is the
opening of them. It is a quaint game, immensely amusing to look at;
and as I don't know whether it is used in your counties, I had better
describe it. A large roped ring is made, into which are introduced
a dozen or so of big boys and young men who mean to play; these are
carefully blinded and turned loose into the ring, and then a man is
introduced not blindfolded; with a bell hung round his neck, and his two
hands tied behind him. Of course every time he moves the bell must ring,
as he has no hand to hold it; and so the dozen blindfolded men have to
catch him. This they cannot always manage if he is a lively fellow, but
half of them always rush into the arms of the other half, or drive their
heads together, or tumble over; and then the crowd laughs vehemently,
and invents nicknames for them on the spur of the moment; and they, if
they be choleric, tear off the handkerchiefs which blind them, and not
unfrequently pitch into one another, each thinking that the other must
have run against him on purpose. It is great fun to look at a jingling
match certainly, and Tom shouts and jumps on old Benjy's shoulders at
the sight, until the old man feels weary, and shifts him to the strong
young shoulders of the groom, who has just got down to the fun.

And now, while they are climbing the pole in another part of the field,
and muzzling in a flour-tub in another, the old farmer whose house, as
has been said, overlooks the field, and who is master of the revels,
gets up the steps on to the stage, and announces to all whom it may
concern that a half-sovereign in money will be forthcoming to the old
gamester who breaks most heads; to which the Squire and he have added a
new hat.

The amount of the prize is sufficient to stimulate the men of the
immediate neighbourhood, but not enough to bring any very high talent
from a distance; so, after a glance or two round, a tall fellow, who is
a down shepherd, chucks his hat on to the stage and climbs up the steps,
looking rather sheepish. The crowd, of course, first cheer, and then
chaff as usual, as he picks up his hat and begins handling the sticks to
see which will suit him.

“Wooy, Willum Smith, thee canst plaay wi' he arra daay,” says his
companion to the blacksmith's apprentice, a stout young fellow of
nineteen or twenty. Willum's sweetheart is in the “veast” somewhere, and
has strictly enjoined him not to get his head broke at back-swording, on
pain of her highest displeasure; but as she is not to be seen (the women
pretend not to like to see the backsword play, and keep away from the
stage), and as his hat is decidedly getting old, he chucks it on to the
stage, and follows himself, hoping that he will only have to break other
people's heads, or that, after all, Rachel won't really mind.

Then follows the greasy cap lined with fur of a half-gipsy, poaching,
loafing fellow, who travels the Vale not for much good, I fancy:

     “For twenty times was Peter feared
     For once that Peter was respected,”

in fact. And then three or four other hats, including the glossy
castor of Joe Willis, the self-elected and would-be champion of
the neighbourhood, a well-to-do young butcher of twenty-eight or
thereabouts, and a great strapping fellow, with his full allowance of
bluster. This is a capital show of gamesters, considering the amount
of the prize; so, while they are picking their sticks and drawing their
lots, I think I must tell you, as shortly as I can, how the noble old
game of back-sword is played; for it is sadly gone out of late, even in
the Vale, and maybe you have never seen it.

The weapon is a good stout ash stick with a large basket handle, heavier
and somewhat shorter than a common single-stick. The players are called
“old gamesters”--why, I can't tell you--and their object is simply
to break one another's heads; for the moment that blood runs an inch
anywhere above the eyebrow, the old gamester to whom it belongs is
beaten, and has to stop. A very slight blow with the sticks will fetch
blood, so that it is by no means a punishing pastime, if the men don't
play on purpose and savagely at the body and arms of their adversaries.
The old gamester going into action only takes off his hat and coat, and
arms himself with a stick; he then loops the fingers of his left hand in
a handkerchief or strap, which he fastens round his left leg, measuring
the length, so that when he draws it tight with his left elbow in the
air, that elbow shall just reach as high as his crown. Thus you see, so
long as he chooses to keep his left elbow up, regardless of cuts, he
has a perfect guard for the left side of his head. Then he advances his
right hand above and in front of his head, holding his stick across, so
that its point projects an inch or two over his left elbow; and thus
his whole head is completely guarded, and he faces his man armed in like
manner; and they stand some three feet apart, often nearer, and feint,
and strike, and return at one another's heads, until one cries “hold,”
 or blood flows. In the first case they are allowed a minute's time; and
go on again; in the latter another pair of gamesters are called on. If
good men are playing, the quickness of the returns is marvellous: you
hear the rattle like that a boy makes drawing his stick along palings,
only heavier; and the closeness of the men in action to one another
gives it a strange interest, and makes a spell at back-swording a very
noble sight.

They are all suited now with sticks, and Joe Willis and the gipsy man
have drawn the first lot. So the rest lean against the rails of the
stage, and Joe and the dark man meet in the middle, the boards having
been strewed with sawdust, Joe's white shirt and spotless drab breeches
and boots contrasting with the gipsy's coarse blue shirt and dirty green
velveteen breeches and leather gaiters. Joe is evidently turning up his
nose at the other, and half insulted at having to break his head.

The gipsy is a tough, active fellow, but not very skilful with his
weapon, so that Joe's weight and strength tell in a minute; he is too
heavy metal for him. Whack, whack, whack, come his blows, breaking down
the gipsy's guard, and threatening to reach his head every moment. There
it is at last. “Blood, blood!” shout the spectators, as a thin stream
oozes out slowly from the roots of his hair, and the umpire calls to
them to stop. The gipsy scowls at Joe under his brows in no pleasant
manner, while Master Joe swaggers about, and makes attitudes, and thinks
himself, and shows that he thinks himself, the greatest man in the
field.

Then follow several stout sets-to between the other candidates for the
new hat, and at last come the shepherd and Willum Smith. This is the
crack set-to of the day. They are both in famous wind, and there is no
crying “hold.” The shepherd is an old hand, and up to all the dodges. He
tries them one after another, and very nearly gets at Willum's head
by coming in near, and playing over his guard at the half-stick; but
somehow Willum blunders through, catching the stick on his shoulders,
neck, sides, every now and then, anywhere but on his head, and his
returns are heavy and straight, and he is the youngest gamester and a
favourite in the parish, and his gallant stand brings down shouts and
cheers, and the knowing ones think he'll win if he keeps steady; and
Tom, on the groom's shoulder, holds his hands together, and can hardly
breathe for excitement.

Alas for Willum! His sweetheart, getting tired of female companionship,
has been hunting the booths to see where he can have got to, and now
catches sight of him on the stage in full combat. She flushes and turns
pale; her old aunt catches hold of her, saying, “Bless 'ee, child,
doan't 'ee go a'nigst it;” but she breaks away and runs towards the
stage calling his name. Willum keeps up his guard stoutly, but glances
for a moment towards the voice. No guard will do it, Willum, without the
eye. The shepherd steps round and strikes, and the point of his stick
just grazes Willum's forehead, fetching off the skin, and the blood
flows, and the umpire cries, “Hold!” and poor Willum's chance is up for
the day. But he takes it very well, and puts on his old hat and coat,
and goes down to be scolded by his sweetheart, and led away out of
mischief. Tom hears him say coaxingly, as he walks off,--

“Now doan't 'ee, Rachel! I wouldn't ha' done it, only I wanted summut
to buy 'ee a fairing wi', and I be as vlush o' money as a twod o'
feathers.”

“Thee mind what I tells 'ee,” rejoins Rachel saucily, “and doan't 'ee
kep blethering about fairings.”

Tom resolves in his heart to give Willum the remainder of his two
shillings after the back-swording.

Joe Willis has all the luck to-day. His next bout ends in an easy
victory, while the shepherd has a tough job to break his second head;
and when Joe and the shepherd meet, and the whole circle expect and hope
to see him get a broken crown, the shepherd slips in the first round and
falls against the rails, hurting himself so that the old farmer will not
let him go on, much as he wishes to try; and that impostor Joe (for he
is certainly not the best man) struts and swaggers about the stage the
conquering gamester, though he hasn't had five minutes' really trying
play.

Joe takes the new hat in his hand, and puts the money into it, and then,
as if a thought strikes him, and he doesn't think his victory quite
acknowledged down below, walks to each face of the stage, and looks
down, shaking the money, and chaffing, as how he'll stake hat and money
and another half-sovereign “agin any gamester as hasn't played already.”
 Cunning Joe! he thus gets rid of Willum and the shepherd, who is quite
fresh again.

No one seems to like the offer, and the umpire is just coming down,
when a queer old hat, something like a doctor of divinity's shovel, is
chucked on to the stage and an elderly, quiet man steps out, who has
been watching the play, saying he should like to cross a stick wi' the
prodigalish young chap.

The crowd cheer, and begin to chaff Joe, who turns up his nose and
swaggers across to the sticks. “Imp'dent old wosbird!” says he; “I'll
break the bald head on un to the truth.”

The old boy is very bald, certainly, and the blood will show fast enough
if you can touch him, Joe.

He takes off his long-flapped coat, and stands up in a long-flapped
waistcoat, which Sir Roger de Coverley might have worn when it was new,
picks out a stick, and is ready for Master Joe, who loses no time, but
begins his old game, whack, whack, whack, trying to break down the old
man's guard by sheer strength. But it won't do; he catches every blow
close by the basket, and though he is rather stiff in his returns,
after a minute walks Joe about the stage, and is clearly a stanch old
gamester. Joe now comes in, and making the most of his height, tries to
get over the old man's guard at half-stick, by which he takes a smart
blow in the ribs and another on the elbow, and nothing more. And now he
loses wind and begins to puff, and the crowd laugh. “Cry 'hold,' Joe;
thee'st met thy match!” Instead of taking good advice and getting his
wind, Joe loses his temper, and strikes at the old man's body.

“Blood, blood!” shout the crowd; “Joe's head's broke!”

Who'd have thought it? How did it come? That body-blow left Joe's head
unguarded for a moment; and with one turn of the wrist the old gentleman
has picked a neat little bit of skin off the middle of his forehead; and
though he won't believe it, and hammers on for three more blows despite
of the shouts, is then convinced by the blood trickling into his eye.
Poor Joe is sadly crestfallen, and fumbles in his pocket for the other
half-sovereign, but the old gamester won't have it. “Keep thy money,
man, and gi's thy hand,” says he; and they shake hands. But the old
gamester gives the new hat to the shepherd, and, soon after, the
half-sovereign to Willum, who thereout decorates his sweetheart with
ribbons to his heart's content.

“Who can a be?” “Wur do a cum from?” ask the crowd. And it soon flies
about that the old west-country champion, who played a tie with Shaw the
Lifeguardsman at “Vizes” twenty years before, has broken Joe Willis's
crown for him.

How my country fair is spinning out! I see I must skip the wrestling;
and the boys jumping in sacks, and rolling wheelbarrows blindfolded;
and the donkey-race, and the fight which arose thereout, marring the
otherwise peaceful “veast;” and the frightened scurrying away of the
female feast-goers, and descent of Squire Brown, summoned by the wife of
one of the combatants to stop it; which he wouldn't start to do till he
had got on his top-boots. Tom is carried away by old Benjy, dog-tired
and surfeited with pleasure, as the evening comes on and the dancing
begins in the booths; and though Willum, and Rachel in her new ribbons,
and many another good lad and lass don't come away just yet, but have
a good step out, and enjoy it, and get no harm thereby, yet we, being
sober folk, will just stroll away up through the churchyard, and by the
old yew-tree, and get a quiet dish of tea and a parley with our gossips,
as the steady ones of our village do, and so to bed.

That's the fair, true sketch, as far as it goes, of one of the larger
village feasts in the Vale of Berks, when I was a little boy. They
are much altered for the worse, I am told. I haven't been at one these
twenty years, but I have been at the statute fairs in some west-country
towns, where servants are hired, and greater abominations cannot be
found. What village feasts have come to, I fear, in many cases, may
be read in the pages of “Yeast” (though I never saw one so bad--thank
God!).

Do you want to know why? It is because, as I said before, gentlefolk and
farmers have left off joining or taking an interest in them. They don't
either subscribe to the prizes, or go down and enjoy the fun.

Is this a good or a bad sign? I hardly know. Bad, sure enough, if it
only arises from the further separation of classes consequent on twenty
years of buying cheap and selling dear, and its accompanying overwork;
or because our sons and daughters have their hearts in London club-life,
or so-called “society,” instead of in the old English home-duties;
because farmers' sons are apeing fine gentlemen, and farmers' daughters
caring more to make bad foreign music than good English cheeses. Good,
perhaps, if it be that the time for the old “veast” has gone by; that
it is no longer the healthy, sound expression of English country
holiday-making; that, in fact, we, as a nation, have got beyond it,
and are in a transition state, feeling for and soon likely to find some
better substitute.

Only I have just got this to say before I quit the text. Don't let
reformers of any sort think that they are going really to lay hold of
the working boys and young men of England by any educational grapnel
whatever, which isn't some bona fide equivalent for the games of the
old country “veast” in it; something to put in the place of the
back-swording and wrestling and racing; something to try the muscles
of men's bodies, and the endurance of their hearts, and to make them
rejoice in their strength. In all the new-fangled comprehensive plans
which I see, this is all left out; and the consequence is, that your
great mechanics' institutes end in intellectual priggism, and your
Christian young men's societies in religious Pharisaism.

Well, well, we must bide our time. Life isn't all beer and skittles;
but beer and skittles, or something better of the same sort, must form
a good part of every Englishman's education. If I could only drive this
into the heads of you rising parliamentary lords, and young swells
who “have your ways made for you,” as the saying is, you, who frequent
palaver houses and West-end clubs, waiting always ready to strap
yourselves on to the back of poor dear old John, as soon as the present
used-up lot (your fathers and uncles), who sit there on the great
parliamentary-majorities' pack-saddle, and make believe they're guiding
him with their red-tape bridle, tumble, or have to be lifted off!

I don't think much of you yet--I wish I could--though you do go talking
and lecturing up and down the country to crowded audiences, and are
busy with all sorts of philanthropic intellectualism, and circulating
libraries and museums, and Heaven only knows what besides, and try to
make us think, through newspaper reports, that you are, even as we, of
the working classes. But bless your hearts, we “ain't so green,” though
lots of us of all sorts toady you enough certainly, and try to make you
think so.

I'll tell you what to do now: instead of all this trumpeting and fuss,
which is only the old parliamentary-majority dodge over again, just you
go, each of you (you've plenty of time for it, if you'll only give
up t'other line), and quietly make three or four friends--real
friends--among us. You'll find a little trouble in getting at the right
sort, because such birds don't come lightly to your lure; but found
they may be. Take, say, two out of the professions, lawyer, parson,
doctor--which you will; one out of trade; and three or four out of the
working classes--tailors, engineers, carpenters, engravers. There's
plenty of choice. Let them be men of your own ages, mind, and ask
them to your homes; introduce them to your wives and sisters, and get
introduced to theirs; give them good dinners, and talk to them about
what is really at the bottom of your hearts; and box, and run, and row
with them, when you have a chance. Do all this honestly as man to
man, and by the time you come to ride old John, you'll be able to do
something more than sit on his back, and may feel his mouth with some
stronger bridle than a red-tape one.

Ah, if you only would! But you have got too far out of the right rut, I
fear. Too much over-civilization, and the deceitfulness of riches. It is
easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle. More's the pity. I
never came across but two of you who could value a man wholly and solely
for what was in him--who thought themselves verily and indeed of the
same flesh and blood as John Jones the attorney's clerk, and Bill Smith
the costermonger, and could act as if they thought so.



CHAPTER III--SUNDRY WARS AND ALLIANCES.


Poor old Benjy! The “rheumatiz” has much to answer for all through
English country-sides, but it never played a scurvier trick than in
laying thee by the heels, when thou wast yet in a green old age. The
enemy, which had long been carrying on a sort of border warfare, and
trying his strength against Benjy's on the battlefield of his hands and
legs, now, mustering all his forces, began laying siege to the citadel,
and overrunning the whole country. Benjy was seized in the back and
loins; and though he made strong and brave fight, it was soon clear
enough that all which could be beaten of poor old Benjy would have to
give in before long.

It was as much as he could do now, with the help of his big stick and
frequent stops, to hobble down to the canal with Master Tom, and bait
his hook for him, and sit and watch his angling, telling him quaint old
country stories; and when Tom had no sport, and detecting a rat some
hundred yards or so off along the bank, would rush off with Toby the
turnspit terrier, his other faithful companion, in bootless pursuit, he
might have tumbled in and been drowned twenty times over before Benjy
could have got near him.

Cheery and unmindful of himself, as Benjy was, this loss of locomotive
power bothered him greatly. He had got a new object in his old age, and
was just beginning to think himself useful again in the world. He feared
much, too, lest Master Tom should fall back again into the hands of
Charity and the women. So he tried everything he could think of to get
set up. He even went an expedition to the dwelling of one of those queer
mortals, who--say what we will, and reason how we will--do cure simple
people of diseases of one kind or another without the aid of physic,
and so get to themselves the reputation of using charms, and inspire for
themselves and their dwellings great respect, not to say fear, amongst a
simple folk such as the dwellers in the Vale of White Horse. Where this
power, or whatever else it may be, descends upon the shoulders of a
man whose ways are not straight, he becomes a nuisance to the
neighbourhood--a receiver of stolen goods, giver of love-potions, and
deceiver of silly women--the avowed enemy of law and order, of justices
of the peace, head-boroughs, and gamekeepers,--such a man, in fact, as
was recently caught tripping, and deservedly dealt with by the Leeds
justices, for seducing a girl who had come to him to get back a
faithless lover, and has been convicted of bigamy since then. Sometimes,
however, they are of quite a different stamp--men who pretend to
nothing, and are with difficulty persuaded to exercise their occult arts
in the simplest cases.

Of this latter sort was old Farmer Ives, as he was called, the “wise
man” to whom Benjy resorted (taking Tom with him as usual), in the early
spring of the year next after the feast described in the last chapter.
Why he was called “farmer” I cannot say, unless it be that he was the
owner of a cow, a pig or two, and some poultry, which he maintained
on about an acre of land inclosed from the middle of a wild common, on
which probably his father had squatted before lords of manors looked as
keenly after their rights as they do now. Here he had lived no one knew
how long, a solitary man. It was often rumoured that he was to be turned
out and his cottage pulled down, but somehow it never came to pass; and
his pigs and cow went grazing on the common, and his geese hissed at the
passing children and at the heels of the horse of my lord's steward, who
often rode by with a covetous eye on the inclosure still unmolested. His
dwelling was some miles from our village; so Benjy, who was half ashamed
of his errand, and wholly unable to walk there, had to exercise much
ingenuity to get the means of transporting himself and Tom thither
without exciting suspicion. However, one fine May morning he managed to
borrow the old blind pony of our friend the publican, and Tom persuaded
Madam Brown to give him a holiday to spend with old Benjy, and to lend
them the Squire's light cart, stored with bread and cold meat and a
bottle of ale. And so the two in high glee started behind old Dobbin,
and jogged along the deep-rutted plashy roads, which had not been mended
after their winter's wear, towards the dwelling of the wizard. About
noon they passed the gate which opened on to the large common, and old
Dobbin toiled slowly up the hill, while Benjy pointed out a little deep
dingle on the left, out of which welled a tiny stream. As they crept
up the hill the tops of a few birch-trees came in sight, and blue smoke
curling up through their delicate light boughs; and then the little
white thatched home and inclosed ground of Farmer Ives, lying cradled in
the dingle, with the gay gorse common rising behind and on both sides;
while in front, after traversing a gentle slope, the eye might travel
for miles and miles over the rich vale. They now left the main road and
struck into a green track over the common marked lightly with wheel and
horse-shoe, which led down into the dingle and stopped at the rough gate
of Farmer Ives. Here they found the farmer, an iron-gray old man, with a
bushy eyebrow and strong aquiline nose, busied in one of his vocations.
He was a horse and cow doctor, and was tending a sick beast which had
been sent up to be cured. Benjy hailed him as an old friend, and he
returned the greeting cordially enough, looking however hard for a
moment both at Benjy and Tom, to see whether there was more in their
visit than appeared at first sight. It was a work of some difficulty and
danger for Benjy to reach the ground, which, however, he managed to do
without mishap; and then he devoted himself to unharnessing Dobbin and
turning him out for a graze (“a run” one could not say of that virtuous
steed) on the common. This done, he extricated the cold provisions from
the cart, and they entered the farmer's wicket; and he, shutting up the
knife with which he was taking maggots out of the cow's back and sides,
accompanied them towards the cottage. A big old lurcher got up slowly
from the door-stone, stretching first one hind leg and then the other,
and taking Tom's caresses and the presence of Toby, who kept, however,
at a respectful distance, with equal indifference.

“Us be cum to pay 'ee a visit. I've a been long minded to do't for old
sake's sake, only I vinds I dwon't get about now as I'd used to't. I be
so plaguy bad wi' th' rheumatiz in my back.” Benjy paused, in hopes
of drawing the farmer at once on the subject of his ailments without
further direct application.

“Ah, I see as you bean't quite so lissom as you was,” replied the
farmer, with a grim smile, as he lifted the latch of his door; “we
bean't so young as we was, nother on us, wuss luck.”

The farmer's cottage was very like those of the better class of
peasantry in general. A snug chimney corner with two seats, and a small
carpet on the hearth, an old flint gun and a pair of spurs over the
fireplace, a dresser with shelves on which some bright pewter plates
and crockeryware were arranged, an old walnut table, a few chairs and
settles, some framed samplers, and an old print or two, and a bookcase
with some dozen volumes on the walls, a rack with flitches of bacon, and
other stores fastened to the ceiling, and you have the best part of the
furniture. No sign of occult art is to be seen, unless the bundles of
dried herbs hanging to the rack and in the ingle and the row of labelled
phials on one of the shelves betoken it.

Tom played about with some kittens who occupied the hearth, and with a
goat who walked demurely in at the open door--while their host and Benjy
spread the table for dinner--and was soon engaged in conflict with the
cold meat, to which he did much honour. The two old men's talk was of
old comrades and their deeds, mute inglorious Miltons of the Vale, and
of the doings thirty years back, which didn't interest him much, except
when they spoke of the making of the canal; and then indeed he began to
listen with all his ears, and learned, to his no small wonder, that his
dear and wonderful canal had not been there always--was not, in fact,
so old as Benjy or Farmer Ives, which caused a strange commotion in his
small brain.

After dinner Benjy called attention to a wart which Tom had on the
knuckles of his hand, and which the family doctor had been trying his
skill on without success, and begged the farmer to charm it away. Farmer
Ives looked at it, muttered something or another over it, and cut
some notches in a short stick, which he handed to Benjy, giving him
instructions for cutting it down on certain days, and cautioning Tom not
to meddle with the wart for a fortnight. And then they strolled out and
sat on a bench in the sun with their pipes, and the pigs came up and
grunted sociably and let Tom scratch them; and the farmer, seeing how he
liked animals, stood up and held his arms in the air, and gave a call,
which brought a flock of pigeons wheeling and dashing through the
birch-trees. They settled down in clusters on the farmer's arms and
shoulders, making love to him and scrambling over one another's backs
to get to his face; and then he threw them all off, and they fluttered
about close by, and lighted on him again and again when he held up his
arms. All the creatures about the place were clean and fearless, quite
unlike their relations elsewhere; and Tom begged to be taught how to
make all the pigs and cows and poultry in our village tame, at which the
farmer only gave one of his grim chuckles.

It wasn't till they were just ready to go, and old Dobbin was harnessed,
that Benjy broached the subject of his rheumatism again, detailing his
symptoms one by one. Poor old boy! He hoped the farmer could charm it
away as easily as he could Tom's wart, and was ready with equal faith to
put another notched stick into his other pocket, for the cure of his
own ailments. The physician shook his head, but nevertheless produced a
bottle, and handed it to Benjy, with instructions for use. “Not as 't'll
do 'ee much good--leastways I be afeard not,” shading his eyes with his
hand, and looking up at them in the cart. “There's only one thing as I
knows on as'll cure old folks like you and I o' th' rheumatiz.”

“Wot be that then, farmer?” inquired Benjy.

“Churchyard mould,” said the old iron-gray man, with another chuckle.
And so they said their good-byes and went their ways home. Tom's wart
was gone in a fortnight, but not so Benjy's rheumatism, which laid him
by the heels more and more. And though Tom still spent many an hour with
him, as he sat on a bench in the sunshine, or by the chimney corner when
it was cold, he soon had to seek elsewhere for his regular companions.

Tom had been accustomed often to accompany his mother in her visits to
the cottages, and had thereby made acquaintance with many of the village
boys of his own age. There was Job Rudkin, son of widow Rudkin, the most
bustling woman in the parish. How she could ever have had such a stolid
boy as Job for a child must always remain a mystery. The first time
Tom went to their cottage with his mother, Job was not indoors; but he
entered soon after, and stood with both hands in his pockets, staring
at Tom. Widow Rudkin, who would have had to cross madam to get at
young Hopeful--a breach of good manners of which she was wholly
incapable--began a series of pantomime signs, which only puzzled him;
and at last, unable to contain herself longer, burst out with, “Job!
Job! where's thy cap?”

“What! bean't 'ee on ma head, mother?” replied Job, slowly extricating
one hand from a pocket, and feeling for the article in question; which
he found on his head sure enough, and left there, to his mother's horror
and Tom's great delight.

Then there was poor Jacob Dodson, the half-witted boy, who ambled about
cheerfully, undertaking messages and little helpful odds and ends for
every one, which, however, poor Jacob managed always hopelessly to
imbrangle. Everything came to pieces in his hands, and nothing would
stop in his head. They nicknamed him Jacob Doodle-calf.

But above all there was Harry Winburn, the quickest and best boy in the
parish. He might be a year older than Tom, but was very little bigger,
and he was the Crichton of our village boys. He could wrestle and climb
and run better than all the rest, and learned all that the schoolmaster
could teach him faster than that worthy at all liked. He was a boy to
be proud of, with his curly brown hair, keen gray eye, straight active
figure, and little ears and hands and feet, “as fine as a lord's,” as
Charity remarked to Tom one day, talking, as usual, great nonsense.
Lords' hands and ears and feet are just as ugly as other folk's when
they are children, as any one may convince himself if he likes to look.
Tight boots and gloves, and doing nothing with them, I allow make a
difference by the time they are twenty.

Now that Benjy was laid on the shelf, and his young brothers were still
under petticoat government, Tom, in search of companions, began to
cultivate the village boys generally more and more. Squire Brown, be it
said, was a true-blue Tory to the backbone, and believed honestly that
the powers which be were ordained of God, and that loyalty and steadfast
obedience were men's first duties. Whether it were in consequence or in
spite of his political creed, I do not mean to give an opinion, though
I have one; but certain it is that he held therewith divers social
principles not generally supposed to be true blue in colour. Foremost of
these, and the one which the Squire loved to propound above all others,
was the belief that a man is to be valued wholly and solely for that
which he is in himself, for that which stands up in the four fleshly
walls of him, apart from clothes, rank, fortune, and all externals
whatsoever. Which belief I take to be a wholesome corrective of all
political opinions, and, if held sincerely, to make all opinions equally
harmless, whether they be blue, red, or green. As a necessary corollary
to this belief, Squire Brown held further that it didn't matter a
straw whether his son associated with lords' sons or ploughmen's sons,
provided they were brave and honest. He himself had played football
and gone bird-nesting with the farmers whom he met at vestry and
the labourers who tilled their fields, and so had his father and
grandfather, with their progenitors. So he encouraged Tom in his
intimacy with the boys of the village, and forwarded it by all means
in his power, and gave them the run of a close for a playground, and
provided bats and balls and a football for their sports.

Our village was blessed amongst other things with a well-endowed school.
The building stood by itself, apart from the master's house, on an angle
of ground where three roads met--an old gray stone building with a steep
roof and mullioned windows. On one of the opposite angles stood Squire
Brown's stables and kennel, with their backs to the road, over which
towered a great elm-tree; on the third stood the village carpenter and
wheelwright's large open shop, and his house and the schoolmaster's,
with long low eaves, under which the swallows built by scores.

The moment Tom's lessons were over, he would now get him down to this
corner by the stables, and watch till the boys came out of school. He
prevailed on the groom to cut notches for him in the bark of the elm
so that he could climb into the lower branches; and there he would sit
watching the school door, and speculating on the possibility of turning
the elm into a dwelling-place for himself and friends, after the manner
of the Swiss Family Robinson. But the school hours were long and Tom's
patience short, so that he soon began to descend into the street, and go
and peep in at the school door and the wheelwright's shop, and look out
for something to while away the time. Now the wheelwright was a choleric
man, and one fine afternoon, returning from a short absence, found Tom
occupied with one of his pet adzes, the edge of which was fast vanishing
under our hero's care. A speedy flight saved Tom from all but one sound
cuff on the ears; but he resented this unjustifiable interruption of his
first essays at carpentering, and still more the further proceedings
of the wheelwright, who cut a switch, and hung it over the door of his
workshop, threatening to use it upon Tom if he came within twenty yards
of his gate. So Tom, to retaliate, commenced a war upon the swallows who
dwelt under the wheelwright's eaves, whom he harassed with sticks
and stones; and being fleeter of foot than his enemy, escaped all
punishment, and kept him in perpetual anger. Moreover, his presence
about the school door began to incense the master, as the boys in that
neighbourhood neglected their lessons in consequence; and more than once
he issued into the porch, rod in hand, just as Tom beat a hasty retreat.
And he and the wheelwright, laying their heads together, resolved to
acquaint the Squire with Tom's afternoon occupations; but in order to
do it with effect, determined to take him captive and lead him away to
judgment fresh from his evil doings. This they would have found some
difficulty in doing, had Tom continued the war single-handed, or rather
single-footed, for he would have taken to the deepest part of Pebbly
Brook to escape them; but, like other active powers, he was ruined by
his alliances. Poor Jacob Doodle-calf could not go to the school with
the other boys, and one fine afternoon, about three o'clock (the school
broke up at four), Tom found him ambling about the street, and pressed
him into a visit to the school-porch. Jacob, always ready to do what he
was asked, consented, and the two stole down to the school together.
Tom first reconnoitred the wheelwright's shop; and seeing no signs
of activity, thought all safe in that quarter, and ordered at once an
advance of all his troops upon the schoolporch. The door of the school
was ajar, and the boys seated on the nearest bench at once recognized
and opened a correspondence with the invaders. Tom, waxing bold, kept
putting his head into the school and making faces at the master when
his back was turned. Poor Jacob, not in the least comprehending the
situation, and in high glee at finding himself so near the school, which
he had never been allowed to enter, suddenly, in a fit of enthusiasm,
pushed by Tom, and ambling three steps into the school, stood there,
looking round him and nodding with a self-approving smile. The master,
who was stooping over a boy's slate, with his back to the door, became
aware of something unusual, and turned quickly round. Tom rushed at
Jacob, and began dragging him back by his smock-frock, and the master
made at them, scattering forms and boys in his career. Even now they
might have escaped, but that in the porch, barring retreat, appeared the
crafty wheelwright, who had been watching all their proceedings. So they
were seized, the school dismissed, and Tom and Jacob led away to Squire
Brown as lawful prize, the boys following to the gate in groups, and
speculating on the result.

The Squire was very angry at first, but the interview, by Tom's
pleading, ended in a compromise. Tom was not to go near the school till
three o'clock, and only then if he had done his own lessons well, in
which case he was to be the bearer of a note to the master from Squire
Brown; and the master agreed in such case to release ten or twelve of
the best boys an hour before the time of breaking up, to go off and play
in the close. The wheelwright's adzes and swallows were to be for ever
respected; and that hero and the master withdrew to the servants' hall
to drink the Squire's health, well satisfied with their day's work.

The second act of Tom's life may now be said to have begun. The war of
independence had been over for some time: none of the women now--not
even his mother's maid--dared offer to help him in dressing or
washing. Between ourselves, he had often at first to run to Benjy in an
unfinished state of toilet. Charity and the rest of them seemed to take
a delight in putting impossible buttons and ties in the middle of his
back; but he would have gone without nether integuments altogether,
sooner than have had recourse to female valeting. He had a room to
himself, and his father gave him sixpence a week pocket-money. All
this he had achieved by Benjy's advice and assistance. But now he had
conquered another step in life--the step which all real boys so long
to make: he had got amongst his equals in age and strength, and could
measure himself with other boys; he lived with those whose pursuits and
wishes and ways were the same in kind as his own.

The little governess who had lately been installed in the house found
her work grow wondrously easy, for Tom slaved at his lessons, in order
to make sure of his note to the schoolmaster. So there were very few
days in the week in which Tom and the village boys were not playing
in their close by three o'clock. Prisoner's base, rounders,
high-cock-a-lorum, cricket, football--he was soon initiated into the
delights of them all; and though most of the boys were older than
himself, he managed to hold his own very well. He was naturally active
and strong, and quick of eye and hand, and had the advantage of light
shoes and well-fitting dress, so that in a short time he could run and
jump and climb with any of them.

They generally finished their regular games half an hour or so before
tea-time, and then began trials of skill and strength in many ways. Some
of them would catch the Shetland pony who was turned out in the field,
and get two or three together on his back, and the little rogue,
enjoying the fun, would gallop off for fifty yards, and then turn round,
or stop short and shoot them on to the turf, and then graze quietly on
till he felt another load; others played at peg-top or marbles, while
a few of the bigger ones stood up for a bout at wrestling. Tom at first
only looked on at this pastime, but it had peculiar attractions for him,
and he could not long keep out of it. Elbow and collar wrestling, as
practised in the western counties, was, next to back-swording, the way
to fame for the youth of the Vale; and all the boys knew the rules of
it, and were more or less expert. But Job Rudkin and Harry Winburn were
the stars--the former stiff and sturdy, with legs like small towers; the
latter pliant as indiarubber and quick as lightning. Day after day they
stood foot to foot, and offered first one hand and then the other, and
grappled and closed, and swayed and strained, till a well-aimed crook of
the heel or thrust of the loin took effect, and a fair back-fall ended
the matter. And Tom watched with all his eyes, and first challenged one
of the less scientific, and threw him; and so one by one wrestled his
way up to the leaders.

Then indeed for months he had a poor time of it; it was not long indeed
before he could manage to keep his legs against Job, for that hero was
slow of offence, and gained his victories chiefly by allowing others to
throw themselves against his immovable legs and loins. But Harry Winburn
was undeniably his master; from the first clutch of hands when they
stood up, down to the last trip which sent him on to his back on the
turf, he felt that Harry knew more and could do more than he. Luckily
Harry's bright unconsciousness and Tom's natural good temper kept them
from quarrelling; and so Tom worked on and on, and trod more and more
nearly on Harry's heels, and at last mastered all the dodges and falls
except one. This one was Harry's own particular invention and pet; he
scarcely ever used it except when hard pressed, but then out it came,
and as sure as it did, over went poor Tom. He thought about that fall
at his meals, in his walks, when he lay awake in bed, in his dreams, but
all to no purpose, until Harry one day in his open way suggested to him
how he thought it should be met; and in a week from that time the boys
were equal, save only the slight difference of strength in Harry's
favour, which some extra ten months of age gave. Tom had often
afterwards reason to be thankful for that early drilling, and above all,
for having mastered Harry Winburn's fall.

Besides their home games, on Saturdays the boys would wander all over
the neighbourhood; sometimes to the downs, or up to the camp, where
they cut their initials out in the springy turf, and watched the hawks
soaring, and the “peert” bird, as Harry Winburn called the gray plover,
gorgeous in his wedding feathers; and so home, racing down the Manger
with many a roll among the thistles, or through Uffington Wood to watch
the fox cubs playing in the green rides; sometimes to Rosy Brook, to cut
long whispering reeds which grew there, to make pan-pipes of; sometimes
to Moor Mills, where was a piece of old forest land, with short browsed
turf and tufted brambly thickets stretching under the oaks, amongst
which rumour declared that a raven, last of his race, still lingered;
or to the sand-hills, in vain quest of rabbits; and bird-nesting in the
season, anywhere and everywhere.

The few neighbours of the Squire's own rank every now and then would
shrug their shoulders as they drove or rode by a party of boys with Tom
in the middle, carrying along bulrushes or whispering reeds, or great
bundles of cowslip and meadow-sweet, or young starlings or magpies, or
other spoil of wood, brook, or meadow; and Lawyer Red-tape might mutter
to Squire Straight-back at the Board that no good would come of the
young Browns, if they were let run wild with all the dirty village boys,
whom the best farmers' sons even would not play with. And the squire
might reply with a shake of his head that his sons only mixed with
their equals, and never went into the village without the governess or
a footman. But, luckily, Squire Brown was full as stiffbacked as
his neighbours, and so went on his own way; and Tom and his younger
brothers, as they grew up, went on playing with the village boys,
without the idea of equality or inequality (except in wrestling,
running, and climbing) ever entering their heads; as it doesn't till
it's put there by Jack Nastys or fine ladies' maids.

I don't mean to say it would be the case in all villages, but it
certainly was so in this one: the village boys were full as manly and
honest, and certainly purer, than those in a higher rank; and Tom got
more harm from his equals in his first fortnight at a private school,
where he went when he was nine years old, than he had from his village
friends from the day he left Charity's apron-strings.

Great was the grief amongst the village school-boys when Tom drove off
with the Squire, one August morning, to meet the coach on his way to
school. Each of them had given him some little present of the best that
he had, and his small private box was full of peg-taps, white marbles
(called “alley-taws” in the Vale), screws, birds' eggs, whip-cord,
jews-harps, and other miscellaneous boys' wealth. Poor Jacob
Doodle-calf, in floods of tears, had pressed upon him with spluttering
earnestness his lame pet hedgehog (he had always some poor broken-down
beast or bird by him); but this Tom had been obliged to refuse, by the
Squire's order. He had given them all a great tea under the big elm in
their playground, for which Madam Brown had supplied the biggest cake
ever seen in our village; and Tom was really as sorry to leave them
as they to lose him, but his sorrow was not unmixed with the pride and
excitement of making a new step in life.

And this feeling carried him through his first parting with his mother
better than could have been expected. Their love was as fair and whole
as human love can be--perfect self-sacrifice on the one side meeting
a young and true heart on the other. It is not within the scope of my
book, however, to speak of family relations, or I should have much to
say on the subject of English mothers--ay, and of English fathers, and
sisters, and brothers too. Neither have I room to speak of our private
schools. What I have to say is about public schools--those much-abused
and much-belauded institutions peculiar to England. So we must hurry
through Master Tom's year at a private school as fast as we can.

It was a fair average specimen, kept by a gentleman, with another
gentleman as second master; but it was little enough of the real work
they did--merely coming into school when lessons were prepared and all
ready to be heard. The whole discipline of the school out of lesson
hours was in the hands of the two ushers, one of whom was always with
the boys in their playground, in the school, at meals--in fact, at all
times and every where, till they were fairly in bed at night.

Now the theory of private schools is (or was) constant supervision out
of school--therein differing fundamentally from that of public schools.

It may be right or wrong; but if right, this supervision surely ought
to be the especial work of the head-master, the responsible person. The
object of all schools is not to ram Latin and Greek into boys, but to
make them good English boys, good future citizens; and by far the most
important part of that work must be done, or not done, out of school
hours. To leave it, therefore, in the hands of inferior men, is just
giving up the highest and hardest part of the work of education. Were I
a private school-master, I should say, Let who will hear the boys their
lessons, but let me live with them when they are at play and rest.

The two ushers at Tom's first school were not gentlemen, and very poorly
educated, and were only driving their poor trade of usher to get such
living as they could out of it. They were not bad men, but had little
heart for their work, and of course were bent on making it as easy as
possible. One of the methods by which they endeavoured to accomplish
this was by encouraging tale-bearing, which had become a frightfully
common vice in the school in consequence, and had sapped all the
foundations of school morality. Another was, by favouring grossly the
biggest boys, who alone could have given them much trouble; whereby
those young gentlemen became most abominable tyrants, oppressing the
little boys in all the small mean ways which prevail in private schools.

Poor little Tom was made dreadfully unhappy in his first week by a
catastrophe which happened to his first letter home. With huge labour he
had, on the very evening of his arrival, managed to fill two sides of
a sheet of letter-paper with assurances of his love for dear mamma, his
happiness at school, and his resolves to do all she would wish. This
missive, with the help of the boy who sat at the desk next him, also a
new arrival, he managed to fold successfully; but this done, they were
sadly put to it for means of sealing. Envelopes were then unknown;
they had no wax, and dared not disturb the stillness of the evening
school-room by getting up and going to ask the usher for some. At length
Tom's friend, being of an ingenious turn of mind, suggested sealing with
ink; and the letter was accordingly stuck down with a blob of ink, and
duly handed by Tom, on his way to bed, to the housekeeper to be posted.
It was not till four days afterwards that the good dame sent for him,
and produced the precious letter and some wax, saying, “O Master Brown,
I forgot to tell you before, but your letter isn't sealed.” Poor Tom
took the wax in silence and sealed his letter, with a huge lump rising
in his throat during the process, and then ran away to a quiet corner of
the playground, and burst into an agony of tears. The idea of his mother
waiting day after day for the letter he had promised her at once, and
perhaps thinking him forgetful of her, when he had done all in his power
to make good his promise, was as bitter a grief as any which he had
to undergo for many a long year. His wrath, then, was proportionately
violent when he was aware of two boys, who stopped close by him, and one
of whom, a fat gaby of a fellow, pointed at him and called him “Young
mammy-sick!” Whereupon Tom arose, and giving vent thus to his grief and
shame and rage, smote his derider on the nose; and made it bleed;
which sent that young worthy howling to the usher, who reported Tom for
violent and unprovoked assault and battery. Hitting in the face was a
felony punishable with flogging, other hitting only a misdemeanour--a
distinction not altogether clear in principle. Tom, however, escaped the
penalty by pleading primum tempus; and having written a second letter
to his mother, inclosing some forget-me-nots, which he picked on their
first half-holiday walk, felt quite happy again, and began to enjoy
vastly a good deal of his new life.

These half-holiday walks were the great events of the week. The whole
fifty boys started after dinner with one of the ushers for Hazeldown,
which was distant some mile or so from the school. Hazeldown measured
some three miles round, and in the neighbourhood were several woods full
of all manner of birds and butterflies. The usher walked slowly round
the down with such boys as liked to accompany him; the rest scattered
in all directions, being only bound to appear again when the usher
had completed his round, and accompany him home. They were forbidden,
however, to go anywhere except on the down and into the woods; the
village had been especially prohibited, where huge bull's-eyes and
unctuous toffy might be procured in exchange for coin of the realm.

Various were the amusements to which the boys then betook themselves. At
the entrance of the down there was a steep hillock, like the barrows of
Tom's own downs. This mound was the weekly scene of terrific combats,
at a game called by the queer name of “mud-patties.” The boys who played
divided into sides under different leaders, and one side occupied the
mound. Then, all parties having provided themselves with many sods of
turf, cut with their bread-and-cheese knives, the side which remained
at the bottom proceeded to assault the mound, advancing up on all sides
under cover of a heavy fire of turfs, and then struggling for victory
with the occupants, which was theirs as soon as they could, even for a
moment, clear the summit, when they in turn became the besieged. It
was a good, rough, dirty game, and of great use in counteracting the
sneaking tendencies of the school. Then others of the boys spread over
the downs, looking for the holes of humble-bees and mice, which they
dug up without mercy, often (I regret to say) killing and skinning the
unlucky mice, and (I do not regret to say) getting well stung by the
bumble-bees. Others went after butterflies and birds' eggs in their
seasons; and Tom found on Hazeldown, for the first time, the beautiful
little blue butterfly with golden spots on his wings, which he had never
seen on his own downs, and dug out his first sand-martin's nest. This
latter achievement resulted in a flogging, for the sand-martins built in
a high bank close to the village, consequently out of bounds; but one of
the bolder spirits of the school, who never could be happy unless he
was doing something to which risk was attached, easily persuaded Tom to
break bounds and visit the martins' bank. From whence it being only a
step to the toffy shop, what could be more simple than to go on there
and fill their pockets; or what more certain than that on their return,
a distribution of treasure having been made, the usher should shortly
detect the forbidden smell of bull's-eyes, and, a search ensuing,
discover the state of the breeches-pockets of Tom and his ally?

This ally of Tom's was indeed a desperate hero in the sight of the boys,
and feared as one who dealt in magic, or something approaching thereto.
Which reputation came to him in this wise. The boys went to bed at
eight, and, of course, consequently lay awake in the dark for an hour or
two, telling ghost-stories by turns. One night when it came to his turn,
and he had dried up their souls by his story, he suddenly declared that
he would make a fiery hand appear on the door; and to the astonishment
and terror of the boys in his room, a hand, or something like it, in
pale light, did then and there appear. The fame of this exploit having
spread to the other rooms, and being discredited there, the young
necromancer declared that the same wonder would appear in all the rooms
in turn, which it accordingly did; and the whole circumstances having
been privately reported to one of the ushers as usual, that functionary,
after listening about at the doors of the rooms, by a sudden descent
caught the performer in his night-shirt, with a box of phosphorus in his
guilty hand. Lucifer-matches and all the present facilities for getting
acquainted with fire were then unknown--the very name of phosphorus had
something diabolic in it to the boy-mind; so Tom's ally, at the cost
of a sound flogging, earned what many older folk covet much--the very
decided fear of most of his companions.

He was a remarkable boy, and by no means a bad one. Tom stuck to him
till he left, and got into many scrapes by so doing. But he was the
great opponent of the tale-bearing habits of the school, and the open
enemy of the ushers; and so worthy of all support.

Tom imbibed a fair amount of Latin and Greek at the school, but somehow,
on the whole, it didn't suit him, or he it, and in the holidays he was
constantly working the Squire to send him at once to a public school.
Great was his joy then, when in the middle of his third half-year, in
October 183-, a fever broke out in the village, and the master having
himself slightly sickened of it, the whole of the boys were sent off at
a day's notice to their respective homes.

The Squire was not quite so pleased as Master Tom to see that young
gentleman's brown, merry face appear at home, some two months before the
proper time, for the Christmas holidays; and so, after putting on his
thinking cap, he retired to his study and wrote several letters, the
result of which was that, one morning at the breakfast-table, about a
fortnight after Tom's return, he addressed his wife with--“My dear, I
have arranged that Tom shall go to Rugby at once, for the last six weeks
of this half-year, instead of wasting them in riding and loitering about
home. It is very kind of the doctor to allow it. Will you see that his
things are all ready by Friday, when I shall take him up to town, and
send him down the next day by himself.”

Mrs. Brown was prepared for the announcement, and merely suggested a
doubt whether Tom were yet old enough to travel by himself. However,
finding both father and son against her on this point, she gave in, like
a wise woman, and proceeded to prepare Tom's kit for his launch into a
public school.



CHAPTER IV--THE STAGE COACH.


     “Let the steam-pot hiss till it's hot;
     Give me the speed of the Tantivy trot.”
      Coaching Song, by R.E.E. Warburton, Esq.

“Now, sir, time to get up, if you please. Tally-ho coach for
Leicester'll be round in half an hour, and don't wait for nobody.” So
spake the boots of the Peacock Inn Islington, at half-past two o'clock
on the morning of a day in the early part of November 183-, giving
Tom at the same time a shake by the shoulder, and then putting down a
candle; and carrying off his shoes to clean.

Tom and his father arrived in town from Berkshire the day before, and
finding, on inquiry, that the Birmingham coaches which ran from the city
did not pass through Rugby, but deposited their passengers at Dunchurch,
a village three miles distant on the main road, where said passengers
had to wait for the Oxford and Leicester coach in the evening, or to
take a post-chaise, had resolved that Tom should travel down by the
Tally-ho, which diverged from the main road and passed through Rugby
itself. And as the Tally-ho was an early coach, they had driven out to
the Peacock to be on the road.

Tom had never been in London, and would have liked to have stopped at
the Belle Savage, where they had been put down by the Star, just at
dusk, that he might have gone roving about those endless, mysterious,
gas-lit streets, which, with their glare and hum and moving crowds,
excited him so that he couldn't talk even. But as soon as he found that
the Peacock arrangement would get him to Rugby by twelve o'clock in the
day, whereas otherwise he wouldn't be there till the evening, all
other plans melted away, his one absorbing aim being to become a public
school-boy as fast as possible, and six hours sooner or later seeming to
him of the most alarming importance.

Tom and his father had alighted at the Peacock at about seven in the
evening; and having heard with unfeigned joy the paternal order, at the
bar, of steaks and oyster-sauce for supper in half an hour, and seen
his father seated cozily by the bright fire in the coffee-room with the
paper in his hand, Tom had run out to see about him, had wondered at all
the vehicles passing and repassing, and had fraternized with the boots
and hostler, from whom he ascertained that the Tally-ho was a tip-top
goer--ten miles an hour including stoppages--and so punctual that all
the road set their clocks by her.

Then being summoned to supper, he had regaled himself in one of the
bright little boxes of the Peacock coffee-room, on the beef-steak
and unlimited oyster-sauce and brown stout (tasted then for the first
time--a day to be marked for ever by Tom with a white stone); had at
first attended to the excellent advice which his father was bestowing
on him from over his glass of steaming brandy-and-water, and then
began nodding, from the united effects of the stout, the fire, and the
lecture; till the Squire, observing Tom's state, and remembering that it
was nearly nine o'clock, and that the Tally-ho left at three, sent the
little fellow off to the chambermaid, with a shake of the hand (Tom
having stipulated in the morning before starting that kissing should now
cease between them), and a few parting words:

“And now, Tom, my boy,” said the Squire, “remember you are going, at
your own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a
young bear, with all your troubles before you--earlier than we should
have sent you perhaps. If schools are what they were in my time, you'll
see a great many cruel blackguard things done, and hear a deal of foul,
bad talk. But never fear. You tell the truth, keep a brave and kind
heart, and never listen to or say anything you wouldn't have your mother
and sister hear, and you'll never feel ashamed to come home, or we to
see you.”

The allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather choky, and he would have
liked to have hugged his father well, if it hadn't been for the recent
stipulation.

As it was, he only squeezed his father's hand, and looked bravely up and
said, “I'll try, father.”

“I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe?

“Yes,” said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure.

“And your keys?” said the Squire.

“All right,” said Tom, diving into the other pocket.

“Well, then, good-night. God bless you! I'll tell boots to call you, and
be up to see you off.”

Tom was carried off by the chambermaid in a brown study, from which he
was roused in a clean little attic, by that buxom person calling him a
little darling and kissing him as she left the room; which indignity
he was too much surprised to resent. And still thinking of his father's
last words, and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and
prayed that, come what might, he might never bring shame or sorrow on
the dear folk at home.

Indeed, the Squire's last words deserved to have their effect, for they
had been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London
he had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting
advice--something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. By
way of assisting meditation, he had even gone the length of taking out
his flint and steel and tinder, and hammering away for a quarter of an
hour till he had manufactured a light for a long Trichinopoli cheroot,
which he silently puffed, to the no small wonder of coachee, who was an
old friend, and an institution on the Bath road, and who always expected
a talk on the prospects and doings, agricultural and social, of the
whole country, when he carried the Squire.

To condense the Squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows: “I
won't tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he don't do
that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go
into the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that.
Never do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won't
understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him
to mind his work, and say he's sent to school to make himself a good
scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for that--at any rate,
not for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the
digamma; no more does his mother. What is he sent to school for? Well,
partly because he wanted so to go. If he'll only turn out a brave,
helpful, truth-telling Englishman, and a gentleman, and a Christian,
that's all I want,” thought the Squire; and upon this view of the case
he framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited
to his purpose.

For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the
summons of boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At
ten minutes to three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings,
carrying his hat-box, coat, and comforter in his hand; and there he
found his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and a
hard biscuit on the table.

“Now, then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink this. There's
nothing like starting warm, old fellow.”

Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked
himself into his shoes and his greatcoat, well warmed through--a
Petersham coat with velvet collar, made tight after the abominable
fashion of those days. And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful,
winding his comforter round his throat, and tucking the ends into the
breast of his coat, the horn sounds; boots looks in and says, “Tally-ho,
sir;” and they hear the ring and the rattle of the four fast trotters
and the town-made drag, as it dashes up to the Peacock.

“Anything for us, Bob?” says the burly guard, dropping down from behind,
and slapping himself across the chest.

“Young gen'lm'n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o' game,
Rugby,” answers hostler.

“Tell young gent to look alive,” says guard, opening the hind-boot and
shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps. “Here; shove
the portmanteau up a-top. I'll fasten him presently.--Now then, sir,
jump up behind.”

“Good-bye, father--my love at home.” A last shake of the hand. Up goes
Tom, the guard catching his hatbox and holding on with one hand, while
with the other he claps the horn to his mouth. Toot, toot, toot! the
hostlers let go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and
away goes the Tally-ho into the darkness, forty-five seconds from the
time they pulled up. Hostler, boots, and the Squire stand looking after
them under the Peacock lamp.

“Sharp work!” says the Squire, and goes in again to his bed, the coach
being well out of sight and hearing.

Tom stands up on the coach and looks back at his father's figure as long
as he can see it; and then the guard, having disposed of his luggage,
comes to an anchor, and finishes his buttonings and other preparations
for facing the three hours before dawn--no joke for those who minded
cold, on a fast coach in November, in the reign of his late Majesty.

I sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a deal tenderer
fellows than we used to be. At any rate you're much more comfortable
travellers, for I see every one of you with his rug or plaid, and other
dodges for preserving the caloric, and most of you going in, those
fuzzy, dusty, padded first-class carriages. It was another affair
altogether, a dark ride on the top of the Tally-ho, I can tell you, in a
tight Petersham coat, and your feet dangling six inches from the floor.
Then you knew what cold was, and what it was to be without legs, for not
a bit of feeling had you in them after the first half-hour. But it had
its pleasures, the old dark ride. First there was the consciousness of
silent endurance, so dear to every Englishman--of standing out against
something, and not giving in. Then there was the music of the rattling
harness, and the ring of the horses' feet on the hard road, and the
glare of the two bright lamps through the steaming hoar frost, over the
leaders' ears, into the darkness, and the cheery toot of the guard's
horn, to warn some drowsy pikeman or the hostler at the next change; and
the looking forward to daylight; and last, but not least, the delight of
returning sensation in your toes.

Then the break of dawn and the sunrise, where can they be ever seen in
perfection but from a coach roof? You want motion and change and music
to see them in their glory--not the music of singing men and singing
women, but good, silent music, which sets itself in your own head, the
accompaniment of work and getting over the ground.

The Tally-ho is past St. Albans, and Tom is enjoying the ride, though
half-frozen. The guard, who is alone with him on the back of the coach,
is silent, but has muffled Tom's feet up in straw, and put the end of an
oat-sack over his knees. The darkness has driven him inwards, and he
has gone over his little past life, and thought of all his doings and
promises, and of his mother and sister, and his father's last words; and
has made fifty good resolutions, and means to bear himself like a brave
Brown as he is, though a young one. Then he has been forward into the
mysterious boy-future, speculating as to what sort of place Rugby is,
and what they do there, and calling up all the stories of public schools
which he has heard from big boys in the holidays. He is choke-full of
hope and life, notwithstanding the cold, and kicks his heels against the
back-board, and would like to sing, only he doesn't know how his friend
the silent guard might take it.

And now the dawn breaks at the end of the fourth stage, and the coach
pulls up at a little roadside inn with huge stables behind. There is a
bright fire gleaming through the red curtains of the bar window, and
the door is open. The coachman catches his whip into a double thong, and
throws it to the hostler; the steam of the horses rises straight up
into the air. He has put them along over the last two miles, and is two
minutes before his time. He rolls down from the box and into the inn.
The guard rolls off behind. “Now, sir,” says he to Tom, “you just jump
down, and I'll give you a drop of something to keep the cold out.”

Tom finds a difficulty in jumping, or indeed in finding the top of the
wheel with his feet, which may be in the next world for all he feels;
so the guard picks him off the coach top, and sets him on his legs, and
they stump off into the bar, and join the coachman and the other outside
passengers.

Here a fresh-looking barmaid serves them each with a glass of early purl
as they stand before the fire, coachman and guard exchanging business
remarks. The purl warms the cockles of Tom's heart, and makes him cough.

“Rare tackle that, sir, of a cold morning,” says the coachman, smiling.
“Time's up.” They are out again and up; coachee the last, gathering the
reins into his hands and talking to Jem the hostler about the mare's
shoulder, and then swinging himself up on to the box--the horses dashing
off in a canter before he falls into his seat. Toot-toot-tootle-too goes
the horn, and away they are again, five-and-thirty miles on their road
(nearly half-way to Rugby, thinks Tom), and the prospect of breakfast at
the end of the stage.

And now they begin to see, and the early life of the country-side comes
out--a market cart or two; men in smock-frocks going to their work, pipe
in mouth, a whiff of which is no bad smell this bright morning. The sun
gets up, and the mist shines like silver gauze. They pass the hounds
jogging along to a distant meet, at the heels of the huntsman's back,
whose face is about the colour of the tails of his old pink, as he
exchanges greetings with coachman and guard. Now they pull up at a
lodge, and take on board a well-muffled-up sportsman, with his gun-case
and carpet-bag, An early up-coach meets them, and the coachmen gather
up their horses, and pass one another with the accustomed lift of the
elbow, each team doing eleven miles an hour, with a mile to spare behind
if necessary. And here comes breakfast.

“Twenty minutes here, gentlemen,” says the coachman, as they pull up at
half-past seven at the inn-door.

Have we not endured nobly this morning? and is not this a worthy reward
for much endurance? There is the low, dark wainscoted room hung with
sporting prints; the hat-stand (with a whip or two standing up in it
belonging to bagmen who are still snug in bed) by the door; the blazing
fire, with the quaint old glass over the mantelpiece, in which is stuck
a large card with the list of the meets for the week of the county
hounds; the table covered with the whitest of cloths and of china, and
bearing a pigeon-pie, ham, round of cold boiled beef cut from a mammoth
ox, and the great loaf of household bread on a wooden trencher. And
here comes in the stout head waiter, puffing under a tray of hot
viands--kidneys and a steak, transparent rashers and poached eggs,
buttered toast and muffins, coffee and tea, all smoking hot. The table
can never hold it all. The cold meats are removed to the sideboard--they
were only put on for show and to give us an appetite. And now fall on,
gentlemen all. It is a well-known sporting-house, and the breakfasts are
famous. Two or three men in pink, on their way to the meet, drop in, and
are very jovial and sharp-set, as indeed we all are.

“Tea or coffee, sir?” says head waiter, coming round to Tom.

“Coffee, please,” says Tom, with his mouth full of muffin and kidney.
Coffee is a treat to him, tea is not.

Our coachman, I perceive, who breakfasts with us, is a cold beef man.
He also eschews hot potations, and addicts himself to a tankard of ale,
which is brought him by the barmaid. Sportsman looks on approvingly, and
orders a ditto for himself.

Tom has eaten kidney and pigeon-pie, and imbibed coffee, till his little
skin is as tight as a drum; and then has the further pleasure of paying
head waiter out of his own purse, in a dignified manner, and walks out
before the inn-door to see the horses put to. This is done leisurely and
in a highly-finished manner by the hostlers, as if they enjoyed the not
being hurried. Coachman comes out with his waybill, and puffing a fat
cigar which the sportsman has given him. Guard emerges from the tap,
where he prefers breakfasting, licking round a tough-looking doubtful
cheroot, which you might tie round your finger, and three whiffs of
which would knock any one else out of time.

The pinks stand about the inn-door lighting cigars and waiting to see us
start, while their hacks are led up and down the market-place, on which
the inn looks. They all know our sportsman, and we feel a reflected
credit when we see him chatting and laughing with them.

“Now, sir, please,” says the coachman. All the rest of the passengers
are up; the guard is locking up the hind-boot.

“A good run to you!” says the sportsman to the pinks, and is by the
coachman's side in no time.

“Let 'em go, Dick!” The hostlers fly back, drawing off the cloths from
their glossy loins, and away we go through the market-place and down the
High Street, looking in at the first-floor windows, and seeing several
worthy burgesses shaving thereat; while all the shopboys who are
cleaning the windows, and housemaids who are doing the steps, stop and
look pleased as we rattle past, as if we were a part of their legitimate
morning's amusement. We clear the town, and are well out between the
hedgerows again as the town clock strikes eight.

The sun shines almost warmly, and breakfast has oiled all springs
and loosened all tongues. Tom is encouraged by a remark or two of the
guard's between the puffs of his oily cheroot, and besides is getting
tired of not talking. He is too full of his destination to talk about
anything else, and so asks the guard if he knows Rugby.

“Goes through it every day of my life. Twenty minutes afore twelve
down--ten o'clock up.”

“What sort of place is it, please?” says Tom.

Guard looks at him with a comical expression. “Werry out-o'-the-way
place, sir; no paving to streets, nor no lighting. 'Mazin' big horse and
cattle fair in autumn--lasts a week--just over now. Takes town a week to
get clean after it. Fairish hunting country. But slow place, sir, slow
place--off the main road, you see--only three coaches a day, and one on
'em a two-oss wan, more like a hearse nor a coach--Regulator--comes from
Oxford. Young genl'm'n at school calls her Pig and Whistle, and goes up
to college by her (six miles an hour) when they goes to enter. Belong to
school, sir?”

“Yes,” says Tom, not unwilling for a moment that the guard should think
him an old boy. But then, having some qualms as to the truth of the
assertion, and seeing that if he were to assume the character of an old
boy he couldn't go on asking the questions he wanted, added--“That is to
say, I'm on my way there. I'm a new boy.”

The guard looked as if he knew this quite as well as Tom.

“You're werry late, sir,” says the guard; “only six weeks to-day to the
end of the half.” Tom assented. “We takes up fine loads this day six
weeks, and Monday and Tuesday arter. Hopes we shall have the pleasure of
carrying you back.”

Tom said he hoped they would; but he thought within himself that his
fate would probably be the Pig and Whistle.

“It pays uncommon cert'nly,” continues the guard. “Werry free with their
cash is the young genl'm'n. But, Lor' bless you, we gets into such rows
all 'long the road, what wi' their pea-shooters, and long whips, and
hollering, and upsetting every one as comes by, I'd a sight sooner
carry one or two on 'em, sir, as I may be a-carryin' of you now, than a
coach-load.”

“What do they do with the pea-shooters?” inquires Tom.

“Do wi' 'em! Why, peppers every one's faces as we comes near, 'cept the
young gals, and breaks windows wi' them too, some on 'em shoots so hard.
Now 'twas just here last June, as we was a-driving up the first-day
boys, they was mendin' a quarter-mile of road, and there was a lot of
Irish chaps, reg'lar roughs, a-breaking stones. As we comes up, 'Now,
boys,' says young gent on the box (smart young fellow and desper't
reckless), 'here's fun! Let the Pats have it about the ears.' 'God's
sake sir!' says Bob (that's my mate the coachman); 'don't go for to
shoot at 'em. They'll knock us off the coach.' 'Damme, coachee,' says
young my lord, 'you ain't afraid.--Hoora, boys! let 'em have it.'
'Hoora!' sings out the others, and fill their mouths choke-full of peas
to last the whole line. Bob, seeing as 'twas to come, knocks his hat
over his eyes, hollers to his osses, and shakes 'em up; and away we goes
up to the line on 'em, twenty miles an hour. The Pats begin to hoora
too, thinking it was a runaway; and first lot on 'em stands grinnin'
and wavin' their old hats as we comes abreast on 'em; and then you'd ha'
laughed to see how took aback and choking savage they looked, when they
gets the peas a-stinging all over 'em. But bless you, the laugh weren't
all of our side, sir, by a long way. We was going so fast, and they was
so took aback, that they didn't take what was up till we was half-way
up the line. Then 'twas, 'Look out all!' surely. They howls all down the
line fit to frighten you; some on 'em runs arter us and tries to clamber
up behind, only we hits 'em over the fingers and pulls their hands off;
one as had had it very sharp act'ly runs right at the leaders, as though
he'd ketch 'em by the heads, only luck'ly for him he misses his tip and
comes over a heap o' stones first. The rest picks up stones, and gives
it us right away till we gets out of shot, the young gents holding out
werry manful with the pea-shooters and such stones as lodged on us, and
a pretty many there was too. Then Bob picks hisself up again, and looks
at young gent on box werry solemn. Bob'd had a rum un in the ribs,
which'd like to ha' knocked him off the box, or made him drop the reins.
Young gent on box picks hisself up, and so does we all, and looks round
to count damage. Box's head cut open and his hat gone; 'nother young
gent's hat gone; mine knocked in at the side, and not one on us as
wasn't black and blue somewheres or another, most on 'em all over. Two
pound ten to pay for damage to paint, which they subscribed for there
and then, and give Bob and me a extra half-sovereign each; but I
wouldn't go down that line again not for twenty half-sovereigns.” And
the guard shook his head slowly, and got up and blew a clear, brisk
toot-toot.

“What fun!” said Tom, who could scarcely contain his pride at this
exploit of his future school-fellows. He longed already for the end of
the half, that he might join them.

“'Taint such good fun, though, sir, for the folk as meets the coach, nor
for we who has to go back with it next day. Them Irishers last summer
had all got stones ready for us, and was all but letting drive, and we'd
got two reverend gents aboard too. We pulled up at the beginning of
the line, and pacified them, and we're never going to carry no more
pea-shooters, unless they promises not to fire where there's a line of
Irish chaps a-stonebreaking.” The guard stopped and pulled away at his
cheroot, regarding Tom benignantly the while.

“Oh, don't stop! Tell us something more about the pea-shooting.”

“Well, there'd like to have been a pretty piece of work over it at
Bicester, a while back. We was six mile from the town, when we meets an
old square-headed gray-haired yeoman chap, a-jogging along quite quiet.
He looks up at the coach, and just then a pea hits him on the nose, and
some catches his cob behind and makes him dance up on his hind legs. I
see'd the old boy's face flush and look plaguy awkward, and I thought we
was in for somethin' nasty.

“He turns his cob's head and rides quietly after us just out of shot.
How that 'ere cob did step! We never shook him off not a dozen yards
in the six miles. At first the young gents was werry lively on him; but
afore we got in, seeing how steady the old chap come on, they was quite
quiet, and laid their heads together what they should do. Some was for
fighting, some for axing his pardon. He rides into the town close after
us, comes up when we stops, and says the two as shot at him must come
before a magistrate; and a great crowd comes round, and we couldn't get
the osses to. But the young uns they all stand by one another, and says
all or none must go, and as how they'd fight it out, and have to be
carried. Just as 'twas gettin' serious, and the old boy and the mob was
going to pull 'em off the coach, one little fellow jumps up and says,
'Here--I'll stay. I'm only going three miles farther. My father's name's
Davis; he's known about here, and I'll go before the magistrate with
this gentleman.' 'What! be thee parson Davis's son?' says the old boy.
'Yes,' says the young un. 'Well, I be mortal sorry to meet thee in such
company; but for thy father's sake and thine (for thee bist a brave
young chap) I'll say no more about it.' Didn't the boys cheer him, and
the mob cheered the young chap; and then one of the biggest gets down,
and begs his pardon werry gentlemanly for all the rest, saying as they
all had been plaguy vexed from the first, but didn't like to ax his
pardon till then, 'cause they felt they hadn't ought to shirk the
consequences of their joke. And then they all got down, and shook hands
with the old boy, and asked him to all parts of the country, to their
homes; and we drives off twenty minutes behind time, with cheering and
hollering as if we was county 'members. But, Lor' bless you, sir,” says
the guard, smacking his hand down on his knee and looking full into
Tom's face, “ten minutes arter they was all as bad as ever.”

Tom showed such undisguised and open-mouthed interest in his narrations
that the old guard rubbed up his memory, and launched out into a graphic
history of all the performances of the boys on the roads for the last
twenty years. Off the road he couldn't go; the exploit must have been
connected with horses or vehicles to hang in the old fellow's head. Tom
tried him off his own ground once or twice, but found he knew nothing
beyond, and so let him have his head, and the rest of the road bowled
easily away; for old Blow-hard (as the boys called him) was a dry old
file, with much kindness and humour, and a capital spinner of a yarn
when he had broken the neck of his day's work, and got plenty of ale
under his belt.

What struck Tom's youthful imagination most was the desperate and
lawless character of most of the stories. Was the guard hoaxing him? He
couldn't help hoping that they were true. It's very odd how almost all
English boys love danger. You can get ten to join a game, or climb a
tree, or swim a stream, when there's a chance of breaking their limbs or
getting drowned, for one who'll stay on level ground, or in his depth,
or play quoits or bowls.

The guard had just finished an account of a desperate fight which had
happened at one of the fairs between the drovers and the farmers with
their whips, and the boys with cricket-bats and wickets, which arose out
of a playful but objectionable practice of the boys going round to the
public-houses and taking the linch-pins out of the wheels of the gigs,
and was moralizing upon the way in which the Doctor, “a terrible stern
man he'd heard tell,” had come down upon several of the performers,
“sending three on 'em off next morning in a po-shay with a parish
constable,” when they turned a corner and neared the milestone, the
third from Rugby. By the stone two boys stood, their jackets buttoned
tight, waiting for the coach.

“Look here, sir,” says the guard, after giving a sharp toot-toot;
“there's two on 'em; out-and-out runners they be. They comes out about
twice or three times a week, and spirts a mile alongside of us.”

And as they came up, sure enough, away went two boys along the footpath,
keeping up with the horses--the first a light, clean-made fellow going
on springs; the other stout and round-shouldered, labouring in his pace,
but going as dogged as a bull-terrier.

Old Blow-hard looked on admiringly. “See how beautiful that there un
holds hisself together, and goes from his hips, sir,” said he; “he's a
'mazin' fine runner. Now many coachmen as drives a first-rate team'd
put it on, and try and pass 'em. But Bob, sir, bless you, he's
tender-hearted; he'd sooner pull in a bit if he see'd 'em a-gettin'
beat. I do b'lieve, too, as that there un'd sooner break his heart than
let us go by him afore next milestone.”

At the second milestone the boys pulled up short, and waved their
hats to the guard, who had his watch out and shouted “4.56,” thereby
indicating that the mile had been done in four seconds under the five
minutes. They passed several more parties of boys, all of them objects
of the deepest interest to Tom, and came in sight of the town at ten
minutes before twelve. Tom fetched a long breath, and thought he had
never spent a pleasanter day. Before he went to bed he had quite settled
that it must be the greatest day he should ever spend, and didn't alter
his opinion for many a long year--if he has yet.



CHAPTER V--RUGBY AND FOOTBALL.


     “Foot and eye opposed
     In dubious strife.”--Scott.

“And so here's Rugby, sir, at last, and you'll be in plenty of time
for dinner at the School-house, as I telled you,” said the old guard,
pulling his horn out of its case and tootle-tooing away, while the
coachman shook up his horses, and carried them along the side of the
school close, round Dead-man's corner, past the school-gates, and down
the High Street to the Spread Eagle, the wheelers in a spanking trot,
and leaders cantering, in a style which would not have disgraced “Cherry
Bob,” “ramping, stamping, tearing, swearing Billy Harwood,” or any other
of the old coaching heroes.

Tom's heart beat quick as he passed the great schoolfield or close, with
its noble elms, in which several games at football were going on, and
tried to take in at once the long line of gray buildings, beginning
with the chapel, and ending with the School-house, the residence of the
head-master, where the great flag was lazily waving from the highest
round tower. And he began already to be proud of being a Rugby boy, as
he passed the schoolgates, with the oriel window above, and saw the boys
standing there, looking as if the town belonged to them, and nodding in
a familiar manner to the coachman, as if any one of them would be quite
equal to getting on the box, and working the team down street as well as
he.

One of the young heroes, however, ran out from the rest, and scrambled
up behind; where, having righted himself, and nodded to the guard, with
“How do, Jem?” he turned short round to Tom, and after looking him over
for a minute, began,--

“I say, you fellow, is your name Brown?”

“Yes,” said Tom, in considerable astonishment, glad, however, to have
lighted on some one already who seemed to know him.

“Ah, I thought so. You know my old aunt, Miss East. She lives somewhere
down your way in Berkshire. She wrote to me that you were coming to-day,
and asked me to give you a lift.”

Tom was somewhat inclined to resent the patronizing air of his new
friend, a boy of just about his own height and age, but gifted with
the most transcendent coolness and assurance, which Tom felt to be
aggravating and hard to bear, but couldn't for the life of him help
admiring and envying--especially when young my lord begins hectoring
two or three long loafing fellows, half porter, half stableman, with
a strong touch of the blackguard, and in the end arranges with one of
them, nicknamed Cooey, to carry Tom's luggage up to the School-house for
sixpence.

“And hark 'ee, Cooey; it must be up in ten minutes, or no more jobs from
me. Come along, Brown.” And away swaggers the young potentate, with his
hands in his pockets, and Tom at his side.

“All right, sir,” says Cooey, touching his hat, with a leer and a wink
at his companions.

“Hullo though,” says East, pulling up, and taking another look at Tom;
“this'll never do. Haven't you got a hat? We never wear caps here. Only
the louts wear caps. Bless you, if you were to go into the quadrangle
with that thing on, I don't know what'd happen.” The very idea was quite
beyond young Master East, and he looked unutterable things.

Tom thought his cap a very knowing affair, but confessed that he had
a hat in his hat-box; which was accordingly at once extracted from the
hind-boot, and Tom equipped in his go-to-meeting roof, as his new friend
called it. But this didn't quite suit his fastidious taste in another
minute, being too shiny; so, as they walk up the town, they dive into
Nixon's the hatter's, and Tom is arrayed, to his utter astonishment, and
without paying for it, in a regulation cat-skin at seven-and-sixpence,
Nixon undertaking to send the best hat up to the matron's room,
School-house, in half an hour.

“You can send in a note for a tile on Monday, and make it all right, you
know,” said Mentor; “we're allowed two seven-and-sixers a half, besides
what we bring from home.”

Tom by this time began to be conscious of his new social position and
dignities, and to luxuriate in the realized ambition of being a public
school-boy at last, with a vested right of spoiling two seven-and-sixers
in half a year.

“You see,” said his friend, as they strolled up towards the
school-gates, in explanation of his conduct, “a great deal depends on
how a fellow cuts up at first. If he's got nothing odd about him, and
answers straightforward, and holds his head up, he gets on. Now, you'll
do very well as to rig, all but that cap. You see I'm doing the handsome
thing by you, because my father knows yours; besides, I want to please
the old lady. She gave me half a sov. this half, and perhaps'll double
it next, if I keep in her good books.”

There's nothing for candour like a lower-school boy, and East was a
genuine specimen--frank, hearty, and good-natured, well-satisfied with
himself and his position, and choke-full of life and spirits, and
all the Rugby prejudices and traditions which he had been able to get
together in the long course of one half-year during which he had been at
the School-house.

And Tom, notwithstanding his bumptiousness, felt friends with him at
once, and began sucking in all his ways and prejudices, as fast as he
could understand them.

East was great in the character of cicerone. He carried Tom through
the great gates, where were only two or three boys. These satisfied
themselves with the stock questions, “You fellow, what's your name?
Where do you come from? How old are you? Where do you board?” and, “What
form are you in?” And so they passed on through the quadrangle and
a small courtyard, upon which looked down a lot of little windows
(belonging, as his guide informed him, to some of the School-house
studies), into the matron's room, where East introduced Tom to that
dignitary; made him give up the key of his trunk, that the matron might
unpack his linen, and told the story of the hat and of his own presence
of mind: upon the relation whereof the matron laughingly scolded him for
the coolest new boy in the house; and East, indignant at the accusation
of newness, marched Tom off into the quadrangle, and began showing
him the schools, and examining him as to his literary attainments; the
result of which was a prophecy that they would be in the same form, and
could do their lessons together.

“And now come in and see my study--we shall have just time before
dinner; and afterwards, before calling over, we'll do the close.”

Tom followed his guide through the School-house hall, which opens into
the quadrangle. It is a great room, thirty feet long and eighteen high,
or thereabouts, with two great tables running the whole length, and
two large fireplaces at the side, with blazing fires in them, at one of
which some dozen boys were standing and lounging, some of whom shouted
to East to stop; but he shot through with his convoy, and landed him
in the long, dark passages, with a large fire at the end of each, upon
which the studies opened. Into one of these, in the bottom passage, East
bolted with our hero, slamming and bolting the door behind them, in
case of pursuit from the hall, and Tom was for the first time in a Rugby
boy's citadel.

He hadn't been prepared for separate studies, and was not a little
astonished and delighted with the palace in question.

It wasn't very large, certainly, being about six feet long by four
broad. It couldn't be called light, as there were bars and a grating to
the window; which little precautions were necessary in the studies on
the ground-floor looking out into the close, to prevent the exit of
small boys after locking up, and the entrance of contraband articles.
But it was uncommonly comfortable to look at, Tom thought. The space
under the window at the farther end was occupied by a square table
covered with a reasonably clean and whole red and blue check tablecloth;
a hard-seated sofa covered with red stuff occupied one side, running up
to the end, and making a seat for one, or by sitting close, for two, at
the table and a good stout wooden chair afforded a seat to another boy,
so that three could sit and work together. The walls were wainscoted
half-way up, the wainscot being covered with green baize, the remainder
with a bright-patterned paper, on which hung three or four prints of
dogs' heads; Grimaldi winning the Aylesbury steeple-chase; Amy Robsart,
the reigning Waverley beauty of the day; and Tom Crib, in a posture
of defence, which did no credit to the science of that hero, if truly
represented. Over the door were a row of hat-pegs, and on each side
bookcases with cupboards at the bottom, shelves and cupboards being
filled indiscriminately with school-books, a cup or two, a
mouse-trap and candlesticks, leather straps, a fustian bag, and some
curious-looking articles which puzzled Tom not a little, until his
friend explained that they were climbing-irons, and showed their use. A
cricket-bat and small fishing-rod stood up in one corner.

This was the residence of East and another boy in the same form, and had
more interest for Tom than Windsor Castle, or any other residence in
the British Isles. For was he not about to become the joint owner of a
similar home, the first place he could call his own? One's own! What a
charm there is in the words! How long it takes boy and man to find
out their worth! How fast most of us hold on to them--faster and more
jealously, the nearer we are to that general home into which we can
take nothing, but must go naked as we came into the world! When shall we
learn that he who multiplieth possessions multiplieth troubles, and that
the one single use of things which we call our own is that they may be
his who hath need of them?

“And shall I have a study like this too?” said Tom.

“Yes, of course; you'll be chummed with some fellow on Monday, and you
can sit here till then.”

“What nice places!”

“They're well enough,” answered East, patronizingly, “only uncommon cold
at nights sometimes. Gower--that's my chum--and I make a fire with paper
on the floor after supper generally, only that makes it so smoky.”

“But there's a big fire out in the passage,” said Tom.

“Precious little we get out of that, though,” said East. “Jones the
praepostor has the study at the fire end, and he has rigged up an iron
rod and green baize curtain across the passage, which he draws at night,
and sits there with his door open; so he gets all the fire, and hears if
we come out of our studies after eight, or make a noise. However, he's
taken to sitting in the fifth-form room lately, so we do get a bit of
fire now sometimes; only to keep a sharp lookout that he don't catch you
behind his curtain when he comes down--that's all.”

A quarter past one now struck, and the bell began tolling for dinner; so
they went into the hall and took their places, Tom at the very bottom
of the second table, next to the praepostor (who sat at the end to keep
order there), and East a few paces higher. And now Tom for the first
time saw his future school-fellows in a body. In they came, some hot
and ruddy from football or long walks, some pale and chilly from hard
reading in their studies, some from loitering over the fire at
the pastrycook's, dainty mortals, bringing with them pickles and
saucebottles to help them with their dinners. And a great big-bearded
man, whom Tom took for a master, began calling over the names, while the
great joints were being rapidly carved on the third table in the
corner by the old verger and the housekeeper. Tom's turn came last, and
meanwhile he was all eyes, looking first with awe at the great man, who
sat close to him, and was helped first, and who read a hard-looking book
all the time he was eating; and when he got up and walked off to the
fire, at the small boys round him, some of whom were reading, and the
rest talking in whispers to one another, or stealing one another's
bread, or shooting pellets, or digging their forks through the
tablecloth. However, notwithstanding his curiosity, he managed to make
a capital dinner by the time the big man called “Stand up!” and said
grace.

As soon as dinner was over, and Tom had been questioned by such of his
neighbours as were curious as to his birth, parentage, education, and
other like matters, East, who evidently enjoyed his new dignity of
patron and mentor, proposed having a look at the close, which Tom,
athirst for knowledge, gladly assented to; and they went out through the
quadrangle and past the big fives court, into the great playground.

“That's the chapel, you see,” said East; “and there, just behind it, is
the place for fights. You see it's most out of the way of the masters,
who all live on the other side, and don't come by here after first
lesson or callings-over. That's when the fights come off. And all this
part where we are is the little-side ground, right up to the trees; and
on the other side of the trees is the big-side ground, where the great
matches are played. And there's the island in the farthest corner;
you'll know that well enough next half, when there's island fagging. I
say, it's horrid cold; let's have a run across.” And away went East, Tom
close behind him. East was evidently putting his best foot foremost; and
Tom, who was mighty proud of his running, and not a little anxious
to show his friend that, although a new boy, he was no milksop, laid
himself down to work in his very best style. Right across the close they
went, each doing all he knew, and there wasn't a yard between them when
they pulled up at the island moat.

“I say,” said East, as soon as he got his wind, looking with much
increased respect at Tom, “you ain't a bad scud, not by no means. Well,
I'm as warm as a toast now.”

“But why do you wear white trousers in November?” said Tom. He had been
struck by this peculiarity in the costume of almost all the School-house
boys.

“Why, bless us, don't you know? No; I forgot. Why, to-day's the
School-house match. Our house plays the whole of the School at football.
And we all wear white trousers, to show 'em we don't care for hacks.
You're in luck to come to-day. You just will see a match; and Brooke's
going to let me play in quarters. That's more than he'll do for any
other lower-school boy, except James, and he's fourteen.”

“Who's Brooke?”

“Why, that big fellow who called over at dinner, to be sure. He's cock
of the school, and head of the School-house side, and the best kick and
charger in Rugby.”

“Oh, but do show me where they play. And tell me about it. I love
football so, and have played all my life. Won't Brooke let me play?”

“Not he,” said East, with some indignation. “Why, you don't know the
rules; you'll be a month learning them. And then it's no joke playing-up
in a match, I can tell you--quite another thing from your private school
games. Why, there's been two collar-bones broken this half, and a dozen
fellows lamed. And last year a fellow had his leg broken.”

Tom listened with the profoundest respect to this chapter of accidents,
and followed East across the level ground till they came to a sort of
gigantic gallows of two poles, eighteen feet high, fixed upright in the
ground some fourteen feet apart, with a cross-bar running from one to
the other at the height of ten feet or thereabouts.

“This is one of the goals,” said East, “and you see the other, across
there, right opposite, under the Doctor's wall. Well, the match is for
the best of three goals; whichever side kicks two goals wins: and it
won't do, you see, just to kick the ball through these posts--it must go
over the cross-bar; any height'll do, so long as it's between the posts.
You'll have to stay in goal to touch the ball when it rolls behind the
posts, because if the other side touch it they have a try at goal. Then
we fellows in quarters, we play just about in front of goal here, and
have to turn the ball and kick it back before the big fellows on the
other side can follow it up. And in front of us all the big fellows
play, and that's where the scrummages are mostly.”

Tom's respect increased as he struggled to make out his friend's
technicalities, and the other set to work to explain the mysteries
of “off your side,” “drop-kicks,” “punts,” “places,” and the other
intricacies of the great science of football.

“But how do you keep the ball between the goals?” said he; “I can't see
why it mightn't go right down to the chapel.”

“Why; that's out of play,” answered East. “You see this gravel-walk
running down all along this side of the playing-ground, and the line
of elms opposite on the other? Well, they're the bounds. As soon as the
ball gets past them, it's in touch, and out of play. And then whoever
first touches it has to knock it straight out amongst the players-up,
who make two lines with a space between them, every fellow going on his
own side. Ain't there just fine scrummages then! And the three trees you
see there which come out into the play, that's a tremendous place when
the ball hangs there, for you get thrown against the trees, and that's
worse than any hack.”

Tom wondered within himself, as they strolled back again towards the
fives court, whether the matches were really such break-neck affairs as
East represented, and whether, if they were, he should ever get to like
them and play up well.

He hadn't long to wonder, however, for next minute East cried out,
“Hurrah! here's the punt-about; come along and try your hand at a kick.”
 The punt-about is the practice-ball, which is just brought out and
kicked about anyhow from one boy to another before callings-over and
dinner, and at other odd times. They joined the boys who had brought it
out, all small School-house fellows, friends of East; and Tom had the
pleasure of trying his skill, and performed very creditably, after first
driving his foot three inches into the ground, and then nearly kicking
his leg into the air, in vigorous efforts to accomplish a drop-kick
after the manner of East.

Presently more boys and bigger came out, and boys from other houses
on their way to calling-over, and more balls were sent for. The crowd
thickened as three o'clock approached; and when the hour struck, one
hundred and fifty boys were hard at work. Then the balls were held, the
master of the week came down in cap and gown to calling-over, and the
whole school of three hundred boys swept into the big school to answer
to their names.

“I may come in, mayn't I?” said Tom, catching East by the arm, and
longing to feel one of them.

“Yes, come along; nobody'll say anything. You won't be so eager to get
into calling-over after a month,” replied his friend; and they marched
into the big school together, and up to the farther end, where that
illustrious form, the lower fourth, which had the honour of East's
patronage for the time being, stood.

The master mounted into the high desk by the door, and one of the
praepostors of the week stood by him on the steps, the other three
marching up and down the middle of the school with their canes, calling
out, “Silence, silence!” The sixth form stood close by the door on the
left, some thirty in number, mostly great big grown men, as Tom thought,
surveying them from a distance with awe; the fifth form behind them,
twice their number, and not quite so big. These on the left; and on the
right the lower fifth, shell, and all the junior forms in order; while
up the middle marched the three praepostors.

Then the praepostor who stands by the master calls out the names,
beginning with the sixth form; and as he calls each boy answers “here”
 to his name, and walks out. Some of the sixth stop at the door to turn
the whole string of boys into the close. It is a great match-day, and
every boy in the school, will he, nill he, must be there. The rest of
the sixth go forwards into the close, to see that no one escapes by any
of the side gates.

To-day, however, being the School-house match, none of the School-house
praepostors stay by the door to watch for truants of their side; there
is carte blanche to the School-house fags to go where they like. “They
trust to our honour,” as East proudly informs Tom; “they know very well
that no School-house boy would cut the match. If he did, we'd very soon
cut him, I can tell you.”

The master of the week being short-sighted, and the praepostors of the
week small and not well up to their work, the lower-school boys employ
the ten minutes which elapse before their names are called in pelting
one another vigorously with acorns, which fly about in all directions.
The small praepostors dash in every now and then, and generally chastise
some quiet, timid boy who is equally afraid of acorns and canes,
while the principal performers get dexterously out of the way. And so
calling-over rolls on somehow, much like the big world, punishments
lighting on wrong shoulders, and matters going generally in a queer,
cross-grained way, but the end coming somehow, which is, after all, the
great point. And now the master of the week has finished, and locked up
the big school; and the praepostors of the week come out, sweeping the
last remnant of the school fags, who had been loafing about the corners
by the fives court, in hopes of a chance of bolting, before them into
the close.

“Hold the punt-about!” “To the goals!” are the cries; and all stray
balls are impounded by the authorities, and the whole mass of boys moves
up towards the two goals, dividing as they go into three bodies. That
little band on the left, consisting of from fifteen to twenty boys, Tom
amongst them, who are making for the goal under the School-house wall,
are the School-house boys who are not to play up, and have to stay in
goal. The larger body moving to the island goal are the School boys in a
like predicament. The great mass in the middle are the players-up, both
sides mingled together; they are hanging their jackets (and all who mean
real work), their hats, waistcoats, neck-handkerchiefs, and braces, on
the railings round the small trees; and there they go by twos and
threes up to their respective grounds. There is none of the colour and
tastiness of get-up, you will perceive, which lends such a life to
the present game at Rugby, making the dullest and worst-fought match a
pretty sight. Now each house has its own uniform of cap and jersey, of
some lively colour; but at the time we are speaking of plush caps have
not yet come in, or uniforms of any sort, except the School-house
white trousers, which are abominably cold to-day. Let us get to work,
bare-headed, and girded with our plain leather straps. But we mean
business, gentlemen.

And now that the two sides have fairly sundered, and each occupies its
own ground, and we get a good look at them, what absurdity is this? You
don't mean to say that those fifty or sixty boys in white trousers, many
of them quite small, are going to play that huge mass opposite? Indeed I
do, gentlemen. They're going to try, at any rate, and won't make such
a bad fight of it either, mark my word; for hasn't old Brooke won the
toss, with his lucky halfpenny, and got choice of goals and kick-off?
The new ball you may see lie there quite by itself, in the middle,
pointing towards the School or island goal; in another minute it will be
well on its way there. Use that minute in remarking how the Schoolhouse
side is drilled. You will see, in the first place, that the sixth-form
boy, who has the charge of goal, has spread his force (the goalkeepers)
so as to occupy the whole space behind the goal-posts, at distances of
about five yards apart. A safe and well-kept goal is the foundation of
all good play. Old Brooke is talking to the captain of quarters, and
now he moves away. See how that youngster spreads his men (the light
brigade) carefully over the ground, half-way between their own goal and
the body of their own players-up (the heavy brigade). These again play
in several bodies. There is young Brooke and the bull-dogs. Mark them
well. They are the “fighting brigade,” the “die-hards,” larking about
at leap-frog to keep themselves warm, and playing tricks on one another.
And on each side of old Brooke, who is now standing in the middle of
the ground and just going to kick off, you see a separate wing of
players-up, each with a boy of acknowledged prowess to look to--here
Warner, and there Hedge; but over all is old Brooke, absolute as he
of Russia, but wisely and bravely ruling over willing and worshipping
subjects, a true football king. His face is earnest and careful as he
glances a last time over his array, but full of pluck and hope--the sort
of look I hope to see in my general when I go out to fight.

The School side is not organized in the same way. The goal-keepers
are all in lumps, anyhow and nohow; you can't distinguish between the
players-up and the boys in quarters, and there is divided leadership.
But with such odds in strength and weight it must take more than that to
hinder them from winning; and so their leaders seem to think, for they
let the players-up manage themselves.

But now look! there is a slight move forward of the School-house wings,
a shout of “Are you ready?” and loud affirmative reply. Old Brooke takes
half a dozen quick steps, and away goes the ball spinning towards the
School goal, seventy yards before it touches ground, and at no
point above twelve or fifteen feet high, a model kick-off; and the
School-house cheer and rush on. The ball is returned, and they meet it
and drive it back amongst the masses of the School already in motion.
Then the two sides close, and you can see nothing for minutes but a
swaying crowd of boys, at one point violently agitated. That is where
the ball is, and there are the keen players to be met, and the glory and
the hard knocks to be got. You hear the dull thud, thud of the ball, and
the shouts of “Off your side,” “Down with him,” “Put him over,” “Bravo.”
 This is what we call “a scrummage,” gentlemen, and the first scrummage
in a School-house match was no joke in the consulship of Plancus.

But see! it has broken; the ball is driven out on the School-house side,
and a rush of the School carries it past the School-house players-up.
“Look out in quarters,” Brooke's and twenty other voices ring out. No
need to call, though: the School-house captain of quarters has caught it
on the bound, dodges the foremost School boys, who are heading the rush,
and sends it back with a good drop-kick well into the enemy's country.
And then follows rush upon rush, and scrummage upon scrummage, the ball
now driven through into the School-house quarters, and now into the
School goal; for the School-house have not lost the advantage which the
kick-off and a slight wind gave them at the outset, and are slightly
“penning” their adversaries. You say you don't see much in it
all--nothing but a struggling mass of boys, and a leather ball which
seems to excite them all to great fury, as a red rag does a bull. My
dear sir, a battle would look much the same to you, except that the
boys would be men, and the balls iron; but a battle would be worth
your looking at for all that, and so is a football match. You can't be
expected to appreciate the delicate strokes of play, the turns by which
a game is lost and won--it takes an old player to do that; but the broad
philosophy of football you can understand if you will. Come along with
me a little nearer, and let us consider it together.

The ball has just fallen again where the two sides are thickest, and
they close rapidly around it in a scrummage. It must be driven through
now by force or skill, till it flies out on one side or the other.
Look how differently the boys face it! Here come two of the bulldogs,
bursting through the outsiders; in they go, straight to the heart of the
scrummage, bent on driving that ball out on the opposite side. That is
what they mean to do. My sons, my sons! you are too hot; you have gone
past the ball, and must struggle now right through the scrummage, and
get round and back again to your own side, before you can be of any
further use. Here comes young Brooke; he goes in as straight as you, but
keeps his head, and backs and bends, holding himself still behind the
ball, and driving it furiously when he gets the chance. Take a leaf out
of his book, you young chargers. Here comes Speedicut, and Flashman the
School-house bully, with shouts and great action. Won't you two come up
to young Brooke, after locking-up, by the School-house fire, with “Old
fellow, wasn't that just a splendid scrummage by the three trees?” But
he knows you, and so do we. You don't really want to drive that
ball through that scrummage, chancing all hurt for the glory of the
School-house, but to make us think that's what you want--a vastly
different thing; and fellows of your kidney will never go through more
than the skirts of a scrummage, where it's all push and no kicking. We
respect boys who keep out of it, and don't sham going in; but you--we
had rather not say what we think of you.

Then the boys who are bending and watching on the outside, mark them:
they are most useful players, the dodgers, who seize on the ball the
moment it rolls out from amongst the chargers, and away with it across
to the opposite goal. They seldom go into the scrummage, but must have
more coolness than the chargers. As endless as are boys' characters, so
are their ways of facing or not facing a scrummage at football.

Three-quarters of an hour are gone; first winds are failing, and weight
and numbers beginning to tell. Yard by yard the School-house have been
driven back, contesting every inch of ground. The bull-dogs are the
colour of mother earth from shoulder to ankle, except young Brooke, who
has a marvellous knack of keeping his legs. The School-house are being
penned in their turn, and now the ball is behind their goal, under the
Doctor's wall. The Doctor and some of his family are there looking on,
and seem as anxious as any boy for the success of the School-house. We
get a minute's breathing-time before old Brooke kicks out, and he gives
the word to play strongly for touch, by the three trees. Away goes the
ball, and the bull-dogs after it, and in another minute there is shout
of “In touch!” “Our ball!” Now's your time, old Brooke, while your men
are still fresh. He stands with the ball in his hand, while the two
sides form in deep lines opposite one another; he must strike it
straight out between them. The lines are thickest close to him, but
young Brooke and two or three of his men are shifting up farther,
where the opposite line is weak. Old Brooke strikes it out straight and
strong, and it falls opposite his brother. Hurrah! that rush has taken
it right through the School line, and away past the three trees, far
into their quarters, and young Brooke and the bull-dogs are close upon
it. The School leaders rush back, shouting, “Look out in goal!” and
strain every nerve to catch him, but they are after the fleetest foot
in Rugby. There they go straight for the School goal-posts, quarters
scattering before them. One after another the bull-dogs go down, but
young Brooke holds on. “He is down.” No! a long stagger, but the danger
is past. That was the shock of Crew, the most dangerous of dodgers. And
now he is close to the School goal, the ball not three yards before
him. There is a hurried rush of the School fags to the spot, but no
one throws himself on the ball, the only chance, and young Brooke has
touched it right under the School goal-posts.

The School leaders come up furious, and administer toco to the wretched
fags nearest at hand. They may well be angry, for it is all Lombard
Street to a china orange that the School-house kick a goal with the ball
touched in such a good place. Old Brooke, of course, will kick it
out, but who shall catch and place it? Call Crab Jones. Here he comes,
sauntering along with a straw in his mouth, the queerest, coolest fish
in Rugby. If he were tumbled into the moon this minute, he would just
pick himself up without taking his hands out of his pockets or turning
a hair. But it is a moment when the boldest charger's heart beats quick.
Old Brooke stands with the ball under his arm motioning the School back;
he will not kick out till they are all in goal, behind the posts. They
are all edging forwards, inch by inch, to get nearer for the rush at
Crab Jones, who stands there in front of old Brooke to catch the ball.
If they can reach and destroy him before he catches, the danger is over;
and with one and the same rush they will carry it right away to the
School-house goal. Fond hope! it is kicked out and caught beautifully.
Crab strikes his heel into the ground, to mark the spot where the ball
was caught, beyond which the school line may not advance; but there they
stand, five deep, ready to rush the moment the ball touches the ground.
Take plenty of room. Don't give the rush a chance of reaching you. Place
it true and steady. Trust Crab Jones. He has made a small hole with his
heel for the ball to lie on, by which he is resting on one knee, with
his eye on old Brooke. “Now!” Crab places the ball at the word, old
Brooke kicks, and it rises slowly and truly as the School rush forward.

Then a moment's pause, while both sides look up at the spinning ball.
There it flies, straight between the two posts, some five feet above the
cross-bar, an unquestioned goal; and a shout of real, genuine joy rings
out from the School-house players-up, and a faint echo of it comes over
the close from the goal-keepers under the Doctor's wall. A goal in the
first hour--such a thing hasn't been done in the School-house match
these five years.

“Over!” is the cry. The two sides change goals, and the School-house
goal-keepers come threading their way across through the masses of
the School, the most openly triumphant of them--amongst whom is Tom, a
School-house boy of two hours' standing--getting their ears boxed in
the transit. Tom indeed is excited beyond measure, and it is all the
sixth-form boy, kindest and safest of goal-keepers, has been able to do,
to keep him from rushing out whenever the ball has been near their
goal. So he holds him by his side, and instructs him in the science of
touching.

At this moment Griffith, the itinerant vender of oranges from Hill
Morton, enters the close with his heavy baskets. There is a rush of
small boys upon the little pale-faced man, the two sides mingling
together, subdued by the great goddess Thirst, like the English and
French by the streams in the Pyrenees. The leaders are past oranges and
apples, but some of them visit their coats, and apply innocent-looking
ginger-beer bottles to their mouths. It is no ginger-beer though, I
fear, and will do you no good. One short mad rush, and then a stitch in
the side, and no more honest play. That's what comes of those bottles.

But now Griffith's baskets are empty, the ball is placed again midway,
and the School are going to kick off. Their leaders have sent their
lumber into goal, and rated the rest soundly, and one hundred and twenty
picked players-up are there, bent on retrieving the game. They are to
keep the ball in front of the School-house goal, and then to drive it in
by sheer strength and weight. They mean heavy play and no mistake, and
so old Brooke sees, and places Crab Jones in quarters just before the
goal, with four or five picked players who are to keep the ball away to
the sides, where a try at goal, if obtained, will be less dangerous than
in front. He himself, and Warner and Hedge, who have saved themselves
till now, will lead the charges.

“Are you ready?” “Yes.” And away comes the ball, kicked high in the air,
to give the School time to rush on and catch it as it falls. And here
they are amongst us. Meet them like Englishmen, you Schoolhouse boys,
and charge them home. Now is the time to show what mettle is in you;
and there shall be a warm seat by the hall fire, and honour, and lots of
bottled beer to-night for him who does his duty in the next half-hour.
And they are well met. Again and again the cloud of their players-up
gathers before our goal, and comes threatening on, and Warner or Hedge,
with young Brooke and the relics of the bull-dogs, break through
and carry the ball back; and old Brooke ranges the field like Job's
war-horse. The thickest scrummage parts asunder before his rush, like
the waves before a clipper's bows; his cheery voice rings out over the
field, and his eye is everywhere. And if these miss the ball, and it
rolls dangerously in front of our goal, Crab Jones and his men
have seized it and sent it away towards the sides with the unerring
drop-kick. This is worth living for--the whole sum of school-boy
existence gathered up into one straining, struggling half-hour, a
half-hour worth a year of common life.

The quarter to five has struck, and the play slackens for a minute
before goal; but there is Crew, the artful dodger, driving the ball in
behind our goal, on the island side, where our quarters are weakest. Is
there no one to meet him? Yes; look at little East! The ball is just at
equal distances between the two, and they rush together, the young man
of seventeen and the boy of twelve, and kick it at the same moment. Crew
passes on without a stagger; East is hurled forward by the shock, and
plunges on his shoulder, as if he would bury himself in the ground;
but the ball rises straight into the air, and falls behind Crew's back,
while the “bravoes” of the School-house attest the pluckiest charge of
all that hard-fought day. Warner picks East up lame and half stunned,
and he hobbles back into goal, conscious of having played the man.

And now the last minutes are come, and the School gather for their last
rush, every boy of the hundred and twenty who has a run left in him.
Reckless of the defence of their own goal, on they come across the level
big-side ground, the ball well down amongst them, straight for our goal,
like the column of the Old Guard up the slope at Waterloo. All former
charges have been child's play to this. Warner and Hedge have met them,
but still on they come. The bull-dogs rush in for the last time; they
are hurled over or carried back, striving hand, foot, and eyelids. Old
Brooke comes sweeping round the skirts of the play, and turning short
round, picks out the very heart of the scrummage, and plunges in. It
wavers for a moment; he has the ball. No, it has passed him, and his
voice rings out clear over the advancing tide, “Look out in goal!” Crab
Jones catches it for a moment; but before he can kick, the rush is upon
him and passes over him; and he picks himself up behind them with his
straw in his mouth, a little dirtier, but as cool as ever.

The ball rolls slowly in behind the School-house goal, not three yards
in front of a dozen of the biggest School players-up.

There stands the School-house praepostor, safest of goal-keepers, and Tom
Brown by his side, who has learned his trade by this time. Now is
your time, Tom. The blood of all the Browns is up, and the two rush in
together, and throw themselves on the ball, under the very feet of the
advancing column--the praepostor on his hands and knees, arching his
back, and Tom all along on his face. Over them topple the leaders of the
rush, shooting over the back of the praepostor, but falling flat on Tom,
and knocking all the wind out of his small carcass. “Our ball,” says the
praepostor, rising with his prize; “but get up there; there's a little
fellow under you.” They are hauled and roll off him, and Tom is
discovered, a motionless body.

Old Brooke picks him up. “Stand back, give him air,” he says; and then
feeling his limbs, adds, “No bones broken.--How do you feel, young un?”

“Hah-hah!” gasps Tom, as his wind comes back; “pretty well, thank
you--all right.”

“Who is he?” says Brooke.

“Oh, it's Brown; he's a new boy; I know him,” says East, coming up.

“Well, he is a plucky youngster, and will make a player,” says Brooke.

And five o'clock strikes. “No side” is called, and the first day of the
School-house match is over.



CHAPTER VI--AFTER THE MATCH.

     “Some food we had.”--Shakespeare.
     [Greek text]--Theocr. Id.

As the boys scattered away from the ground, and East, leaning on Tom's
arm, and limping along, was beginning to consider what luxury they
should go and buy for tea to celebrate that glorious victory, the two
Brookes came striding by. Old Brooke caught sight of East, and stopped;
put his hand kindly on his shoulder, and said, “Bravo, youngster; you
played famously. Not much the matter, I hope?”

“No, nothing at all,” said East--“only a little twist from that
charge.”

“Well, mind and get all right for next Saturday.” And the leader passed
on, leaving East better for those few words than all the opodeldoc in
England would have made him, and Tom ready to give one of his ears for
as much notice. Ah! light words of those whom we love and honour, what
a power ye are, and how carelessly wielded by those who can use you!
Surely for these things also God will ask an account.

“Tea's directly after locking-up, you see,” said East, hobbling along as
fast as he could, “so you come along down to Sally Harrowell's; that's
our School-house tuck-shop. She bakes such stunning murphies, we'll have
a penn'orth each for tea. Come along, or they'll all be gone.”

Tom's new purse and money burnt in his pocket; he wondered, as they
toddled through the quadrangle and along the street, whether East
would be insulted if he suggested further extravagance, as he had not
sufficient faith in a pennyworth of potatoes. At last he blurted out,--

“I say, East, can't we get something else besides potatoes? I've got
lots of money, you know.”

“Bless us, yes; I forgot,” said East, “you've only just come. You see
all my tin's been gone this twelve weeks--it hardly ever lasts beyond
the first fortnight; and our allowances were all stopped this morning
for broken windows, so I haven't got a penny. I've got a tick at
Sally's, of course; but then I hate running it high, you see, towards
the end of the half, 'cause one has to shell out for it all directly one
comes back, and that's a bore.”

Tom didn't understand much of this talk, but seized on the fact that
East had no money, and was denying himself some little pet luxury in
consequence. “Well, what shall I buy?” said he, “I'm uncommon hungry.”

“I say,” said East, stopping to look at him and rest his leg, “you're a
trump, Brown. I'll do the same by you next half. Let's have a pound of
sausages then. That's the best grub for tea I know of.”

“Very well,” said Tom, as pleased as possible; “where do they sell
them?”

“Oh, over here, just opposite.” And they crossed the street and walked
into the cleanest little front room of a small house, half parlour,
half shop, and bought a pound of most particular sausages, East talking
pleasantly to Mrs. Porter while she put them in paper, and Tom doing the
paying part.

From Porter's they adjourned to Sally Harrowell's, where they found a
lot of School-house boys waiting for the roast potatoes, and relating
their own exploits in the day's match at the top of their voices. The
street opened at once into Sally's kitchen, a low brick-floored room,
with large recess for fire, and chimney-corner seats. Poor little Sally,
the most good-natured and much-enduring of womankind, was bustling
about, with a napkin in her hand, from her own oven to those of the
neighbours' cottages up the yard at the back of the house. Stumps, her
husband, a short, easy-going shoemaker, with a beery, humorous eye and
ponderous calves, who lived mostly on his wife's earnings, stood in
a corner of the room, exchanging shots of the roughest description of
repartee with every boy in turn. “Stumps, you lout, you've had too
much beer again to-day.” “'Twasn't of your paying for, then.” “Stumps's
calves are running down into his ankles; they want to get to grass.”
 “Better be doing that than gone altogether like yours,” etc. Very poor
stuff it was, but it served to make time pass; and every now and then
Sally arrived in the middle with a smoking tin of potatoes, which was
cleared off in a few seconds, each boy as he seized his lot running
off to the house with “Put me down two-penn'orth, Sally;” “Put down
three-penn'orth between me and Davis,” etc. How she ever kept the
accounts so straight as she did, in her head and on her slate, was a
perfect wonder.

East and Tom got served at last, and started back for the School-house,
just as the locking-up bell began to ring, East on the way recounting
the life and adventures of Stumps, who was a character. Amongst his
other small avocations, he was the hind carrier of a sedan-chair, the
last of its race, in which the Rugby ladies still went out to tea, and
in which, when he was fairly harnessed and carrying a load, it was the
delight of small and mischievous boys to follow him and whip his calves.
This was too much for the temper even of Stumps, and he would pursue his
tormentors in a vindictive and apoplectic manner when released, but was
easily pacified by twopence to buy beer with.

The lower-school boys of the School-house, some fifteen in number, had
tea in the lower-fifth school, and were presided over by the old verger
or head-porter. Each boy had a quarter of a loaf of bread and pat of
butter, and as much tea as he pleased; and there was scarcely one
who didn't add to this some further luxury, such as baked potatoes, a
herring, sprats, or something of the sort. But few at this period of the
half-year could live up to a pound of Porter's sausages, and East was
in great magnificence upon the strength of theirs. He had produced a
toasting-fork from his study, and set Tom to toast the sausages,
while he mounted guard over their butter and potatoes. “'Cause,” as he
explained, “you're a new boy, and they'll play you some trick and get
our butter; but you can toast just as well as I.” So Tom, in the midst
of three or four more urchins similarly employed, toasted his face and
the sausages at the same time before the huge fire, till the latter
cracked; when East from his watch-tower shouted that they were done, and
then the feast proceeded, and the festive cups of tea were filled
and emptied, and Tom imparted of the sausages in small bits to many
neighbours, and thought he had never tasted such good potatoes or seen
such jolly boys. They on their parts waived all ceremony, and pegged
away at the sausages and potatoes, and remembering Tom's performance in
goal, voted East's new crony a brick. After tea, and while the things
were being cleared away, they gathered round the fire, and the talk on
the match still went on; and those who had them to show pulled up their
trousers and showed the hacks they had received in the good cause.

They were soon, however, all turned out of the school; and East
conducted Tom up to his bedroom, that he might get on clean things, and
wash himself before singing.

“What's singing?” said Tom, taking his head out of his basin, where he
had been plunging it in cold water.

“Well, you are jolly green,” answered his friend, from a neighbouring
basin. “Why, the last six Saturdays of every half we sing of course; and
this is the first of them. No first lesson to do, you know, and lie in
bed to-morrow morning.”

“But who sings?”

“Why, everybody, of course; you'll see soon enough. We begin directly
after supper, and sing till bed-time. It ain't such good fun now,
though, as in the summer half; 'cause then we sing in the little fives
court, under the library, you know. We take out tables, and the big boys
sit round and drink beer--double allowance on Saturday nights; and we
cut about the quadrangle between the songs, and it looks like a lot of
robbers in a cave. And the louts come and pound at the great gates, and
we pound back again, and shout at them. But this half we only sing in
the hall. Come along down to my study.”

Their principal employment in the study was to clear out East's table;
removing the drawers and ornaments and tablecloth; for he lived in the
bottom passage, and his table was in requisition for the singing.

Supper came in due course at seven o'clock, consisting of bread and
cheese and beer, which was all saved for the singing; and directly
afterwards the fags went to work to prepare the hall. The School-house
hall, as has been said, is a great long high room, with two large fires
on one side, and two large iron-bound tables, one running down the
middle, and the other along the wall opposite the fireplaces. Around the
upper fire the fags placed the tables in the form of a horse-shoe, and
upon them the jugs with the Saturday night's allowance of beer. Then
the big boys used to drop in and take their seats, bringing with them
bottled beer and song books; for although they all knew the songs by
heart, it was the thing to have an old manuscript book descended from
some departed hero, in which they were all carefully written out.

The sixth-form boys had not yet appeared; so, to fill up the gap, an
interesting and time-honoured ceremony was gone through. Each new boy
was placed on the table in turn, and made to sing a solo, under the
penalty of drinking a large mug of salt and water if he resisted or
broke down. However, the new boys all sing like nightingales to-night,
and the salt water is not in requisition--Tom, as his part, performing
the old west-country song of “The Leather Bottel” with considerable
applause. And at the half-hour down come the sixth and fifth form boys,
and take their places at the tables, which are filled up by the next
biggest boys, the rest, for whom there is no room at the table, standing
round outside.

The glasses and mugs are filled, and then the fugleman strikes up the
old sea-song,

     “A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
     And a wind that follows fast,” etc.,

which is the invariable first song in the School-house; and all the
seventy voices join in, not mindful of harmony, but bent on noise, which
they attain decidedly, but the general effect isn't bad. And then follow
“The British Grenadiers,” “Billy Taylor,” “The Siege of Seringapatam,”
 “Three Jolly Postboys,” and other vociferous songs in rapid succession,
including “The Chesapeake and Shannon,” a song lately introduced in
honour of old Brooke; and when they come to the words,

     “Brave Broke he waved his sword, crying, Now, my lads, aboard,
     And we'll stop their playing Yankee-doodle-dandy oh!”

you expect the roof to come down. The sixth and fifth know that “brave
Broke” of the Shannon was no sort of relation to our old Brooke. The
fourth form are uncertain in their belief, but for the most part hold
that old Brooke was a midshipman then on board his uncle's ship. And the
lower school never doubt for a moment that it was our old Brooke who led
the boarders, in what capacity they care not a straw. During the pauses
the bottled-beer corks fly rapidly, and the talk is fast and merry, and
the big boys--at least all of them who have a fellow-feeling for dry
throats--hand their mugs over their shoulders to be emptied by the small
ones who stand round behind.

Then Warner, the head of the house, gets up and wants to speak; but he
can't, for every boy knows what's coming. And the big boys who sit at
the tables pound them and cheer; and the small boys who stand behind
pound one another, and cheer, and rush about the hall cheering. Then
silence being made, Warner reminds them of the old School-house custom
of drinking the healths, on the first night of singing, of those who are
going to leave at the end of the half. “He sees that they know what he
is going to say already” (loud cheers), “and so won't keep them, but
only ask them to treat the toast as it deserves. It is the head of the
eleven, the head of big-side football, their leader on this glorious
day--Pater Brooke!”

And away goes the pounding and cheering again, becoming deafening when
old Brooke gets on his legs; till, a table having broken down, and a
gallon or so of beer been upset, and all throats getting dry, silence
ensues, and the hero speaks, leaning his hands on the table, and bending
a little forwards. No action, no tricks of oratory--plain, strong, and
straight, like his play.

“Gentlemen of the School-house! I am very proud of the way in which
you have received my name, and I wish I could say all I should like in
return. But I know I shan't. However, I'll do the best I can to say what
seems to me ought to be said by a fellow who's just going to leave,
and who has spent a good slice of his life here. Eight years it is, and
eight such years as I can never hope to have again. So now I hope you'll
all listen to me” (loud cheers of “That we will”), “for I'm going to
talk seriously. You're bound to listen to me for what's the use of
calling me 'pater,' and all that, if you don't mind what I say? And
I'm going to talk seriously, because I feel so. It's a jolly time,
too, getting to the end of the half, and a goal kicked by us first day”
 (tremendous applause), “after one of the hardest and fiercest day's play
I can remember in eight years.” (Frantic shoutings.) “The School played
splendidly, too, I will say, and kept it up to the last. That last
charge of theirs would have carried away a house. I never thought to see
anything again of old Crab there, except little pieces, when I saw him
tumbled over by it.” (Laughter and shouting, and great slapping on
the back of Jones by the boys nearest him.) “Well, but we beat 'em.”
 (Cheers.) “Ay, but why did we beat 'em? Answer me that.” (Shouts of
“Your play.”) “Nonsense! 'Twasn't the wind and kick-off either--that
wouldn't do it. 'Twasn't because we've half a dozen of the best players
in the school, as we have. I wouldn't change Warner, and Hedge, and
Crab, and the young un, for any six on their side.” (Violent cheers.)
“But half a dozen fellows can't keep it up for two hours against two
hundred. Why is it, then? I'll tell you what I think. It's because we've
more reliance on one another, more of a house feeling, more fellowship
than the School can have. Each of us knows and can depend on his
next-hand man better. That's why we beat 'em to-day. We've union,
they've division--there's the secret.” (Cheers.) “But how's this to be
kept up? How's it to be improved? That's the question. For I take it
we're all in earnest about beating the School, whatever else we care
about. I know I'd sooner win two School-house matches running than get
the Balliol scholarship any day.” (Frantic cheers.)

“Now, I'm as proud of the house as any one. I believe it's the best
house in the school, out and out.” (Cheers.) “But it's a long way from
what I want to see it. First, there's a deal of bullying going on. I
know it well. I don't pry about and interfere; that only makes it
more underhand, and encourages the small boys to come to us with their
fingers in their eyes telling tales, and so we should be worse off than
ever. It's very little kindness for the sixth to meddle generally--you
youngsters mind that. You'll be all the better football players for
learning to stand it, and to take your own parts, and fight it through.
But depend on it, there's nothing breaks up a house like bullying.
Bullies are cowards, and one coward makes many; so good-bye to the
School-house match if bullying gets ahead here.” (Loud applause from
the small boys, who look meaningly at Flashman and other boys at the
tables.) “Then there's fuddling about in the public-house, and drinking
bad spirits, and punch, and such rot-gut stuff. That won't make good
drop-kicks or chargers of you, take my word for it. You get plenty of
good beer here, and that's enough for you; and drinking isn't fine or
manly, whatever some of you may think of it.

“One other thing I must have a word about. A lot of you think and say,
for I've heard you, 'There's this new Doctor hasn't been here so long
as some of us, and he's changing all the old customs. Rugby, and the
Schoolhouse especially, are going to the dogs. Stand up for the good old
ways, and down with the Doctor!' Now I'm as fond of old Rugby customs
and ways as any of you, and I've been here longer than any of you, and
I'll give you a word of advice in time, for I shouldn't like to see any
of you getting sacked. 'Down with the Doctor's' easier said than done.
You'll find him pretty tight on his perch, I take it, and an awkwardish
customer to handle in that line. Besides now, what customs has he put
down? There was the good old custom of taking the linchpins out of the
farmers' and bagmen's gigs at the fairs, and a cowardly, blackguard
custom it was. We all know what came of it, and no wonder the Doctor
objected to it. But come now, any of you, name a custom that he has put
down.”

“The hounds,” calls out a fifth-form boy, clad in a green cutaway with
brass buttons and cord trousers, the leader of the sporting interest,
and reputed a great rider and keen hand generally.

“Well, we had six or seven mangy harriers and beagles belonging to the
house, I'll allow, and had had them for years, and that the Doctor
put them down. But what good ever came of them? Only rows with all the
keepers for ten miles round; and big-side hare-and-hounds is better fun
ten times over. What else?”

No answer.

“Well, I won't go on. Think it over for yourselves. You'll find, I
believe, that he don't meddle with any one that's worth keeping. And
mind now, I say again, look out for squalls if you will go your own way,
and that way ain't the Doctor's, for it'll lead to grief. You all know
that I'm not the fellow to back a master through thick and thin. If I
saw him stopping football, or cricket, or bathing, or sparring, I'd be
as ready as any fellow to stand up about it. But he don't; he encourages
them. Didn't you see him out to-day for half an hour watching us?” (loud
cheers for the Doctor); “and he's a strong, true man, and a wise one
too, and a public-school man too” (cheers), “and so let's stick to him,
and talk no more rot, and drink his health as the head of the house.”
 (Loud cheers.) “And now I've done blowing up, and very glad I am to have
done. But it's a solemn thing to be thinking of leaving a place which
one has lived in and loved for eight years; and if one can say a word
for the good of the old house at such a time, why, it should be said,
whether bitter or sweet. If I hadn't been proud of the house and
you--ay, no one knows how proud--I shouldn't be blowing you up. And now
let's get to singing. But before I sit down I must give you a toast to
be drunk with three-times-three and all the honours. It's a toast which
I hope every one of us, wherever he may go hereafter, will never fail
to drink when he thinks of the brave, bright days of his boyhood. It's a
toast which should bind us all together, and to those who've gone before
and who'll come after us here. It is the dear old School-house--the best
house of the best school in England!”

My dear boys, old and young, you who have belonged, or do belong, to
other schools and other houses, don't begin throwing my poor little book
about the room, and abusing me and it, and vowing you'll read no more
when you get to this point. I allow you've provocation for it. But come
now--would you, any of you, give a fig for a fellow who didn't believe
in and stand up for his own house and his own school? You know you
wouldn't. Then don't object to me cracking up the old School house,
Rugby. Haven't I a right to do it, when I'm taking all the trouble
of writing this true history for all of your benefits? If you ain't
satisfied, go and write the history of your own houses in your own
times, and say all you know for your own schools and houses, provided
it's true, and I'll read it without abusing you.

The last few words hit the audience in their weakest place. They had
been not altogether enthusiastic at several parts of old Brooke's
speech; but “the best house of the best school in England” was too much
for them all, and carried even the sporting and drinking interests off
their legs into rapturous applause, and (it is to be hoped) resolutions
to lead a new life and remember old Brooke's words--which, however, they
didn't altogether do, as will appear hereafter.

But it required all old Brooke's popularity to carry down parts of his
speech--especially that relating to the Doctor. For there are no such
bigoted holders by established forms and customs, be they never so
foolish or meaningless, as English school-boys--at least, as the
school-boys of our generation. We magnified into heroes every boy who
had left, and looked upon him with awe and reverence when he revisited
the place a year or so afterwards, on his way to or from Oxford or
Cambridge; and happy was the boy who remembered him, and sure of an
audience as he expounded what he used to do and say, though it were sad
enough stuff to make angels, not to say head-masters, weep.

We looked upon every trumpery little custom and habit which had obtained
in the School as though it had been a law of the Medes and Persians, and
regarded the infringement or variation of it as a sort of sacrilege. And
the Doctor, than whom no man or boy had a stronger liking for old school
customs which were good and sensible, had, as has already been hinted,
come into most decided collision with several which were neither the one
nor the other. And as old Brooke had said, when he came into collision
with boys or customs, there was nothing for them but to give in or take
themselves off; because what he said had to be done, and no mistake
about it. And this was beginning to be pretty clearly understood. The
boys felt that there was a strong man over them, who would have things
his own way, and hadn't yet learnt that he was a wise and loving man
also. His personal character and influence had not had time to make
itself felt, except by a very few of the bigger boys with whom he came
more directly into contact; and he was looked upon with great fear and
dislike by the great majority even of his own house. For he had found
School and School-house in a state of monstrous license and misrule,
and was still employed in the necessary but unpopular work of setting up
order with a strong hand.

However, as has been said, old Brooke triumphed, and the boys cheered
him and then the Doctor. And then more songs came, and the healths of
the other boys about to leave, who each made a speech, one flowery,
another maudlin, a third prosy, and so on, which are not necessary to be
here recorded.

Half-past nine struck in the middle of the performance of “Auld Lang
Syne,” a most obstreperous proceeding, during which there was an immense
amount of standing with one foot on the table, knocking mugs together
and shaking hands, without which accompaniments it seems impossible
for the youths of Britain to take part in that famous old song. The
under-porter of the School-house entered during the performance, bearing
five or six long wooden candlesticks with lighted dips in them, which he
proceeded to stick into their holes in such part of the great tables
as he could get at; and then stood outside the ring till the end of the
song, when he was hailed with shouts.

“Bill you old muff, the half-hour hasn't struck.” “Here, Bill, drink
some cocktail.” “Sing us a song, old boy.” “Don't you wish you may
get the table?” Bill drank the proffered cocktail not unwillingly, and
putting down the empty glass, remonstrated. “Now gentlemen, there's only
ten minutes to prayers, and we must get the hall straight.”

Shouts of “No, no!” and a violent effort to strike up “Billy Taylor” for
the third time. Bill looked appealingly to old Brooke, who got up and
stopped the noise. “Now then, lend a hand, you youngsters, and get the
tables back; clear away the jugs and glasses. Bill's right. Open
the windows, Warner.” The boy addressed, who sat by the long ropes,
proceeded to pull up the great windows, and let in a clear, fresh rush
of night air, which made the candles flicker and gutter, and the fires
roar. The circle broke up, each collaring his own jug, glass, and
song-book; Bill pounced on the big table, and began to rattle it away to
its place outside the buttery door. The lower-passage boys carried off
their small tables, aided by their friends; while above all, standing
on the great hall-table, a knot of untiring sons of harmony made night
doleful by a prolonged performance of “God Save the King.” His Majesty
King William the Fourth then reigned over us, a monarch deservedly
popular amongst the boys addicted to melody, to whom he was chiefly
known from the beginning of that excellent if slightly vulgar song in
which they much delighted,--

     “Come, neighbours all, both great and small,
     Perform your duties here,
     And loudly sing, 'Live Billy, our king,'
     For bating the tax upon beer.”

Others of the more learned in songs also celebrated his praises in
a sort of ballad, which I take to have been written by some Irish
loyalist. I have forgotten all but the chorus, which ran,--

     “God save our good King William,
     Be his name for ever blest;
     He's the father of all his people,
     And the guardian of all the rest.”

In troth we were loyal subjects in those days, in a rough way. I trust
that our successors make as much of her present Majesty, and, having
regard to the greater refinement of the times, have adopted or written
other songs equally hearty, but more civilized, in her honour.

Then the quarter to ten struck, and the prayer-bell rang. The sixth and
fifth form boys ranged themselves in their school order along the wall,
on either side of the great fires, the middle-fifth and upper-school
boys round the long table in the middle of the hall, and the
lower-school boys round the upper part of the second long table, which
ran down the side of the hall farthest from the fires. Here Tom found
himself at the bottom of all, in a state of mind and body not at all fit
for prayers, as he thought; and so tried hard to make himself serious,
but couldn't, for the life of him, do anything but repeat in his head
the choruses of some of the songs, and stare at all the boys opposite,
wondering at the brilliancy of their waistcoats, and speculating what
sort of fellows they were. The steps of the head-porter are heard on the
stairs, and a light gleams at the door. “Hush!” from the fifth-form boys
who stand there, and then in strides the Doctor, cap on head, book
in one hand, and gathering up his gown in the other. He walks up the
middle, and takes his post by Warner, who begins calling over the names.
The Doctor takes no notice of anything, but quietly turns over his book
and finds the place, and then stands, cap in hand and finger in book,
looking straight before his nose. He knows better than any one when to
look, and when to see nothing. To-night is singing night, and there's
been lots of noise and no harm done--nothing but beer drunk, and nobody
the worse for it, though some of them do look hot and excited. So the
Doctor sees nothing, but fascinates Tom in a horrible manner as he
stands there, and reads out the psalm, in that deep, ringing, searching
voice of his. Prayers are over, and Tom still stares open-mouthed after
the Doctor's retiring figure, when he feels a pull at his sleeve, and
turning round, sees East.

“I say, were you ever tossed in a blanket?”

“No,” said Tom; “why?”

“'Cause there'll be tossing to-night, most likely, before the sixth come
up to bed. So if you funk, you just come along and hide, or else they'll
catch you and toss you.”

“Were you ever tossed? Does it hurt?” inquired Tom.

“Oh yes, bless you, a dozen times,” said East, as he hobbled along by
Tom's side upstairs. “It don't hurt unless you fall on the floor. But
most fellows don't like it.”

They stopped at the fireplace in the top passage, where were a crowd of
small boys whispering together, and evidently unwilling to go up
into the bedrooms. In a minute, however, a study door opened, and a
sixth-form boy came out, and off they all scuttled up the stairs, and
then noiselessly dispersed to their different rooms. Tom's heart beat
rather quick as he and East reached their room, but he had made up his
mind. “I shan't hide, East,” said he.

“Very well, old fellow,” replied East, evidently pleased; “no more shall
I. They'll be here for us directly.”

The room was a great big one, with a dozen beds in it, but not a boy
that Tom could see except East and himself. East pulled off his coat and
waistcoat, and then sat on the bottom of his bed whistling and pulling
off his boots. Tom followed his example.

A noise and steps are heard in the passage, the door opens, and in rush
four or five great fifth-form boys, headed by Flashman in his glory.

Tom and East slept in the farther corner of the room, and were not seen
at first.

“Gone to ground, eh?” roared Flashman. “Push 'em out then, boys; look
under the beds.” And he pulled up the little white curtain of the one
nearest him. “Who-o-op!” he roared, pulling away at the leg of a small
boy, who held on tight to the leg of the bed, and sang out lustily for
mercy.

“Here, lend a hand, one of you, and help me pull out this young howling
brute.--Hold your tongue, sir, or I'll kill you.”

“Oh, please, Flashman, please, Walker, don't toss me! I'll fag for
you--I'll do anything--only don't toss me.”

“You be hanged,” said Flashman, lugging the wretched boy along; “'twon't
hurt you,--you!--Come along, boys; here he is.”

“I say, Flashey,” sang out another of the big boys; “drop that; you
heard what old Pater Brooke said to-night. I'll be hanged if we'll toss
any one against their will. No more bullying. Let him go, I say.”

Flashman, with an oath and a kick, released his prey, who rushed
headlong under his bed again, for fear they should change their minds,
and crept along underneath the other beds, till he got under that of the
sixth-form boy, which he knew they daren't disturb.

“There's plenty of youngsters don't care about it,” said Walker. “Here,
here's Scud East--you'll be tossed, won't you, young un?” Scud was
East's nickname, or Black, as we called it, gained by his fleetness of
foot.

“Yes,” said East, “if you like, only mind my foot.”

“And here's another who didn't hide.--Hullo! new boy; what's your name,
sir?”

“Brown.”

“Well, Whitey Brown, you don't mind being tossed?”

“No,” said Tom, setting his teeth.

“Come along then, boys,” sang out Walker; and away they all went,
carrying along Tom and East, to the intense relief of four or five other
small boys, who crept out from under the beds and behind them.

“What a trump Scud is!” said one. “They won't come back here now.”

“And that new boy, too; he must be a good-plucked one.”

“Ah! wait till he has been tossed on to the floor; see how he'll like it
then!”

Meantime the procession went down the passage to Number 7, the largest
room, and the scene of the tossing, in the middle of which was a great
open space. Here they joined other parties of the bigger boys, each
with a captive or two, some willing to be tossed, some sullen, and some
frightened to death. At Walker's suggestion all who were afraid were let
off, in honour of Pater Brooke's speech.

Then a dozen big boys seized hold of a blanket, dragged from one of the
beds. “In with Scud; quick! there's no time to lose.” East was chucked
into the blanket. “Once, twice, thrice, and away!” Up he went like a
shuttlecock, but not quite up to the ceiling.

“Now, boys, with a will,” cried Walker; “once, twice, thrice, and away!”
 This time he went clean up, and kept himself from touching the ceiling
with his hand, and so again a third time, when he was turned out, and
up went another boy. And then came Tom's turn. He lay quite still, by
East's advice, and didn't dislike the “once, twice, thrice;” but the
“away” wasn't so pleasant. They were in good wind now, and sent him
slap up to the ceiling first time, against which his knees came rather
sharply. But the moment's pause before descending was the rub--the
feeling of utter helplessness and of leaving his whole inside behind him
sticking to the ceiling. Tom was very near shouting to be set down when
he found himself back in the blanket, but thought of East, and didn't;
and so took his three tosses without a kick or a cry, and was called a
young trump for his pains.

He and East, having earned it, stood now looking on. No catastrophe
happened, as all the captives were cool hands, and didn't struggle. This
didn't suit Flashman. What your real bully likes in tossing is when the
boys kick and struggle, or hold on to one side of the blanket, and so
get pitched bodily on to the floor; it's no fun to him when no one is
hurt or frightened.

“Let's toss two of them together, Walker,” suggested he.

“What a cursed bully you are, Flashey!” rejoined the other. “Up with
another one.”

And so now two boys were tossed together, the peculiar hardship of which
is, that it's too much for human nature to lie still then and share
troubles; and so the wretched pair of small boys struggle in the air
which shall fall a-top in the descent, to the no small risk of both
falling out of the blanket, and the huge delight of brutes like
Flashman.

But now there's a cry that the praepostor of the room is coming; so the
tossing stops, and all scatter to their different rooms; and Tom is
left to turn in, with the first day's experience of a public school to
meditate upon.



CHAPTER VII--SETTLING TO THE COLLAR.

     “Says Giles, ''Tis mortal hard to go,
     But if so be's I must
     I means to follow arter he
     As goes hisself the fust.'”--Ballad.

Everybody, I suppose, knows the dreamy, delicious state in which one
lies, half asleep, half awake, while consciousness begins to return
after a sound night's rest in a new place which we are glad to be in,
following upon a day of unwonted excitement and exertion. There are
few pleasanter pieces of life. The worst of it is that they last such
a short time; for nurse them as you will, by lying perfectly passive
in mind and body, you can't make more than five minutes or so of them.
After which time the stupid, obtrusive, wakeful entity which we call
“I”, as impatient as he is stiff-necked, spite of our teeth will force
himself back again, and take possession of us down to our very toes.

It was in this state that Master Tom lay at half-past seven on the
morning following the day of his arrival, and from his clean little
white bed watched the movements of Bogle (the generic name by which the
successive shoeblacks of the School-house were known), as he marched
round from bed to bed, collecting the dirty shoes and boots, and
depositing clean ones in their places.

There he lay, half doubtful as to where exactly in the universe he was,
but conscious that he had made a step in life which he had been anxious
to make. It was only just light as he looked lazily out of the wide
windows, and saw the tops of the great elms, and the rooks circling
about and cawing remonstrances to the lazy ones of their commonwealth
before starting in a body for the neighbouring ploughed fields. The
noise of the room-door closing behind Bogle, as he made his exit with
the shoebasket under his arm, roused him thoroughly, and he sat up in
bed and looked round the room. What in the world could be the matter
with his shoulders and loins? He felt as if he had been severely beaten
all down his back--the natural results of his performance at his first
match. He drew up his knees and rested his chin on them, and went over
all the events of yesterday, rejoicing in his new life, what he had seen
of it, and all that was to come.

Presently one or two of the other boys roused themselves, and began to
sit up and talk to one another in low tones. Then East, after a roll
or two, came to an anchor also, and nodding to Tom, began examining his
ankle.

“What a pull,” said he, “that it's lie-in-bed, for I shall be as lame as
a tree, I think.”

It was Sunday morning, and Sunday lectures had not yet been established;
so that nothing but breakfast intervened between bed and eleven o'clock
chapel--a gap by no means easy to fill up: in fact, though received with
the correct amount of grumbling, the first lecture instituted by
the Doctor shortly afterwards was a great boon to the School. It was
lie-in-bed, and no one was in a hurry to get up, especially in rooms
where the sixth-form boy was a good-tempered fellow, as was the case in
Tom's room, and allowed the small boys to talk and laugh and do pretty
much what they pleased, so long as they didn't disturb him. His bed was
a bigger one than the rest, standing in the corner by the fireplace,
with a washing-stand and large basin by the side, where he lay in state
with his white curtains tucked in so as to form a retiring place--an
awful subject of contemplation to Tom, who slept nearly opposite, and
watched the great man rouse himself and take a book from under his
pillow, and begin reading, leaning his head on his hand, and turning his
back to the room. Soon, however, a noise of striving urchins arose, and
muttered encouragements from the neighbouring boys of “Go it, Tadpole!”
 “Now, young Green!” “Haul away his blanket!” “Slipper him on the hands!”
 Young Green and little Hall, commonly called Tadpole, from his great
black head and thin legs, slept side by side far away by the door, and
were for ever playing one another tricks, which usually ended, as on
this morning, in open and violent collision; and now, unmindful of all
order and authority, there they were, each hauling away at the other's
bedclothes with one hand, and with the other, armed with a slipper,
belabouring whatever portion of the body of his adversary came within
reach.

“Hold that noise up in the corner,” called out the praepostor, sitting
up and looking round his curtains; and the Tadpole and young Green sank
down into their disordered beds; and then, looking at his watch, added,
“Hullo! past eight. Whose turn for hot water?”

(Where the praepostor was particular in his ablutions, the fags in his
room had to descend in turn to the kitchen, and beg or steal hot water
for him; and often the custom extended farther, and two boys went down
every morning to get a supply for the whole room.)

“East's and Tadpole's,” answered the senior fag, who kept the rota.

“I can't go,” said East; “I'm dead lame.”

“Well, be quick some of you, that's all,” said the great man, as he
turned out of bed, and putting on his slippers, went out into the great
passage, which runs the whole length of the bedrooms, to get his Sunday
habiliments out of his portmanteau.

“Let me go for you,” said Tom to East; “I should like it.”

“Well, thank 'ee, that's a good fellow. Just pull on your trousers, and
take your jug and mine. Tadpole will show you the way.”

And so Tom and the Tadpole, in nightshirts and trousers, started off
downstairs, and through “Thos's hole,” as the little buttery, where
candles and beer and bread and cheese were served out at night, was
called, across the School-house court, down a long passage, and into the
kitchen; where, after some parley with the stalwart, handsome cook, who
declared that she had filled a dozen jugs already, they got their hot
water, and returned with all speed and great caution. As it was, they
narrowly escaped capture by some privateers from the fifth-form rooms,
who were on the lookout for the hot-water convoys, and pursued them up
to the very door of their room, making them spill half their load in the
passage.

“Better than going down again though,” as Tadpole remarked, “as we
should have had to do if those beggars had caught us.”

By the time that the calling-over bell rang, Tom and his new
comrades were all down, dressed in their best clothes, and he had the
satisfaction of answering “here” to his name for the first time, the
praepostor of the week having put it in at the bottom of his list. And
then came breakfast and a saunter about the close and town with East,
whose lameness only became severe when any fagging had to be done. And
so they whiled away the time until morning chapel.

It was a fine November morning, and the close soon became alive with
boys of all ages, who sauntered about on the grass, or walked round the
gravel walk, in parties of two or three. East, still doing the cicerone,
pointed out all the remarkable characters to Tom as they passed: Osbert,
who could throw a cricket-ball from the little-side ground over
the rook-trees to the Doctor's wall; Gray, who had got the Balliol
scholarship, and, what East evidently thought of much more importance,
a half-holiday for the School by his success; Thorne, who had run ten
miles in two minutes over the hour; Black, who had held his own against
the cock of the town in the last row with the louts; and many more
heroes, who then and there walked about and were worshipped, all trace
of whom has long since vanished from the scene of their fame. And the
fourth-form boy who reads their names rudely cut on the old hall tables,
or painted upon the big-side cupboard (if hall tables and big-side
cupboards still exist), wonders what manner of boys they were. It will
be the same with you who wonder, my sons, whatever your prowess may be
in cricket, or scholarship, or football. Two or three years, more or
less, and then the steadily advancing, blessed wave will pass over your
names as it has passed over ours. Nevertheless, play your games and do
your work manfully--see only that that be done--and let the remembrance
of it take care of itself.

The chapel-bell began to ring at a quarter to eleven, and Tom got in
early and took his place in the lowest row, and watched all the other
boys come in and take their places, filling row after row; and tried
to construe the Greek text which was inscribed over the door with the
slightest possible success, and wondered which of the masters, who
walked down the chapel and took their seats in the exalted boxes at the
end, would be his lord. And then came the closing of the doors, and the
Doctor in his robes, and the service, which, however, didn't impress him
much, for his feeling of wonder and curiosity was too strong. And the
boy on one side of him was scratching his name on the oak panelling
in front, and he couldn't help watching to see what the name was, and
whether it was well scratched; and the boy on the other side went to
sleep, and kept falling against him; and on the whole, though many boys
even in that part of the school were serious and attentive, the general
atmosphere was by no means devotional; and when he got out into the
close again, he didn't feel at all comfortable, or as if he had been to
church.

But at afternoon chapel it was quite another thing. He had spent the
time after dinner in writing home to his mother, and so was in a better
frame of mind; and his first curiosity was over, and he could attend
more to the service. As the hymn after the prayers was being sung, and
the chapel was getting a little dark, he was beginning to feel that he
had been really worshipping. And then came that great event in his, as
in every Rugby boy's life of that day--the first sermon from the Doctor.

More worthy pens than mine have described that scene--the oak pulpit
standing out by itself above the School seats; the tall, gallant form,
the kindling eye, the voice, now soft as the low notes of a flute, now
clear and stirring as the call of the light-infantry bugle, of him who
stood there Sunday after Sunday, witnessing and pleading for his Lord,
the King of righteousness and love and glory, with whose Spirit he was
filled, and in whose power he spoke; the long lines of young faces,
rising tier above tier down the whole length of the chapel, from the
little boy's who had just left his mother to the young man's who was
going out next week into the great world, rejoicing in his strength.
It was a great and solemn sight, and never more so than at this time of
year, when the only lights in the chapel were in the pulpit and at the
seats of the praepostors of the week, and the soft twilight stole over
the rest of the chapel, deepening into darkness in the high gallery
behind the organ.

But what was it, after all, which seized and held these three hundred
boys, dragging them out of themselves, willing or unwilling, for twenty
minutes, on Sunday afternoons? True, there always were boys scattered up
and down the School, who in heart and head were worthy to hear and able
to carry away the deepest and wisest words there spoken. But these were
a minority always, generally a very small one, often so small a one as
to be countable on the fingers of your hand. What was it that moved
and held us, the rest of the three hundred reckless, childish boys, who
feared the Doctor with all our hearts, and very little besides in heaven
or earth; who thought more of our sets in the School than of the Church
of Christ, and put the traditions of Rugby and the public opinion of
boys in our daily life above the laws of God? We couldn't enter into
half that we heard; we hadn't the knowledge of our own hearts or the
knowledge of one another, and little enough of the faith, hope, and love
needed to that end. But we listened, as all boys in their better moods
will listen (ay, and men too for the matter of that), to a man whom we
felt to be, with all his heart and soul and strength, striving against
whatever was mean and unmanly and unrighteous in our little world. It
was not the cold, clear voice of one giving advice and warning from
serene heights to those who were struggling and sinning below, but the
warm, living voice of one who was fighting for us and by our sides, and
calling on us to help him and ourselves and one another. And so, wearily
and little by little, but surely and steadily on the whole, was brought
home to the young boy, for the first time, the meaning of his life--that
it was no fool's or sluggard's paradise into which he had wandered
by chance, but a battlefield ordained from of old, where there are no
spectators, but the youngest must take his side, and the stakes are life
and death. And he who roused this consciousness in them showed them at
the same time, by every word he spoke in the pulpit, and by his whole
daily life, how that battle was to be fought, and stood there before
them their fellow-soldier and the captain of their band--the true sort
of captain, too, for a boy's army--one who had no misgivings, and gave
no uncertain word of command, and, let who would yield or make truce,
would fight the fight out (so every boy felt) to the last gasp and the
last drop of blood. Other sides of his character might take hold of
and influence boys here and there; but it was this thoroughness and
undaunted courage which, more than anything else, won his way to the
hearts of the great mass of those on whom he left his mark, and made
them believe first in him and then in his Master.

It was this quality above all others which moved such boys as our
hero, who had nothing whatever remarkable about him except excess of
boyishness--by which I mean animal life in its fullest measure, good
nature and honest impulses, hatred of injustice and meanness, and
thoughtlessness enough to sink a three-decker. And so, during the next
two years, in which it was more than doubtful whether he would get good
or evil from the School, and before any steady purpose or principle grew
up in him, whatever his week's sins and shortcomings might have been, he
hardly ever left the chapel on Sunday evenings without a serious resolve
to stand by and follow the Doctor, and a feeling that it was only
cowardice (the incarnation of all other sins in such a boy's mind) which
hindered him from doing so with all his heart.

The next day Tom was duly placed in the third form, and began his
lessons in a corner of the big School. He found the work very easy, as
he had been well grounded, and knew his grammar by heart; and, as he had
no intimate companions to make him idle (East and his other School-house
friends being in the lower fourth, the form above him), soon gained
golden opinions from his master, who said he was placed too low, and
should be put out at the end of the half-year. So all went well with him
in School, and he wrote the most flourishing letters home to his mother,
full of his own success and the unspeakable delights of a public school.

In the house, too, all went well. The end of the half-year was drawing
near, which kept everybody in a good humour, and the house was ruled
well and strongly by Warner and Brooke. True, the general system was
rough and hard, and there was bullying in nooks and corners--bad signs
for the future; but it never got farther, or dared show itself openly,
stalking about the passages and hall and bedrooms, and making the life
of the small boys a continual fear.

Tom, as a new boy, was of right excused fagging for the first month, but
in his enthusiasm for his new life this privilege hardly pleased him;
and East and others of his young friends, discovering this, kindly
allowed him to indulge his fancy, and take their turns at night fagging
and cleaning studies. These were the principal duties of the fags in the
house. From supper until nine o'clock three fags taken in order stood in
the passages, and answered any praepostor who called “Fag,” racing to the
door, the last comer having to do the work. This consisted generally of
going to the buttery for beer and bread and cheese (for the great men
did not sup with the rest, but had each his own allowance in his study
or the fifth-form room), cleaning candlesticks and putting in new
candles, toasting cheese, bottling beer, and carrying messages about the
house; and Tom, in the first blush of his hero-worship, felt it a high
privilege to receive orders from and be the bearer of the supper of old
Brooke. And besides this night-work, each praepostor had three or four
fags specially allotted to him, of whom he was supposed to be the guide,
philosopher, and friend, and who in return for these good offices had to
clean out his study every morning by turns, directly after first lesson
and before he returned from breakfast. And the pleasure of seeing the
great men's studies, and looking at their pictures, and peeping into
their books, made Tom a ready substitute for any boy who was too lazy to
do his own work. And so he soon gained the character of a good-natured,
willing fellow, who was ready to do a turn for any one.

In all the games, too, he joined with all his heart, and soon became
well versed in all the mysteries of football, by continual practice at
the School-house little-side, which played daily.

The only incident worth recording here, however, was his first run at
hare-and-hounds. On the last Tuesday but one of the half-year he was
passing through the hall after dinner, when he was hailed with shouts
from Tadpole and several other fags seated at one of the long tables,
the chorus of which was, “Come and help us tear up scent.”

Tom approached the table in obedience to the mysterious summons, always
ready to help, and found the party engaged in tearing up old newspapers,
copy-books, and magazines, into small pieces, with which they were
filling four large canvas bags.

“It's the turn of our house to find scent for big-side hare-and-hounds,”
 exclaimed Tadpole. “Tear away; there's no time to lose before
calling-over.”

“I think it's a great shame,” said another small boy, “to have such a
hard run for the last day.”

“Which run is it?” said Tadpole.

“Oh, the Barby run, I hear,” answered the other; “nine miles at least,
and hard ground; no chance of getting in at the finish, unless you're a
first-rate scud.”

“Well, I'm going to have a try,” said Tadpole; “it's the last run of the
half, and if a fellow gets in at the end big-side stands ale and bread
and cheese and a bowl of punch; and the Cock's such a famous place for
ale.”

“I should like to try too,” said Tom.

“Well, then, leave your waistcoat behind, and listen at the door, after
calling-over, and you'll hear where the meet is.”

After calling-over, sure enough there were two boys at the door, calling
out, “Big-side hare-and-hounds meet at White Hall;” and Tom, having
girded himself with leather strap, and left all superfluous clothing
behind, set off for White Hall, an old gable-ended house some quarter
of a mile from the town, with East, whom he had persuaded to join,
notwithstanding his prophecy that they could never get in, as it was the
hardest run of the year.

At the meet they found some forty or fifty boys, and Tom felt sure, from
having seen many of them run at football, that he and East were more
likely to get in than they.

After a few minutes' waiting, two well-known runners, chosen for the
hares, buckled on the four bags filled with scent, compared their
watches with those of young Brooke and Thorne, and started off at a
long, slinging trot across the fields in the direction of Barby.

Then the hounds clustered round Thorne, who explained shortly, “They're
to have six minutes' law. We run into the Cock, and every one who comes
in within a quarter of an hour of the hares'll be counted, if he has
been round Barby church.” Then came a minute's pause or so, and then the
watches are pocketed, and the pack is led through the gateway into the
field which the hares had first crossed. Here they break into a trot,
scattering over the field to find the first traces of the scent which
the hares throw out as they go along. The old hounds make straight for
the likely points, and in a minute a cry of “Forward” comes from one
of them, and the whole pack, quickening their pace, make for the spot,
while the boy who hit the scent first, and the two or three nearest to
him, are over the first fence, and making play along the hedgerow in the
long grass-field beyond. The rest of the pack rush at the gap already
made, and scramble through, jostling one another. “Forward” again,
before they are half through. The pace quickens into a sharp run, the
tail hounds all straining to get up to the lucky leaders. They are
gallant hares, and the scent lies thick right across another meadow and
into a ploughed field, where the pace begins to tell; then over a good
wattle with a ditch on the other side, and down a large pasture studded
with old thorns, which slopes down to the first brook. The great
Leicestershire sheep charge away across the field as the pack comes
racing down the slope. The brook is a small one, and the scent lies
right ahead up the opposite slope, and as thick as ever--not a turn or
a check to favour the tail hounds, who strain on, now trailing in a long
line, many a youngster beginning to drag his legs heavily, and feel his
heart beat like a hammer, and the bad-plucked ones thinking that after
all it isn't worth while to keep it up.

Tom, East, and the Tadpole had a good start, and are well up for such
young hands, and after rising the slope and crossing the next field,
find themselves up with the leading hounds, who have overrun the scent,
and are trying back. They have come a mile and a half in about eleven
minutes, a pace which shows that it is the last day. About twenty-five
of the original starters only show here, the rest having already given
in; the leaders are busy making casts into the fields on the left and
right, and the others get their second winds.

Then comes the cry of “Forward” again from young Brooke, from the
extreme left, and the pack settles down to work again steadily and
doggedly, the whole keeping pretty well together. The scent, though
still good, is not so thick; there is no need of that, for in this part
of the run every one knows the line which must be taken, and so there
are no casts to be made, but good downright running and fencing to be
done. All who are now up mean coming in, and they come to the foot of
Barby Hill without losing more than two or three more of the pack. This
last straight two miles and a half is always a vantage ground for the
hounds, and the hares know it well; they are generally viewed on the
side of Barby Hill, and all eyes are on the lookout for them to-day. But
not a sign of them appears, so now will be the hard work for the hounds,
and there is nothing for it but to cast about for the scent, for it is
now the hares' turn, and they may baffle the pack dreadfully in the next
two miles.

Ill fares it now with our youngsters, that they are School-house boys,
and so follow young Brooke, for he takes the wide casts round to the
left, conscious of his own powers, and loving the hard work. For if you
would consider for a moment, you small boys, you would remember that the
Cock, where the run ends and the good ale will be going, lies far out to
the right on the Dunchurch road, so that every cast you take to the left
is so much extra work. And at this stage of the run, when the evening is
closing in already, no one remarks whether you run a little cunning or
not; so you should stick to those crafty hounds who keep edging away to
the right, and not follow a prodigal like young Brooke, whose legs are
twice as long as yours and of cast-iron, wholly indifferent to one or
two miles more or less. However, they struggle after him, sobbing and
plunging along, Tom and East pretty close, and Tadpole, whose big head
begins to pull him down, some thirty yards behind.

Now comes a brook, with stiff clay banks, from which they can hardly
drag their legs, and they hear faint cries for help from the wretched
Tadpole, who has fairly stuck fast. But they have too little run left
in themselves to pull up for their own brothers. Three fields more, and
another check, and then “Forward” called away to the extreme right.

The two boys' souls die within them; they can never do it. Young Brooke
thinks so too, and says kindly, “You'll cross a lane after next field;
keep down it, and you'll hit the Dunchurch road below the Cock,” and
then steams away for the run in, in which he's sure to be first, as
if he were just starting. They struggle on across the next field, the
“forwards” getting fainter and fainter, and then ceasing. The whole hunt
is out of ear-shot, and all hope of coming in is over.

“Hang it all!” broke out East, as soon as he had got wind enough,
pulling off his hat and mopping at his face, all spattered with dirt and
lined with sweat, from which went up a thick steam into the still, cold
air. “I told you how it would be. What a thick I was to come! Here we
are, dead beat, and yet I know we're close to the run in, if we knew the
country.”

“Well,” said Tom, mopping away, and gulping down his disappointment,
“it can't be helped. We did our best anyhow. Hadn't we better find this
lane, and go down it, as young Brooke told us?”

“I suppose so--nothing else for it,” grunted East. “If ever I go out
last day again.” Growl, growl, growl.

So they tried back slowly and sorrowfully, and found the lane, and went
limping down it, plashing in the cold puddly ruts, and beginning to feel
how the run had taken it out of them. The evening closed in fast, and
clouded over, dark, cold, and dreary.

“I say, it must be locking-up, I should think,” remarked East, breaking
the silence--“it's so dark.”

“What if we're late?” said Tom.

“No tea, and sent up to the Doctor,” answered East.

The thought didn't add to their cheerfulness. Presently a faint halloo
was heard from an adjoining field. They answered it and stopped, hoping
for some competent rustic to guide them, when over a gate some twenty
yards ahead crawled the wretched Tadpole, in a state of collapse. He had
lost a shoe in the brook, and had been groping after it up to his elbows
in the stiff, wet clay, and a more miserable creature in the shape of
boy seldom has been seen.

The sight of him, notwithstanding, cheered them, for he was some degrees
more wretched than they. They also cheered him, as he was no longer
under the dread of passing his night alone in the fields. And so, in
better heart, the three plashed painfully down the never-ending lane. At
last it widened, just as utter darkness set in, and they came out on
a turnpike road, and there paused, bewildered, for they had lost all
bearings, and knew not whether to turn to the right or left.

Luckily for them they had not to decide, for lumbering along the road,
with one lamp lighted and two spavined horses in the shafts, came a
heavy coach, which after a moment's suspense they recognized as the
Oxford coach, the redoubtable Pig and Whistle.

It lumbered slowly up, and the boys, mustering their last run, caught
it as it passed, and began clambering up behind, in which exploit East
missed his footing and fell flat on his nose along the road. Then the
others hailed the old scarecrow of a coachman, who pulled up and agreed
to take them in for a shilling; so there they sat on the back seat,
drubbing with their heels, and their teeth chattering with cold, and
jogged into Rugby some forty minutes after locking-up.

Five minutes afterwards three small, limping, shivering figures steal
along through the Doctor's garden, and into the house by the servants'
entrance (all the other gates have been closed long since), where the
first thing they light upon in the passage is old Thomas, ambling along,
candle in one hand and keys in the other.

He stops and examines their condition with a grim smile. “Ah! East,
Hall, and Brown, late for locking-up. Must go up to the Doctor's study
at once.”

“Well but, Thomas, mayn't we go and wash first? You can put down the
time, you know.”

“Doctor's study d'rectly you come in--that's the orders,” replied old
Thomas, motioning towards the stairs at the end of the passage which led
up into the Doctor's house; and the boys turned ruefully down it, not
cheered by the old verger's muttered remark, “What a pickle they boys be
in!” Thomas referred to their faces and habiliments, but they construed
it as indicating the Doctor's state of mind. Upon the short flight of
stairs they paused to hold counsel.

“Who'll go in first?” inquires Tadpole.

“You--you're the senior,” answered East.

“Catch me. Look at the state I'm in,” rejoined Hall, showing the arms of
his jacket. “I must get behind you two.”

“Well, but look at me,” said East, indicating the mass of clay behind
which he was standing; “I'm worse than you, two to one. You might grow
cabbages on my trousers.”

“That's all down below, and you can keep your legs behind the sofa,”
 said Hall.

“Here, Brown; you're the show-figure. You must lead.”

“But my face is all muddy,” argued Tom.

“Oh, we're all in one boat for that matter; but come on; we're only
making it worse, dawdling here.”

“Well, just give us a brush then,” said Tom. And they began trying to
rub off the superfluous dirt from each other's jackets; but it was not
dry enough, and the rubbing made them worse; so in despair they pushed
through the swing-door at the head of the stairs, and found themselves
in the Doctor's hall.

“That's the library door,” said East in a whisper, pushing Tom forwards.
The sound of merry voices and laughter came from within, and his first
hesitating knock was unanswered. But at the second, the Doctor's voice
said, “Come in;” and Tom turned the handle, and he, with the others
behind him, sidled into the room.

The Doctor looked up from his task; he was working away with a great
chisel at the bottom of a boy's sailing boat, the lines of which he was
no doubt fashioning on the model of one of Nicias's galleys. Round him
stood three or four children; the candles burnt brightly on a large
table at the farther end, covered with books and papers, and a great
fire threw a ruddy glow over the rest of the room. All looked so kindly,
and homely, and comfortable that the boys took heart in a moment, and
Tom advanced from behind the shelter of the great sofa. The Doctor
nodded to the children, who went out, casting curious and amused glances
at the three young scarecrows.

“Well, my little fellows,” began the Doctor, drawing himself up with
his back to the fire, the chisel in one hand and his coat-tails in the
other, and his eyes twinkling as he looked them over; “what makes you so
late?”

“Please, sir, we've been out big-side hare-and-hounds, and lost our
way.”

“Hah! you couldn't keep up, I suppose?”

“Well, sir,” said East, stepping out, and not liking that the Doctor
should think lightly of his running powers, “we got round Barby all
right; but then--”

“Why, what a state you're in, my boy!” interrupted the Doctor, as the
pitiful condition of East's garments was fully revealed to him.

“That's the fall I got, sir, in the road,” said East, looking down at
himself; “the Old Pig came by--”

“The what?” said the Doctor.

“The Oxford coach, sir,” explained Hall.

“Hah! yes, the Regulator,” said the Doctor.

“And I tumbled on my face, trying to get up behind,” went on East.

“You're not hurt, I hope?” said the Doctor.

“Oh no, sir.”

“Well now, run upstairs, all three of you, and get clean things on, and
then tell the housekeeper to give you some tea. You're too young to try
such long runs. Let Warner know I've seen you. Good-night.”

“Good-night, sir.” And away scuttled the three boys in high glee.

“What a brick, not to give us even twenty lines to learn!” said the
Tadpole, as they reached their bedroom; and in half an hour afterwards
they were sitting by the fire in the housekeeper's room at a sumptuous
tea, with cold meat--“Twice as good a grub as we should have got in the
hall,” as the Tadpole remarked with a grin, his mouth full of buttered
toast. All their grievances were forgotten, and they were resolving to
go out the first big-side next half, and thinking hare-and-hounds the
most delightful of games.

A day or two afterwards the great passage outside the bedrooms was
cleared of the boxes and portmanteaus, which went down to be packed by
the matron, and great games of chariot-racing, and cock-fighting, and
bolstering went on in the vacant space, the sure sign of a closing
half-year.

Then came the making up of parties for the journey home, and Tom joined
a party who were to hire a coach, and post with four horses to Oxford.

Then the last Saturday, on which the Doctor came round to each form to
give out the prizes, and hear the master's last reports of how they
and their charges had been conducting themselves; and Tom, to his huge
delight, was praised, and got his remove into the lower fourth, in which
all his School-house friends were.

On the next Tuesday morning at four o'clock hot coffee was going on in
the housekeeper's and matron's rooms; boys wrapped in great-coats and
mufflers were swallowing hasty mouthfuls, rushing about, tumbling over
luggage, and asking questions all at once of the matron; outside the
School-gates were drawn up several chaises and the four-horse coach
which Tom's party had chartered, the postboys in their best jackets and
breeches, and a cornopean player, hired for the occasion, blowing away
“A southerly wind and a cloudy sky,” waking all peaceful inhabitants
half-way down the High Street.

Every minute the bustle and hubbub increased: porters staggered about
with boxes and bags, the cornopean played louder. Old Thomas sat in
his den with a great yellow bag by his side, out of which he was paying
journey-money to each boy, comparing by the light of a solitary dip the
dirty, crabbed little list in his own handwriting with the Doctor's list
and the amount of his cash; his head was on one side, his mouth screwed
up, and his spectacles dim from early toil. He had prudently locked the
door, and carried on his operations solely through the window, or he
would have been driven wild and lost all his money.

“Thomas, do be quick; we shall never catch the Highflyer at Dunchurch.”

“That's your money all right, Green.”

“Hullo, Thomas, the Doctor said I was to have two pound ten; you've only
given me two pound.” (I fear that Master Green is not confining himself
strictly to truth.) Thomas turns his head more on one side than ever,
and spells away at the dirty list. Green is forced away from the window.

“Here, Thomas--never mind him; mine's thirty shillings.” “And mine too,”
 “And mine,” shouted others.

One way or another, the party to which Tom belonged all got packed and
paid, and sallied out to the gates, the cornopean playing frantically
“Drops of Brandy,” in allusion, probably, to the slight potations in
which the musician and postboys had been already indulging. All luggage
was carefully stowed away inside the coach and in the front and hind
boots, so that not a hat-box was visible outside. Five or six small
boys, with pea-shooters, and the cornopean player, got up behind; in
front the big boys, mostly smoking, not for pleasure, but because they
are now gentlemen at large, and this is the most correct public method
of notifying the fact.

“Robinson's coach will be down the road in a minute; it has gone up to
Bird's to pick up. We'll wait till they're close, and make a race of
it,” says the leader. “Now, boys, half a sovereign apiece if you beat
'em into Dunchurch by one hundred yards.”

“All right, sir,” shouted the grinning postboys.

Down comes Robinson's coach in a minute or two, with a rival cornopean,
and away go the two vehicles, horses galloping, boys cheering, horns
playing loud. There is a special providence over school-boys as well
as sailors, or they must have upset twenty times in the first five
miles--sometimes actually abreast of one another, and the boys on the
roofs exchanging volleys of peas; now nearly running over a post-chaise
which had started before them; now half-way up a bank; now with a wheel
and a half over a yawning ditch: and all this in a dark morning, with
nothing but their own lamps to guide them. However, it's all over at
last, and they have run over nothing but an old pig in Southam Street.
The last peas are distributed in the Corn Market at Oxford, where they
arrive between eleven and twelve, and sit down to a sumptuous breakfast
at the Angel, which they are made to pay for accordingly. Here the party
breaks up, all going now different ways; and Tom orders out a chaise and
pair as grand as a lord, though he has scarcely five shillings left in
his pocket, and more than twenty miles to get home.

“Where to, sir?”

“Red Lion, Farringdon,” says Tom, giving hostler a shilling.

“All right, sir.--Red Lion, Jem,” to the postboy; and Tom rattles away
towards home. At Farringdon, being known to the innkeeper, he gets that
worthy to pay for the Oxford horses, and forward him in another chaise
at once; and so the gorgeous young gentleman arrives at the paternal
mansion, and Squire Brown looks rather blue at having to pay two pound
ten shillings for the posting expenses from Oxford. But the boy's
intense joy at getting home, and the wonderful health he is in, and the
good character he brings, and the brave stories he tells of Rugby, its
doings and delights, soon mollify the Squire, and three happier people
didn't sit down to dinner that day in England (it is the boy's first
dinner at six o'clock at home--great promotion already) than the Squire
and his wife and Tom Brown, at the end of his first half-year at Rugby.



CHAPTER VIII--THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE.

     “They are slaves who will not choose
     Hatred, scoffing, and abuse,
     Rather than in silence shrink
     From the truth they needs must think;
     They are slaves who dare not be
     In the right with two or three.”
      --LOWELL, Stanzas on Freedom.

The lower-fourth form, in which Tom found himself at the beginning
of the next half-year, was the largest form in the lower school, and
numbered upwards of forty boys. Young gentlemen of all ages from nine to
fifteen were to be found there, who expended such part of their energies
as was devoted to Latin and Greek upon a book of Livy, the “Bucolics”
 of Virgil, and the “Hecuba” of Euripides, which were ground out in small
daily portions. The driving of this unlucky lower-fourth must have been
grievous work to the unfortunate master, for it was the most unhappily
constituted of any in the school. Here stuck the great stupid boys,
who, for the life of them, could never master the accidence--the objects
alternately of mirth and terror to the youngsters, who were daily taking
them up and laughing at them in lesson, and getting kicked by them for
so doing in play-hours. There were no less than three unhappy fellows in
tail coats, with incipient down on their chins, whom the Doctor and
the master of the form were always endeavouring to hoist into the upper
school, but whose parsing and construing resisted the most well-meant
shoves. Then came the mass of the form, boys of eleven and twelve, the
most mischievous and reckless age of British youth, of whom East and Tom
Brown were fair specimens. As full of tricks as monkeys, and of excuses
as Irishwomen, making fun of their master, one another, and their
lessons, Argus himself would have been puzzled to keep an eye on them;
and as for making them steady or serious for half an hour together,
it was simply hopeless. The remainder of the form consisted of young
prodigies of nine and ten, who were going up the school at the rate of
a form a half-year, all boys' hands and wits being against them in their
progress. It would have been one man's work to see that the precocious
youngsters had fair play; and as the master had a good deal besides
to do, they hadn't, and were for ever being shoved down three or four
places, their verses stolen, their books inked, their jackets whitened,
and their lives otherwise made a burden to them.

The lower-fourth, and all the forms below it, were heard in the great
school, and were not trusted to prepare their lessons before coming in,
but were whipped into school three-quarters of an hour before the lesson
began by their respective masters, and there, scattered about on the
benches, with dictionary and grammar, hammered out their twenty lines
of Virgil and Euripides in the midst of babel. The masters of the
lower school walked up and down the great school together during this
three-quarters of an hour, or sat in their desks reading or looking over
copies, and keeping such order as was possible. But the lower-fourth
was just now an overgrown form, too large for any one man to attend
to properly, and consequently the elysium or ideal form of the young
scapegraces who formed the staple of it.

Tom, as has been said, had come up from the third with a good character,
but the temptations of the lower-fourth soon proved too strong for him,
and he rapidly fell away, and became as unmanageable as the rest.
For some weeks, indeed, he succeeded in maintaining the appearance of
steadiness, and was looked upon favourably by his new master, whose eyes
were first opened by the following little incident.

Besides the desk which the master himself occupied, there was another
large unoccupied desk in the corner of the great school, which was
untenanted. To rush and seize upon this desk, which was ascended by
three steps and held four boys, was the great object of ambition of the
lower-fourthers; and the contentions for the occupation of it bred such
disorder that at last the master forbade its use altogether. This, of
course, was a challenge to the more adventurous spirits to occupy it;
and as it was capacious enough for two boys to lie hid there completely,
it was seldom that it remained empty, notwithstanding the veto. Small
holes were cut in the front, through which the occupants watched the
masters as they walked up and down; and as lesson time approached, one
boy at a time stole out and down the steps, as the masters' backs were
turned, and mingled with the general crowd on the forms below. Tom and
East had successfully occupied the desk some half-dozen times, and were
grown so reckless that they were in the habit of playing small games
with fives balls inside when the masters were at the other end of the
big school. One day, as ill-luck would have it, the game became more
exciting than usual, and the ball slipped through East's fingers, and
rolled slowly down the steps and out into the middle of the school, just
as the masters turned in their walk and faced round upon the desk. The
young delinquents watched their master, through the lookout holes, march
slowly down the school straight upon their retreat, while all the boys
in the neighbourhood, of course, stopped their work to look on; and not
only were they ignominiously drawn out, and caned over the hand then
and there, but their characters for steadiness were gone from that time.
However, as they only shared the fate of some three-fourths of the rest
of the form, this did not weigh heavily upon them.

In fact, the only occasions on which they cared about the matter were
the monthly examinations, when the Doctor came round to examine their
form, for one long, awful hour, in the work which they had done in the
preceding month. The second monthly examination came round soon after
Tom's fall, and it was with anything but lively anticipations that he
and the other lower-fourth boys came in to prayers on the morning of the
examination day.

Prayers and calling-over seemed twice as short as usual, and before they
could get construes of a tithe of the hard passages marked in the margin
of their books, they were all seated round, and the Doctor was standing
in the middle, talking in whispers to the master. Tom couldn't hear a
word which passed, and never lifted his eyes from his book; but he knew
by a sort of magnetic instinct that the Doctor's under-lip was coming
out, and his eye beginning to burn, and his gown getting gathered up
more and more tightly in his left hand. The suspense was agonizing, and
Tom knew that he was sure on such occasions to make an example of the
School-house boys. “If he would only begin,” thought Tom, “I shouldn't
mind.”

At last the whispering ceased, and the name which was called out was not
Brown. He looked up for a moment, but the Doctor's face was too awful;
Tom wouldn't have met his eye for all he was worth, and buried himself
in his book again.

The boy who was called up first was a clever, merry School-house boy,
one of their set; he was some connection of the Doctor's, and a great
favourite, and ran in and out of his house as he liked, and so was
selected for the first victim.

“Triste lupus stabulis,” began the luckless youngster, and stammered
through some eight or ten lines.

“There, that will do,” said the Doctor; “now construe.”

On common occasions the boy could have construed the passage well enough
probably, but now his head was gone.

“Triste lupus, the sorrowful wolf,” he began.

A shudder ran through the whole form, and the Doctor's wrath fairly
boiled over. He made three steps up to the construer, and gave him a
good box on the ear. The blow was not a hard one, but the boy was so
taken by surprise that he started back; the form caught the back of his
knees, and over he went on to the floor behind. There was a dead silence
over the whole school. Never before and never again while Tom was at
school did the Doctor strike a boy in lesson. The provocation must have
been great. However, the victim had saved his form for that occasion,
for the Doctor turned to the top bench, and put on the best boys for the
rest of the hour and though, at the end of the lesson, he gave them all
such a rating as they did not forget, this terrible field-day passed
over without any severe visitations in the shape of punishments or
floggings. Forty young scapegraces expressed their thanks to the
“sorrowful wolf” in their different ways before second lesson.

But a character for steadiness once gone is not easily recovered, as Tom
found; and for years afterwards he went up the school without it,
and the masters' hands were against him, and his against them. And he
regarded them, as a matter of course, as his natural enemies.

Matters were not so comfortable, either, in the house as they had
been; for old Brooke left at Christmas, and one or two others of the
sixth-form boys at the following Easter. Their rule had been rough, but
strong and just in the main, and a higher standard was beginning to be
set up; in fact, there had been a short foretaste of the good time which
followed some years later. Just now, however, all threatened to return
into darkness and chaos again. For the new praepostors were either small
young boys, whose cleverness had carried them up to the top of the
school, while in strength of body and character they were not yet
fit for a share in the government; or else big fellows of the wrong
sort--boys whose friendships and tastes had a downward tendency, who had
not caught the meaning of their position and work, and felt none of its
responsibilities. So under this no-government the School-house began to
see bad times. The big fifth-form boys, who were a sporting and drinking
set, soon began to usurp power, and to fag the little boys as if they
were praepostors, and to bully and oppress any who showed signs of
resistance. The bigger sort of sixth-form boys just described soon made
common cause with the fifth, while the smaller sort, hampered by their
colleagues' desertion to the enemy, could not make head against them.
So the fags were without their lawful masters and protectors, and ridden
over rough-shod by a set of boys whom they were not bound to obey, and
whose only right over them stood in their bodily powers; and, as old
Brooke had prophesied, the house by degrees broke up into small sets and
parties, and lost the strong feeling of fellowship which he set so much
store by, and with it much of the prowess in games and the lead in all
school matters which he had done so much to keep up.

In no place in the world has individual character more weight than at
a public school. Remember this, I beseech you, all you boys who are
getting into the upper forms. Now is the time in all your lives,
probably, when you may have more wide influence for good or evil on the
society you live in than you ever can have again. Quit yourselves like
men, then; speak up, and strike out if necessary, for whatsoever
is true, and manly, and lovely, and of good report; never try to be
popular, but only to do your duty and help others to do theirs, and you
may leave the tone of feeling in the school higher than you found it,
and so be doing good which no living soul can measure to generations of
your countrymen yet unborn. For boys follow one another in herds like
sheep, for good or evil; they hate thinking, and have rarely any settled
principles. Every school, indeed, has its own traditionary standard of
right and wrong, which cannot be transgressed with impunity, marking
certain things as low and blackguard, and certain others as lawful and
right. This standard is ever varying, though it changes only slowly and
little by little; and, subject only to such standard, it is the leading
boys for the time being who give the tone to all the rest, and make
the School either a noble institution for the training of Christian
Englishmen, or a place where a young boy will get more evil than he
would if he were turned out to make his way in London streets, or
anything between these two extremes.

The change for the worse in the School-house, however, didn't press very
heavily on our youngsters for some time. They were in a good bedroom,
where slept the only praepostor left who was able to keep thorough order,
and their study was in his passage. So, though they were fagged more or
less, and occasionally kicked or cuffed by the bullies, they were, on
the whole, well off; and the fresh, brave school-life, so full of games,
adventures, and good-fellowship, so ready at forgetting, so capacious
at enjoying, so bright at forecasting, outweighed a thousand-fold their
troubles with the master of their form, and the occasional ill-usage
of the big boys in the house. It wasn't till some year or so after the
events recorded above that the praepostor of their room and passage left.
None of the other sixth-form boys would move into their passage, and, to
the disgust and indignation of Tom and East, one morning after breakfast
they were seized upon by Flashman, and made to carry down his books and
furniture into the unoccupied study, which he had taken. From this
time they began to feel the weight of the tyranny of Flashman and his
friends, and, now that trouble had come home to their own doors, began
to look out for sympathizers and partners amongst the rest of the fags;
and meetings of the oppressed began to be held, and murmurs to arise,
and plots to be laid as to how they should free themselves and be
avenged on their enemies.

While matters were in this state, East and Tom were one evening sitting
in their study. They had done their work for first lesson, and Tom was
in a brown study, brooding, like a young William Tell, upon the wrongs
of fags in general, and his own in particular.

“I say, Scud,” said he at last, rousing himself to snuff the candle,
“what right have the fifth-form boys to fag us as they do?”

“No more right than you have to fag them,” answered East, without
looking up from an early number of “Pickwick,” which was just coming
out, and which he was luxuriously devouring, stretched on his back on
the sofa.

Tom relapsed into his brown study, and East went on reading and
chuckling. The contrast of the boys' faces would have given infinite
amusement to a looker-on--the one so solemn and big with mighty purpose,
the other radiant and bubbling over with fun.

“Do you know, old fellow, I've been thinking it over a good deal,” began
Tom again.

“Oh yes, I know--fagging you are thinking of. Hang it all! But listen
here, Tom--here's fun. Mr. Winkle's horse--”

“And I've made up my mind,” broke in Tom, “that I won't fag except for
the sixth.”

“Quite right too, my boy,” cried East, putting his finger on the place
and looking up; “but a pretty peck of troubles you'll get into, if
you're going to play that game. However, I'm all for a strike myself, if
we can get others to join. It's getting too bad.”

“Can't we get some sixth-form fellow to take it up?” asked Tom.

“Well, perhaps we might. Morgan would interfere, I think. Only,” added
East, after a moment's pause, “you see, we should have to tell him about
it, and that's against School principles. Don't you remember what old
Brooke said about learning to take our own parts?”

“Ah, I wish old Brooke were back again. It was all right in his time.”

“Why, yes, you see, then the strongest and best fellows were in the
sixth, and the fifth-form fellows were afraid of them, and they kept
good order; but now our sixth-form fellows are too small, and the fifth
don't care for them, and do what they like in the house.”

“And so we get a double set of masters,” cried Tom indignantly--“the
lawful ones, who are responsible to the Doctor at any rate, and the
unlawful, the tyrants, who are responsible to nobody.”

“Down with the tyrants!” cried East; “I'm all for law and order, and
hurrah for a revolution.”

“I shouldn't mind if it were only for young Brooke now,” said Tom; “he's
such a good-hearted, gentlemanly fellow, and ought to be in the sixth.
I'd do anything for him. But that blackguard Flashman, who never speaks
to one without a kick or an oath--”

“The cowardly brute,” broke in East--“how I hate him! And he knows it
too; he knows that you and I think him a coward. What a bore that he's
got a study in this passage! Don't you hear them now at supper in his
den? Brandy-punch going, I'll bet. I wish the Doctor would come out and
catch him. We must change our study as soon as we can.”

“Change or no change, I'll never fag for him again,” said Tom, thumping
the table.

“Fa-a-a-ag!” sounded along the passage from Flashman's study. The
two boys looked at one another in silence. It had struck nine, so the
regular night-fags had left duty, and they were the nearest to the
supper-party. East sat up, and began to look comical, as he always did
under difficulties.

“Fa-a-a-ag!” again. No answer.

“Here, Brown! East! you cursed young skulks,” roared out Flashman,
coming to his open door; “I know you're in; no shirking.”

Tom stole to their door, and drew the bolts as noiselessly as he could;
East blew out the candle.

“Barricade the first,” whispered he. “Now, Tom, mind, no surrender.”

“Trust me for that,” said Tom between his teeth.

In another minute they heard the supper-party turn out and come down the
passage to their door. They held their breaths, and heard whispering, of
which they only made out Flashman's words, “I know the young brutes are
in.”

Then came summonses to open, which being unanswered, the assault
commenced. Luckily the door was a good strong oak one, and resisted the
united weight of Flashman's party. A pause followed, and they heard a
besieger remark, “They're in safe enough. Don't you see how the door
holds at top and bottom? So the bolts must be drawn. We should have
forced the lock long ago.” East gave Tom a nudge, to call attention to
this scientific remark.

Then came attacks on particular panels, one of which at last gave way
to the repeated kicks; but it broke inwards, and the broken pieces got
jammed across (the door being lined with green baize), and couldn't
easily be removed from outside: and the besieged, scorning further
concealment, strengthened their defences by pressing the end of their
sofa against the door. So, after one or two more ineffectual efforts,
Flashman and Company retired, vowing vengeance in no mild terms.

The first danger over, it only remained for the besieged to effect a
safe retreat, as it was now near bed-time. They listened intently, and
heard the supper-party resettle themselves, and then gently drew back
first one bolt and then the other. Presently the convivial noises began
again steadily. “Now then, stand by for a run,” said East, throwing the
door wide open and rushing into the passage, closely followed by Tom.
They were too quick to be caught; but Flashman was on the lookout, and
sent an empty pickle-jar whizzing after them, which narrowly missed
Tom's head, and broke into twenty pieces at the end of the passage.
“He wouldn't mind killing one, if he wasn't caught,” said East, as they
turned the corner.

There was no pursuit, so the two turned into the hall, where they found
a knot of small boys round the fire. Their story was told. The war of
independence had broken out. Who would join the revolutionary forces?
Several others present bound themselves not to fag for the fifth form
at once. One or two only edged off, and left the rebels. What else could
they do? “I've a good mind to go to the Doctor straight,” said Tom.

“That'll never do. Don't you remember the levy of the school last half?”
 put in another.

In fact, the solemn assembly, a levy of the School, had been held, at
which the captain of the School had got up, and after premising that
several instances had occurred of matters having been reported to the
masters; that this was against public morality and School tradition;
that a levy of the sixth had been held on the subject, and they had
resolved that the practice must be stopped at once; and given out that
any boy, in whatever form, who should thenceforth appeal to a master,
without having first gone to some praepostor and laid the case before
him, should be thrashed publicly, and sent to Coventry.

“Well, then, let's try the sixth. Try Morgan,” suggested another. “No
use”--“Blabbing won't do,” was the general feeling.

“I'll give you fellows a piece of advice,” said a voice from the end
of the hall. They all turned round with a start, and the speaker got up
from a bench on which he had been lying unobserved, and gave himself a
shake. He was a big, loose-made fellow, with huge limbs which had grown
too far through his jacket and trousers. “Don't you go to anybody at
all--you just stand out; say you won't fag. They'll soon get tired of
licking you. I've tried it on years ago with their forerunners.”

“No! Did you? Tell us how it was?” cried a chorus of voices, as they
clustered round him.

“Well, just as it is with you. The fifth form would fag us, and I and
some more struck, and we beat 'em. The good fellows left off directly,
and the bullies who kept on soon got afraid.”

“Was Flashman here then?”

“Yes; and a dirty, little, snivelling, sneaking fellow he was too. He
never dared join us, and used to toady the bullies by offering to fag
for them, and peaching against the rest of us.”

“Why wasn't he cut, then?” said East.

“Oh, toadies never get cut; they're too useful. Besides, he has no end
of great hampers from home, with wine and game in them; so he toadied
and fed himself into favour.”

The quarter-to-ten bell now rang, and the small boys went off upstairs,
still consulting together, and praising their new counsellor, who
stretched himself out on the bench before the hall fire again. There
he lay, a very queer specimen of boyhood, by name Diggs, and familiarly
called “the Mucker.” He was young for his size, and a very clever
fellow, nearly at the top of the fifth. His friends at home, having
regard, I suppose, to his age, and not to his size and place in the
school, hadn't put him into tails; and even his jackets were always too
small; and he had a talent for destroying clothes and making himself
look shabby. He wasn't on terms with Flashman's set, who sneered at his
dress and ways behind his back; which he knew, and revenged himself
by asking Flashman the most disagreeable questions, and treating him
familiarly whenever a crowd of boys were round him. Neither was he
intimate with any of the other bigger boys, who were warned off by
his oddnesses, for he was a very queer fellow; besides, amongst other
failings, he had that of impecuniosity in a remarkable degree. He
brought as much money as other boys to school, but got rid of it in no
time, no one knew how; and then, being also reckless, borrowed from any
one; and when his debts accumulated and creditors pressed, would have
an auction in the hall of everything he possessed in the world, selling
even his school-books, candlestick, and study table. For weeks after
one of these auctions, having rendered his study uninhabitable, he would
live about in the fifth-form room and hall, doing his verses on old
letter-backs and odd scraps of paper, and learning his lessons no one
knew how. He never meddled with any little boy, and was popular with
them, though they all looked on him with a sort of compassion, and
called him “Poor Diggs,” not being able to resist appearances, or to
disregard wholly even the sneers of their enemy Flashman. However, he
seemed equally indifferent to the sneers of big boys and the pity of
small ones, and lived his own queer life with much apparent enjoyment to
himself. It is necessary to introduce Diggs thus particularly, as he not
only did Tom and East good service in their present warfare, as is about
to be told, but soon afterwards, when he got into the sixth, chose them
for his fags, and excused them from study-fagging, thereby earning unto
himself eternal gratitude from them and all who are interested in their
history.

And seldom had small boys more need of a friend, for the morning after
the siege the storm burst upon the rebels in all its violence. Flashman
laid wait, and caught Tom before second lesson, and receiving a
point-blank “No” when told to fetch his hat, seized him and twisted his
arm, and went through the other methods of torture in use. “He couldn't
make me cry, though,” as Tom said triumphantly to the rest of the
rebels; “and I kicked his shins well, I know.” And soon it crept
out that a lot of the fags were in league, and Flashman excited his
associates to join him in bringing the young vagabonds to their senses;
and the house was filled with constant chasings, and sieges, and
lickings of all sorts; and in return, the bullies' beds were pulled to
pieces and drenched with water, and their names written up on the walls
with every insulting epithet which the fag invention could furnish. The
war, in short, raged fiercely; but soon, as Diggs had told them, all
the better fellows in the fifth gave up trying to fag them, and public
feeling began to set against Flashman and his two or three intimates,
and they were obliged to keep their doings more secret, but being
thorough bad fellows, missed no opportunity of torturing in private.
Flashman was an adept in all ways, but above all in the power of saying
cutting and cruel things, and could often bring tears to the eyes of
boys in this way, which all the thrashings in the world wouldn't have
wrung from them.

And as his operations were being cut short in other directions, he now
devoted himself chiefly to Tom and East, who lived at his own door, and
would force himself into their study whenever he found a chance, and sit
there, sometimes alone, and sometimes with a companion, interrupting all
their work, and exulting in the evident pain which every now and then he
could see he was inflicting on one or the other.

The storm had cleared the air for the rest of the house, and a better
state of things now began than there had been since old Brooke had left;
but an angry, dark spot of thunder-cloud still hung over the end of the
passage where Flashman's study and that of East and Tom lay.

He felt that they had been the first rebels, and that the rebellion had
been to a great extent successful; but what above all stirred the
hatred and bitterness of his heart against them was that in the frequent
collisions which there had been of late they had openly called him
coward and sneak. The taunts were too true to be forgiven. While he
was in the act of thrashing them, they would roar out instances of his
funking at football, or shirking some encounter with a lout of half his
own size. These things were all well enough known in the house, but
to have his own disgrace shouted out by small boys, to feel that they
despised him, to be unable to silence them by any amount of torture, and
to see the open laugh and sneer of his own associates (who were looking
on, and took no trouble to hide their scorn from him, though they
neither interfered with his bullying nor lived a bit the less intimately
with him), made him beside himself. Come what might, he would make those
boys' lives miserable. So the strife settled down into a personal affair
between Flashman and our youngsters--a war to the knife, to be fought
out in the little cockpit at the end of the bottom passage.

Flashman, be it said, was about seventeen years old, and big and strong
of his age. He played well at all games where pluck wasn't much wanted,
and managed generally to keep up appearances where it was; and having
a bluff, off-hand manner, which passed for heartiness, and considerable
powers of being pleasant when he liked, went down with the school in
general for a good fellow enough. Even in the School-house, by dint of
his command of money, the constant supply of good things which he kept
up, and his adroit toadyism, he had managed to make himself not only
tolerated, but rather popular amongst his own contemporaries; although
young Brooke scarcely spoke to him, and one or two others of the right
sort showed their opinions of him whenever a chance offered. But the
wrong sort happened to be in the ascendant just now, and so Flashman
was a formidable enemy for small boys. This soon became plain enough.
Flashman left no slander unspoken, and no deed undone, which could in
any way hurt his victims, or isolate them from the rest of the
house. One by one most of the other rebels fell away from them, while
Flashman's cause prospered, and several other fifth-form boys began to
look black at them and ill-treat them as they passed about the house. By
keeping out of bounds, or at all events out of the house and quadrangle,
all day, and carefully barring themselves in at night, East and Tom
managed to hold on without feeling very miserable; but it was as much as
they could do. Greatly were they drawn then towards old Diggs, who, in
an uncouth way, began to take a good deal of notice of them, and once
or twice came to their study when Flashman was there, who immediately
decamped in consequence. The boys thought that Diggs must have been
watching.

When therefore, about this time, an auction was one night announced to
take place in the hall, at which, amongst the superfluities of other
boys, all Diggs's penates for the time being were going to the hammer,
East and Tom laid their heads together, and resolved to devote their
ready cash (some four shillings sterling) to redeem such articles as
that sum would cover. Accordingly, they duly attended to bid, and
Tom became the owner of two lots of Diggs's things:--Lot 1, price
one-and-threepence, consisting (as the auctioneer remarked) of a
“valuable assortment of old metals,” in the shape of a mouse-trap, a
cheese-toaster without a handle, and a saucepan: Lot 2, of a
villainous dirty table-cloth and green-baize curtain; while East, for
one-and-sixpence, purchased a leather paper-case, with a lock but no
key, once handsome, but now much the worse for wear. But they had still
the point to settle of how to get Diggs to take the things without
hurting his feelings. This they solved by leaving them in his study,
which was never locked when he was out. Diggs, who had attended the
auction, remembered who had bought the lots, and came to their study
soon after, and sat silent for some time, cracking his great red
finger-joints. Then he laid hold of their verses, and began looking over
and altering them, and at last got up, and turning his back to them,
said, “You're uncommon good-hearted little beggars, you two. I value
that paper-case; my sister gave it to me last holidays. I won't
forget.” And so he tumbled out into the passage, leaving them somewhat
embarrassed, but not sorry that he knew what they had done.

The next morning was Saturday, the day on which the allowances of one
shilling a week were paid--an important event to spendthrift youngsters;
and great was the disgust amongst the small fry to hear that all the
allowances had been impounded for the Derby lottery. That great event
in the English year, the Derby, was celebrated at Rugby in those days
by many lotteries. It was not an improving custom, I own, gentle reader,
and led to making books, and betting, and other objectionable results;
but when our great Houses of Palaver think it right to stop the nation's
business on that day and many of the members bet heavily themselves, can
you blame us boys for following the example of our betters? At any rate
we did follow it. First there was the great school lottery, where the
first prize was six or seven pounds; then each house had one or more
separate lotteries. These were all nominally voluntary, no boy being
compelled to put in his shilling who didn't choose to do so. But besides
Flashman, there were three or four other fast, sporting young gentlemen
in the Schoolhouse, who considered subscription a matter of duty and
necessity; and so, to make their duty come easy to the small
boys, quietly secured the allowances in a lump when given out for
distribution, and kept them. It was no use grumbling--so many fewer
tartlets and apples were eaten and fives balls bought on that Saturday;
and after locking-up, when the money would otherwise have been spent,
consolation was carried to many a small boy by the sound of the
night-fags shouting along the passages, “Gentlemen sportsmen of the
School-house; the lottery's going to be drawn in the hall.” It was
pleasant to be called a gentleman sportsman, also to have a chance of
drawing a favourite horse.

The hall was full of boys, and at the head of one of the long tables
stood the sporting interest, with a hat before them, in which were the
tickets folded up. One of them then began calling out the list of the
house. Each boy as his name was called drew a ticket from the hat, and
opened it; and most of the bigger boys, after drawing, left the hall
directly to go back to their studies or the fifth-form room. The
sporting interest had all drawn blanks, and they were sulky accordingly;
neither of the favourites had yet been drawn, and it had come down to
the upper-fourth. So now, as each small boy came up and drew his ticket,
it was seized and opened by Flashman, or some other of the standers-by.
But no great favourite is drawn until it comes to the Tadpole's turn,
and he shuffles up and draws, and tries to make off, but is caught, and
his ticket is opened like the rest.

“Here you are! Wanderer--the third favourite!” shouts the opener.

“I say, just give me my ticket, please,” remonstrates Tadpole.

“Hullo! don't be in a hurry,” breaks in Flashman; “what'll you sell
Wanderer for now?”

“I don't want to sell,” rejoins Tadpole.

“Oh, don't you! Now listen, you young fool: you don't know anything
about it; the horse is no use to you. He won't win, but I want him as a
hedge. Now, I'll give you half a crown for him.” Tadpole holds out, but
between threats and cajoleries at length sells half for one shilling and
sixpence--about a fifth of its fair market value; however, he is glad to
realize anything, and, as he wisely remarks, “Wanderer mayn't win, and
the tizzy is safe anyhow.”

East presently comes up and draws a blank. Soon after comes Tom's turn.
His ticket, like the others, is seized and opened. “Here you are then,”
 shouts the opener, holding it up--“Harkaway!--By Jove, Flashey, your
young friend's in luck.”

“Give me the ticket,” says Flashman, with an oath, leaning across the
table with open hand and his face black with rage.

“Wouldn't you like it?” replies the opener, not a bad fellow at the
bottom, and no admirer of Flashman. “Here, Brown, catch hold.” And he
hands the ticket to Tom, who pockets it. Whereupon Flashman makes for
the door at once, that Tom and the ticket may not escape, and there
keeps watch until the drawing is over and all the boys are gone, except
the sporting set of five or six, who stay to compare books, make bets,
and so on; Tom, who doesn't choose to move while Flashman is at the
door; and East, who stays by his friend, anticipating trouble. The
sporting set now gathered round Tom. Public opinion wouldn't allow them
actually to rob him of his ticket, but any humbug or intimidation by
which he could be driven to sell the whole or part at an undervalue was
lawful.

“Now, young Brown, come, what'll you sell me Harkaway for? I hear he
isn't going to start. I'll give you five shillings for him,” begins
the boy who had opened the ticket. Tom, remembering his good deed, and
moreover in his forlorn state wishing to make a friend, is about
to accept the offer, when another cries out, “I'll give you seven
shillings.” Tom hesitated and looked from one to the other.

“No, no!” said Flashman, pushing in, “leave me to deal with him; we'll
draw lots for it afterwards. Now sir, you know me: you'll sell Harkaway
to us for five shillings, or you'll repent it.”

“I won't sell a bit of him,” answered Tom shortly.

“You hear that now!” said Flashman, turning to the others. “He's the
coxiest young blackguard in the house. I always told you so. We're
to have all the trouble and risk of getting up the lotteries for the
benefit of such fellows as he.”

Flashman forgets to explain what risk they ran, but he speaks to willing
ears. Gambling makes boys selfish and cruel as well as men.

“That's true. We always draw blanks,” cried one.--“Now, sir, you shall
sell half, at any rate.”

“I won't,” said Tom, flushing up to his hair, and lumping them all in
his mind with his sworn enemy.

“Very well then; let's roast him,” cried Flashman, and catches hold of
Tom by the collar. One or two boys hesitate, but the rest join in. East
seizes Tom's arm, and tries to pull him away, but is knocked back by
one of the boys, and Tom is dragged along struggling. His shoulders are
pushed against the mantelpiece, and he is held by main force before the
fire, Flashman drawing his trousers tight by way of extra torture. Poor
East, in more pain even than Tom, suddenly thinks of Diggs, and darts
off to find him. “Will you sell now for ten shillings?” says one boy who
is relenting.

Tom only answers by groans and struggles.

“I say, Flashey, he has had enough,” says the same boy, dropping the arm
he holds.

“No, no; another turn'll do it,” answers Flashman. But poor Tom is done
already, turns deadly pale, and his head falls forward on his breast,
just as Diggs, in frantic excitement, rushes into the hall with East at
his heels.

“You cowardly brutes!” is all he can say, as he catches Tom from them
and supports him to the hall table. “Good God! he's dying. Here, get
some cold water--run for the housekeeper.”

Flashman and one or two others slink away; the rest, ashamed and
sorry, bend over Tom or run for water, while East darts off for the
housekeeper. Water comes, and they throw it on his hands and face, and
he begins to come to. “Mother!”--the words came feebly and slowly--“it's
very cold to-night.” Poor old Diggs is blubbering like a child. “Where
am I?” goes on Tom, opening his eyes, “Ah! I remember now.” And he shut
his eyes again and groaned.

“I say,” is whispered, “we can't do any good, and the housekeeper will
be here in a minute.” And all but one steal away. He stays with Diggs,
silent and sorrowful, and fans Tom's face.

The housekeeper comes in with strong salts, and Tom soon recovers enough
to sit up. There is a smell of burning. She examines his clothes, and
looks up inquiringly. The boys are silent.

“How did he come so?” No answer. “There's been some bad work here,” she
adds, looking very serious, “and I shall speak to the Doctor about it.”
 Still no answer.

“Hadn't we better carry him to the sick-room?” suggests Diggs.

“Oh, I can walk now,” says Tom; and, supported by East and the
housekeeper, goes to the sick-room. The boy who held his ground is soon
amongst the rest, who are all in fear of their lives. “Did he peach?”
 “Does she know about it?”

“Not a word; he's a stanch little fellow.” And pausing a moment, he
adds, “I'm sick of this work; what brutes we've been!”

Meantime Tom is stretched on the sofa in the housekeeper's room, with
East by his side, while she gets wine and water and other restoratives.

“Are you much hurt, dear old boy?” whispers East.

“Only the back of my legs,” answers Tom. They are indeed badly scorched,
and part of his trousers burnt through. But soon he is in bed with
cold bandages. At first he feels broken, and thinks of writing home and
getting taken away; and the verse of a hymn he had learned years ago
sings through his head, and he goes to sleep, murmuring,--


“Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.”


But after a sound night's rest, the old boy-spirit comes back again.
East comes in, reporting that the whole house is with him; and he
forgets everything, except their old resolve never to be beaten by that
bully Flashman.

Not a word could the housekeeper extract from either of them, and though
the Doctor knew all that she knew that morning, he never knew any more.

I trust and believe that such scenes are not possible now at school,
and that lotteries and betting-books have gone out; but I am writing of
schools as they were in our time, and must give the evil with the good.



CHAPTER IX--A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS.

     “Wherein I [speak] of most disastrous chances,
     Of moving accidents by flood and field,
     Of hair-breadth 'scapes.”--SHAKESPEARE.

When Tom came back into school after a couple of days in the sick-room,
he found matters much changed for the better, as East had led him to
expect. Flashman's brutality had disgusted most even of his intimate
friends, and his cowardice had once more been made plain to the house;
for Diggs had encountered him on the morning after the lottery, and
after high words on both sides, had struck him, and the blow was not
returned. However, Flashey was not unused to this sort of thing, and had
lived through as awkward affairs before, and, as Diggs had said, fed and
toadied himself back into favour again. Two or three of the boys who had
helped to roast Tom came up and begged his pardon, and thanked him for
not telling anything. Morgan sent for him, and was inclined to take the
matter up warmly, but Tom begged him not to do it; to which he agreed,
on Tom's promising to come to him at once in future--a promise which, I
regret to say, he didn't keep. Tom kept Harkaway all to himself, and
won the second prize in the lottery, some thirty shillings, which he and
East contrived to spend in about three days in the purchase of pictures
for their study, two new bats and a cricket-ball--all the best that
could be got--and a supper of sausages, kidneys, and beef-steak pies
to all the rebels. Light come, light go; they wouldn't have been
comfortable with money in their pockets in the middle of the half.

The embers of Flashman's wrath, however, were still smouldering, and
burst out every now and then in sly blows and taunts, and they both
felt that they hadn't quite done with him yet. It wasn't long, however,
before the last act of that drama came, and with it the end of bullying
for Tom and East at Rugby. They now often stole out into the hall at
nights, incited thereto partly by the hope of finding Diggs there and
having a talk with him, partly by the excitement of doing something
which was against rules; for, sad to say, both of our youngsters, since
their loss of character for steadiness in their form, had got into
the habit of doing things which were forbidden, as a matter of
adventure,--just in the same way, I should fancy, as men fall into
smuggling, and for the same sort of reasons--thoughtlessness in the
first place. It never occurred to them to consider why such and such
rules were laid down: the reason was nothing to them, and they only
looked upon rules as a sort of challenge from the rule-makers, which it
would be rather bad pluck in them not to accept; and then again, in the
lower parts of the school they hadn't enough to do. The work of the form
they could manage to get through pretty easily, keeping a good enough
place to get their regular yearly remove; and not having much ambition
beyond this, their whole superfluous steam was available for games and
scrapes. Now, one rule of the house which it was a daily pleasure of all
such boys to break was that after supper all fags, except the three
on duty in the passages, should remain in their own studies until nine
o'clock; and if caught about the passages or hall, or in one another's
studies, they were liable to punishments or caning. The rule was
stricter than its observance; for most of the sixth spent their evenings
in the fifth-form room, where the library was, and the lessons were
learnt in common. Every now and then, however, a praepostor would be
seized with a fit of district visiting, and would make a tour of
the passages and hall and the fags' studies. Then, if the owner were
entertaining a friend or two, the first kick at the door and ominous
“Open here” had the effect of the shadow of a hawk over a chicken-yard:
every one cut to cover--one small boy diving under the sofa, another
under the table, while the owner would hastily pull down a book or
two and open them, and cry out in a meek voice, “Hullo, who's there?”
 casting an anxious eye round to see that no protruding leg or elbow
could betray the hidden boys. “Open, sir, directly; it's Snooks.”
 “Oh, I'm very sorry; I didn't know it was you, Snooks.” And then with
well-feigned zeal the door would be opened, young hopeful praying that
that beast Snooks mightn't have heard the scuffle caused by his coming.
If a study was empty, Snooks proceeded to draw the passages and hall to
find the truants.

Well, one evening, in forbidden hours, Tom and East were in the hall.
They occupied the seats before the fire nearest the door, while Diggs
sprawled as usual before the farther fire. He was busy with a copy of
verses, and East and Tom were chatting together in whispers by the light
of the fire, and splicing a favourite old fives bat which had sprung.
Presently a step came down the bottom passage. They listened a moment,
assured themselves that it wasn't a praepostor, and then went on with
their work, and the door swung open, and in walked Flashman. He didn't
see Diggs, and thought it a good chance to keep his hand in; and as the
boys didn't move for him, struck one of them, to make them get out of
his way.

“What's that for?” growled the assaulted one.

“Because I choose. You've no business here. Go to your study.”

“You can't send us.”

“Can't I? Then I'll thrash you if you stay,” said Flashman savagely.

“I say, you two,” said Diggs, from the end of the hall, rousing up and
resting himself on his elbow--“you'll never get rid of that fellow till
you lick him. Go in at him, both of you. I'll see fair play.”

Flashman was taken aback, and retreated two steps. East looked at
Tom. “Shall we try!” said he. “Yes,” said Tom desperately. So the two
advanced on Flashman, with clenched fists and beating hearts. They were
about up to his shoulder, but tough boys of their age, and in perfect
training; while he, though strong and big, was in poor condition from
his monstrous habit of stuffing and want of exercise. Coward as he was,
however, Flashman couldn't swallow such an insult as this; besides, he
was confident of having easy work, and so faced the boys, saying, “You
impudent young blackguards!” Before he could finish his abuse, they
rushed in on him, and began pummelling at all of him which they could
reach. He hit out wildly and savagely; but the full force of his blows
didn't tell--they were too near to him. It was long odds, though, in
point of strength; and in another minute Tom went spinning backwards
over a form, and Flashman turned to demolish East with a savage grin.
But now Diggs jumped down from the table on which he had seated himself.
“Stop there,” shouted he; “the round's over--half-minute time allowed.”

“What the --- is it to you?” faltered Flashman, who began to lose heart.

“I'm going to see fair, I tell you,” said Diggs, with a grin, and
snapping his great red fingers; “'taint fair for you to be fighting one
of them at a time.--Are you ready, Brown? Time's up.”

The small boys rushed in again. Closing, they saw, was their best
chance, and Flashman was wilder and more flurried than ever: he caught
East by the throat, and tried to force him back on the iron-bound table.
Tom grasped his waist, and remembering the old throw he had learned
in the Vale from Harry Winburn, crooked his leg inside Flashman's, and
threw his whole weight forward. The three tottered for a moment, and
then over they went on to the floor, Flashman striking his head against
a form in the hall.

The two youngsters sprang to their legs, but he lay there still. They
began to be frightened. Tom stooped down, and then cried out, scared
out of his wits, “He's bleeding awfully. Come here, East! Diggs, he's
dying!”

“Not he,” said Diggs, getting leisurely off the table; “it's all sham;
he's only afraid to fight it out.”

East was as frightened as Tom. Diggs lifted Flashman's head, and he
groaned.

“What's the matter?” shouted Diggs.

“My skull's fractured,” sobbed Flashman.

“Oh, let me run for the housekeeper!” cried Tom. “What shall we do?”

“Fiddlesticks! It's nothing but the skin broken,” said the relentless
Diggs, feeling his head. “Cold water and a bit of rag's all he'll want.”

“Let me go,” said Flashman surlily, sitting up; “I don't want your
help.”

“We're really very sorry--” began East.

“Hang your sorrow!” answered Flashman, holding his handkerchief to the
place; “you shall pay for this, I can tell you, both of you.” And he
walked out of the hall.

“He can't be very bad,” said Tom, with a deep sigh, much relieved to see
his enemy march so well.

“Not he,” said Diggs; “and you'll see you won't be troubled with him any
more. But, I say, your head's broken too; your collar is covered with
blood.”

“Is it though?” said Tom, putting up his hand; “I didn't know it.”

“Well, mop it up, or you'll have your jacket spoilt. And you have got a
nasty eye, Scud. You'd better go and bathe it well in cold water.”

“Cheap enough too, if we're done with our old friend Flashey,” said
East, as they made off upstairs to bathe their wounds.

They had done with Flashman in one sense, for he never laid finger on
either of them again; but whatever harm a spiteful heart and venomous
tongue could do them, he took care should be done. Only throw dirt
enough, and some of it is sure to stick; and so it was with the fifth
form and the bigger boys in general, with whom he associated more or
less, and they not at all. Flashman managed to get Tom and East into
disfavour, which did not wear off for some time after the author of it
had disappeared from the School world. This event, much prayed for
by the small fry in general, took place a few months after the above
encounter. One fine summer evening Flashman had been regaling himself on
gin-punch, at Brownsover; and, having exceeded his usual limits, started
home uproarious. He fell in with a friend or two coming back from
bathing, proposed a glass of beer, to which they assented, the weather
being hot, and they thirsty souls, and unaware of the quantity of drink
which Flashman had already on board. The short result was, that Flashey
became beastly drunk. They tried to get him along, but couldn't; so they
chartered a hurdle and two men to carry him. One of the masters came
upon them, and they naturally enough fled. The flight of the rest raised
the master's suspicions, and the good angel of the fags incited him
to examine the freight, and, after examination, to convoy the hurdle
himself up to the School-house; and the Doctor, who had long had his eye
on Flashman, arranged for his withdrawal next morning.

The evil that men and boys too do lives after them: Flashman was gone,
but our boys, as hinted above, still felt the effects of his hate.
Besides, they had been the movers of the strike against unlawful
fagging. The cause was righteous--the result had been triumphant to a
great extent; but the best of the fifth--even those who had never fagged
the small boys, or had given up the practice cheerfully--couldn't help
feeling a small grudge against the first rebels. After all, their form
had been defied, on just grounds, no doubt--so just, indeed, that they
had at once acknowledged the wrong, and remained passive in the strife.
Had they sided with Flashman and his set, the rebels must have given way
at once. They couldn't help, on the whole, being glad that they had so
acted, and that the resistance had been successful against such of their
own form as had shown fight; they felt that law and order had gained
thereby, but the ringleaders they couldn't quite pardon at once.
“Confoundedly coxy those young rascals will get, if we don't mind,” was
the general feeling.

So it is, and must be always, my dear boys. If the angel Gabriel were
to come down from heaven, and head a successful rise against the most
abominable and unrighteous vested interest which this poor old world
groans under, he would most certainly lose his character for many years,
probably for centuries, not only with the upholders of said vested
interest, but with the respectable mass of the people whom he had
delivered. They wouldn't ask him to dinner, or let their names appear
with his in the papers; they would be very careful how they spoke of
him in the Palaver, or at their clubs. What can we expect, then, when we
have only poor gallant blundering men like Kossuth, Garibaldi, Mazzini,
and righteous causes which do not triumph in their hands--men who
have holes enough in their armour, God knows, easy to be hit by
respectabilities sitting in their lounging chairs, and having large
balances at their bankers'? But you are brave, gallant boys, who hate
easy-chairs, and have no balances or bankers. You only want to have
your heads set straight, to take the right side; so bear in mind that
majorities, especially respectable ones, are nine times out of ten in
the wrong; and that if you see a man or boy striving earnestly on the
weak side, however wrong-headed or blundering he may be, you are not to
go and join the cry against him. If you can't join him and help him, and
make him wiser, at any rate remember that he has found something in the
world which he will fight and suffer for, which is just what you have
got to do for yourselves; and so think and speak of him tenderly.

So East and Tom, the Tadpole, and one or two more, became a sort of
young Ishmaelites, their hands against every one, and every one's hand
against them. It has been already told how they got to war with the
masters and the fifth form, and with the sixth it was much the same.
They saw the praepostors cowed by or joining with the fifth and shirking
their own duties; so they didn't respect them, and rendered no willing
obedience. It had been one thing to clean out studies for sons of heroes
like old Brooke, but was quite another to do the like for Snooks and
Green, who had never faced a good scrummage at football, and couldn't
keep the passages in order at night. So they only slurred through their
fagging just well enough to escape a licking, and not always that, and
got the character of sulky, unwilling fags. In the fifth-form room,
after supper, when such matters were often discussed and arranged, their
names were for ever coming up.

“I say, Green,” Snooks began one night, “isn't that new boy, Harrison,
your fag?”

“Yes; why?”

“Oh, I know something of him at home, and should like to excuse him.
Will you swop?”

“Who will you give me?”

“Well, let's see. There's Willis, Johnson. No, that won't do. Yes, I
have it. There's young East; I'll give you him.”

“Don't you wish you may get it?” replied Green. “I'll give you two for
Willis, if you like.”

“Who, then?” asked Snooks. “Hall and Brown.”

“Wouldn't have 'em at a gift.”

“Better than East, though; for they ain't quite so sharp,” said Green,
getting up and leaning his back against the mantelpiece. He wasn't a bad
fellow, and couldn't help not being able to put down the unruly fifth
form. His eye twinkled as he went on, “Did I ever tell you how the young
vagabond sold me last half?”

“No; how?”

“Well, he never half cleaned my study out--only just stuck the
candlesticks in the cupboard, and swept the crumbs on to the floor. So
at last I was mortal angry, and had him up, and made him go through the
whole performance under my eyes. The dust the young scamp made nearly
choked me, and showed that he hadn't swept the carpet before. Well, when
it was all finished, 'Now, young gentleman,' says I, 'mind, I expect
this to be done every morning--floor swept, table-cloth taken off and
shaken, and everything dusted.' 'Very well,' grunts he. Not a bit of
it though. I was quite sure, in a day or two, that he never took the
table-cloth off even. So I laid a trap for him. I tore up some paper,
and put half a dozen bits on my table one night, and the cloth over them
as usual. Next morning after breakfast up I came, pulled off the cloth,
and, sure enough, there was the paper, which fluttered down on to the
floor. I was in a towering rage. 'I've got you now,' thought I, and sent
for him, while I got out my cane. Up he came as cool as you please, with
his hands in his pockets. 'Didn't I tell you to shake my table-cloth
every morning?' roared I. 'Yes,' says he. 'Did you do it this morning?'
'Yes.' 'You young liar! I put these pieces of paper on the table last
night, and if you'd taken the table-cloth off you'd have seen them, so
I'm going to give you a good licking.' Then my youngster takes one hand
out of his pocket, and just stoops down and picks up two of the bits
of paper, and holds them out to me. There was written on each, in great
round text, 'Harry East, his mark.' The young rogue had found my
trap out, taken away my paper, and put some of his there, every bit
ear-marked. I'd a great mind to lick him for his impudence; but, after
all, one has no right to be laying traps, so I didn't. Of course I was
at his mercy till the end of the half, and in his weeks my study was so
frowzy I couldn't sit in it.”

“They spoil one's things so, too,” chimed in a third boy. “Hall and
Brown were night-fags last week. I called 'fag,' and gave them my
candlesticks to clean. Away they went, and didn't appear again. When
they'd had time enough to clean them three times over, I went out to
look after them. They weren't in the passages so down I went into the
hall, where I heard music; and there I found them sitting on the table,
listening to Johnson, who was playing the flute, and my candlesticks
stuck between the bars well into the fire, red-hot, clean spoiled.
They've never stood straight since, and I must get some more. However, I
gave them a good licking; that's one comfort.”

Such were the sort of scrapes they were always getting into; and so,
partly by their own faults, partly from circumstances, partly from the
faults of others, they found themselves outlaws, ticket-of-leave men, or
what you will in that line--in short, dangerous parties--and lived the
sort of hand-to-mouth, wild, reckless life which such parties generally
have to put up with. Nevertheless they never quite lost favour with
young Brooke, who was now the cock of the house, and just getting into
the sixth; and Diggs stuck to them like a man, and gave them store of
good advice, by which they never in the least profited.

And even after the house mended, and law and order had been restored,
which soon happened after young Brooke and Diggs got into the sixth,
they couldn't easily or at once return into the paths of steadiness, and
many of the old, wild, out-of-bounds habits stuck to them as firmly as
ever. While they had been quite little boys, the scrapes they got into
in the School hadn't much mattered to any one; but now they were in the
upper school, all wrong-doers from which were sent up straight to the
Doctor at once. So they began to come under his notice; and as they were
a sort of leaders in a small way amongst their own contemporaries, his
eye, which was everywhere, was upon them.

It was a toss-up whether they turned out well or ill, and so they were
just the boys who caused most anxiety to such a master. You have been
told of the first occasion on which they were sent up to the Doctor, and
the remembrance of it was so pleasant that they had much less fear of
him than most boys of their standing had. “It's all his look,” Tom used
to say to East, “that frightens fellows. Don't you remember, he never
said anything to us my first half-year for being an hour late for
locking-up?”

The next time that Tom came before him, however, the interview was of
a very different kind. It happened just about the time at which we have
now arrived, and was the first of a series of scrapes into which our
hero managed now to tumble.

The river Avon at Rugby is a slow and not very clear stream, in which
chub, dace, roach, and other coarse fish are (or were) plentiful
enough, together with a fair sprinkling of small jack, but no fish worth
sixpence either for sport or food. It is, however, a capital river for
bathing, as it has many nice small pools and several good reaches for
swimming, all within about a mile of one another, and at an easy twenty
minutes' walk from the school. This mile of water is rented, or used to
be rented, for bathing purposes by the trustees of the School, for the
boys. The footpath to Brownsover crosses the river by “the Planks,” a
curious old single-plank bridge running for fifty or sixty yards into
the flat meadows on each side of the river--for in the winter there
are frequent floods. Above the Planks were the bathing-places for the
smaller boys--Sleath's, the first bathing-place, where all new boys
had to begin, until they had proved to the bathing men (three steady
individuals, who were paid to attend daily through the summer to prevent
accidents) that they could swim pretty decently, when they were allowed
to go on to Anstey's, about one hundred and fifty yards below. Here
there was a hole about six feet deep and twelve feet across, over which
the puffing urchins struggled to the opposite side, and thought no small
beer of themselves for having been out of their depths. Below the Planks
came larger and deeper holes, the first of which was Wratislaw's, and
the last Swift's, a famous hole, ten or twelve feet deep in parts, and
thirty yards across, from which there was a fine swimming reach right
down to the mill. Swift's was reserved for the sixth and fifth forms,
and had a spring board and two sets of steps: the others had one set of
steps each, and were used indifferently by all the lower boys, though
each house addicted itself more to one hole than to another. The
School-house at this time affected Wratislaw's hole, and Tom and East,
who had learnt to swim like fishes, were to be found there as regular as
the clock through the summer, always twice, and often three times a day.

Now the boys either had, or fancied they had, a right also to fish at
their pleasure over the whole of this part of the river, and would not
understand that the right (if any) only extended to the Rugby side. As
ill-luck would have it, the gentleman who owned the opposite bank, after
allowing it for some time without interference, had ordered his keepers
not to let the boys fish on his side--the consequence of which had been
that there had been first wranglings and then fights between the keepers
and boys; and so keen had the quarrel become that the landlord and his
keepers, after a ducking had been inflicted on one of the latter, and
a fierce fight ensued thereon, had been up to the great school at
calling-over to identify the delinquents, and it was all the Doctor
himself and five or six masters could do to keep the peace. Not even his
authority could prevent the hissing; and so strong was the feeling that
the four praepostors of the week walked up the school with their canes,
shouting “S-s-s-s-i-lenc-c-c-c-e” at the top of their voices. However,
the chief offenders for the time were flogged and kept in bounds; but
the victorious party had brought a nice hornet's nest about their ears.
The landlord was hissed at the School-gates as he rode past, and when he
charged his horse at the mob of boys, and tried to thrash them with
his whip, was driven back by cricket-bats and wickets, and pursued with
pebbles and fives balls; while the wretched keepers' lives were a burden
to them, from having to watch the waters so closely.

The School-house boys of Tom's standing, one and all, as a protest
against this tyranny and cutting short of their lawful amusements, took
to fishing in all ways, and especially by means of night-lines. The
little tacklemaker at the bottom of the town would soon have made his
fortune had the rage lasted, and several of the barbers began to lay in
fishing-tackle. The boys had this great advantage over their enemies,
that they spent a large portion of the day in nature's garb by the
river-side, and so, when tired of swimming, would get out on the other
side and fish, or set night-lines, till the keepers hove in sight, and
then plunge in and swim back and mix with the other bathers, and the
keepers were too wise to follow across the stream.

While things were in this state, one day Tom and three or four others
were bathing at Wratislaw's, and had, as a matter of course, been taking
up and re-setting night-lines. They had all left the water, and were
sitting or standing about at their toilets, in all costumes, from
a shirt upwards, when they were aware of a man in a velveteen
shooting-coat approaching from the other side. He was a new keeper, so
they didn't recognize or notice him, till he pulled up right opposite,
and began:

“I see'd some of you young gentlemen over this side a-fishing just now.”

“Hullo! who are you? What business is that of yours, old Velveteens?”

“I'm the new under-keeper, and master's told me to keep a sharp lookout
on all o' you young chaps. And I tells 'ee I means business, and you'd
better keep on your own side, or we shall fall out.”

“Well, that's right, Velveteens; speak out, and let's know your mind at
once.”

“Look here, old boy,” cried East, holding up a miserable, coarse fish
or two and a small jack; “would you like to smell 'em and see which bank
they lived under?”

“I'll give you a bit of advice, keeper,” shouted Tom, who was sitting
in his shirt paddling with his feet in the river: “you'd better go down
there to Swift's, where the big boys are; they're beggars at setting
lines, and'll put you up to a wrinkle or two for catching the
five-pounders.” Tom was nearest to the keeper, and that officer, who was
getting angry at the chaff, fixed his eyes on our hero, as if to take a
note of him for future use. Tom returned his gaze with a steady stare,
and then broke into a laugh, and struck into the middle of a favourite
School-house song,--

     “As I and my companions
     Were setting of a snare
     The gamekeeper was watching us;
     For him we did not care:
     For we can wrestle and fight, my boys,
     And jump out anywhere.
     For it's my delight of a likely night,
     In the season of the year.”

The chorus was taken up by the other boys with shouts of laughter, and
the keeper turned away with a grunt, but evidently bent on mischief. The
boys thought no more of the matter.

But now came on the May-fly season; the soft, hazy summer weather lay
sleepily along the rich meadows by Avon side, and the green and gray
flies flickered with their graceful, lazy up-and-down flight over
the reeds and the water and the meadows, in myriads upon myriads.
The May-flies must surely be the lotus-eaters of the ephemerae--the
happiest, laziest, carelessest fly that dances and dreams out his few
hours of sunshiny life by English rivers.

Every little pitiful, coarse fish in the Avon was on the alert for
the flies, and gorging his wretched carcass with hundreds daily, the
gluttonous rogues! and every lover of the gentle craft was out to avenge
the poor May-flies.

So one fine Thursday afternoon, Tom, having borrowed East's new rod,
started by himself to the river. He fished for some time with small
success--not a fish would rise at him; but as he prowled along the bank,
he was presently aware of mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite
side, under the shade of a huge willow-tree. The stream was deep
here, but some fifty yards below was a shallow, for which he made off
hot-foot; and forgetting landlords, keepers, solemn prohibitions of the
Doctor, and everything else, pulled up his trousers, plunged across, and
in three minutes was creeping along on all fours towards the clump of
willows.

It isn't often that great chub, or any other coarse fish, are in earnest
about anything; but just then they were thoroughly bent on feeding, and
in half an hour Master Tom had deposited three thumping fellows at the
foot of the giant willow. As he was baiting for a fourth pounder, and
just going to throw in again, he became aware of a man coming up the
bank not one hundred yards off. Another look told him that it was the
under-keeper. Could he reach the shallow before him? No, not carrying
his rod. Nothing for it but the tree. So Tom laid his bones to it,
shinning up as fast as he could, and dragging up his rod after him. He
had just time to reach and crouch along upon a huge branch some ten feet
up, which stretched out over the river, when the keeper arrived at the
clump. Tom's heart beat fast as he came under the tree; two steps more
and he would have passed, when, as ill-luck would have it, the gleam on
the scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a dead point
at the foot of the tree. He picked up the fish one by one; his eye and
touch told him that they had been alive and feeding within the hour. Tom
crouched lower along the branch, and heard the keeper beating the clump.
“If I could only get the rod hidden,” thought he, and began gently
shifting it to get it alongside of him; “willowtrees don't throw out
straight hickory shoots twelve feet long, with no leaves, worse luck.”
 Alas! the keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight of the rod, and
then of Tom's hand and arm.

“Oh, be up ther', be 'ee?” says he, running under the tree. “Now you
come down this minute.”

“Tree'd at last,” thinks Tom, making no answer, and keeping as close as
possible, but working away at the rod, which he takes to pieces. “I'm
in for it, unless I can starve him out.” And then he begins to meditate
getting along the branch for a plunge, and scramble to the other side;
but the small branches are so thick, and the opposite bank so difficult,
that the keeper will have lots of time to get round by the ford before
he can get out, so he gives that up. And now he hears the keeper
beginning to scramble up the trunk. That will never do; so he scrambles
himself back to where his branch joins the trunk; and stands with lifted
rod.

“Hullo, Velveteens; mind your fingers if you come any higher.”

The keeper stops and looks up, and then with a grin says, “Oh! be you,
be it, young measter? Well, here's luck. Now I tells 'ee to come down at
once, and 't'll be best for 'ee.”

“Thank 'ee, Velveteens; I'm very comfortable,” said Tom, shortening the
rod in his hand, and preparing for battle.

“Werry well; please yourself,” says the keeper, descending, however,
to the ground again, and taking his seat on the bank. “I bean't in no
hurry, so you may take your time. I'll l'arn 'ee to gee honest folk
names afore I've done with 'ee.”

“My luck as usual,” thinks Tom; “what a fool I was to give him a black!
If I'd called him 'keeper,' now, I might get off. The return match is
all his way.”

The keeper quietly proceeded to take out his pipe, fill, and light it,
keeping an eye on Tom, who now sat disconsolately across the branch,
looking at keeper--a pitiful sight for men and fishes. The more he
thought of it the less he liked it. “It must be getting near second
calling-over,” thinks he. Keeper smokes on stolidly. “If he takes me up,
I shall be flogged safe enough. I can't sit here all night. Wonder if
he'll rise at silver.”

“I say, keeper,” said he meekly, “let me go for two bob?”

“Not for twenty neither,” grunts his persecutor.

And so they sat on till long past second calling-over, and the sun came
slanting in through the willow-branches, and telling of locking-up near
at hand.

“I'm coming down, keeper,” said Tom at last, with a sigh, fairly tired
out. “Now what are you going to do?”

“Walk 'ee up to School, and give 'ee over to the Doctor; them's my
orders,” says Velveteens, knocking the ashes out of his fourth pipe, and
standing up and shaking himself.

“Very good,” said Tom; “but hands off, you know. I'll go with you
quietly, so no collaring or that sort of thing.”

Keeper looked at him a minute. “Werry good,” said he at last. And so Tom
descended, and wended his way drearily by the side of the keeper, up to
the Schoolhouse, where they arrived just at locking-up. As they passed
the School-gates, the Tadpole and several others who were standing there
caught the state of things, and rushed out, crying, “Rescue!” But Tom
shook his head; so they only followed to the Doctor's gate, and went
back sorely puzzled.

How changed and stern the Doctor seemed from the last time that Tom was
up there, as the keeper told the story, not omitting to state how Tom
had called him blackguard names. “Indeed, sir,” broke in the culprit,
“it was only Velveteens.” The Doctor only asked one question.

“You know the rule about the banks, Brown?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then wait for me to-morrow, after first lesson.”

“I thought so,” muttered Tom.

“And about the rod, sir?” went on the keeper. “Master's told we as we
might have all the rods--”

“Oh, please, sir,” broke in Tom, “the rod isn't mine.”

The Doctor looked puzzled; but the keeper, who was a good-hearted
fellow, and melted at Tom's evident distress, gave up his claim. Tom
was flogged next morning, and a few days afterwards met Velveteens, and
presented him with half a crown for giving up the rod claim, and they
became sworn friends; and I regret to say that Tom had many more fish
from under the willow that May-fly season, and was never caught again by
Velveteens.

It wasn't three weeks before Tom, and now East by his side, were
again in the awful presence. This time, however, the Doctor was not so
terrible. A few days before, they had been fagged at fives to fetch the
balls that went off the court. While standing watching the game, they
saw five or six nearly new balls hit on the top of the School. “I say,
Tom,” said East, when they were dismissed, “couldn't we get those balls
somehow?”

“Let's try, anyhow.”

So they reconnoitred the walls carefully, borrowed a coal-hammer from
old Stumps, bought some big nails, and after one or two attempts, scaled
the Schools, and possessed themselves of huge quantities of fives balls.
The place pleased them so much that they spent all their spare time
there, scratching and cutting their names on the top of every tower; and
at last, having exhausted all other places, finished up with inscribing
H.EAST, T.BROWN, on the minute-hand of the great clock; in the doing of
which they held the minute-hand, and disturbed the clock's economy. So
next morning, when masters and boys came trooping down to prayers, and
entered the quadrangle, the injured minute-hand was indicating three
minutes to the hour. They all pulled up, and took their time. When the
hour struck, doors were closed, and half the school late. Thomas being
set to make inquiry, discovers their names on the minute-hand, and
reports accordingly; and they are sent for, a knot of their friends
making derisive and pantomimic allusions to what their fate will be as
they walk off.

But the Doctor, after hearing their story, doesn't make much of it, and
only gives them thirty lines of Homer to learn by heart, and a lecture
on the likelihood of such exploits ending in broken bones.

Alas! almost the next day was one of the great fairs in the town; and as
several rows and other disagreeable accidents had of late taken place
on these occasions, the Doctor gives out, after prayers in the morning,
that no boy is to go down into the town. Wherefore East and Tom, for
no earthly pleasure except that of doing what they are told not to do,
start away, after second lesson, and making a short circuit through the
fields, strike a back lane which leads into the town, go down it, and
run plump upon one of the masters as they emerge into the High Street.
The master in question, though a very clever, is not a righteous man.
He has already caught several of his own pupils, and gives them lines
to learn, while he sends East and Tom, who are not his pupils, up to the
Doctor, who, on learning that they had been at prayers in the morning,
flogs them soundly.

The flogging did them no good at the time, for the injustice of their
captor was rankling in their minds; but it was just the end of the half,
and on the next evening but one Thomas knocks at their door, and says
the Doctor wants to see them. They look at one another in silent dismay.
What can it be now? Which of their countless wrong-doings can he have
heard of officially? However, it's no use delaying, so up they go to the
study. There they find the Doctor, not angry, but very graver. “He has
sent for them to speak to very seriously before they go home. They have
each been flogged several times in the half-year for direct and
wilful breaches of rules. This cannot go on. They are doing no good to
themselves or others, and now they are getting up in the School, and
have influence. They seem to think that rules are made capriciously, and
for the pleasure of the masters; but this is not so. They are made for
the good of the whole School, and must and shall be obeyed. Those who
thoughtlessly or wilfully break them will not be allowed to stay at the
School. He should be sorry if they had to leave, as the School might
do them both much good, and wishes them to think very seriously in the
holidays over what he has said. Good-night.”

And so the two hurry off horribly scared; the idea of having to leave
has never crossed their minds, and is quite unbearable.

As they go out, they meet at the door old Holmes, a sturdy, cheery
praepostor of another house, who goes in to the Doctor; and they hear
his genial, hearty greeting of the newcomer, so different to their own
reception, as the door closes, and return to their study with heavy
hearts, and tremendous resolves to break no more rules.

Five minutes afterwards the master of their form--a late arrival and a
model young master--knocks at the Doctor's study-door. “Come in!” And
as he enters, the Doctor goes on, to Holmes--“You see, I do not know
anything of the case officially, and if I take any notice of it at all,
I must publicly expel the boy. I don't wish to do that, for I think
there is some good in him. There's nothing for it but a good sound
thrashing.” He paused to shake hands with the master, which Holmes does
also, and then prepares to leave.

“I understand. Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night, Holmes. And remember,” added the Doctor, emphasizing the
words, “a good sound thrashing before the whole house.”

The door closed on Holmes; and the Doctor, in answer to the puzzled
look of his lieutenant, explained shortly. “A gross case of bullying.
Wharton, the head of the house, is a very good fellow, but slight and
weak, and severe physical pain is the only way to deal with such a
case; so I have asked Holmes to take it up. He is very careful and
trustworthy, and has plenty of strength. I wish all the sixth had as
much. We must have it here, if we are to keep order at all.”

Now I don't want any wiseacres to read this book, but if they should, of
course they will prick up their long ears, and howl, or rather bray, at
the above story. Very good--I don't object; but what I have to add for
you boys is this, that Holmes called a levy of his house after breakfast
next morning, made them a speech on the case of bullying in question,
and then gave the bully a “good sound thrashing;” and that years
afterwards, that boy sought out Holmes, and thanked him, saying it
had been the kindest act which had ever been done upon him, and the
turning-point in his character; and a very good fellow he became, and a
credit to his School.

After some other talk between them, the Doctor said, “I want to speak
to you about two boys in your form, East and Brown. I have just been
speaking to them. What do you think of them?”

“Well, they are not hard workers, and very thoughtless and full of
spirits; but I can't help liking them. I think they are sound, good
fellows at the bottom.”

“I'm glad of it. I think so too: But they make me very uneasy. They are
taking the lead a good deal amongst the fags in my house, for they are
very active, bold fellows. I should be sorry to lose them, but I shan't
let them stay if I don't see them gaining character and manliness. In
another year they may do great harm to all the younger boys.”

“Oh, I hope you won't send them away,” pleaded their master.

“Not if I can help it. But now I never feel sure, after any
half-holiday, that I shan't have to flog one of them next morning, for
some foolish, thoughtless scrape. I quite dread seeing either of them.”

They were both silent for a minute. Presently the Doctor began again:--

“They don't feel that they have any duty or work to do in the school,
and how is one to make them feel it?”

“I think if either of them had some little boy to take care of, it would
steady them. Brown is the most reckless of the two, I should say. East
wouldn't get into so many scrapes without him.”

“Well,” said the Doctor, with something like a sigh, “I'll think of it.”
 And they went on to talk of other subjects.




PART II.

     “I [hold] it truth, with him who sings,
     To one clear harp in divers tones,
     That men may rise on stepping-stones
     Of their dead selves to higher things.”
      --TENNYSON.




CHAPTER I--HOW THE TIDE TURNED.

     “Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,
     In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side.
     . . . .
     Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside,
     Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified.”
      --LOWELL.

The turning-point in our hero's school career had now come, and the
manner of it was as follows. On the evening of the first day of the next
half-year, Tom, East, and another School-house boy, who had just been
dropped at the Spread Eagle by the old Regulator, rushed into the
matron's room in high spirits, such as all real boys are in when they
first get back, however fond they may be of home.

“Well, Mrs. Wixie,” shouted one, seizing on the methodical, active,
little dark-eyed woman, who was busy stowing away the linen of the boys
who had already arrived into their several pigeon-holes, “here we are
again, you see, as jolly as ever. Let us help you put the things away.”

“And, Mary,” cried another (she was called indifferently by either
name), “who's come back? Has the Doctor made old Jones leave? How many
new boys are there?”

“Am I and East to have Gray's study? You know you promised to get it for
us if you could,” shouted Tom.

“And am I to sleep in Number 4?” roared East.

“How's old Sam, and Bogle, and Sally?”

“Bless the boys!” cries Mary, at last getting in a word; “why, you'll
shake me to death. There, now, do go away up to the housekeeper's room
and get your suppers; you know I haven't time to talk. You'll find
plenty more in the house.--Now, Master East, do let those things alone.
You're mixing up three new boys' things.” And she rushed at East, who
escaped round the open trunks holding up a prize.

“Hullo! look here, Tommy,” shouted he; “here's fun!” and he brandished
above his head some pretty little night-caps, beautifully made and
marked, the work of loving fingers in some distant country home. The
kind mother and sisters who sewed that delicate stitching with aching
hearts little thought of the trouble they might be bringing on the
young head for which they were meant. The little matron was wiser, and
snatched the caps from East before he could look at the name on them.

“Now, Master East, I shall be very angry if you don't go,” said she;
“there's some capital cold beef and pickles upstairs, and I won't have
you old boys in my room first night.”

“Hurrah for the pickles! Come along, Tommy--come along, Smith. We shall
find out who the young count is, I'll be bound. I hope he'll sleep in my
room. Mary's always vicious first week.”

As the boys turned to leave the room, the matron touched Tom's arm, and
said, “Master Brown, please stop a minute; I want to speak to you.”

“Very well, Mary. I'll come in a minute, East. Don't finish the
pickles.”

“O Master Brown,” went on the little matron, when the rest had gone,
“you're to have Gray's study, Mrs. Arnold says. And she wants you to
take in this young gentleman. He's a new boy, and thirteen years old
though he don't look it. He's very delicate, and has never been from
home before. And I told Mrs. Arnold I thought you'd be kind to him, and
see that they don't bully him at first. He's put into your form, and
I've given him the bed next to yours in Number 4; so East can't sleep
there this half.”

Tom was rather put about by this speech. He had got the double study
which he coveted, but here were conditions attached which greatly
moderated his joy. He looked across the room, and in the far corner of
the sofa was aware of a slight, pale boy, with large blue eyes and light
fair hair, who seemed ready to shrink through the floor. He saw at a
glance that the little stranger was just the boy whose first half-year
at a public school would be misery to himself if he were left alone, or
constant anxiety to any one who meant to see him through his troubles.
Tom was too honest to take in the youngster, and then let him shift for
himself; and if he took him as his chum instead of East, where were
all his pet plans of having a bottled-beer cellar under his window, and
making night-lines and slings, and plotting expeditions to Brownsover
Mills and Caldecott's Spinney? East and he had made up their minds to
get this study, and then every night from locking-up till ten they would
be together to talk about fishing, drink bottled-beer, read Marryat's
novels, and sort birds' eggs. And this new boy would most likely never
go out of the close, and would be afraid of wet feet, and always getting
laughed at, and called Molly, or Jenny, or some derogatory feminine
nickname.

The matron watched him for a moment, and saw what was passing in his
mind, and so, like a wise negotiator, threw in an appeal to his warm
heart. “Poor little fellow,” said she, in almost a whisper; “his
father's dead, and he's got no brothers. And his mamma--such a kind,
sweet lady--almost broke her heart at leaving him this morning; and she
said one of his sisters was like to die of decline, and so--”

“Well, well,” burst in Tom, with something like a sigh at the effort,
“I suppose I must give up East.--Come along, young un. What's your name?
We'll go and have some supper, and then I'll show you our study.”

“His name's George Arthur,” said the matron, walking up to him with Tom,
who grasped his little delicate hand as the proper preliminary to making
a chum of him, and felt as if he could have blown him away. “I've had
his books and things put into the study, which his mamma has had new
papered, and the sofa covered, and new green-baize curtains over the
door” (the diplomatic matron threw this in, to show that the new boy was
contributing largely to the partnership comforts). “And Mrs. Arnold told
me to say,” she added, “that she should like you both to come up to tea
with her. You know the way, Master Brown, and the things are just gone
up, I know.”

Here was an announcement for Master Tom! He was to go up to tea the
first night, just as if he were a sixth or fifth form boy, and of
importance in the School world, instead of the most reckless young
scapegrace amongst the fags. He felt himself lifted on to a higher
social and moral platform at once. Nevertheless he couldn't give up
without a sigh the idea of the jolly supper in the housekeeper's room
with East and the rest, and a rush round to all the studies of his
friends afterwards, to pour out the deeds and wonders of the holidays,
to plot fifty plans for the coming half-year, and to gather news of who
had left and what new boys had come, who had got who's study, and where
the new praepostors slept. However, Tom consoled himself with thinking
that he couldn't have done all this with the new boy at his heels, and
so marched off along the passages to the Doctor's private house with his
young charge in tow, in monstrous good-humour with himself and all the
world.

It is needless, and would be impertinent, to tell how the two young boys
were received in that drawing-room. The lady who presided there is still
living, and has carried with her to her peaceful home in the north the
respect and love of all those who ever felt and shared that gentle and
high-bred hospitality. Ay, many is the brave heart, now doing its work
and bearing its load in country curacies, London chambers, under the
Indian sun, and in Australian towns and clearings, which looks back with
fond and grateful memory to that School-house drawing-room, and dates
much of its highest and best training to the lessons learnt there.

Besides Mrs. Arnold and one or two of the elder children, there were one
of the younger masters, young Brooke (who was now in the sixth, and
had succeeded to his brother's position and influence), and another
sixth-form boy, talking together before the fire. The master and young
Brooke, now a great strapping fellow six feet high, eighteen years old,
and powerful as a coal-heaver, nodded kindly to Tom, to his intense
glory, and then went on talking. The other did not notice them.
The hostess, after a few kind words, which led the boys at once and
insensibly to feel at their ease and to begin talking to one another,
left them with her own children while she finished a letter. The young
ones got on fast and well, Tom holding forth about a prodigious pony he
had been riding out hunting, and hearing stories of the winter glories
of the lakes, when tea came in, and immediately after the Doctor
himself.

How frank, and kind, and manly was his greeting to the party by the
fire! It did Tom's heart good to see him and young Brooke shake hands,
and look one another in the face; and he didn't fail to remark that
Brooke was nearly as tall and quite as broad as the Doctor. And his cup
was full when in another moment his master turned to him with another
warm shake of the hand, and, seemingly oblivious of all the late scrapes
which he had been getting into, said, “Ah, Brown, you here! I hope you
left your father and all well at home?”

“Yes, sir, quite well.”

“And this is the little fellow who is to share your study. Well, he
doesn't look as we should like to see him. He wants some Rugby air, and
cricket. And you must take him some good long walks, to Bilton Grange,
and Caldecott's Spinney, and show him what a little pretty country we
have about here.”

Tom wondered if the Doctor knew that his visits to Bilton Grange
were for the purpose of taking rooks' nests (a proceeding strongly
discountenanced by the owner thereof), and those to Caldecott's Spinney
were prompted chiefly by the conveniences for setting night-lines. What
didn't the Doctor know? And what a noble use he always made of it! He
almost resolved to abjure rook-pies and night-lines for ever. The tea
went merrily off, the Doctor now talking of holiday doings, and then of
the prospects of the half-year--what chance there was for the Balliol
scholarship, whether the eleven would be a good one. Everybody was at
his ease, and everybody felt that he, young as he might be, was of some
use in the little School world, and had a work to do there.

Soon after tea the Doctor went off to his study, and the young boys a
few minutes afterwards took their leave and went out of the private door
which led from the Doctor's house into the middle passage.

At the fire, at the farther end of the passage, was a crowd of boys in
loud talk and laughter. There was a sudden pause when the door opened,
and then a great shout of greeting, as Tom was recognized marching down
the passage.

“Hullo, Brown! where do you come from?”

“Oh, I've been to tea with the Doctor,” says Tom, with great dignity.

“My eye!” cried East, “Oh! so that's why Mary called you back, and you
didn't come to supper. You lost something. That beef and pickles was no
end good.”

“I say, young fellow,” cried Hall, detecting Arthur and catching him by
the collar, “what's your name? Where do you come from? How old are you?”

Tom saw Arthur shrink back and look scared as all the group turned to
him, but thought it best to let him answer, just standing by his side to
support in case of need.

“Arthur, sir. I come from Devonshire.”

“Don't call me 'sir,' you young muff. How old are you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Can you sing?”

The poor boy was trembling and hesitating. Tom struck in--“You be
hanged, Tadpole. He'll have to sing, whether he can or not, Saturday
twelve weeks, and that's long enough off yet.”

“Do you know him at home, Brown?”

“No; but he's my chum in Gray's old study, and it's near prayer-time,
and I haven't had a look at it yet.--Come along, Arthur.”

Away went the two, Tom longing to get his charge safe under cover, where
he might advise him on his deportment.

“What a queer chum for Tom Brown,” was the comment at the fire; and it
must be confessed so thought Tom himself, as he lighted his candle, and
surveyed the new green-baize curtains and the carpet and sofa with much
satisfaction.

“I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is to make us so cozy! But look
here now; you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you, and
don't be afraid. If you're afraid, you'll get bullied. And don't you
say you can sing; and don't you ever talk about home, or your mother and
sisters.”

Poor little Arthur looked ready to cry.

“But, please,” said he, “mayn't I talk about--about home to you?”

“Oh yes; I like it. But don't talk to boys you don't know, or they'll
call you home-sick, or mamma's darling, or some such stuff. What a jolly
desk! Is that yours? And what stunning binding! Why, your school-books
look like novels.”

And Tom was soon deep in Arthur's goods and chattels, all new, and good
enough for a fifth-form boy, and hardly thought of his friends outside
till the prayer-bell rang.

I have already described the School-house prayers. They were the same on
the first night as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused by the
absence of those boys who came late, and the line of new boys who stood
all together at the farther table--of all sorts and sizes, like young
bears with all their troubles to come, as Tom's father had said to him
when he was in the same position. He thought of it as he looked at the
line, and poor little slight Arthur standing with them, and as he was
leading him upstairs to Number 4, directly after prayers, and showing
him his bed. It was a huge, high, airy room, with two large windows
looking on to the School close. There were twelve beds in the room. The
one in the farthest corner by the fireplace, occupied by the sixth-form
boy, who was responsible for the discipline of the room, and the rest
by boys in the lower-fifth and other junior forms, all fags (for the
fifth-form boys, as has been said, slept in rooms by themselves). Being
fags, the eldest of them was not more than about sixteen years old, and
were all bound to be up and in bed by ten. The sixth-form boys came to
bed from ten to a quarter-past (at which time the old verger came round
to put the candles out), except when they sat up to read.

Within a few minutes therefore of their entry, all the other boys who
slept in Number 4 had come up. The little fellows went quietly to their
own beds, and began undressing, and talking to each other in whispers;
while the elder, amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one
another's beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off. Poor little
Arthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his position. The idea of
sleeping in the room with strange boys had clearly never crossed his
mind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. He could
hardly bear to take his jacket off; however, presently, with an effort,
off it came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at
the bottom of his bed talking and laughing.

“Please, Brown,” he whispered, “may I wash my face and hands?”

“Of course, if you like,” said Tom, staring; “that's your
washhand-stand, under the window, second from your bed. You'll have to
go down for more water in the morning if you use it all.” And on he went
with his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between the beds out
to his washhand-stand, and began his ablutions, thereby drawing for a
moment on himself the attention of the room.

On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his washing and
undressing, and put on his night-gown. He then looked round more
nervously than ever. Two or three of the little boys were already in
bed, sitting up with their chins on their knees. The light burned clear,
the noise went on. It was a trying moment for the poor little lonely
boy; however, this time he didn't ask Tom what he might or might not do,
but dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he had done every day from
his childhood, to open his heart to Him who heareth the cry and beareth
the sorrows of the tender child, and the strong man in agony.

Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so that his
back was towards Arthur, and he didn't see what had happened, and looked
up in wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys laughed and
sneered, and a big, brutal fellow who was standing in the middle of the
room picked up a slipper, and shied it at the kneeling boy, calling him
a snivelling young shaver. Then Tom saw the whole, and the next moment
the boot he had just pulled off flew straight at the head of the bully,
who had just time to throw up his arm and catch it on his elbow.

“Confound you, Brown! what's that for?” roared he, stamping with pain.

“Never mind what I mean,” said Tom, stepping on to the floor, every drop
of blood in his body tingling; “if any fellow wants the other boot, he
knows how to get it.”

What would have been the result is doubtful, for at this moment the
sixth-form boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom and
the rest rushed into bed and finished their unrobing there, and the
old verger, as punctual as the clock, had put out the candle in another
minute, and toddled on to the next room, shutting their door with his
usual “Good-night, gen'lm'n.”

There were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was taken to
heart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the pillow of
poor Tom. For some time his excitement, and the flood of memories
which chased one another through his brain, kept him from thinking or
resolving. His head throbbed, his heart leapt, and he could hardly keep
himself from springing out of bed and rushing about the room. Then the
thought of his own mother came across him, and the promise he had made
at her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel by his bedside, and
give himself up to his Father, before he laid his head on the pillow,
from which it might never rise; and he lay down gently, and cried as if
his heart would break. He was only fourteen years old.

It was no light act of courage in those days, my dear boys, for a little
fellow to say his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A few years later,
when Arnold's manly piety had begun to leaven the School, the tables
turned; before he died, in the School-house at least, and I believe in
the other house, the rule was the other way. But poor Tom had come to
school in other times. The first few nights after he came he did not
kneel down because of the noise, but sat up in bed till the candle was
out, and then stole out and said his prayers, in fear lest some one
should find him out. So did many another poor little fellow. Then he
began to think that he might just as well say his prayers in bed, and
then that it didn't matter whether he was kneeling, or sitting, or lying
down. And so it had come to pass with Tom, as with all who will not
confess their Lord before men; and for the last year he had probably not
said his prayers in earnest a dozen times.

Poor Tom! the first and bitterest feeling which was like to break his
heart was the sense of his own cowardice. The vice of all others which
he loathed was brought in and burnt in on his own soul. He had lied to
his mother, to his conscience, to his God. How could he bear it? And
then the poor little weak boy, whom he had pitied and almost scorned for
his weakness, had done that which he, braggart as he was, dared not do.
The first dawn of comfort came to him in swearing to himself that he
would stand by that boy through thick and thin, and cheer him, and help
him, and bear his burdens for the good deed done that night. Then he
resolved to write home next day and tell his mother all, and what a
coward her son had been. And then peace came to him as he resolved,
lastly, to bear his testimony next morning. The morning would be harder
than the night to begin with, but he felt that he could not afford to
let one chance slip. Several times he faltered, for the devil showed him
first all his old friends calling him “Saint” and “Square-toes,” and
a dozen hard names, and whispered to him that his motives would be
misunderstood, and he would only be left alone with the new boy; whereas
it was his duty to keep all means of influence, that he might do good to
the largest number. And then came the more subtle temptation, “Shall I
not be showing myself braver than others by doing this? Have I any right
to begin it now? Ought I not rather to pray in my own study, letting
other boys know that I do so, and trying to lead them to it, while in
public at least I should go on as I have done?” However, his good angel
was too strong that night, and he turned on his side and slept, tired of
trying to reason, but resolved to follow the impulse which had been so
strong, and in which he had found peace.

Next morning he was up and washed and dressed, all but his jacket and
waistcoat, just as the ten minutes' bell began to ring, and then in
the face of the whole room knelt down to pray. Not five words could
he say--the bell mocked him; he was listening for every whisper in
the room--what were they all thinking of him? He was ashamed to go on
kneeling, ashamed to rise from his knees. At last, as it were from his
inmost heart, a still, small voice seemed to breathe forth the words of
the publican, “God be merciful to me a sinner!” He repeated them over
and over, clinging to them as for his life, and rose from his knees
comforted and humbled, and ready to face the whole world. It was not
needed: two other boys besides Arthur had already followed his example,
and he went down to the great School with a glimmering of another lesson
in his heart--the lesson that he who has conquered his own coward spirit
has conquered the whole outward world; and that other one which the old
prophet learnt in the cave in Mount Horeb, when he hid his face, and the
still, small voice asked, “What doest thou here, Elijah?” that however
we may fancy ourselves alone on the side of good, the King and Lord
of men is nowhere without His witnesses; for in every society, however
seemingly corrupt and godless, there are those who have not bowed the
knee to Baal.

He found, too, how greatly he had exaggerated the effect to be produced
by his act. For a few nights there was a sneer or a laugh when he knelt
down, but this passed off soon, and one by one all the other boys but
three or four followed the lead. I fear that this was in some measure
owing to the fact that Tom could probably have thrashed any boy in the
room except the praepostor; at any rate, every boy knew that he would
try upon very slight provocation, and didn't choose to run the risk of a
hard fight because Tom Brown had taken a fancy to say his prayers. Some
of the small boys of Number 4 communicated the new state of things to
their chums, and in several other rooms the poor little fellows tried
it on--in one instance or so, where the praepostor heard of it and
interfered very decidedly, with partial success; but in the rest, after
a short struggle, the confessors were bullied or laughed down, and the
old state of things went on for some time longer. Before either Tom
Brown or Arthur left the School-house, there was no room in which it had
not become the regular custom. I trust it is so still, and that the old
heathen state of things has gone out for ever.



CHAPTER II--THE NEW BOY.

     “And Heaven's rich instincts in him grew
     As effortless as woodland nooks
     Send violets up and paint them blue.”--LOWELL.

I do not mean to recount all the little troubles and annoyances which
thronged upon Tom at the beginning of this half-year, in his new
character of bear-leader to a gentle little boy straight from home. He
seemed to himself to have become a new boy again, without any of the
long-suffering and meekness indispensable for supporting that character
with moderate success. From morning till night he had the feeling of
responsibility on his mind, and even if he left Arthur in their study
or in the close for an hour, was never at ease till he had him in sight
again. He waited for him at the doors of the school after every lesson
and every calling-over; watched that no tricks were played him, and none
but the regulation questions asked; kept his eye on his plate at dinner
and breakfast, to see that no unfair depredations were made upon his
viands; in short, as East remarked, cackled after him like a hen with
one chick.

Arthur took a long time thawing, too, which made it all the harder work;
was sadly timid; scarcely ever spoke unless Tom spoke to him first; and,
worst of all, would agree with him in everything--the hardest thing in
the world for a Brown to bear. He got quite angry sometimes, as they
sat together of a night in their study, at this provoking habit of
agreement, and was on the point of breaking out a dozen times with a
lecture upon the propriety of a fellow having a will of his own and
speaking out, but managed to restrain himself by the thought that he
might only frighten Arthur, and the remembrance of the lesson he had
learnt from him on his first night at Number 4. Then he would resolve to
sit still and not say a word till Arthur began; but he was always beat
at that game, and had presently to begin talking in despair, fearing
lest Arthur might think he was vexed at something if he didn't, and
dog-tired of sitting tongue-tied.

It was hard work. But Tom had taken it up, and meant to stick to it, and
go through with it so as to satisfy himself; in which resolution he
was much assisted by the chafing of East and his other old friends, who
began to call him “dry-nurse,” and otherwise to break their small wit
on him. But when they took other ground, as they did every now and then,
Tom was sorely puzzled.

“Tell you what, Tommy,” East would say; “you'll spoil young Hopeful with
too much coddling. Why can't you let him go about by himself and find
his own level? He'll never be worth a button if you go on keeping him
under your skirts.”

“Well, but he ain't fit to fight his own way yet; I'm trying to get him
to it every day, but he's very odd. Poor little beggar! I can't make him
out a bit. He ain't a bit like anything I've ever seen or heard of--he
seems all over nerves; anything you say seems to hurt him like a cut or
a blow.”

“That sort of boy's no use here,” said East; “he'll only spoil. Now I'll
tell you what to do, Tommy. Go and get a nice large band-box made, and
put him in with plenty of cotton-wool and a pap-bottle, labelled 'With
care--this side up,' and send him back to mamma.”

“I think I shall make a hand of him though,” said Tom, smiling, “say
what you will. There's something about him, every now and then, which
shows me he's got pluck somewhere in him. That's the only thing after
all that'll wash, ain't it, old Scud? But how to get at it and bring it
out?”

Tom took one hand out of his breeches-pocket and stuck it in his back
hair for a scratch, giving his hat a tilt over his nose, his one method
of invoking wisdom. He stared at the ground with a ludicrously puzzled
look, and presently looked up and met East's eyes. That young gentleman
slapped him on the back, and then put his arm round his shoulder, as
they strolled through the quadrangle together. “Tom,” said he, “blest if
you ain't the best old fellow ever was. I do like to see you go into a
thing. Hang it, I wish I could take things as you do; but I never
can get higher than a joke. Everything's a joke. If I was going to be
flogged next minute, I should be in a blue funk, but I couldn't help
laughing at it for the life of me.”

“Brown and East, you go and fag for Jones on the great fives court.”

“Hullo, though, that's past a joke,” broke out East, springing at
the young gentleman who addressed them, and catching him by the
collar.--“Here, Tommy, catch hold of him t'other side before he can
holla.”

The youth was seized, and dragged, struggling, out of the quadrangle
into the School-house hall. He was one of the miserable little pretty
white-handed, curly-headed boys, petted and pampered by some of the big
fellows, who wrote their verses for them, taught them to drink and use
bad language, and did all they could to spoil them for everything *
in this world and the next. One of the avocations in which these young
gentlemen took particular delight was in going about and getting fags
for their protectors, when those heroes were playing any game. They
carried about pencil and paper with them, putting down the names of all
the boys they sent, always sending five times as many as were wanted,
and getting all those thrashed who didn't go. The present youth belonged
to a house which was very jealous of the School-house, and always picked
out School-house fags when he could find them. However, this time he'd
got the wrong sow by the ear. His captors slammed the great door of the
hall, and East put his back against it, while Tom gave the prisoner a
shake up, took away his list, and stood him up on the floor, while he
proceeded leisurely to examine that document.

     * A kind and wise critic, an old Rugboean, notes here in the
     margin: “The small friend system was not so utterly bad from
     1841-1847.” Before that, too, there were many noble
     friendships between big and little boys; but I can't strike
     out the passage. Many boys will know why it is left in.

“Let me out, let me go!” screamed the boy, in a furious passion. “I'll
go and tell Jones this minute, and he'll give you both the --- thrashing
you ever had.”

“Pretty little dear,” said East, patting the top of his hat.--“Hark how
he swears, Tom. Nicely brought up young man, ain't he, I don't think.”

“Let me alone, --- you,” roared the boy, foaming with rage, and kicking
at East, who quietly tripped him up, and deposited him on the floor in a
place of safety.

“Gently, young fellow,” said he; “'tain't improving for little
whippersnappers like you to be indulging in blasphemy; so you stop that,
or you'll get something you won't like.”

“I'll have you both licked when I get out, that I will,” rejoined the
boy, beginning to snivel.

“Two can play at that game, mind you,” said Tom, who had finished his
examination of the list. “Now you just listen here. We've just come
across the fives court, and Jones has four fags there already--two
more than he wants. If he'd wanted us to change, he'd have stopped us
himself. And here, you little blackguard, you've got seven names down on
your list besides ours, and five of them School-house.” Tom walked up to
him, and jerked him on to his legs; he was by this time whining like a
whipped puppy. “Now just listen to me. We ain't going to fag for
Jones. If you tell him you've sent us, we'll each of us give you such
a thrashing as you'll remember.” And Tom tore up the list and threw the
pieces into the fire.

“And mind you, too,” said East, “don't let me catch you again sneaking
about the School-house, and picking up our fags. You haven't got the
sort of hide to take a sound licking kindly.” And he opened the door and
sent the young gentleman flying into the quadrangle with a parting kick.

“Nice boy, Tommy,” said East, shoving his hands in his pockets, and
strolling to the fire.

“Worst sort we breed,” responded Tom, following his example. “Thank
goodness, no big fellow ever took to petting me.”

“You'd never have been like that,” said East. “I should like to have put
him in a museum: Christian young gentleman, nineteenth century, highly
educated. Stir him up with a long pole, Jack, and hear him swear like a
drunken sailor. He'd make a respectable public open its eyes, I think.”

“Think he'll tell Jones?” said Tom.

“No,” said East. “Don't care if he does.”

“Nor I,” said Tom. And they went back to talk about Arthur.

The young gentleman had brains enough not to tell Jones, reasoning
that East and Brown, who were noted as some of the toughest fags in
the School, wouldn't care three straws for any licking Jones might give
them, and would be likely to keep their words as to passing it on with
interest.

After the above conversation, East came a good deal to their study, and
took notice of Arthur, and soon allowed to Tom that he was a thorough
little gentleman, and would get over his shyness all in good time; which
much comforted our hero. He felt every day, too, the value of having an
object in his life--something that drew him out of himself; and it being
the dull time of the year, and no games going about for which he much
cared, was happier than he had ever yet been at school, which was saying
a great deal.

The time which Tom allowed himself away from his charge was from
locking-up till supper-time. During this hour or hour and a half he used
to take his fling, going round to the studies of all his acquaintance,
sparring or gossiping in the hall, now jumping the old iron-bound
tables, or carving a bit of his name on them, then joining in some
chorus of merry voices--in fact, blowing off his steam, as we should now
call it.

This process was so congenial to his temper, and Arthur showed himself
so pleased at the arrangement, that it was several weeks before Tom was
ever in their study before supper. One evening, however, he rushed in to
look for an old chisel, or some corks, or other article essential to his
pursuit for the time being, and while rummaging about in the cupboards,
looked up for a moment, and was caught at once by the figure of poor
little Arthur. The boy was sitting with his elbows on the table, and
his head leaning on his hands, and before him an open book, on which his
tears were falling fast. Tom shut the door at once, and sat down on the
sofa by Arthur, putting his arm round his neck.

“Why, young un, what's the matter?” said he kindly; “you ain't unhappy,
are you?”

“Oh no, Brown,” said the little boy, looking up with the great tears in
his eyes; “you are so kind to me, I'm very happy.”

“Why don't you call me Tom? Lots of boys do that I don't like half so
much as you. What are you reading, then? Hang it! you must come about
with me, and not mope yourself.” And Tom cast down his eyes on the book,
and saw it was the Bible. He was silent for a minute, and thought to
himself, “Lesson Number 2, Tom Brown;” and then said gently, “I'm very
glad to see this, Arthur, and ashamed that I don't read the Bible more
myself. Do you read it every night before supper while I'm out?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I wish you'd wait till afterwards, and then we'd read together.
But, Arthur, why does it make you cry?”

“Oh, it isn't that I'm unhappy. But at home, while my father was alive,
we always read the lessons after tea; and I love to read them over now,
and try to remember what he said about them. I can't remember all and I
think I scarcely understand a great deal of what I do remember. But
it all comes back to me so fresh that I can't help crying sometimes to
think I shall never read them again with him.”

Arthur had never spoken of his home before, and Tom hadn't encouraged
him to do so, as his blundering schoolboy reasoning made him think that
Arthur would be softened and less manly for thinking of home. But now
he was fairly interested, and forgot all about chisels and bottled
beer; while with very little encouragement Arthur launched into his home
history, and the prayer-bell put them both out sadly when it rang to
call them to the hall.

From this time Arthur constantly spoke of his home, and above all, of
his father, who had been dead about a year, and whose memory Tom soon
got to love and reverence almost as much as his own son did.

Arthur's father had been the clergyman of a parish in the Midland
counties, which had risen into a large town during the war, and upon
which the hard years which followed had fallen with fearful weight. The
trade had been half ruined; and then came the old, sad story, of masters
reducing their establishments, men turned off and wandering about,
hungry and wan in body, and fierce in soul, from the thought of wives
and children starving at home, and the last sticks of furniture going to
the pawnshop; children taken from school, and lounging about the dirty
streets and courts, too listless almost to play, and squalid in rags
and misery; and then the fearful struggle between the employers and
men--lowerings of wages, strikes, and the long course of oft-repeated
crime, ending every now and then with a riot, a fire, and the county
yeomanry. There is no need here to dwell upon such tales: the Englishman
into whose soul they have not sunk deep is not worthy the name. You
English boys, for whom this book is meant (God bless your bright faces
and kind hearts!), will learn it all soon enough.

Into such a parish and state of society Arthur's father had been thrown
at the age of twenty-five--a young married parson, full of faith,
hope, and love. He had battled with it like a man, and had lots of fine
Utopian ideas about the perfectibility of mankind, glorious humanity,
and such-like, knocked out of his head, and a real, wholesome Christian
love for the poor, struggling, sinning men, of whom he felt himself one,
and with and for whom he spent fortune, and strength, and life, driven
into his heart. He had battled like a man, and gotten a man's reward--no
silver tea-pots or salvers, with flowery inscriptions setting forth
his virtues and the appreciation of a genteel parish; no fat living or
stall, for which he never looked, and didn't care; no sighs and praises
of comfortable dowagers and well-got-up young women, who worked him
slippers, sugared his tea, and adored him as “a devoted man;” but a
manly respect, wrung from the unwilling souls of men who fancied his
order their natural enemies; the fear and hatred of every one who was
false or unjust in the district, were he master or man; and the blessed
sight of women and children daily becoming more human and more homely, a
comfort to themselves and to their husbands and fathers.

These things, of course, took time, and had to be fought for with toil
and sweat of brain and heart, and with the life-blood poured out. All
that, Arthur had laid his account to give, and took as a matter of
course, neither pitying himself, nor looking on himself as a martyr,
when he felt the wear and tear making him feel old before his time, and
the stifling air of fever-dens telling on his health. His wife seconded
him in everything. She had been rather fond of society, and much admired
and run after before her marriage; and the London world to which she had
belonged pitied poor Fanny Evelyn when she married the young clergyman,
and went to settle in that smoky hole Turley; a very nest of Chartism
and Atheism, in a part of the country which all the decent families had
had to leave for years. However, somehow or other she didn't seem to
care. If her husband's living had been amongst green fields and near
pleasant neighbours she would have liked it better--that she never
pretended to deny. But there they were. The air wasn't bad, after all;
the people were very good sort of people--civil to you if you were civil
to them, after the first brush; and they didn't expect to work miracles,
and convert them all off-hand into model Christians. So he and she went
quietly among the folk, talking to and treating them just as they would
have done people of their own rank. They didn't feel that they were
doing anything out of the common way, and so were perfectly natural,
and had none of that condescension or consciousness of manner which so
outrages the independent poor. And thus they gradually won respect and
confidence; and after sixteen years he was looked up to by the whole
neighbourhood as the just man, the man to whom masters and men could
go in their strikes, and in all their quarrels and difficulties, and by
whom the right and true word would be said without fear or favour. And
the women had come round to take her advice, and go to her as a friend
in all their troubles; while the children all worshipped the very ground
she trod on.

They had three children, two daughters and a son, little Arthur, who
came between his sisters. He had been a very delicate boy from his
childhood; they thought he had a tendency to consumption, and so he had
been kept at home and taught by his father, who had made a companion of
him, and from whom he had gained good scholarship, and a knowledge of
and interest in many subjects which boys in general never come across
till they are many years older.

Just as he reached his thirteenth year, and his father had settled that
he was strong enough to go to school, and, after much debating with
himself, had resolved to send him there, a desperate typhus fever broke
out in the town. Most of the other clergy, and almost all the doctors,
ran away; the work fell with tenfold weight on those who stood to their
work. Arthur and his wife both caught the fever, of which he died in a
few days; and she recovered, having been able to nurse him to the end,
and store up his last words. He was sensible to the last, and calm and
happy, leaving his wife and children with fearless trust for a few years
in the hands of the Lord and Friend who had lived and died for him, and
for whom he, to the best of his power, had lived and died. His widow's
mourning was deep and gentle. She was more affected by the request of
the committee of a freethinking club, established in the town by some of
the factory hands (which he had striven against with might and main, and
nearly suppressed), that some of their number might be allowed to help
bear the coffin, than by anything else. Two of them were chosen, who,
with six other labouring men, his own fellow-workmen and friends, bore
him to his grave--a man who had fought the Lord's fight even unto the
death. The shops were closed and the factories shut that day in the
parish, yet no master stopped the day's wages; but for many a year
afterwards the townsfolk felt the want of that brave, hopeful, loving
parson and his wife, who had lived to teach them mutual forbearance and
helpfulness, and had almost at last given them a glimpse of what this
old world would be if people would live for God and each other instead
of for themselves.

What has all this to do with our story? Well, my dear boys, let a fellow
go on his own way, or you won't get anything out of him worth having.
I must show you what sort of a man it was who had begotten and trained
little Arthur, or else you won't believe in him, which I am resolved you
shall do; and you won't see how he, the timid, weak boy, had points in
him from which the bravest and strongest recoiled, and made his presence
and example felt from the first on all sides, unconsciously to himself,
and without the least attempt at proselytizing. The spirit of his father
was in him, and the Friend to whom his father had left him did not
neglect the trust.

After supper that night, and almost nightly for years afterwards,
Tom and Arthur, and by degrees East occasionally, and sometimes one,
sometimes another, of their friends, read a chapter of the Bible
together, and talked it over afterwards. Tom was at first utterly
astonished, and almost shocked, at the sort of way in which Arthur read
the book and talked about the men and women whose lives were there told.
The first night they happened to fall on the chapters about the famine
in Egypt, and Arthur began talking about Joseph as if he were a living
statesman--just as he might have talked about Lord Grey and the Reform
Bill, only that they were much more living realities to him. The book
was to him, Tom saw, the most vivid and delightful history of real
people, who might do right or wrong, just like any one who was walking
about in Rugby--the Doctor, or the masters, or the sixth-form boys. But
the astonishment soon passed off, the scales seemed to drop from his
eyes, and the book became at once and for ever to him the great human
and divine book, and the men and women, whom he had looked upon
as something quite different from himself, became his friends and
counsellors.

For our purposes, however, the history of one night's reading will be
sufficient, which must be told here, now we are on the subject, though
it didn't happen till a year afterwards, and long after the events
recorded in the next chapter of our story.

Arthur, Tom, and East were together one night, and read the story of
Naaman coming to Elisha to be cured of his leprosy. When the chapter was
finished, Tom shut his Bible with a slap.

“I can't stand that fellow Naaman,” said he, “after what he'd seen and
felt, going back and bowing himself down in the house of Rimmon, because
his effeminate scoundrel of a master did it. I wonder Elisha took the
trouble to heal him. How he must have despised him!”

“Yes; there you go off as usual, with a shell on your head,” struck
in East, who always took the opposite side to Tom, half from love of
argument, half from conviction. “How do you know he didn't think better
of it? How do you know his master was a scoundrel? His letter don't look
like it, and the book don't say so.”

“I don't care,” rejoined Tom; “why did Naaman talk about bowing down,
then, if he didn't mean to do it? He wasn't likely to get more in
earnest when he got back to court, and away from the prophet.”

“Well, but, Tom,” said Arthur, “look what Elisha says to him--'Go in
peace.' He wouldn't have said that if Naaman had been in the wrong.”

“I don't see that that means more than saying, 'You're not the man I
took you for.'”

“No, no; that won't do at all,” said East. “Read the words fairly, and
take men as you find them. I like Naaman, and think he was a very fine
fellow.”

“I don't,” said Tom positively.

“Well, I think East is right,” said Arthur; “I can't see but what it's
right to do the best you can, though it mayn't be the best absolutely.
Every man isn't born to be a martyr.”

“Of course, of course,” said East; “but he's on one of his pet
hobbies.--How often have I told you, Tom, that you must drive a nail
where it'll go.”

“And how often have I told you,” rejoined Tom, “that it'll always go
where you want, if you only stick to it and hit hard enough. I hate
half-measures and compromises.”

“Yes, he's a whole-hog man, is Tom. Must have the whole animal-hair and
teeth, claws and tail,” laughed East. “Sooner have no bread any day than
half the loaf.”

“I don't know;” said Arthur--“it's rather puzzling; but ain't most right
things got by proper compromises--I mean where the principle isn't given
up?”

“That's just the point,” said Tom; “I don't object to a compromise,
where you don't give up your principle.”

“Not you,” said East laughingly.--“I know him of old, Arthur, and you'll
find him out some day. There isn't such a reasonable fellow in the
world, to hear him talk. He never wants anything but what's right
and fair; only when you come to settle what's right and fair, it's
everything that he wants, and nothing that you want. And that's his idea
of a compromise. Give me the Brown compromise when I'm on his side.”

“Now, Harry,” said Tom, “no more chaff. I'm serious. Look here. This is
what makes my blood tingle.” And he turned over the pages of his Bible
and read, “Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego answered and said to the
king, O Nebuchadnezzar, we are not careful to answer thee in this
matter. If it be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from
the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of thine hand, O
king. But if not, be it known unto thee, O king, that we will not serve
thy gods, nor worship the golden image which thou hast set up.” He read
the last verse twice, emphasizing the nots, and dwelling on them as if
they gave him actual pleasure, and were hard to part with.

They were silent a minute, and then Arthur said, “Yes, that's a glorious
story, but it don't prove your point, Tom, I think. There are times when
there is only one way, and that the highest, and then the men are found
to stand in the breach.”

“There's always a highest way, and it's always the right one,” said Tom.
“How many times has the Doctor told us that in his sermons in the last
year, I should like to know?”

“Well, you ain't going to convince us--is he, Arthur? No Brown
compromise to-night,” said East, looking at his watch. “But it's past
eight, and we must go to first lesson. What a bore!”

So they took down their books and fell to work; but Arthur didn't
forget, and thought long and often over the conversation.



CHAPTER III--ARTHUR MAKES A FRIEND.

     “Let Nature be your teacher:
     Sweet is the lore which Nature brings.
     Our meddling intellect
     Misshapes the beauteous forms of things.
     We murder to dissect.
     Enough of Science and of Art:
     Close up those barren leaves;
     Come forth, and bring with you a heart
     That watches and receives.”--WORDSWORTH.

About six weeks after the beginning of the half, as Tom and Arthur were
sitting one night before supper beginning their verses, Arthur suddenly
stopped, and looked up, and said, “Tom, do you know anything of Martin?”

“Yes,” said Tom, taking his hand out of his back hair, and delighted to
throw his Gradus ad Parnassum on to the sofa; “I know him pretty well.
He's a very good fellow, but as mad as a hatter. He's called Madman, you
know. And never was such a fellow for getting all sorts of rum things
about him. He tamed two snakes last half, and used to carry them about
in his pocket; and I'll be bound he's got some hedgehogs and rats in his
cupboard now, and no one knows what besides.”

“I should like very much to know him,” said Arthur; “he was next to me
in the form to-day, and he'd lost his book and looked over mine, and he
seemed so kind and gentle that I liked him very much.”

“Ah, poor old Madman, he's always losing his books,” said Tom, “and
getting called up and floored because he hasn't got them.”

“I like him all the better,” said Arthur.

“Well, he's great fun, I can tell you,” said Tom, throwing himself back
on the sofa, and chuckling at the remembrance. “We had such a game with
him one day last half. He had been kicking up horrid stinks for some
time in his study, till I suppose some fellow told Mary, and she told
the Doctor. Anyhow, one day a little before dinner, when he came down
from the library, the Doctor, instead of going home, came striding into
the hall. East and I and five or six other fellows were at the fire, and
preciously we stared, for he don't come in like that once a year, unless
it is a wet day and there's a fight in the hall. 'East,' says he, 'just
come and show me Martin's study.' 'Oh, here's a game,' whispered the
rest of us; and we all cut upstairs after the Doctor, East leading. As
we got into the New Row, which was hardly wide enough to hold the Doctor
and his gown, click, click, click, we heard in the old Madman's den.
Then that stopped all of a sudden, and the bolts went to like fun. The
Madman knew East's step, and thought there was going to be a siege.

“'It's the Doctor, Martin. He's here and wants to see you,' sings out
East.

“Then the bolts went back slowly, and the door opened, and there was
the old Madman standing, looking precious scared--his jacket off, his
shirt-sleeves up to his elbows, and his long skinny arms all covered
with anchors and arrows and letters, tattooed in with gunpowder like a
sailor-boy's, and a stink fit to knock you down coming out. 'Twas
all the Doctor could do to stand his ground, and East and I, who were
looking in under his arms, held our noses tight. The old magpie was
standing on the window-sill, all his feathers drooping, and looking
disgusted and half-poisoned.

“'What can you be about, Martin?' says the Doctor. 'You really mustn't
go on in this way; you're a nuisance to the whole passage.'

“'Please, sir, I was only mixing up this powder; there isn't any harm
in it. And the Madman seized nervously on his pestle and mortar, to
show the Doctor the harmlessness of his pursuits, and went on
pounding--click, click, click. He hadn't given six clicks before, puff!
up went the whole into a great blaze, away went the pestle and mortar
across the study, and back we tumbled into the passage. The magpie
fluttered down into the court, swearing, and the Madman danced out,
howling, with his fingers in his mouth. The Doctor caught hold of him,
and called to us to fetch some water. 'There, you silly fellow,' said
he, quite pleased, though, to find he wasn't much hurt, 'you see you
don't know the least what you're doing with all these things; and now,
mind, you must give up practising chemistry by yourself.' Then he took
hold of his arm and looked at it, and I saw he had to bite his lip, and
his eyes twinkled; but he said, quite grave, 'Here, you see, you've been
making all these foolish marks on yourself, which you can never get out,
and you'll be very sorry for it in a year or two. Now come down to the
housekeeper's room, and let us see if you are hurt.' And away went
the two, and we all stayed and had a regular turn-out of the den, till
Martin came back with his hand bandaged and turned us out. However, I'll
go and see what he's after, and tell him to come in after prayers to
supper.” And away went Tom to find the boy in question, who dwelt in a
little study by himself, in New Row.

The aforesaid Martin, whom Arthur had taken such a fancy for, was one of
those unfortunates who were at that time of day (and are, I fear, still)
quite out of their places at a public school. If we knew how to use
our boys, Martin would have been seized upon and educated as a natural
philosopher. He had a passion for birds, beasts, and insects, and knew
more of them and their habits than any one in Rugby--except perhaps the
Doctor, who knew everything. He was also an experimental chemist on a
small scale, and had made unto himself an electric machine, from which
it was his greatest pleasure and glory to administer small shocks to any
small boys who were rash enough to venture into his study. And this
was by no means an adventure free from excitement; for besides the
probability of a snake dropping on to your head or twining lovingly up
your leg, or a rat getting into your breeches-pocket in search of food,
there was the animal and chemical odour to be faced, which always hung
about the den, and the chance of being blown up in some of the many
experiments which Martin was always trying, with the most wondrous
results in the shape of explosions and smells that mortal boy ever heard
of. Of course, poor Martin, in consequence of his pursuits, had become
an Ishmaelite in the house. In the first place, he half-poisoned all his
neighbours, and they in turn were always on the lookout to pounce upon
any of his numerous live-stock, and drive him frantic by enticing his
pet old magpie out of his window into a neighbouring study, and making
the disreputable old bird drunk on toast soaked in beer and sugar. Then
Martin, for his sins, inhabited a study looking into a small court some
ten feet across, the window of which was completely commanded by those
of the studies opposite in the Sick-room Row, these latter being at
a slightly higher elevation. East, and another boy of an equally
tormenting and ingenious turn of mind, now lived exactly opposite, and
had expended huge pains and time in the preparation of instruments of
annoyance for the behoof of Martin and his live colony. One morning
an old basket made its appearance, suspended by a short cord outside
Martin's window, in which were deposited an amateur nest containing four
young hungry jackdaws, the pride and glory of Martin's life, for the
time being, and which he was currently asserted to have hatched upon
his own person. Early in the morning and late at night he was to be
seen half out of window, administering to the varied wants of his callow
brood. After deep cogitation, East and his chum had spliced a knife on
to the end of a fishing-rod; and having watched Martin out, had, after
half an hour's severe sawing, cut the string by which the basket
was suspended, and tumbled it on to the pavement below, with hideous
remonstrance from the occupants. Poor Martin, returning from his short
absence, collected the fragments and replaced his brood (except one
whose neck had been broken in the descent) in their old location,
suspending them this time by string and wire twisted together, defiant
of any sharp instrument which his persecutors could command. But, like
the Russian engineers at Sebastopol, East and his chum had an answer for
every move of the adversary, and the next day had mounted a gun in the
shape of a pea-shooter upon the ledge of their window, trained so as to
bear exactly upon the spot which Martin had to occupy while tending his
nurslings. The moment he began to feed they began to shoot. In vain did
the enemy himself invest in a pea-shooter, and endeavour to answer the
fire while he fed the young birds with his other hand; his attention was
divided, and his shots flew wild, while every one of theirs told on his
face and hands, and drove him into howlings and imprecations. He
had been driven to ensconce the nest in a corner of his already
too-well-filled den.

His door was barricaded by a set of ingenious bolts of his own
invention, for the sieges were frequent by the neighbours when any
unusually ambrosial odour spread itself from the den to the neighbouring
studies. The door panels were in a normal state of smash, but the frame
of the door resisted all besiegers, and behind it the owner carried on
his varied pursuits--much in the same state of mind, I should fancy,
as a border-farmer lived in, in the days of the moss-troopers, when his
hold might be summoned or his cattle carried off at any minute of night
or day.

“Open, Martin, old boy; it's only I, Tom Brown.”

“Oh, very well; stop a moment.” One bolt went back. “You're sure East
isn't there?”

“No, no; hang it, open.” Tom gave a kick, the other bolt creaked, and he
entered the den.

Den indeed it was--about five feet six inches long by five wide, and
seven feet high. About six tattered school-books, and a few chemical
books, Taxidermy, Stanley on Birds, and an odd volume of Bewick, the
latter in much better preservation, occupied the top shelves. The other
shelves, where they had not been cut away and used by the owner for
other purposes, were fitted up for the abiding-places of birds, beasts,
and reptiles. There was no attempt at carpet or curtain. The table was
entirely occupied by the great work of Martin, the electric machine,
which was covered carefully with the remains of his table-cloth. The
jackdaw cage occupied one wall; and the other was adorned by a small
hatchet, a pair of climbing irons, and his tin candle-box, in which he
was for the time being endeavouring to raise a hopeful young family of
field-mice. As nothing should be let to lie useless, it was well that
the candle-box was thus occupied, for candles Martin never had. A pound
was issued to him weekly, as to the other boys; but as candles were
available capital, and easily exchangeable for birds' eggs or young
birds, Martin's pound invariably found its way in a few hours to
Howlett's the bird-fancier's, in the Bilton road, who would give a
hawk's or nightingale's egg or young linnet in exchange. Martin's
ingenuity was therefore for ever on the rack to supply himself with
a light. Just now he had hit upon a grand invention, and the den was
lighted by a flaring cotton wick issuing from a ginger-beer bottle full
of some doleful composition. When light altogether failed him, Martin
would loaf about by the fires in the passages or hall, after the manner
of Diggs, and try to do his verses or learn his lines by the firelight.

“Well, old boy, you haven't got any sweeter in the den this half. How
that stuff in the bottle stinks! Never mind; I ain't going to stop; but
you come up after prayers to our study. You know young Arthur. We've got
Gray's study. We'll have a good supper and talk about bird-nesting.”

Martin was evidently highly pleased at the invitation, and promised to
be up without fail.

As soon as prayers were over, and the sixth and fifth form boys had
withdrawn to the aristocratic seclusion of their own room, and the rest,
or democracy, had sat down to their supper in the hall, Tom and Arthur,
having secured their allowances of bread and cheese, started on their
feet to catch the eye of the praepostor of the week, who remained in
charge during supper, walking up and down the hall. He happened to be an
easy-going fellow, so they got a pleasant nod to their “Please may I go
out?” and away they scrambled to prepare for Martin a sumptuous banquet.
This Tom had insisted on, for he was in great delight on the occasion,
the reason of which delight must be expounded. The fact was that this
was the first attempt at a friendship of his own which Arthur had made,
and Tom hailed it as a grand step. The ease with which he himself became
hail-fellow-well-met with anybody, and blundered into and out of twenty
friendships a half-year, made him sometimes sorry and sometimes angry at
Arthur's reserve and loneliness. True, Arthur was always pleasant, and
even jolly, with any boys who came with Tom to their study; but Tom felt
that it was only through him, as it were, that his chum associated
with others, and that but for him Arthur would have been dwelling in
a wilderness. This increased his consciousness of responsibility;
and though he hadn't reasoned it out and made it clear to himself yet
somehow he knew that this responsibility, this trust which he had taken
on him without thinking about it, head over heels in fact, was the
centre and turning-point of his school-life, that which was to make him
or mar him, his appointed work and trial for the time being. And Tom
was becoming a new boy, though with frequent tumbles in the dirt and
perpetual hard battle with himself, and was daily growing in manfulness
and thoughtfulness, as every high-couraged and well-principled boy must,
when he finds himself for the first time consciously at grips with self
and the devil. Already he could turn almost without a sigh from the
School-gates, from which had just scampered off East and three or four
others of his own particular set, bound for some jolly lark not quite
according to law, and involving probably a row with louts, keepers,
or farm-labourers, the skipping dinner or calling-over, some of Phoebe
Jennings's beer, and a very possible flogging at the end of all as a
relish. He had quite got over the stage in which he would grumble to
himself--“Well, hang it, it's very hard of the Doctor to have saddled me
with Arthur. Why couldn't he have chummed him with Fogey, or Thomkin, or
any of the fellows who never do anything but walk round the close, and
finish their copies the first day they're set?” But although all this
was past, he longed, and felt that he was right in longing, for more
time for the legitimate pastimes of cricket, fives, bathing, and
fishing, within bounds, in which Arthur could not yet be his companion;
and he felt that when the “young un” (as he now generally called him)
had found a pursuit and some other friend for himself, he should be
able to give more time to the education of his own body with a clear
conscience.

And now what he so wished for had come to pass; he almost hailed it as
a special providence (as indeed it was, but not for the reasons he
gave for it--what providences are?) that Arthur should have singled out
Martin of all fellows for a friend. “The old Madman is the very fellow,”
 thought he; “he will take him scrambling over half the country after
birds' eggs and flowers, make him run and swim and climb like an Indian,
and not teach him a word of anything bad, or keep him from his lessons.
What luck!” And so, with more than his usual heartiness, he dived into
his cupboard, and hauled out an old knuckle-bone of ham, and two or
three bottles of beer, together with the solemn pewter only used on
state occasions; while Arthur, equally elated at the easy accomplishment
of his first act of volition in the joint establishment, produced from
his side a bottle of pickles and a pot of jam, and cleared the table. In
a minute or two the noise of the boys coming up from supper was heard,
and Martin knocked and was admitted, bearing his bread and cheese; and
the three fell to with hearty good-will upon the viands, talking faster
than they ate, for all shyness disappeared in a moment before Tom's
bottled-beer and hospitable ways. “Here's Arthur, a regular young
town-mouse, with a natural taste for the woods, Martin, longing to break
his neck climbing trees, and with a passion for young snakes.”

“Well, I say,” sputtered out Martin eagerly, “will you come to-morrow,
both of you, to Caldecott's Spinney then? for I know of a kestrel's
nest, up a fir-tree. I can't get at it without help; and, Brown, you can
climb against any one.”

“Oh yes, do let us go,” said Arthur; “I never saw a hawk's nest nor a
hawk's egg.”

“You just come down to my study, then, and I'll show you five sorts,”
 said Martin.

“Ay, the old Madman has got the best collection in the house, out and
out,” said Tom; and then Martin, warming with unaccustomed good cheer
and the chance of a convert, launched out into a proposed bird-nesting
campaign, betraying all manner of important secrets--a golden-crested
wren's nest near Butlin's Mound, a moor-hen who was sitting on nine eggs
in a pond down the Barby road, and a kingfisher's nest in a corner of
the old canal above Brownsover Mill. He had heard, he said, that no
one had ever got a kingfisher's nest out perfect, and that the British
Museum, or the Government, or somebody, had offered 100 pounds to any
one who could bring them a nest and eggs not damaged. In the middle of
which astounding announcement, to which the others were listening with
open ears, and already considering the application of the 100 pounds, a
knock came to the door, and East's voice was heard craving admittance.

“There's Harry,” said Tom; “we'll let him in. I'll keep him steady,
Martin. I thought the old boy would smell out the supper.”

The fact was, that Tom's heart had already smitten him for not asking
his fidus Achates to the feast, although only an extempore affair; and
though prudence and the desire to get Martin and Arthur together alone
at first had overcome his scruples, he was now heartily glad to open the
door, broach another bottle of beer, and hand over the old ham-knuckle
to the searching of his old friend's pocket-knife.

“Ah, you greedy vagabonds,” said East, with his mouth full, “I knew
there was something going on when I saw you cut off out of hall so
quick with your suppers. What a stunning tap, Tom! You are a wunner for
bottling the swipes.”

“I've had practice enough for the sixth in my time, and it's hard if I
haven't picked up a wrinkle or two for my own benefit.”

“Well, old Madman, and how goes the bird-nesting campaign? How's
Howlett? I expect the young rooks'll be out in another fortnight, and
then my turn comes.”

“There'll be no young rooks fit for pies for a month yet; shows how much
you know about it,” rejoined Martin, who, though very good friends with
East, regarded him with considerable suspicion for his propensity to
practical jokes.

“Scud knows nothing and cares for nothing but grub and mischief,” said
Tom; “but young rook pie, specially when you've had to climb for them,
is very pretty eating.--However, I say, Scud, we're all going after a
hawk's nest to-morrow, in Caldecott's Spinney; and if you'll come and
behave yourself, we'll have a stunning climb.”

“And a bathe in Aganippe. Hooray! I'm your man.”

“No, no; no bathing in Aganippe; that's where our betters go.”

“Well, well, never mind. I'm for the hawk's nest, and anything that
turns up.”

And the bottled-beer being finished, and his hunger appeased, East
departed to his study, “that sneak Jones,” as he informed them, who had
just got into the sixth, and occupied the next study, having instituted
a nightly visitation upon East and his chum, to their no small
discomfort.

When he was gone Martin rose to follow, but Tom stopped him. “No one
goes near New Row,” said he, “so you may just as well stop here and do
your verses, and then we'll have some more talk. We'll be no end quiet.
Besides, no praepostor comes here now. We haven't been visited once this
half.”

So the table was cleared, the cloth restored, and the three fell to work
with Gradus and dictionary upon the morning's vulgus.

They were three very fair examples of the way in which such tasks were
done at Rugby, in the consulship of Plancus. And doubtless the method
is little changed, for there is nothing new under the sun, especially at
schools.

Now be it known unto all you boys who are at schools which do not
rejoice in the time-honoured institution of the vulgus (commonly
supposed to have been established by William of Wykeham at Winchester,
and imported to Rugby by Arnold more for the sake of the lines which
were learnt by heart with it than for its own intrinsic value, as I've
always understood), that it is a short exercise in Greek or Latin verse,
on a given subject, the minimum number of lines being fixed for each
form.

The master of the form gave out at fourth lesson on the previous day the
subject for next morning's vulgus, and at first lesson each boy had to
bring his vulgus ready to be looked over; and with the vulgus, a
certain number of lines from one of the Latin or Greek poets then being
construed in the form had to be got by heart. The master at first lesson
called up each boy in the form in order, and put him on in the lines.
If he couldn't say them, or seem to say them, by reading them off the
master's or some other boy's book who stood near, he was sent back,
and went below all the boys who did so say or seem to say them; but
in either case his vulgus was looked over by the master, who gave and
entered in his book, to the credit or discredit of the boy, so many
marks as the composition merited. At Rugby vulgus and lines were the
first lesson every other day in the week, on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and
Saturdays; and as there were thirty-eight weeks in the school year, it
is obvious to the meanest capacity that the master of each form had
to set one hundred and fourteen subjects every year, two hundred and
twenty-eight every two years, and so on. Now, to persons of moderate
invention this was a considerable task, and human nature being prone to
repeat itself, it will not be wondered that the masters gave the same
subjects sometimes over again after a certain lapse of time. To meet
and rebuke this bad habit of the masters, the schoolboy mind, with its
accustomed ingenuity, had invented an elaborate system of tradition.
Almost every boy kept his own vulgus written out in a book, and these
books were duly handed down from boy to boy, till (if the tradition has
gone on till now) I suppose the popular boys, in whose hands bequeathed
vulgus-books have accumulated, are prepared with three or four vulguses
on any subject in heaven or earth, or in “more worlds than one,” which
an unfortunate master can pitch upon. At any rate, such lucky fellows
had generally one for themselves and one for a friend in my time. The
only objection to the traditionary method of doing your vulguses was the
risk that the successions might have become confused, and so that you
and another follower of traditions should show up the same identical
vulgus some fine morning; in which case, when it happened, considerable
grief was the result. But when did such risk hinder boys or men from
short cuts and pleasant paths?

Now in the study that night Tom was the upholder of the traditionary
method of vulgus doing. He carefully produced two large vulgus-books,
and began diving into them, and picking out a line here, and an ending
there (tags, as they were vulgarly called), till he had gotten all
that he thought he could make fit. He then proceeded to patch his tags
together with the help of his Gradus, producing an incongruous and
feeble result of eight elegiac lines, the minimum quantity for his form,
and finishing up with two highly moral lines extra, making ten in
all, which he cribbed entire from one of his books, beginning “O genus
humanum,” and which he himself must have used a dozen times before,
whenever an unfortunate or wicked hero, of whatever nation or language
under the sun, was the subject. Indeed he began to have great doubts
whether the master wouldn't remember them, and so only throw them in as
extra lines, because in any case they would call off attention from the
other tags, and if detected, being extra lines, he wouldn't be sent back
to do more in their place, while if they passed muster again he would
get marks for them.

The second method, pursued by Martin, may be called the dogged or
prosaic method. He, no more than Tom, took any pleasure in the task,
but having no old vulgus-books of his own, or any one's else, could
not follow the traditionary method, for which too, as Tom remarked, he
hadn't the genius. Martin then proceeded to write down eight lines in
English, of the most matter-of-fact kind, the first that came into his
head; and to convert these, line by line, by main force of Gradus and
dictionary into Latin that would scan. This was all he cared for--to
produce eight lines with no false quantities or concords: whether the
words were apt, or what the sense was, mattered nothing; and as the
article was all new, not a line beyond the minimum did the followers of
the dogged method ever produce.

The third, or artistic method, was Arthur's. He considered first what
point in the character or event which was the subject could most neatly
be brought out within the limits of a vulgus, trying always to get his
idea into the eight lines, but not binding himself to ten or even twelve
lines if he couldn't do this. He then set to work as much as possible
without Gradus or other help, to clothe his idea in appropriate Latin or
Greek, and would not be satisfied till he had polished it well up with
the aptest and most poetic words and phrases he could get at.

A fourth method, indeed, was used in the school, but of too simple
a kind to require a comment. It may be called the vicarious method,
obtained amongst big boys of lazy or bullying habits, and consisted
simply in making clever boys whom they could thrash do their whole
vulgus for them, and construe it to them afterwards; which latter is a
method not to be encouraged, and which I strongly advise you all not
to practise. Of the others, you will find the traditionary most
troublesome, unless you can steal your vulguses whole (experto crede),
and that the artistic method pays the best both in marks and other ways.

The vulguses being finished by nine o'clock, and Martin having rejoiced
above measure in the abundance of light, and of Gradus and dictionary,
and other conveniences almost unknown to him for getting through the
work, and having been pressed by Arthur to come and do his verses there
whenever he liked, the three boys went down to Martin's den, and Arthur
was initiated into the lore of birds' eggs, to his great delight.
The exquisite colouring and forms astonished and charmed him, who had
scarcely ever seen any but a hen's egg or an ostrich's, and by the time
he was lugged away to bed he had learned the names of at least twenty
sorts, and dreamed of the glorious perils of tree-climbing, and that he
had found a roc's egg in the island as big as Sinbad's, and clouded like
a tit-lark's, in blowing which Martin and he had nearly been drowned in
the yolk.



CHAPTER IV--THE BIRD-FANCIERS.

     “I have found out a gift for my fair--
     I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
     But let me the plunder forbear,
     She would say 'twas a barbarous deed.”--ROWE.

     “And now, my lad, take them five shilling,
     And on my advice in future think;
     So Billy pouched them all so willing,
     And got that night disguised in drink.”--MS. Ballad.

The next morning, at first lesson, Tom was turned back in his lines,
and so had to wait till the second round; while Martin and Arthur said
theirs all right, and got out of school at once. When Tom got out and
ran down to breakfast at Harrowell's they were missing, and Stumps
informed him that they had swallowed down their breakfasts and gone off
together--where, he couldn't say. Tom hurried over his own breakfast,
and went first to Martin's study and then to his own; but no signs of
the missing boys were to be found. He felt half angry and jealous of
Martin. Where could they be gone?

He learnt second lesson with East and the rest in no very good temper,
and then went out into the quadrangle. About ten minutes before school
Martin and Arthur arrived in the quadrangle breathless; and catching
sight of him, Arthur rushed up, all excitement, and with a bright glow
on his face.

“O Tom, look here!” cried he, holding out three moor-hen's eggs; “we've
been down the Barby road, to the pool Martin told us of last night, and
just see what we've got.”

Tom wouldn't be pleased, and only looked out for something to find fault
with.

“Why, young un,” said he, “what have you been after? You don't mean to
say you've been wading?”

The tone of reproach made poor little Arthur shrink up in a moment and
look piteous; and Tom with a shrug of his shoulders turned his anger on
Martin.

“Well, I didn't think, Madman, that you'd have been such a muff as to
let him be getting wet through at this time of day. You might have done
the wading yourself.”

“So I did, of course; only he would come in too, to see the nest. We
left six eggs in. They'll be hatched in a day or two.”

“Hang the eggs!” said Tom; “a fellow can't turn his back for a moment
but all his work's undone. He'll be laid up for a week for this precious
lark, I'll be bound.”

“Indeed, Tom, now,” pleaded Arthur, “my feet ain't wet, for Martin made
me take off my shoes and stockings and trousers.”

“But they are wet, and dirty too; can't I see?” answered Tom; “and
you'll be called up and floored when the master sees what a state you're
in. You haven't looked at second lesson, you know.”

O Tom, you old humbug! you to be upbraiding any one with not learning
their lessons! If you hadn't been floored yourself now at first lesson,
do you mean to say you wouldn't have been with them? And you've taken
away all poor little Arthur's joy and pride in his first birds' eggs,
and he goes and puts them down in the study, and takes down his books
with a sigh, thinking he has done something horribly wrong, whereas he
has learnt on in advance much more than will be done at second lesson.

But the old Madman hasn't, and gets called up, and makes some frightful
shots, losing about ten places, and all but getting floored. This
somewhat appeases Tom's wrath, and by the end of the lesson he has
regained his temper. And afterwards in their study he begins to get
right again, as he watches Arthur's intense joy at seeing Martin blowing
the eggs and gluing them carefully on to bits of cardboard, and notes
the anxious, loving looks which the little fellow casts sidelong at him.
And then he thinks, “What an ill-tempered beast I am! Here's just what I
was wishing for last night come about, and I'm spoiling it all,” and in
another five minutes has swallowed the last mouthful of his bile, and is
repaid by seeing his little sensitive plant expand again and sun itself
in his smiles.

After dinner the Madman is busy with the preparations for their
expedition, fitting new straps on to his climbing-irons, filling large
pill-boxes with cotton-wool, and sharpening East's small axe. They carry
all their munitions into calling-overs and directly afterwards, having
dodged such praepostors as are on the lookout for fags at cricket, the
four set off at a smart trot down the Lawford footpath, straight for
Caldecott's Spinney and the hawk's nest.

Martin leads the way in high feather; it is quite a new sensation to
him, getting companions, and he finds it very pleasant, and means to
show them all manner of proofs of his science and skill. Brown and East
may be better at cricket and football and games, thinks he, but out in
the fields and woods see if I can't teach them something. He has
taken the leadership already, and strides away in front with his
climbing-irons strapped under one arm, his pecking-bag under the other,
and his pockets and hat full of pill-boxes, cotton-wool, and other
etceteras. Each of the others carries a pecking-bag, and East his
hatchet.

When they had crossed three or four fields without a check, Arthur began
to lag; and Tom seeing this shouted to Martin to pull up a bit. “We
ain't out hare-and-hounds. What's the good of grinding on at this rate?”

“There's the Spinney,” said Martin, pulling up on the brow of a slope
at the bottom of which lay Lawford brook, and pointing to the top of the
opposite slope; “the nest is in one of those high fir-trees at this end.
And down by the brook there I know of a sedge-bird's nest. We'll go and
look at it coming back.”

“Oh, come on, don't let us stop,” said Arthur, who was getting excited
at the sight of the wood. So they broke into a trot again, and were soon
across the brook, up the slope, and into the Spinney. Here they advanced
as noiselessly as possible, lest keepers or other enemies should be
about, and stopped at the foot of a tall fir, at the top of which Martin
pointed out with pride the kestrel's nest, the object of their quest.

“Oh, where? which is it?” asks Arthur, gaping up in the air, and having
the most vague idea of what it would be like.

“There, don't you see?” said East, pointing to a lump of mistletoe in
the next tree, which was a beech. He saw that Martin and Tom were busy
with the climbing-irons, and couldn't resist the temptation of hoaxing.
Arthur stared and wondered more than ever.

“Well, how curious! It doesn't look a bit like what I expected,” said
he.

“Very odd birds, kestrels,” said East, looking waggishly at his victim,
who was still star-gazing.

“But I thought it was in a fir-tree?” objected Arthur.

“Ah, don't you know? That's a new sort of fir which old Caldecott
brought from the Himalayas.”

“Really!” said Arthur; “I'm glad I know that. How unlike our firs they
are! They do very well too here, don't they? The Spinney's full of
them.”

“What's that humbug he's telling you?” cried Tom, looking up, having
caught the word Himalayas, and suspecting what East was after.

“Only about this fir,” said Arthur, putting his hand on the stem of the
beech.

“Fir!” shouted Tom; “why, you don't mean to say, young un, you don't
know a beech when you see one?”

Poor little Arthur looked terribly ashamed, and East exploded in
laughter which made the wood ring.

“I've hardly ever seen any trees,” faltered Arthur.

“What a shame to hoax him, Scud!” cried Martin.--“Never mind, Arthur;
you shall know more about trees than he does in a week or two.”

“And isn't that the kestrel's nest, then?” asked Arthur. “That! Why,
that's a piece of mistletoe. There's the nest, that lump of sticks up
this fir.”

“Don't believe him, Arthur,” struck in the incorrigible East; “I just
saw an old magpie go out of it.”

Martin did not deign to reply to this sally, except by a grunt, as
he buckled the last buckle of his climbing-irons, and Arthur looked
reproachfully at East without speaking.

But now came the tug of war. It was a very difficult tree to climb until
the branches were reached, the first of which was some fourteen feet
up, for the trunk was too large at the bottom to be swarmed; in fact,
neither of the boys could reach more than half round it with their arms.
Martin and Tom, both of whom had irons on, tried it without success at
first; the fir bark broke away where they stuck the irons in as soon as
they leant any weight on their feet, and the grip of their arms wasn't
enough to keep them up; so, after getting up three or four feet, down
they came slithering to the ground, barking their arms and faces. They
were furious, and East sat by laughing and shouting at each failure,
“Two to one on the old magpie!”

“We must try a pyramid,” said Tom at last. “Now, Scud, you lazy rascal,
stick yourself against the tree!”

“I dare say! and have you standing on my shoulders with the irons on.
What do you think my skin's made of?” However, up he got, and leant
against the tree, putting his head down and clasping it with his arms as
far as he could.

“Now then, Madman,” said Tom, “you next.”

“No, I'm lighter than you; you go next.” So Tom got on East's shoulders,
and grasped the tree above, and then Martin scrambled up on to Tom's
shoulders, amidst the totterings and groanings of the pyramid, and, with
a spring which sent his supporters howling to the ground, clasped the
stem some ten feet up, and remained clinging. For a moment or two they
thought he couldn't get up; but then, holding on with arms and teeth, he
worked first one iron then the other firmly into the bark, got another
grip with his arms, and in another minute had hold of the lowest branch.

“All up with the old magpie now,” said East; and after a minute's
rest, up went Martin, hand over hand, watched by Arthur with fearful
eagerness.

“Isn't it very dangerous?” said he.

“Not a bit,” answered Tom; “you can't hurt if you only get good
hand-hold. Try every branch with a good pull before you trust it, and
then up you go.”

Martin was now amongst the small branches close to the nest, and
away dashed the old bird, and soared up above the trees, watching the
intruder.

“All right--four eggs!” shouted he.

“Take 'em all!” shouted East; “that'll be one a-piece.”

“No, no; leave one, and then she won't care,” said Tom.

We boys had an idea that birds couldn't count, and were quite content as
long as you left one egg. I hope it is so.

Martin carefully put one egg into each of his boxes and the third
into his mouth, the only other place of safety, and came down like a
lamplighter. All went well till he was within ten feet of the ground,
when, as the trunk enlarged, his hold got less and less firm, and at
last down he came with a run, tumbling on to his back on the turf,
spluttering and spitting out the remains of the great egg, which had
broken by the jar of his fall.

“Ugh, ugh! something to drink--ugh! it was addled,” spluttered he, while
the wood rang again with the merry laughter of East and Tom.

Then they examined the prizes, gathered up their things, and went off to
the brook, where Martin swallowed huge draughts of water to get rid
of the taste; and they visited the sedge-bird's nest, and from thence
struck across the country in high glee, beating the hedges and brakes as
they went along; and Arthur at last, to his intense delight, was allowed
to climb a small hedgerow oak for a magpie's nest with Tom, who kept all
round him like a mother, and showed him where to hold and how to throw
his weight; and though he was in a great fright, didn't show it, and was
applauded by all for his lissomness.

They crossed a road soon afterwards, and there, close to them, lay a
great heap of charming pebbles.

“Look here,” shouted East; “here's luck! I've been longing for some
good, honest pecking this half-hour. Let's fill the bags, and have no
more of this foozling bird-nesting.”

No one objected, so each boy filled the fustian bag he carried full of
stones. They crossed into the next field, Tom and East taking one side
of the hedges, and the other two the other side. Noise enough they made
certainly, but it was too early in the season for the young birds, and
the old birds were too strong on the wing for our young marksmen,
and flew out of shot after the first discharge. But it was great fun,
rushing along the hedgerows, and discharging stone after stone at
blackbirds and chaffinches, though no result in the shape of slaughtered
birds was obtained; and Arthur soon entered into it, and rushed to head
back the birds, and shouted, and threw, and tumbled into ditches, and
over and through hedges, as wild as the Madman himself.

Presently the party, in full cry after an old blackbird (who was
evidently used to the thing and enjoyed the fun, for he would wait till
they came close to him, and then fly on for forty yards or so, and, with
an impudent flicker of his tail, dart into the depths of the quickset),
came beating down a high double hedge, two on each side.

“There he is again,” “Head him,” “Let drive,” “I had him there,” “Take
care where you're throwing, Madman.” The shouts might have been heard a
quarter of a mile off. They were heard some two hundred yards off by a
farmer and two of his shepherds, who were doctoring sheep in a fold in
the next field.

Now, the farmer in question rented a house and yard situate at the end
of the field in which the young bird-fanciers had arrived, which house
and yard he didn't occupy or keep any one else in. Nevertheless, like
a brainless and unreasoning Briton, he persisted in maintaining on the
premises a large stock of cocks, hens, and other poultry. Of course,
all sorts of depredators visited the place from time to time: foxes and
gipsies wrought havoc in the night; while in the daytime, I regret
to have to confess that visits from the Rugby boys, and consequent
disappearances of ancient and respectable fowls were not unfrequent.
Tom and East had during the period of their outlawry visited the farm in
question for felonious purposes, and on one occasion had conquered and
slain a duck there, and borne away the carcass triumphantly, hidden in
their handkerchiefs. However, they were sickened of the practice by the
trouble and anxiety which the wretched duck's body caused them. They
carried it to Sally Harrowell's, in hopes of a good supper; but she,
after examining it, made a long face, and refused to dress or have
anything to do with it. Then they took it into their study, and began
plucking it themselves; but what to do with the feathers, where to hide
them?

“Good gracious, Tom, what a lot of feathers a duck has!” groaned East,
holding a bagful in his hand, and looking disconsolately at the carcass,
not yet half plucked.

“And I do think he's getting high, too, already,” said Tom, smelling at
him cautiously, “so we must finish him up soon.”

“Yes, all very well; but how are we to cook him? I'm sure I ain't going
to try it on in the hall or passages; we can't afford to be roasting
ducks about--our character's too bad.”

“I wish we were rid of the brute,” said Tom, throwing him on the table
in disgust. And after a day or two more it became clear that got rid of
he must be; so they packed him and sealed him up in brown paper, and put
him in the cupboard of an unoccupied study, where he was found in the
holidays by the matron, a gruesome body.

They had never been duck-hunting there since, but others had, and the
bold yeoman was very sore on the subject, and bent on making an example
of the first boys he could catch. So he and his shepherds crouched
behind the hurdles, and watched the party, who were approaching all
unconscious. Why should that old guinea-fowl be lying out in the
hedge just at this particular moment of all the year? Who can say?
Guinea-fowls always are; so are all other things, animals, and persons,
requisite for getting one into scrapes--always ready when any mischief
can come of them. At any rate, just under East's nose popped out the old
guinea-hen, scuttling along and shrieking, “Come back, come back,”
 at the top of her voice. Either of the other three might perhaps have
withstood the temptation, but East first lets drive the stone he has in
his hand at her, and then rushes to turn her into the hedge again. He
succeeds, and then they are all at it for dear life, up and down the
hedge in full cry, the “Come back, come back,” getting shriller and
fainter every minute.

Meantime, the farmer and his men steal over the hurdles and creep down
the hedge towards the scene of action. They are almost within a stone's
throw of Martin, who is pressing the unlucky chase hard, when Tom
catches sight of them, and sings out, “Louts, 'ware louts, your side!
Madman, look ahead!” and then catching hold of Arthur, hurries him away
across the field towards Rugby as hard as they can tear. Had he been by
himself, he would have stayed to see it out with the others, but now
his heart sinks and all his pluck goes. The idea of being led up to the
Doctor with Arthur for bagging fowls quite unmans and takes half the run
out of him.

However, no boys are more able to take care of themselves than East and
Martin; they dodge the pursuers, slip through a gap, and come pelting
after Tom and Arthur, whom they catch up in no time. The farmer and his
men are making good running about a field behind. Tom wishes to himself
that they had made off in any other direction, but now they are all in
for it together, and must see it out.

“You won't leave the young un, will you?” says he, as they haul poor
little Arthur, already losing wind from the fright, through the next
hedge. “Not we,” is the answer from both. The next hedge is a stiff
one; the pursuers gain horribly on them, and they only just pull Arthur
through, with two great rents in his trousers, as the foremost shepherd
comes up on the other side. As they start into the next field, they are
aware of two figures walking down the footpath in the middle of it, and
recognize Holmes and Diggs taking a constitutional. Those good-natured
fellows immediately shout, “On.” “Let's go to them and surrender,”
 pants Tom. Agreed. And in another minute the four boys, to the great
astonishment of those worthies, rush breathless up to Holmes and Diggs,
who pull up to see what is the matter; and then the whole is explained
by the appearance of the farmer and his men, who unite their forces and
bear down on the knot of boys.

There is no time to explain, and Tom's heart beats frightfully quick, as
he ponders, “Will they stand by us?”

The farmer makes a rush at East and collars him; and that young
gentleman, with unusual discretion, instead of kicking his shins, looks
appealingly at Holmes, and stands still.

“Hullo there; not so fast,” says Holmes, who is bound to stand up for
them till they are proved in the wrong. “Now what's all this about?”

“I've got the young varmint at last, have I,” pants the farmer; “why,
they've been a-skulking about my yard and stealing my fowls--that's
where 'tis; and if I doan't have they flogged for it, every one on 'em,
my name ain't Thompson.”

Holmes looks grave and Diggs's face falls. They are quite ready to
fight--no boys in the school more so; but they are praepostors, and
understand their office, and can't uphold unrighteous causes.

“I haven't been near his old barn this half,” cries East. “Nor I,” “Nor
I,” chime in Tom and Martin.

“Now, Willum, didn't you see 'em there last week?”

“Ees, I seen 'em sure enough,” says Willum, grasping a prong he carried,
and preparing for action.

The boys deny stoutly, and Willum is driven to admit that “if it worn't
they 'twas chaps as like 'em as two peas'n;” and “leastways he'll swear
he see'd them two in the yard last Martinmas,” indicating East and Tom.

Holmes has had time to meditate. “Now, sir,” says he to Willum, “you see
you can't remember what you have seen, and I believe the boys.”

“I doan't care,” blusters the farmer; “they was arter my fowls
to-day--that's enough for I.--Willum, you catch hold o' t'other chap.
They've been a-sneaking about this two hours, I tells 'ee,” shouted he,
as Holmes stands between Martin and Willum, “and have druv a matter of a
dozen young pullets pretty nigh to death.”

“Oh, there's a whacker!” cried East; “we haven't been within a hundred
yards of his barn; we haven't been up here above ten minutes, and we've
seen nothing but a tough old guinea-hen, who ran like a greyhound.”

“Indeed, that's all true, Holmes, upon my honour,” added Tom; “we
weren't after his fowls; guinea-hen ran out of the hedge under our feet,
and we've seen nothing else.”

“Drat their talk. Thee catch hold o' t'other, Willum, and come along wi'
un.”

“Farmer Thompson,” said Holmes, warning off Willum and the prong with
his stick, while Diggs faced the other shepherd, cracking his fingers
like pistol-shots, “now listen to reason. The boys haven't been after
your fowls, that's plain.”

“Tells 'ee I see'd'em. Who be you, I should like to know?”

“Never you mind, farmer,” answered Holmes. “And now I'll just tell you
what it is: you ought to be ashamed of yourself for leaving all that
poultry about, with no one to watch it, so near the School. You deserve
to have it all stolen. So if you choose to come up to the Doctor with
them, I shall go with you, and tell him what I think of it.”

The farmer began to take Holmes for a master; besides, he wanted to get
back to his flock. Corporal punishment was out of the question, the odds
were too great; so he began to hint at paying for the damage. Arthur
jumped at this, offering to pay anything, and the farmer immediately
valued the guinea-hen at half a sovereign.

“Half a sovereign!” cried East, now released from the farmer's grip;
“well, that is a good one! The old hen ain't hurt a bit, and she's seven
years old, I know, and as tough as whipcord; she couldn't lay another
egg to save her life.”

It was at last settled that they should pay the farmer two shillings,
and his man one shilling; and so the matter ended, to the unspeakable
relief of Tom, who hadn't been able to say a word, being sick at heart
at the idea of what the Doctor would think of him; and now the whole
party of boys marched off down the footpath towards Rugby. Holmes, who
was one of the best boys in the School, began to improve the occasion.
“Now, you youngsters,” said he, as he marched along in the middle of
them, “mind this; you're very well out of this scrape. Don't you go near
Thompson's barn again; do you hear?”

Profuse promises from all, especially East.

“Mind, I don't ask questions,” went on Mentor, “but I rather think some
of you have been there before this after his chickens. Now, knocking
over other people's chickens, and running off with them, is stealing.
It's a nasty word, but that's the plain English of it. If the chickens
were dead and lying in a shop, you wouldn't take them, I know that, any
more than you would apples out of Griffith's basket; but there's no real
difference between chickens running about and apples on a tree, and the
same articles in a shop. I wish our morals were sounder in such matters.
There's nothing so mischievous as these school distinctions, which
jumble up right and wrong, and justify things in us for which poor boys
would be sent to prison.” And good old Holmes delivered his soul on the
walk home of many wise sayings, and, as the song says,

     “Gee'd 'em a sight of good advice;”

which same sermon sank into them all, more or less, and very penitent
they were for several hours. But truth compels me to admit that East, at
any rate, forgot it all in a week, but remembered the insult which had
been put upon him by Farmer Thompson, and with the Tadpole and other
hair-brained youngsters committed a raid on the barn soon afterwards,
in which they were caught by the shepherds and severely handled, besides
having to pay eight shillings--all the money they had in the world--to
escape being taken up to the Doctor.

Martin became a constant inmate in the joint study from this time, and
Arthur took to him so kindly that Tom couldn't resist slight fits of
jealousy, which, however, he managed to keep to himself. The kestrel's
eggs had not been broken, strange to say, and formed the nucleus
of Arthur's collection, at which Martin worked heart and soul, and
introduced Arthur to Howlett the bird-fancier, and instructed him in
the rudiments of the art of stuffing. In token of his gratitude, Arthur
allowed Martin to tattoo a small anchor on one of his wrists; which
decoration, however, he carefully concealed from Tom. Before the end of
the half-year he had trained into a bold climber and good runner, and,
as Martin had foretold, knew twice as much about trees, birds, flowers,
and many other things, as our good-hearted and facetious young friend
Harry East.



CHAPTER V--THE FIGHT:

     “Surgebat Macnevisius
     Et mox jactabat ultro,
     Pugnabo tua gratia
     Feroci hoc Mactwoltro.”--Etonian.

There is a certain sort of fellow--we who are used to studying boys all
know him well enough--of whom you can predicate with almost positive
certainty, after he has been a month at school, that he is sure to have
a fight, and with almost equal certainty that he will have but one. Tom
Brown was one of these; and as it is our well-weighed intention to give
a full, true, and correct account of Tom's only single combat with a
school-fellow in the manner of our old friend Bell's Life, let those
young persons whose stomachs are not strong, or who think a good set-to
with the weapons which God has given us all an uncivilized, unchristian,
or ungentlemanly affair, just skip this chapter at once, for it won't be
to their taste.

It was not at all usual in those days for two School-house boys to
have a fight. Of course there were exceptions, when some cross-grained,
hard-headed fellow came up who would never be happy unless he was
quarrelling with his nearest neighbours, or when there was some
class-dispute, between the fifth form and the fags, for instance, which
required blood-letting; and a champion was picked out on each side
tacitly, who settled the matter by a good hearty mill. But, for the
most part, the constant use of those surest keepers of the peace, the
boxing-gloves, kept the School-house boys from fighting one another. Two
or three nights in every week the gloves were brought out, either in the
hall or fifth-form room; and every boy who was ever likely to fight at
all knew all his neighbours' prowess perfectly well, and could tell to a
nicety what chance he would have in a stand-up fight with any other
boy in the house. But, of course, no such experience could be gotten as
regarded boys in other houses; and as most of the other houses were more
or less jealous of the School-house, collisions were frequent.

After all, what would life be without fighting, I should like to know?
From the cradle to the grave, fighting, rightly understood, is the
business, the real highest, honestest business of every son of man.
Every one who is worth his salt has his enemies, who must be beaten, be
they evil thoughts and habits in himself, or spiritual wickednesses in
high places, or Russians, or Border-ruffians, or Bill, Tom, or Harry,
who will not let him live his life in quiet till he has thrashed them.

It is no good for quakers, or any other body of men, to uplift their
voices against fighting. Human nature is too strong for them, and they
don't follow their own precepts. Every soul of them is doing his own
piece of fighting, somehow and somewhere. The world might be a better
world without fighting, for anything I know, but it wouldn't be our
world; and therefore I am dead against crying peace when there is no
peace, and isn't meant to be. I am as sorry as any man to see folk
fighting the wrong people and the wrong things, but I'd a deal sooner
see them doing that than that they should have no fight in them. So
having recorded, and being about to record, my hero's fights of all
sorts, with all sorts of enemies, I shall now proceed to give an account
of his passage-at-arms with the only one of his school-fellows whom he
ever had to encounter in this manner.

It was drawing towards the close of Arthur's first half-year, and
the May evenings were lengthening out. Locking-up was not till eight
o'clock, and everybody was beginning to talk about what he would do in
the holidays. The shell, in which form all our dramatis personae now
are, were reading, amongst other things, the last book of Homer's
“Iliad,” and had worked through it as far as the speeches of the women
over Hector's body. It is a whole school-day, and four or five of the
School-house boys (amongst whom are Arthur, Tom, and East) are preparing
third lesson together. They have finished the regulation forty lines,
and are for the most part getting very tired, notwithstanding
the exquisite pathos of Helen's lamentation. And now several long
four-syllabled words come together, and the boy with the dictionary
strikes work.

“I am not going to look out any more words,” says he; “we've done the
quantity. Ten to one we shan't get so far. Let's go out into the close.”

“Come along, boys,” cries East, always ready to leave “the grind,” as he
called it; “our old coach is laid up, you know, and we shall have one of
the new masters, who's sure to go slow and let us down easy.”

So an adjournment to the close was carried nem. con., little Arthur not
daring to uplift his voice; but, being deeply interested in what they
were reading, stayed quietly behind, and learnt on for his own pleasure.

As East had said, the regular master of the form was unwell, and they
were to be heard by one of the new masters--quite a young man, who had
only just left the university. Certainly it would be hard lines if,
by dawdling as much as possible in coming in and taking their places,
entering into long-winded explanations of what was the usual course of
the regular master of the form, and others of the stock contrivances of
boys for wasting time in school, they could not spin out the lesson so
that he should not work them through more than the forty lines. As to
which quantity there was a perpetual fight going on between the master
and his form--the latter insisting, and enforcing by passive resistance,
that it was the prescribed quantity of Homer for a shell lesson; the
former, that there was no fixed quantity, but that they must always be
ready to go on to fifty or sixty lines if there were time within the
hour. However, notwithstanding all their efforts, the new master got on
horribly quick. He seemed to have the bad taste to be really interested
in the lesson, and to be trying to work them up into something like
appreciation of it, giving them good, spirited English words, instead
of the wretched bald stuff into which they rendered poor old Homer, and
construing over each piece himself to them, after each boy, to show them
how it should be done.

Now the clock strikes the three-quarters; there is only a quarter of an
hour more, but the forty lines are all but done. So the boys, one after
another, who are called up, stick more and more, and make balder and
ever more bald work of it. The poor young master is pretty near beat by
this time, and feels ready to knock his head against the wall, or his
fingers against somebody else's head. So he gives up altogether the
lower and middle parts of the form, and looks round in despair at the
boys on the top bench, to see if there is one out of whom he can strike
a spark or two, and who will be too chivalrous to murder the most
beautiful utterances of the most beautiful woman of the old world. His
eye rests on Arthur, and he calls him up to finish construing Helen's
speech. Whereupon all the other boys draw long breaths, and begin to
stare about and take it easy. They are all safe: Arthur is the head of
the form, and sure to be able to construe, and that will tide on safely
till the hour strikes.

Arthur proceeds to read out the passage in Greek before construing it,
as the custom is. Tom, who isn't paying much attention, is suddenly
caught by the falter in his voice as he reads the two lines--

[greek text deleted]

He looks up at Arthur. “Why, bless us,” thinks he, “what can be the
matter with the young un? He's never going to get floored. He's sure
to have learnt to the end.” Next moment he is reassured by the spirited
tone in which Arthur begins construing, and betakes himself to drawing
dogs' heads in his notebook, while the master, evidently enjoying the
change, turns his back on the middle bench and stands before Arthur,
beating a sort of time with his hand and foot, and saying; “Yes, yes,”
 “Very well,” as Arthur goes on.

But as he nears the fatal two lines, Tom catches that falter, and again
looks up. He sees that there is something the matter; Arthur can hardly
get on at all. What can it be?

Suddenly at this point Arthur breaks down altogether, and fairly bursts
out crying, and dashes the cuff of his jacket across his eyes, blushing
up to the roots of his hair, and feeling as if he should like to go down
suddenly through the floor. The whole form are taken aback; most of them
stare stupidly at him, while those who are gifted with presence of mind
find their places and look steadily at their books, in hopes of not
catching the master's eye and getting called up in Arthur's place.

The master looks puzzled for a moment, and then seeing, as the fact is,
that the boy is really affected to tears by the most touching thing in
Homer, perhaps in all profane poetry put together, steps up to him and
lays his hand kindly on his shoulder, saying, “Never mind, my little
man, you've construed very well. Stop a minute; there's no hurry.”

Now, as luck would have it, there sat next above Tom on that day, in
the middle bench of the form, a big boy, by name Williams, generally
supposed to be the cock of the shell, therefore of all the school below
the fifths. The small boys, who are great speculators on the prowess of
their elders, used to hold forth to one another about Williams's great
strength, and to discuss whether East or Brown would take a licking from
him. He was called Slogger Williams, from the force with which it was
supposed he could hit. In the main, he was a rough, goodnatured fellow
enough, but very much alive to his own dignity. He reckoned himself
the king of the form, and kept up his position with the strong hand,
especially in the matter of forcing boys not to construe more than the
legitimate forty lines. He had already grunted and grumbled to himself
when Arthur went on reading beyond the forty lines; but now that he
had broken down just in the middle of all the long words, the Slogger's
wrath was fairly roused.

“Sneaking little brute,” muttered he, regardless of prudence--“clapping
on the water-works just in the hardest place; see if I don't punch his
head after fourth lesson.”

“Whose?” said Tom, to whom the remark seemed to be addressed.

“Why, that little sneak, Arthur's,” replied Williams.

“No, you shan't,” said Tom.

“Hullo!” exclaimed Williams, looking at Tom with great surprise for a
moment, and then giving him a sudden dig in the ribs with his elbow,
which sent Tom's books flying on to the floor, and called the attention
of the master, who turned suddenly round, and seeing the state of
things, said,--

“Williams, go down three places, and then go on.”

The Slogger found his legs very slowly, and proceeded to go below Tom
and two other boys with great disgust; and then, turning round and
facing the master, said, “I haven't learnt any more, sir; our lesson is
only forty lines.”

“Is that so?” said the master, appealing generally to the top bench. No
answer.

“Who is the head boy of the form?” said he, waxing wroth.

“Arthur, sir,” answered three or four boys, indicating our friend.

“Oh, your name's Arthur. Well, now, what is the length of your regular
lesson?”

Arthur hesitated a moment, and then said, “We call it only forty lines,
sir.”

“How do you mean--you call it?”

“Well, sir, Mr. Graham says we ain't to stop there when there's time to
construe more.”

“I understand,” said the master.--“Williams, go down three more places,
and write me out the lesson in Greek and English. And now, Arthur,
finish construing.”

“Oh! would I be in Arthur's shoes after fourth lesson?” said the little
boys to one another; but Arthur finished Helen's speech without any
further catastrophe, and the clock struck four, which ended third
lesson.

Another hour was occupied in preparing and saying fourth lesson, during
which Williams was bottling up his wrath; and when five struck, and the
lessons for the day were over, he prepared to take summary vengeance on
the innocent cause of his misfortune.

Tom was detained in school a few minutes after the rest, and on coming
out into the quadrangle, the first thing he saw was a small ring of
boys, applauding Williams, who was holding Arthur by the collar.

“There, you young sneak,” said he, giving Arthur a cuff on the head with
his other hand; “what made you say that--”

“Hullo!” said Tom, shouldering into the crowd; “you drop that, Williams;
you shan't touch him.”

“Who'll stop me?” said the Slogger, raising his hand again.

“I,” said Tom; and suiting the action to the word he struck the arm
which held Arthur's arm so sharply that the Slogger dropped it with a
start, and turned the full current of his wrath on Tom.

“Will you fight?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Huzza! There's going to be a fight between Slogger Williams and Tom
Brown!”

The news ran like wildfire about, and many boys who were on their way
to tea at their several houses turned back, and sought the back of the
chapel, where the fights come off.

“Just run and tell East to come and back me,” said Tom to a small
School-house boy, who was off like a rocket to Harrowell's, just
stopping for a moment to poke his head into the School-house hall, where
the lower boys were already at tea, and sing out, “Fight! Tom Brown and
Slogger Williams.”

Up start half the boys at once, leaving bread, eggs, butter, sprats,
and all the rest to take care of themselves. The greater part of the
remainder follow in a minute, after swallowing their tea, carrying their
food in their hands to consume as they go. Three or four only remain,
who steal the butter of the more impetuous, and make to themselves an
unctuous feast.

In another minute East and Martin tear through the quadrangle, carrying
a sponge, and arrive at the scene of action just as the combatants are
beginning to strip.

Tom felt he had got his work cut out for him, as he stripped off his
jacket, waistcoat, and braces. East tied his handkerchief round his
waist, and rolled up his shirtsleeves for him. “Now, old boy, don't you
open your mouth to say a word, or try to help yourself a bit--we'll do
all that; you keep all your breath and strength for the Slogger.” Martin
meanwhile folded the clothes, and put them under the chapel rails; and
now Tom, with East to handle him, and Martin to give him a knee, steps
out on the turf, and is ready for all that may come; and here is the
Slogger too, all stripped, and thirsting for the fray.

It doesn't look a fair match at first glance: Williams is nearly two
inches taller, and probably a long year older than his opponent, and he
is very strongly made about the arms and shoulders--“peels well,” as the
little knot of big fifth-form boys, the amateurs, say, who stand outside
the ring of little boys, looking complacently on, but taking no active
part in the proceedings. But down below he is not so good by any
means--no spring from the loins, and feeblish, not to say shipwrecky,
about the knees. Tom, on the contrary, though not half so strong in the
arms, is good all over, straight, hard, and springy, from neck to ankle,
better perhaps in his legs than anywhere. Besides, you can see by the
clear white of his eye, and fresh, bright look of his skin, that he is
in tip-top training, able to do all he knows; while the Slogger looks
rather sodden, as if he didn't take much exercise and ate too much
tuck. The time-keeper is chosen, a large ring made, and the two stand
up opposite one another for a moment, giving us time just to make our
little observations.

“If Tom'll only condescend to fight with his head and heels,” as East
mutters to Martin, “we shall do.”

But seemingly he won't, for there he goes in, making play with both
hands. Hard all is the word; the two stand to one another like men;
rally follows rally in quick succession, each fighting as if he thought
to finish the whole thing out of hand. “Can't last at this rate,” say
the knowing ones, while the partisans of each make the air ring
with their shouts and counter-shouts of encouragement, approval, and
defiance.

“Take it easy, take it easy; keep away; let him come after you,”
 implores East, as he wipes Tom's face after the first round with a wet
sponge, while he sits back on Martin's knee, supported by the Madman's
long arms which tremble a little from excitement.

“Time's up,” calls the time-keeper.

“There he goes again, hang it all!” growls East, as his man is at it
again, as hard as ever. A very severe round follows, in which Tom gets
out and out the worst of it, and is at last hit clean off his legs, and
deposited on the grass by a right-hander from the Slogger.

Loud shouts rise from the boys of Slogger's house, and the School-house
are silent and vicious, ready to pick quarrels anywhere.

“Two to one in half-crowns on the big un,” says Rattle, one of the
amateurs, a tall fellow, in thunder-and-lightning waistcoat, and puffy,
good-natured face.

“Done!” says Groove, another amateur of quieter look, taking out his
notebook to enter it, for our friend Rattle sometimes forgets these
little things.

Meantime East is freshening up Tom with the sponges for next round, and
has set two other boys to rub his hands.

“Tom, old boy,” whispers he, “this may be fun for you, but it's death to
me. He'll hit all the fight out of you in another five minutes, and then
I shall go and drown myself in the island ditch. Feint him; use your
legs; draw him about. He'll lose his wind then in no time, and you can
go into him. Hit at his body too; we'll take care of his frontispiece
by-and-by.”

Tom felt the wisdom of the counsel, and saw already that he couldn't go
in and finish the Slogger off at mere hammer and tongs, so changed his
tactics completely in the third round. He now fights cautiously, getting
away from and parrying the Slogger's lunging hits, instead of trying
to counter, and leading his enemy a dance all round the ring after
him. “He's funking; go in, Williams,” “Catch him up,” “Finish him off,”
 scream the small boys of the Slogger party.

“Just what we want,” thinks East, chuckling to himself, as he sees
Williams, excited by these shouts, and thinking the game in his own
hands, blowing himself in his exertions to get to close quarters again,
while Tom is keeping away with perfect ease.

They quarter over the ground again and again, Tom always on the
defensive.

The Slogger pulls up at last for a moment, fairly blown.

“Now, then, Tom,” sings out East, dancing with delight. Tom goes in in a
twinkling, and hits two heavy body blows, and gets away again before the
Slogger can catch his wind, which when he does he rushes with blind fury
at Tom, and being skilfully parried and avoided, overreaches himself and
falls on his face, amidst terrific cheers from the School-house boys.

“Double your two to one?” says Groove to Rattle, notebook in hand.

“Stop a bit,” says that hero, looking uncomfortably at Williams, who is
puffing away on his second's knee, winded enough, but little the worse
in any other way.

After another round the Slogger too seems to see that he can't go in and
win right off, and has met his match or thereabouts. So he too begins
to use his head, and tries to make Tom lose his patience, and come in
before his time. And so the fight sways on, now one and now the other
getting a trifling pull.

Tom's face begins to look very one-sided--there are little queer bumps
on his forehead, and his mouth is bleeding; but East keeps the wet
sponge going so scientifically that he comes up looking as fresh and
bright as ever. Williams is only slightly marked in the face, but by
the nervous movement of his elbows you can see that Tom's body blows are
telling. In fact, half the vice of the Slogger's hitting is neutralized,
for he daren't lunge out freely for fear of exposing his sides. It is
too interesting by this time for much shouting, and the whole ring is
very quiet.

“All right, Tommy,” whispers East; “hold on's the horse that's to win.
We've got the last. Keep your head, old boy.”

But where is Arthur all this time? Words cannot paint the poor little
fellow's distress. He couldn't muster courage to come up to the ring,
but wandered up and down from the great fives court to the corner of the
chapel rails, now trying to make up his mind to throw himself between
them, and try to stop them; then thinking of running in and telling his
friend Mary, who, he knew, would instantly report to the Doctor.
The stories he had heard of men being killed in prize-fights rose up
horribly before him.

Once only, when the shouts of “Well done, Brown!” “Huzza for the
School-house!” rose higher than ever, he ventured up to the ring,
thinking the victory was won. Catching sight of Tom's face in the state
I have described, all fear of consequences vanishing out of his mind;
he rushed straight off to the matron's room, beseeching her to get the
fight stopped, or he should die.

But it's time for us to get back to the close. What is this fierce
tumult and confusion? The ring is broken, and high and angry words are
being bandied about. “It's all fair”--“It isn't”--“No hugging!” The
fight is stopped. The combatants, however, sit there quietly, tended by
their seconds, while their adherents wrangle in the middle. East can't
help shouting challenges to two or three of the other side, though he
never leaves Tom for a moment, and plies the sponges as fast as ever.

The fact is, that at the end of the last round, Tom, seeing a good
opening, had closed with his opponent, and after a moment's struggle,
had thrown him heavily, by help of the fall he had learnt from his
village rival in the Vale of White Horse. Williams hadn't the ghost of
a chance with Tom at wrestling; and the conviction broke at once on
the Slogger faction that if this were allowed their man must be licked.
There was a strong feeling in the School against catching hold and
throwing, though it was generally ruled all fair within limits; so the
ring was broken and the fight stopped.

The School-house are overruled--the fight is on again, but there is to
be no throwing; and East, in high wrath, threatens to take his man away
after next round (which he don't mean to do, by the way), when suddenly
young Brooke comes through the small gate at the end of the chapel. The
School-house faction rush to him. “Oh, hurrah! now we shall get fair
play.”

“Please, Brooke, come up. They won't let Tom Brown throw him.”

“Throw whom?” says Brooke, coming up to the ring. “Oh! Williams, I see.
Nonsense! Of course he may throw him, if he catches him fairly above the
waist.”

Now, young Brooke, you're in the sixth, you know, and you ought to stop
all fights. He looks hard at both boys. “Anything wrong?” says he to
East, nodding at Tom.

“Not a bit.”

“Not beat at all?”

“Bless you, no! Heaps of fight in him.--Ain't there, Tom?”

Tom looks at Brooke and grins.

“How's he?” nodding at Williams.

“So so; rather done, I think, since his last fall. He won't stand above
two more.”

“Time's up!” The boys rise again and face one another. Brooke can't find
it in his heart to stop them just yet, so the round goes on, the Slogger
waiting for Tom, and reserving all his strength to hit him out should
he come in for the wrestling dodge again, for he feels that that must be
stopped, or his sponge will soon go up in the air.

And now another newcomer appears on the field, to wit, the under-porter,
with his long brush and great wooden receptacle for dust under his arm.
He has been sweeping out the schools.

“You'd better stop, gentlemen,” he says; “the Doctor knows that Brown's
fighting--he'll be out in a minute.”

“You go to Bath, Bill,” is all that that excellent servitor gets by
his advice; and being a man of his hands, and a stanch upholder of the
School-house, can't help stopping to look on for a bit, and see Tom
Brown, their pet craftsman, fight a round.

It is grim earnest now, and no mistake. Both boys feel this, and summon
every power of head, hand, and eye to their aid. A piece of luck on
either side, a foot slipping, a blow getting well home, or another fall,
may decide it. Tom works slowly round for an opening; he has all the
legs, and can choose his own time. The Slogger waits for the attack,
and hopes to finish it by some heavy right-handed blow. As they quarter
slowly over the ground, the evening sun comes out from behind a cloud
and falls full on Williams's face. Tom darts in; the heavy right hand
is delivered, but only grazes his head. A short rally at close quarters,
and they close; in another moment the Slogger is thrown again heavily
for the third time.

“I'll give you three or two on the little one in half-crowns,” said
Groove to Rattle.

“No, thank 'ee,” answers the other, diving his hands farther into his
coat-tails.

Just at this stage of the proceedings, the door of the turret which
leads to the Doctor's library suddenly opens, and he steps into the
close, and makes straight for the ring, in which Brown and the Slogger
are both seated on their seconds' knees for the last time.

“The Doctor! the Doctor!” shouts some small boy who catches sight of
him, and the ring melts away in a few seconds, the small boys tearing
off, Tom collaring his jacket and waistcoat, and slipping through the
little gate by the chapel, and round the corner to Harrowell's with his
backers, as lively as need be; Williams and his backers making off not
quite so fast across the close; Groove, Rattle, and the other bigger
fellows trying to combine dignity and prudence in a comical manner, and
walking off fast enough, they hope, not to be recognized, and not fast
enough to look like running away.

Young Brooke alone remains on the ground by the time the Doctor gets
there, and touches his hat, not without a slight inward qualm.

“Hah! Brooke. I am surprised to see you here. Don't you know that I
expect the sixth to stop fighting?”

Brooke felt much more uncomfortable than he had expected, but he was
rather a favourite with the Doctor for his openness and plainness of
speech, so blurted out, as he walked by the Doctor's side, who had
already turned back,--

“Yes, sir, generally. But I thought you wished us to exercise a
discretion in the matter too--not to interfere too soon.”

“But they have been fighting this half-hour and more,” said the Doctor.

“Yes, sir; but neither was hurt. And they're the sort of boys who'll be
all the better friends now, which they wouldn't have been if they had
been stopped, any earlier--before it was so equal.”

“Who was fighting with Brown?” said the Doctor.

“Williams, sir, of Thompson's. He is bigger than Brown, and had the best
of it at first, but not when you came up, sir. There's a good deal of
jealousy between our house and Thompson's, and there would have been
more fights if this hadn't been let go on, or if either of them had had
much the worst of it.”

“Well but, Brooke,” said the Doctor, “doesn't this look a little as
if you exercised your discretion by only stopping a fight when the
School-house boy is getting the worst of it?”

Brooke, it must be confessed, felt rather gravelled.

“Now remember,” added the Doctor, as he stopped at the turret-door,
“this fight is not to go on; you'll see to that. And I expect you to
stop all fights in future at once.”

“Very well, sir,” said young Brooke, touching his hat, and not sorry to
see the turret-door close behind the Doctor's back.

Meantime Tom and the stanchest of his adherents had reached Harrowell's,
and Sally was bustling about to get them a late tea, while Stumps had
been sent off to Tew, the butcher, to get a piece of raw beef for Tom's
eye, which was to be healed off-hand, so that he might show well in the
morning. He was not a bit the worse, except a slight difficulty in his
vision, a singing in his ears, and a sprained thumb, which he kept in
a cold-water bandage, while he drank lots of tea, and listened to the
babel of voices talking and speculating of nothing but the fight, and
how Williams would have given in after another fall (which he didn't in
the least believe), and how on earth the Doctor could have got to know
of it--such bad luck! He couldn't help thinking to himself that he was
glad he hadn't won; he liked it better as it was, and felt very friendly
to the Slogger. And then poor little Arthur crept in and sat down
quietly near him, and kept looking at him and the raw beef with such
plaintive looks that Tom at last burst out laughing.

“Don't make such eyes, young un,” said he; “there's nothing the matter.”

“Oh, but, Tom, are you much hurt? I can't bear thinking it was all for
me.”

“Not a bit of it; don't flatter yourself. We were sure to have had it
out sooner or later.”

“Well, but you won't go on, will you? You'll promise me you won't go
on?”

“Can't tell about that--all depends on the houses. We're in the hands
of our countrymen, you know. Must fight for the School-house flag, if so
be.”

However, the lovers of the science were doomed to disappointment this
time. Directly after locking-up, one of the night-fags knocked at Tom's
door.

“Brown, young Brooke wants you in the sixth-form room.”

Up went Tom to the summons, and found the magnates sitting at their
supper.

“Well, Brown,” said young Brooke, nodding to him, “how do you feel?”

“Oh, very well, thank you, only I've sprained my thumb, I think.”

“Sure to do that in a fight. Well, you hadn't the worst of it, I could
see. Where did you learn that throw?”

“Down in the country when I was a boy.”

“Hullo! why, what are you now? Well, never mind, you're a plucky fellow.
Sit down and have some supper.”

Tom obeyed, by no means loath. And the fifth-form boy next filled him a
tumbler of bottled beer, and he ate and drank, listening to the pleasant
talk, and wondering how soon he should be in the fifth, and one of that
much-envied society.

As he got up to leave, Brooke said, “You must shake hands to-morrow
morning; I shall come and see that done after first lesson.”

And so he did. And Tom and the Slogger shook hands with great
satisfaction and mutual respect. And for the next year or two, whenever
fights were being talked of, the small boys who had been present shook
their heads wisely, saying, “Ah! but you should just have seen the fight
between Slogger Williams and Tom Brown!”

And now, boys all, three words before we quit the subject. I have put
in this chapter on fighting of malice prepense, partly because I want to
give you a true picture of what everyday school life was in my time, and
not a kid-glove and go-to-meeting-coat picture, and partly because of
the cant and twaddle that's talked of boxing and fighting with fists
nowadays. Even Thackeray has given in to it; and only a few weeks ago
there was some rampant stuff in the Times on the subject, in an article
on field sports.

Boys will quarrel, and when they quarrel will sometimes fight. Fighting
with fists is the natural and English way for English boys to settle
their quarrels. What substitute for it is there, or ever was there,
amongst any nation under the sun? What would you like to see take its
place?

Learn to box, then, as you learn to play cricket and football. Not one
of you will be the worse, but very much the better, for learning to box
well. Should you never have to use it in earnest, there's no exercise
in the world so good for the temper and for the muscles of the back and
legs.

As to fighting, keep out of it if you can, by all means. When the
time comes, if it ever should, that you have to say “Yes” or “No” to
a challenge to fight, say “No” if you can--only take care you make
it clear to yourselves why you say “No.” It's a proof of the highest
courage, if done from true Christian motives. It's quite right and
justifiable, if done from a simple aversion to physical pain and danger.
But don't say “No” because you fear a licking, and say or think it's
because you fear God, for that's neither Christian nor honest. And if
you do fight, fight it out; and don't give in while you can stand and
see.



CHAPTER VI--FEVER IN THE SCHOOL.

     “This our hope for all that's mortal
     And we too shall burst the bond;
     Death keeps watch beside the portal,
     But 'tis life that dwells beyond.”
      --JOHN STERLING.

Two years have passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, and
the end of the summer half-year is again drawing on. Martin has left and
gone on a cruise in the South Pacific, in one of his uncle's ships; the
old magpie, as disreputable as ever, his last bequest to Arthur, lives
in the joint study. Arthur is nearly sixteen, and at the head of the
twenty, having gone up the school at the rate of a form a half-year.
East and Tom have been much more deliberate in their progress, and are
only a little way up the fifth form. Great strapping boys they are,
but still thorough boys, filling about the same place in the house that
young Brooke filled when they were new boys, and much the same sort
of fellows. Constant intercourse with Arthur has done much for both of
them, especially for Tom; but much remains yet to be done, if they
are to get all the good out of Rugby which is to be got there in these
times. Arthur is still frail and delicate, with more spirit than body;
but, thanks to his intimacy with them and Martin, has learned to swim,
and run, and play cricket, and has never hurt himself by too much
reading.

One evening, as they were all sitting down to supper in the fifth-form
room, some one started a report that a fever had broken out at one of
the boarding-houses. “They say,” he added, “that Thompson is very ill,
and that Dr. Robertson has been sent for from Northampton.”

“Then we shall all be sent home,” cried another. “Hurrah! five weeks'
extra holidays, and no fifth-form examination!”

“I hope not,” said Tom; “there'll be no Marylebone match then at the end
of the half.”

Some thought one thing, some another, many didn't believe the report;
but the next day, Tuesday, Dr. Robertson arrived, and stayed all day,
and had long conferences with the Doctor.

On Wednesday morning, after prayers, the Doctor addressed the whole
school. There were several cases of fever in different houses, he said;
but Dr. Robertson, after the most careful examination, had assured him
that it was not infectious, and that if proper care were taken,
there could be no reason for stopping the school-work at present. The
examinations were just coming on, and it would be very unadvisable to
break up now. However, any boys who chose to do so were at liberty to
write home, and, if their parents wished it, to leave at once. He should
send the whole school home if the fever spread.

The next day Arthur sickened, but there was no other case. Before the
end of the week thirty or forty boys had gone, but the rest stayed on.
There was a general wish to please the Doctor, and a feeling that it was
cowardly to run away.

On the Saturday Thompson died, in the bright afternoon, while the
cricket-match was going on as usual on the big-side ground. The Doctor,
coming from his deathbed, passed along the gravel-walk at the side
of the close, but no one knew what had happened till the next day. At
morning lecture it began to be rumoured, and by afternoon chapel was
known generally; and a feeling of seriousness and awe at the actual
presence of death among them came over the whole school. In all the long
years of his ministry the Doctor perhaps never spoke words which sank
deeper than some of those in that day's sermon.

“When I came yesterday from visiting all but the very death-bed of him
who has been taken from us, and looked around upon all the familiar
objects and scenes within our own ground, where your common amusements
were going on with your common cheerfulness and activity, I felt there
was nothing painful in witnessing that; it did not seem in any way
shocking or out of tune with those feelings which the sight of a dying
Christian must be supposed to awaken. The unsuitableness in point of
natural feeling between scenes of mourning and scenes of liveliness did
not at all present itself. But I did feel that if at that moment any of
those faults had been brought before me which sometimes occur amongst
us; had I heard that any of you had been guilty of falsehood, or of
drunkenness, or of any other such sin; had I heard from any quarter the
language of profaneness, or of unkindness, or of indecency; had I heard
or seen any signs of that wretched folly which courts the laugh of
fools by affecting not to dread evil and not to care for good, then the
unsuitableness of any of these things with the scene I had just quitted
would indeed have been most intensely painful. And why? Not because such
things would really have been worse than at any other time, but because
at such a moment the eyes are opened really to know good and evil,
because we then feel what it is so to live as that death becomes an
infinite blessing, and what it is so to live also that it were good for
us if we had never been born.”

Tom had gone into chapel in sickening anxiety about Arthur, but he came
out cheered and strengthened by those grand words, and walked up alone
to their study. And when he sat down and looked round, and saw Arthur's
straw hat and cricket-jacket hanging on their pegs, and marked all his
little neat arrangements, not one of which had been disturbed, the tears
indeed rolled down his cheeks; but they were calm and blessed tears, and
he repeated to himself, “Yes, Geordie's eyes are opened; he knows what
it is so to live as that death becomes an infinite blessing. But do I? O
God, can I bear to lose him?”

The week passed mournfully away. No more boys sickened, but Arthur was
reported worse each day, and his mother arrived early in the week. Tom
made many appeals to be allowed to see him, and several times tried to
get up to the sick-room; but the housekeeper was always in the way, and
at last spoke to the Doctor, who kindly but peremptorily forbade him.

Thompson was buried on the Tuesday, and the burial service, so soothing
and grand always, but beyond all words solemn when read over a boy's
grave to his companions, brought him much comfort, and many strange
new thoughts and longings. He went back to his regular life, and played
cricket and bathed as usual. It seemed to him that this was the right
thing to do, and the new thoughts and longings became more brave and
healthy for the effort. The crisis came on Saturday; the day week that
Thompson had died; and during that long afternoon Tom sat in his study
reading his Bible, and going every half-hour to the housekeeper's room,
expecting each time to hear that the gentle and brave little spirit
had gone home. But God had work for Arthur to do. The crisis passed:
on Sunday evening he was declared out of danger; on Monday he sent a
message to Tom that he was almost well, had changed his room, and was to
be allowed to see him the next day.

It was evening when the housekeeper summoned him to the sick-room.
Arthur was lying on the sofa by the open window, through which the rays
of the western sun stole gently, lighting up his white face and golden
hair. Tom remembered a German picture of an angel which he knew; often
had he thought how transparent and golden and spirit-like it was; and
he shuddered, to think how like it Arthur looked, and felt a shock as if
his blood had all stopped short, as he realized how near the other world
his friend must have been to look like that. Never till that moment had
he felt how his little chum had twined himself round his heart-strings,
and as he stole gently across the room and knelt down, and put his arm
round Arthur's head on the pillow, felt ashamed and half-angry at his
own red and brown face, and the bounding sense of health and power which
filled every fibre of his body, and made every movement of mere living a
joy to him. He needn't have troubled himself: it was this very strength
and power so different from his own which drew Arthur so to him.

Arthur laid his thin, white hand, on which the blue veins stood out so
plainly, on Tom's great brown fist, and smiled at him; and then looked
out of the window again, as if he couldn't bear to lose a moment of the
sunset, into the tops of the great feathery elms, round which the rooks
were circling and clanging, returning in flocks from their evening's
foraging parties. The elms rustled, the sparrows in the ivy just outside
the window chirped and fluttered about, quarrelling, and making it up
again; the rooks, young and old, talked in chorus, and the merry shouts
of the boys and the sweet click of the cricket-bats came up cheerily
from below.

“Dear George,” said Tom, “I am so glad to be let up to see you at last.
I've tried hard to come so often, but they wouldn't let me before.”

“Oh, I know, Tom; Mary has told me every day about you, and how she was
obliged to make the Doctor speak to you to keep you away. I'm very glad
you didn't get up, for you might have caught it; and you couldn't stand
being ill, with all the matches going on. And you're in the eleven, too,
I hear. I'm so glad.”

“Yes; ain't it jolly?” said Tom proudly. “I'm ninth too. I made forty at
the last pie-match, and caught three fellows out. So I was put in
above Jones and Tucker. Tucker's so savage, for he was head of the
twenty-two.”

“Well, I think you ought to be higher yet,” said Arthur, who was as
jealous for the renown of Tom in games as Tom was for his as a scholar.

“Never mind. I don't care about cricket or anything now you're getting
well, Geordie; and I shouldn't have hurt, I know, if they'd have let me
come up. Nothing hurts me. But you'll get about now directly, won't you?
You won't believe how clean I've kept the study. All your things are
just as you left them; and I feed the old magpie just when you used,
though I have to come in from big-side for him, the old rip. He won't
look pleased all I can do, and sticks his head first on one side and
then on the other, and blinks at me before he'll begin to eat, till I'm
half inclined to box his ears. And whenever East comes in, you should
see him hop off to the window, dot and go one, though Harry wouldn't
touch a feather of him now.”

Arthur laughed. “Old Gravey has a good memory; he can't forget the
sieges of poor Martin's den in old times.” He paused a moment, and then
went on: “You can't think how often I've been thinking of old Martin
since I've been ill. I suppose one's mind gets restless, and likes to
wander off to strange, unknown places. I wonder what queer new pets the
old boy has got. How he must be revelling in the thousand new birds,
beasts, and fishes!”

Tom felt a pang of jealousy, but kicked it out in a moment. “Fancy him
on a South Sea island, with the Cherokees, or Patagonians, or some
such wild niggers!” (Tom's ethnology and geography were faulty,
but sufficient for his needs.) “They'll make the old Madman cock
medicine-man, and tattoo him all over. Perhaps he's cutting about now
all blue, and has a squaw and a wigwam. He'll improve their boomerangs,
and be able to throw them too, without having old Thomas sent after him
by the Doctor to take them away.”

Arthur laughed at the remembrance of the boomerang story, but then
looked grave again, and said, “He'll convert all the island, I know.”

“Yes, if he don't blow it up first.”

“Do you remember, Tom, how you and East used to laugh at him and chaff
him, because he said he was sure the rooks all had calling-over or
prayers, or something of the sort, when the locking-up bell rang? Well,
I declare,” said Arthur, looking up seriously into Tom's laughing eyes,
“I do think he was right. Since I've been lying here, I've watched them
every night; and, do you know, they really do come and perch, all of
them, just about locking-up time; and then first there's a regular
chorus of caws; and then they stop a bit, and one old fellow, or perhaps
two or three in different trees, caw solos; and then off they all go
again, fluttering about and cawing anyhow till they roost.”

“I wonder if the old blackies do talk,” said Tom, looking up at them.
“How they must abuse me and East, and pray for the Doctor for stopping
the slinging!”

“There! look, look!” cried Arthur; “don't you see the old fellow without
a tail coming up? Martin used to call him the 'clerk.' He can't steer
himself. You never saw such fun as he is in a high wind, when he can't
steer himself home, and gets carried right past the trees, and has to
bear up again and again before he can perch.”

The locking-up bell began to toll, and the two boys were silent, and
listened to it. The sound soon carried Tom off to the river and the
woods, and he began to go over in his mind the many occasions on which
he had heard that toll coming faintly down the breeze, and had to pack
his rod in a hurry and make a run for it, to get in before the gates
were shut. He was roused with a start from his memories by Arthur's
voice, gentle and weak from his late illness.

“Tom, will you be angry if I talk to you very seriously?”

“No, dear old boy, not I. But ain't you faint, Arthur, or ill? What can
I get you? Don't say anything to hurt yourself now--you are very weak;
let me come up again.”

“No, no; I shan't hurt myself. I'd sooner speak to you now, if you don't
mind. I've asked Mary to tell the Doctor that you are with me, so you
needn't go down to calling-over; and I mayn't have another chance, for
I shall most likely have to go home for change of air to get well, and
mayn't come back this half.”

“Oh, do you think you must go away before the end of the half? I'm
so sorry. It's more than five weeks yet to the holidays, and all the
fifth-form examination and half the cricket-matches to come yet. And
what shall I do all that time alone in our study? Why, Arthur, it will
be more than twelve weeks before I see you again. Oh, hang it, I can't
stand that! Besides who's to keep me up to working at the examination
books? I shall come out bottom of the form, as sure as eggs is eggs.”

Tom was rattling on, half in joke, half in earnest, for he wanted to
get Arthur out of his serious vein, thinking it would do him harm; but
Arthur broke in,--

“Oh, please, Tom, stop, or you'll drive all I had to say out of my head.
And I'm already horribly afraid I'm going to make you angry.”

“Don't gammon, young un,” rejoined Tom (the use of the old name, dear to
him from old recollections, made Arthur start and smile and feel quite
happy); “you know you ain't afraid, and you've never made me angry since
the first month we chummed together. Now I'm going to be quite sober for
a quarter of an hour, which is more than I am once in a year; so make
the most of it; heave ahead, and pitch into me right and left.”

“Dear Tom, I ain't going to pitch into you,” said Arthur piteously; “and
it seems so cocky in me to be advising you, who've been my backbone ever
since I've been at Rugby, and have made the school a paradise to me. Ah,
I see I shall never do it, unless I go head over heels at once, as
you said when you taught me to swim. Tom, I want you to give up using
vulgus-books and cribs.”

Arthur sank back on to his pillow with a sigh, as if the effort had been
great; but the worst was now over, and he looked straight at Tom, who
was evidently taken aback. He leant his elbows on his knees, and stuck
his hands into his hair, whistled a verse of “Billy Taylor,” and then
was quite silent for another minute. Not a shade crossed his face,
but he was clearly puzzled. At last he looked up, and caught Arthur's
anxious look, took his hand, and said simply,--

“Why, young un?”

“Because you're the honestest boy in Rugby, and that ain't honest.”

“I don't see that.”

“What were you sent to Rugby for?”

“Well, I don't know exactly--nobody ever told me. I suppose because all
boys are sent to a public school in England.”

“But what do you think yourself? What do you want to do here, and to
carry away?”

Tom thought a minute. “I want to be A1 at cricket and football, and all
the other games, and to make my hands keep my head against any fellow,
lout or gentleman. I want to get into the sixth before I leave, and to
please the Doctor; and I want to carry away just as much Latin and Greek
as will take me through Oxford respectably. There, now, young un; I
never thought of it before, but that's pretty much about my figure.
Ain't it all on the square? What have you got to say to that?”

“Why, that you are pretty sure to do all that you want, then.”

“Well, I hope so. But you've forgot one thing--what I want to leave
behind me. I want to leave behind me,” said Tom, speaking slow, and
looking much moved, “the name of a fellow who never bullied a little
boy, or turned his back on a big one.”

Arthur pressed his hand, and after a moment's silence went on, “You say,
Tom, you want to please the Doctor. Now, do you want to please him by
what he thinks you do, or by what you really do?”

“By what I really do, of course.”

“Does he think you use cribs and vulgus-books?”

Tom felt at once that his flank was turned, but he couldn't give in. “He
was at Winchester himself,” said he; “he knows all about it.”

“Yes; but does he think you use them? Do you think he approves of it?”

“You young villain!” said Tom, shaking his fist at Arthur, half vexed
and half pleased, “I never think about it. Hang it! there, perhaps he
don't. Well, I suppose he don't.”

Arthur saw that he had got his point; he knew his friend well, and was
wise in silence as in speech. He only said, “I would sooner have the
doctor's good opinion of me as I really am than any man's in the world.”

After another minute, Tom began again, “Look here, young un. How on
earth am I to get time to play the matches this half if I give up cribs?
We're in the middle of that long crabbed chorus in the Agamemnon. I can
only just make head or tail of it with the crib. Then there's Pericles's
speech coming on in Thucydides, and 'The Birds' to get up for the
examination, besides the Tacitus.” Tom groaned at the thought of his
accumulated labours. “I say, young un, there's only five weeks or so
left to holidays. Mayn't I go on as usual for this half? I'll tell the
Doctor about it some day, or you may.”

Arthur looked out of the window. The twilight had come on, and all was
silent. He repeated in a low voice: “In this thing the Lord pardon thy
servant, that when my master goeth into the house of Rimmon to worship
there, and he leaneth on my hand, and I bow down myself in the house of
Rimmon, when I bow down myself in the house of Rimmon, the Lord pardon
thy servant in this thing.”

Not a word more was said on the subject, and the boys were again
silent--one of those blessed, short silences in which the resolves which
colour a life are so often taken.

Tom was the first to break it. “You've been very ill indeed, haven't
you, Geordie?” said he, with a mixture of awe and curiosity, feeling as
if his friend had been in some strange place or scene, of which he could
form no idea, and full of the memory of his own thoughts during the last
week.

“Yes, very. I'm sure the Doctor thought I was going to die. He gave me
the Sacrament last Sunday, and you can't think what he is when one is
ill. He said such brave, and tender, and gentle things to me, I felt
quite light and strong after it, and never had any more fear. My mother
brought our old medical man, who attended me when I was a poor sickly
child. He said my constitution was quite changed, and that I'm fit for
anything now. If it hadn't, I couldn't have stood three days of this
illness. That's all thanks to you, and the games you've made me fond
of.”

“More thanks to old Martin,” said Tom; “he's been your real friend.”

“Nonsense, Tom; he never could have done for me what you have.”

“Well, I don't know; I did little enough. Did they tell you--you won't
mind hearing it now, I know--that poor Thompson died last week? The
other three boys are getting quite round, like you.”

“Oh yes, I heard of it.”

Then Tom, who was quite full of it, told Arthur of the burial-service
in the chapel, and how it had impressed him, and, he believed, all the
other boys. “And though the Doctor never said a word about it,” said he,
“and it was a half-holiday and match-day, there wasn't a game played in
the close all the afternoon, and the boys all went about as if it were
Sunday.”

“I'm very glad of it,” said Arthur. “But, Tom, I've had such strange
thoughts about death lately. I've never told a soul of them, not even my
mother. Sometimes I think they're wrong, but, do you know, I don't think
in my heart I could be sorry at the death of any of my friends.”

Tom was taken quite aback. “What in the world is the young un after
now?” thought he; “I've swallowed a good many of his crotchets, but this
altogether beats me. He can't be quite right in his head.” He didn't
want to say a word, and shifted about uneasily in the dark; however,
Arthur seemed to be waiting for an answer, so at last he said, “I don't
think I quite see what you mean, Geordie. One's told so often to think
about death that I've tried it on sometimes, especially this last week.
But we won't talk of it now. I'd better go. You're getting tired, and I
shall do you harm.”

“No, no; indeed I ain't, Tom. You must stop till nine; there's only
twenty minutes. I've settled you shall stop till nine. And oh! do let me
talk to you--I must talk to you. I see it's just as I feared. You think
I'm half mad. Don't you, now?”

“Well, I did think it odd what you said, Geordie, as you ask me.”

Arthur paused a moment, and then said quickly, “I'll tell you how it all
happened. At first, when I was sent to the sick-room, and found I had
really got the fever, I was terribly frightened. I thought I should
die, and I could not face it for a moment. I don't think it was sheer
cowardice at first, but I thought how hard it was to be taken away from
my mother and sisters and you all, just as I was beginning to see my way
to many things, and to feel that I might be a man and do a man's work.
To die without having fought, and worked, and given one's life away,
was too hard to bear. I got terribly impatient, and accused God of
injustice, and strove to justify myself. And the harder I strove the
deeper I sank. Then the image of my dear father often came across me,
but I turned from it. Whenever it came, a heavy, numbing throb seemed to
take hold of my heart, and say, 'Dead-dead-dead.' And I cried out, 'The
living, the living shall praise Thee, O God; the dead cannot praise
thee. There is no work in the grave; in the night no man can work. But
I can work. I can do great things. I will do great things. Why wilt thou
slay me?' And so I struggled and plunged, deeper and deeper, and went
down into a living black tomb. I was alone there, with no power to stir
or think; alone with myself; beyond the reach of all human fellowship;
beyond Christ's reach, I thought, in my nightmare. You, who are brave
and bright and strong, can have no idea of that agony. Pray to God you
never may. Pray as for your life.”

Arthur stopped--from exhaustion, Tom thought; but what between his fear
lest Arthur should hurt himself, his awe, and his longing for him to go
on, he couldn't ask, or stir to help him.

Presently he went on, but quite calm and slow. “I don't know how long
I was in that state--for more than a day, I know; for I was quite
conscious, and lived my outer life all the time, and took my medicines,
and spoke to my mother, and heard what they said. But I didn't take much
note of time. I thought time was over for me, and that that tomb was
what was beyond. Well, on last Sunday morning, as I seemed to lie in
that tomb, alone, as I thought, for ever and ever, the black, dead wall
was cleft in two, and I was caught up and borne through into the light
by some great power, some living, mighty spirit. Tom, do you remember
the living creatures and the wheels in Ezekiel? It was just like that.
'When they went, I heard the noise of their wings, like the noise of
great waters, as the voice of the Almighty, the voice of speech, as the
noise of an host; when they stood, they let down their wings.' 'And
they went every one straight forward: whither the spirit was to go, they
went; and they turned not when they went.' And we rushed through the
bright air, which was full of myriads of living creatures, and paused
on the brink of a great river. And the power held me up, and I knew that
that great river was the grave, and death dwelt there, but not the death
I had met in the black tomb. That, I felt, was gone for ever. For on the
other bank of the great river I saw men and women and children rising up
pure and bright, and the tears were wiped from their eyes, and they put
on glory and strength, and all weariness and pain fell away. And beyond
were a multitude which no man could number, and they worked at some
great work; and they who rose from the river went on and joined in the
work. They all worked, and each worked in a different way, but all at
the same work. And I saw there my father, and the men in the old town
whom I knew when I was a child--many a hard, stern man, who never came
to church, and whom they called atheist and infidel. There they were,
side by side with my father, whom I had seen toil and die for them, and
women and little children, and the seal was on the foreheads of all. And
I longed to see what the work was, and could not; so I tried to plunge
in the river, for I thought I would join them, but I could not. Then I
looked about to see how they got into the river. And this I could not
see, but I saw myriads on this side, and they too worked, and I knew
that it was the same work, and the same seal was on their foreheads. And
though I saw that there was toil and anguish in the work of these, and
that most that were working were blind and feeble, yet I longed no more
to plunge into the river, but more and more to know what the work was.
And as I looked I saw my mother and my sisters, and I saw the Doctor,
and you, Tom, and hundreds more whom I knew; and at last I saw myself
too, and I was toiling and doing ever so little a piece of the great
work. Then it all melted away, and the power left me, and as it left
me I thought I heard a voice say, 'The vision is for an appointed time;
though it tarry, wait for it, for in the end it shall speak and not lie,
it shall surely come, it shall not tarry.' It was early morning I know,
then--it was so quiet and cool, and my mother was fast asleep in the
chair by my bedside; but it wasn't only a dream of mine. I know it
wasn't a dream. Then I fell into a deep sleep, and only woke after
afternoon chapel; and the Doctor came and gave me the Sacrament, as I
told you. I told him and my mother I should get well--I knew I should;
but I couldn't tell them why. Tom,” said Arthur gently, after another
minute, “do you see why I could not grieve now to see my dearest friend
die? It can't be--it isn't--all fever or illness. God would never have
let me see it so clear if it wasn't true. I don't understand it all yet;
it will take me my life and longer to do that--to find out what the work
is.”

When Arthur stopped there was a long pause. Tom could not speak; he was
almost afraid to breathe, lest he should break the train of Arthur's
thoughts. He longed to hear more, and to ask questions. In another
minute nine o'clock struck, and a gentle tap at the door called them
both back into the world again. They did not answer, however, for a
moment; and so the door opened, and a lady came in carrying a candle.

She went straight to the sofa, and took hold of Arthur's hand, and then
stooped down and kissed him.

“My dearest boy, you feel a little feverish again. Why didn't you have
lights? You've talked too much, and excited yourself in the dark.”

“Oh no, mother; you can't think how well I feel. I shall start with
you to-morrow for Devonshire. But, mother, here's my friend--here's Tom
Brown. You know him?”

“Yes, indeed; I've known him for years,” she said, and held out her
hand to Tom, who was now standing up behind the sofa. This was Arthur's
mother: tall and slight and fair, with masses of golden hair drawn back
from the broad, white forehead, and the calm blue eye meeting his so
deep and open--the eye that he knew so well, for it was his friend's
over again, and the lovely, tender mouth that trembled while he
looked--she stood there, a woman of thirty-eight, old enough to be his
mother, and one whose face showed the lines which must be written on the
faces of good men's wives and widows, but he thought he had never seen
anything so beautiful. He couldn't help wondering if Arthur's sisters
were like her.

Tom held her hand, and looked on straight in her face; he could neither
let it go nor speak.

“Now, Tom,” said Arthur, laughing, “where are your manners? You'll stare
my mother out of countenance.” Tom dropped the little hand with a sigh.
“There, sit down, both of you.--Here, dearest mother; there's room
here.” And he made a place on the sofa for her.--“Tom, you needn't go;
I'm sure you won't be called up at first lesson.” Tom felt that he
would risk being floored at every lesson for the rest of his natural
school-life sooner than go, so sat down. “And now,” said Arthur, “I have
realized one of the dearest wishes of my life--to see you two together.”

And then he led away the talk to their home in Devonshire, and the
red, bright earth, and the deep green combes, and the peat streams like
cairngorm pebbles, and the wild moor with its high, cloudy tors for a
giant background to the picture, till Tom got jealous, and stood up for
the clear chalk streams, and the emerald water meadows and great elms
and willows of the dear old royal county, as he gloried to call it. And
the mother sat on quiet and loving, rejoicing in their life. The quarter
to ten struck, and the bell rang for bed, before they had well begun
their talk, as it seemed.

Then Tom rose with a sigh to go.

“Shall I see you in the morning, Geordie?” said he, as he shook his
friend's hand. “Never mind, though; you'll be back next half. And I
shan't forget the house of Rimmon.”

Arthur's mother got up and walked with him to the door, and there gave
him her hand again; and again his eyes met that deep, loving look, which
was like a spell upon him. Her voice trembled slightly as she said,
“Good-night. You are one who knows what our Father has promised to the
friend of the widow and the fatherless. May He deal with you as you have
dealt with me and mine!”

Tom was quite upset; he mumbled something about owing everything good in
him to Geordie, looked in her face again, pressed her hand to his lips,
and rushed downstairs to his study, where he sat till old Thomas came
kicking at the door, to tell him his allowance would be stopped if he
didn't go off to bed. (It would have been stopped anyhow, but that he
was a great favourite with the old gentleman, who loved to come out in
the afternoons into the close to Tom's wicket, and bowl slow twisters to
him, and talk of the glories of bygone Surrey heroes, with whom he
had played former generations.) So Tom roused himself, and took up
his candle to go to bed; and then for the first time was aware of
a beautiful new fishing-rod, with old Eton's mark on it, and a
splendidly-bound Bible, which lay on his table, on the title-page
of which was written--“TOM BROWN, from his affectionate and grateful
friends, Frances Jane Arthur; George Arthur.”

I leave you all to guess how he slept, and what he dreamt of.



CHAPTER VII--HARRY EAST'S DILEMMAS AND DELIVERANCES.

     “The Holy Supper is kept indeed,
     In whatso we share with another's need
     Not that which we give, but what we share,
     For the gift without the giver is bare.
     Who bestows himself with his alms feeds three,
     Himself, his hungering neighbour and Me.”
      --LOWELL, The Vision of Sir Launfal.

The next morning, after breakfast, Tom, East, and Gower met as usual
to learn their second lesson together. Tom had been considering how to
break his proposal of giving up the crib to the others, and having found
no better way (as indeed none better can ever be found by man or boy),
told them simply what had happened; how he had been to see Arthur, who
had talked to him upon the subject, and what he had said, and for his
part he had made up his mind, and wasn't going to use cribs any more;
and not being quite sure of his ground, took the high and pathetic tone,
and was proceeding to say “how that, having learnt his lessons with
them for so many years, it would grieve him much to put an end to the
arrangement, and he hoped, at any rate, that if they wouldn't go on
with him, they should still be just as good friends, and respect one
another's motives; but--”

Here the other boys, who had been listening with open eyes and ears,
burst in,--

“Stuff and nonsense!” cried Gower. “Here, East, get down the crib and
find the place.”

“O Tommy, Tommy!” said East, proceeding to do as he was bidden, “that it
should ever have come to this! I knew Arthur'd be the ruin of you some
day, and you of me. And now the time's come.” And he made a doleful
face.

“I don't know about ruin,” answered Tom; “I know that you and I would
have had the sack long ago if it hadn't been for him. And you know it as
well as I.”

“Well, we were in a baddish way before he came, I own; but this new
crotchet of his is past a joke.”

“Let's give it a trial, Harry; come. You know how often he has been
right and we wrong.”

“Now, don't you two be jawing away about young Square-toes,” struck in
Gower. “He's no end of a sucking wiseacre, I dare say; but we've no time
to lose, and I've got the fives court at half-past nine.”

“I say, Gower,” said Tom appealingly, “be a good fellow, and let's try
if we can't get on without the crib.”

“What! in this chorus? Why, we shan't get through ten lines.”

“I say, Tom,” cried East, having hit on a new idea, “don't you remember,
when we were in the upper fourth, and old Momus caught me construing
off the leaf of a crib which I'd torn out and put in my book, and which
would float out on to the floor, he sent me up to be flogged for it?”

“Yes, I remember it very well.”

“Well, the Doctor, after he'd flogged me, told me himself that he didn't
flog me for using a translation, but for taking it in to lesson, and
using it there when I hadn't learnt a word before I came in. He said
there was no harm in using a translation to get a clue to hard passages,
if you tried all you could first to make them out without.”

“Did he, though?” said Tom; “then Arthur must be wrong.”

“Of course he is,” said Gower--“the little prig. We'll only use the crib
when we can't construe without it.--Go ahead, East.”

And on this agreement they started--Tom, satisfied with having made his
confession, and not sorry to have a locus penitentiae, and not to be
deprived altogether of the use of his old and faithful friend.

The boys went on as usual, each taking a sentence in turn, and the crib
being handed to the one whose turn it was to construe. Of course
Tom couldn't object to this, as, was it not simply lying there to be
appealed to in case the sentence should prove too hard altogether for
the construer? But it must be owned that Gower and East did not make
very tremendous exertions to conquer their sentences before having
recourse to its help. Tom, however, with the most heroic virtue and
gallantry, rushed into his sentence, searching in a high-minded manner
for nominative and verb, and turning over his dictionary frantically for
the first hard word that stopped him. But in the meantime Gower, who
was bent on getting to fives, would peep quietly into the crib, and then
suggest, “Don't you think this is the meaning?” “I think you must take
it this way, Brown.” And as Tom didn't see his way to not profiting by
these suggestions, the lesson went on about as quickly as usual, and
Gower was able to start for the fives court within five minutes of the
half-hour.

When Tom and East were left face to face, they looked at one another for
a minute, Tom puzzled, and East chokefull of fun, and then burst into a
roar of laughter.

“Well, Tom,” said East, recovering himself, “I don t see any objection
to the new way. It's about as good as the old one, I think, besides the
advantage it gives one of feeling virtuous, and looking down on one's
neighbours.”

Tom shoved his hand into his back hair. “I ain't so sure,” said he; “you
two fellows carried me off my legs. I don't think we really tried one
sentence fairly. Are you sure you remember what the Doctor said to you?”

“Yes. And I'll swear I couldn't make out one of my sentences to-day--no,
nor ever could. I really don't remember,” said East, speaking slowly and
impressively, “to have come across one Latin or Greek sentence this half
that I could go and construe by the light of nature. Whereby I am sure
Providence intended cribs to be used.”

“The thing to find out,” said Tom meditatively, “is how long one ought
to grind at a sentence without looking at the crib. Now I think if one
fairly looks out all the words one don't know, and then can't hit it,
that's enough.”

“To be sure, Tommy,” said East demurely, but with a merry twinkle in his
eye. “Your new doctrine too, old fellow,” added he, “when one comes to
think of it, is a cutting at the root of all school morality. You'll
take away mutual help, brotherly love, or, in the vulgar tongue, giving
construes, which I hold to be one of our highest virtues. For how can
you distinguish between getting a construe from another boy and using a
crib? Hang it, Tom, if you're going to deprive all our school-fellows
of the chance of exercising Christian benevolence and being good
Samaritans, I shall cut the concern.”

“I wish you wouldn't joke about it, Harry; it's hard enough to see one's
way--a precious sight harder than I thought last night. But I suppose
there's a use and an abuse of both, and one'll get straight enough
somehow. But you can't make out, anyhow, that one has a right to use old
vulgus-books and copy-books.”

“Hullo, more heresy! How fast a fellow goes downhill when he once gets
his head before his legs. Listen to me, Tom. Not use old vulgus-books!
Why, you Goth, ain't we to take the benefit of the wisdom and admire and
use the work of past generations? Not use old copy-books! Why, you
might as well say we ought to pull down Westminster Abbey, and put up a
go-to-meeting shop with churchwarden windows; or never read Shakespeare,
but only Sheridan Knowles. Think of all the work and labour that our
predecessors have bestowed on these very books; and are we to make their
work of no value?”

“I say, Harry, please don't chaff; I'm really serious.”

“And then, is it not our duty to consult the pleasure of others rather
than our own, and above all, that of our masters? Fancy, then, the
difference to them in looking over a vulgus which has been carefully
touched and retouched by themselves and others, and which must bring
them a sort of dreamy pleasure, as if they'd met the thought
or expression of it somewhere or another--before they were born
perhaps--and that of cutting up, and making picture-frames round all
your and my false quantities, and other monstrosities. Why, Tom, you
wouldn't be so cruel as never to let old Momus hum over the 'O genus
humanum' again, and then look up doubtingly through his spectacles, and
end by smiling and giving three extra marks for it--just for old sake's
sake, I suppose.”

“Well,” said Tom, getting up in something as like a huff as he was
capable of, “it's deuced hard that when a fellow's really trying to do
what he ought, his best friends'll do nothing but chaff him and try to
put him down.” And he stuck his books under his arm and his hat on his
head, preparatory to rushing out into the quadrangle, to testify with
his own soul of the faithlessness of friendships.

“Now don't be an ass, Tom,” said East, catching hold of him; “you know
me well enough by this time; my bark's worse than my bite. You can't
expect to ride your new crotchet without anybody's trying to stick a
nettle under his tail and make him kick you off--especially as we shall
all have to go on foot still. But now sit down, and let's go over it
again. I'll be as serious as a judge.”

Then Tom sat himself down on the table, and waxed eloquent about all the
righteousnesses and advantages of the new plan, as was his wont whenever
he took up anything, going into it as if his life depended upon it, and
sparing no abuse which he could think of, of the opposite method, which
he denounced as ungentlemanly, cowardly, mean, lying, and no one knows
what besides. “Very cool of Tom,” as East thought, but didn't say,
“seeing as how he only came out of Egypt himself last night at bedtime.”

“Well, Tom,” said he at last, “you see, when you and I came to school
there were none of these sort of notions. You may be right--I dare say
you are. Only what one has always felt about the masters is, that it's
a fair trial of skill and last between us and them--like a match at
football or a battle. We're natural enemies in school--that's the fact.
We've got to learn so much Latin and Greek, and do so many verses, and
they've got to see that we do it. If we can slip the collar and do so
much less without getting caught, that's one to us. If they can get more
out of us, or catch us shirking, that's one to them. All's fair in war
but lying. If I run my luck against theirs, and go into school without
looking at my lessons, and don't get called up, why am I a snob or a
sneak? I don't tell the master I've learnt it. He's got to find out
whether I have or not. What's he paid for? If he calls me up and I get
floored, he makes me write it out in Greek and English. Very good. He's
caught me, and I don't grumble. I grant you, if I go and snivel to him,
and tell him I've really tried to learn it, but found it so hard without
a translation, or say I've had a toothache, or any humbug of that kind,
I'm a snob. That's my school morality; it's served me, and you too, Tom,
for the matter of that, these five years. And it's all clear and fair,
no mistake about it. We understand it, and they understand it, and I
don't know what we're to come to with any other.”

Tom looked at him pleased and a little puzzled. He had never heard
East speak his mind seriously before, and couldn't help feeling how
completely he had hit his own theory and practice up to that time.

“Thank you, old fellow,” said he. “You're a good old brick to be
serious, and not put out with me. I said more than I meant, I dare say,
only you see I know I'm right. Whatever you and Gower and the rest do, I
shall hold on. I must. And as it's all new and an uphill game, you see,
one must hit hard and hold on tight at first.”

“Very good,” said East; “hold on and hit away, only don't hit under the
line.”

“But I must bring you over, Harry, or I shan't be comfortable. Now, I'll
allow all you've said. We've always been honourable enemies with the
masters. We found a state of war when we came, and went into it of
course. Only don't you think things are altered a good deal? I don't
feel as I used to the masters. They seem to me to treat one quite
differently.”

“Yes, perhaps they do,” said East; “there's a new set you see, mostly,
who don't feel sure of themselves yet. They don't want to fight till
they know the ground.”

“I don't think it's only that,” said Tom. “And then the Doctor, he does
treat one so openly, and like a gentleman, and as if one was working
with him.”

“Well, so he does,” said East; “he's a splendid fellow, and when I get
into the sixth I shall act accordingly. Only you know he has nothing to
do with our lessons now, except examining us. I say, though,” looking at
his watch, “it's just the quarter. Come along.”

As they walked out they got a message, to say that Arthur was just
starting, and would like to say goodbye. So they went down to the
private entrance of the School-house, and found an open carriage,
with Arthur propped up with pillows in it, looking already better, Tom
thought.

They jumped up on to the steps to shake hands with him, and Tom mumbled
thanks for the presents he had found in his study, and looked round
anxiously for Arthur's mother.

East, who had fallen back into his usual humour, looked quaintly at
Arthur, and said,--

“So you've been at it again, through that hot-headed convert of yours
there. He's been making our lives a burden to us all the morning about
using cribs. I shall get floored to a certainty at second lesson, if I'm
called up.”

Arthur blushed and looked down. Tom struck in,--

“Oh, it's all right. He's converted already; he always comes through the
mud after us, grumbling and sputtering.”

The clock struck, and they had to go off to school, wishing Arthur a
pleasant holiday, Tom, lingering behind a moment to send his thanks and
love to Arthur's mother.

Tom renewed the discussion after second lesson, and succeeded so far as
to get East to promise to give the new plan a fair trial.

Encouraged by his success, in the evening, when they were sitting alone
in the large study, where East lived now almost, “vice Arthur on leave,”
 after examining the new fishing-rod, which both pronounced to be the
genuine article (“play enough to throw a midge tied on a single
hair against the wind, and strength enough to hold a grampus”), they
naturally began talking about Arthur. Tom, who was still bubbling over
with last night's scene and all the thoughts of the last week, and
wanting to clinch and fix the whole in his own mind, which he could
never do without first going through the process of belabouring somebody
else with it all, suddenly rushed into the subject of Arthur's illness,
and what he had said about death.

East had given him the desired opening. After a serio-comic grumble,
“that life wasn't worth having, now they were tied to a young beggar
who was always 'raising his standard;' and that he, East, was like a
prophet's donkey, who was obliged to struggle on after the donkey-man
who went after the prophet; that he had none of the pleasure of starting
the new crotchets, and didn't half understand them, but had to take the
kicks and carry the luggage as if he had all the fun,” he threw his legs
up on to the sofa, and put his hands behind his head, and said,--

“Well, after all, he's the most wonderful little fellow I ever came
across. There ain't such a meek, humble boy in the school. Hanged if
I don't think now, really, Tom, that he believes himself a much worse
fellow than you or I, and that he don't think he has more influence in
the house than Dot Bowles, who came last quarter, and isn't ten yet. But
he turns you and me round his little finger, old boy--there's no mistake
about that.” And East nodded at Tom sagaciously.

“Now or never!” thought Tom; so, shutting his eyes and hardening his
heart, he went straight at it, repeating all that Arthur had said, as
near as he could remember it, in the very words, and all he had himself
thought. The life seemed to ooze out of it as he went on, and several
times he felt inclined to stop, give it all up, and change the subject.
But somehow he was borne on; he had a necessity upon him to speak it all
out, and did so. At the end he looked at East with some anxiety, and was
delighted to see that that young gentleman was thoughtful and attentive.
The fact is, that in the stage of his inner life at which Tom had lately
arrived, his intimacy with and friendship for East could not have lasted
if he had not made him aware of, and a sharer in, the thoughts that were
beginning to exercise him. Nor indeed could the friendship have lasted
if East had shown no sympathy with these thoughts; so that it was a
great relief to have unbosomed himself, and to have found that his
friend could listen.

Tom had always had a sort of instinct that East's levity was only
skin-deep, and this instinct was a true one. East had no want of
reverence for anything he felt to be real; but his was one of those
natures that burst into what is generally called recklessness and
impiety the moment they feel that anything is being poured upon them for
their good which does not come home to their inborn sense of right, or
which appeals to anything like self-interest in them. Daring and
honest by nature, and outspoken to an extent which alarmed all
respectabilities, with a constant fund of animal health and spirits
which he did not feel bound to curb in any way, he had gained for
himself with the steady part of the school (including as well those who
wished to appear steady as those who really were so) the character of a
boy with whom it would be dangerous to be intimate; while his own hatred
of everything cruel, or underhand, or false, and his hearty respect for
what he would see to be good and true, kept off the rest.

Tom, besides being very like East in many points of character, had
largely developed in his composition the capacity for taking the weakest
side. This is not putting it strongly enough: it was a necessity with
him; he couldn't help it any more than he could eating or drinking. He
could never play on the strongest side with any heart at football or
cricket, and was sure to make friends with any boy who was unpopular, or
down on his luck.

Now, though East was not what is generally called unpopular, Tom felt
more and more every day, as their characters developed, that he
stood alone, and did not make friends among their contemporaries, and
therefore sought him out. Tom was himself much more popular, for his
power of detecting humbug was much less acute, and his instincts were
much more sociable. He was at this period of his life, too, largely
given to taking people for what they gave themselves out to be; but
his singleness of heart, fearlessness, and honesty were just what East
appreciated, and thus the two had been drawn into great intimacy.

This intimacy had not been interrupted by Tom's guardianship of Arthur.

East had often, as has been said, joined them in reading the Bible; but
their discussions had almost always turned upon the characters of the
men and women of whom they read, and not become personal to themselves.
In fact, the two had shrunk from personal religious discussion, not
knowing how it might end, and fearful of risking a friendship very dear
to both, and which they felt somehow, without quite knowing why,
would never be the same, but either tenfold stronger or sapped at its
foundation, after such a communing together.

What a bother all this explaining is! I wish we could get on without
it. But we can't. However, you'll all find, if you haven't found it out
already, that a time comes in every human friendship when you must go
down into the depths of yourself, and lay bare what is there to your
friend, and wait in fear for his answer. A few moments may do it; and
it may be (most likely will be, as you are English boys) that you will
never do it but once. But done it must be, if the friendship is to be
worth the name. You must find what is there, at the very root and bottom
of one another's hearts; and if you are at one there, nothing on earth
can or at least ought to sunder you.

East had remained lying down until Tom finished speaking, as if fearing
to interrupt him; he now sat up at the table, and leant his head on one
hand, taking up a pencil with the other, and working little holes with
it in the table-cover. After a bit he looked up, stopped the pencil,
and said, “Thank you very much, old fellow. There's no other boy in
the house would have done it for me but you or Arthur. I can see well
enough,” he went on, after a pause, “all the best big fellows look on me
with suspicion; they think I'm a devil-may-care, reckless young scamp.
So I am--eleven hours out of twelve, but not the twelfth. Then all of
our contemporaries worth knowing follow suit, of course: we're very good
friends at games and all that, but not a soul of them but you and
Arthur ever tried to break through the crust, and see whether there was
anything at the bottom of me; and then the bad ones I won't stand and
they know that.”

“Don't you think that's half fancy, Harry?”

“Not a bit of it,” said East bitterly, pegging away with his pencil.
“I see it all plain enough. Bless you, you think everybody's as
straightforward and kindhearted as you are.”

“Well, but what's the reason of it? There must be a reason. You can play
all the games as well as any one and sing the best song, and are the
best company in the house. You fancy you're not liked, Harry. It's all
fancy.”

“I only wish it was, Tom. I know I could be popular enough with all the
bad ones, but that I won't have, and the good ones won't have me.”

“Why not?” persisted Tom; “you don't drink or swear, or get out at
night; you never bully, or cheat at lessons. If you only showed you
liked it, you'd have all the best fellows in the house running after
you.”

“Not I,” said East. Then with an effort he went on, “I'll tell you what
it is. I never stop the Sacrament. I can see, from the Doctor downwards,
how that tells against me.”

“Yes, I've seen that,” said Tom, “and I've been very sorry for it, and
Arthur and I have talked about it. I've often thought of speaking to
you, but it's so hard to begin on such subjects. I'm very glad you've
opened it. Now, why don't you?”

“I've never been confirmed,” said East.

“Not been confirmed!” said Tom, in astonishment. “I never thought of
that. Why weren't you confirmed with the rest of us nearly three years
ago? I always thought you'd been confirmed at home.”

“No,” answered East sorrowfully; “you see this was how it happened. Last
Confirmation was soon after Arthur came, and you were so taken up with
him I hardly saw either of you. Well, when the Doctor sent round for us
about it, I was living mostly with Green's set. You know the sort. They
all went in. I dare say it was all right, and they got good by it; I
don't want to judge them. Only all I could see of their reasons drove me
just the other way. 'Twas 'because the Doctor liked it;' 'no boy got
on who didn't stay the Sacrament;' it was the 'correct thing,' in fact,
like having a good hat to wear on Sundays. I couldn't stand it. I didn't
feel that I wanted to lead a different life. I was very well content
as I was, and I wasn't going to sham religious to curry favour with the
Doctor, or any one else.”

East stopped speaking, and pegged away more diligently than ever with
his pencil. Tom was ready to cry. He felt half sorry at first that he
had been confirmed himself. He seemed to have deserted his earliest
friend--to have left him by himself at his worst need for those long
years. He got up and went and sat by East, and put his arm over his
shoulder.

“Dear old boy,” he said, “how careless and selfish I've been. But why
didn't you come and talk to Arthur and me?”

“I wish to Heaven I had,” said East, “but I was a fool. It's too late
talking of it now.”

“Why too late? You want to be confirmed now, don't you?”

“I think so,” said East. “I've thought about it a good deal; only, often
I fancy I must be changing, because I see it's to do me good here--just
what stopped me last time. And then I go back again.”

“I'll tell you now how 'twas with me,” said Tom warmly. “If it hadn't
been for Arthur, I should have done just as you did. I hope I should. I
honour you for it. But then he made it out just as if it was taking the
weak side before all the world--going in once for all against everything
that's strong and rich, and proud and respectable, a little band of
brothers against the whole world. And the Doctor seemed to say so too,
only he said a great deal more.”

“Ah!” groaned East, “but there again, that's just another of my
difficulties whenever I think about the matter. I don't want to be one
of your saints, one of your elect, whatever the right phrase is. My
sympathies are all the other way--with the many, the poor devils who run
about the streets and don't go to church. Don't stare, Tom; mind, I'm
telling you all that's in my heart--as far as I know it--but it's all a
muddle. You must be gentle with me if you want to land me. Now I've seen
a deal of this sort of religion; I was bred up in it, and I can't stand
it. If nineteen-twentieths of the world are to be left to uncovenanted
mercies, and that sort of thing, which means in plain English to go to
hell, and the other twentieth are to rejoice at it all, why--”

“Oh! but, Harry, they ain't, they don't,” broke in Tom, really shocked.
“Oh, how I wish Arthur hadn't gone! I'm such a fool about these things.
But it's all you want too, East; it is indeed. It cuts both ways
somehow, being confirmed and taking the Sacrament. It makes you feel on
the side of all the good and all the bad too, of everybody in the world.
Only there's some great dark strong power, which is crushing you and
everybody else. That's what Christ conquered, and we've got to fight.
What a fool I am! I can't explain. If Arthur were only here!”

“I begin to get a glimmering of what you mean,” said East.

“I say, now,” said Tom eagerly, “do you remember how we both hated
Flashman?”

“Of course I do,” said East; “I hate him still. What then?”

“Well, when I came to take the Sacrament, I had a great struggle about
that. I tried to put him out of my head; and when I couldn't do that, I
tried to think of him as evil--as something that the Lord who was loving
me hated, and which I might hate too. But it wouldn't do. I broke down;
I believe Christ Himself broke me down. And when the Doctor gave me the
bread and wine, and leant over me praying, I prayed for poor Flashman,
as if it had been you or Arthur.”

East buried his face in his hands on the table. Tom could feel the table
tremble. At last he looked up. “Thank you again, Tom,” said he; “you
don't know what you may have done for me to-night. I think I see now how
the right sort of sympathy with poor devils is got at.”

“And you'll stop the Sacrament next time, won't you?” said Tom.

“Can I, before I'm confirmed?”

“Go and ask the Doctor.”

“I will.”

That very night, after prayers, East followed the Doctor, and the old
verger bearing the candle, upstairs. Tom watched, and saw the Doctor
turn round when he heard footsteps following him closer than usual, and
say, “Hah, East! Do you want to speak to me, my man?”

“If you please, sir.” And the private door closed, and Tom went to his
study in a state of great trouble of mind.

It was almost an hour before East came back. Then he rushed in
breathless.

“Well, it's all right,” he shouted, seizing Tom by the hand. “I feel as
if a ton weight were off my mind.”

“Hurrah,” said Tom. “I knew it would be; but tell us all about it.”

“Well, I just told him all about it. You can't think how kind and gentle
he was, the great grim man, whom I've feared more than anybody on earth.
When I stuck, he lifted me just as if I'd been a little child. And he
seemed to know all I'd felt, and to have gone through it all. And I
burst out crying--more than I've done this five years; and he sat down
by me, and stroked my head; and I went blundering on, and told him
all--much worse things than I've told you. And he wasn't shocked a bit,
and didn't snub me, or tell me I was a fool, and it was all nothing but
pride or wickedness, though I dare say it was. And he didn't tell me
not to follow out my thoughts, and he didn't give me any cut-and-dried
explanation. But when I'd done he just talked a bit. I can hardly
remember what he said yet; but it seemed to spread round me like
healing, and strength, and light, and to bear me up, and plant me on a
rock, where I could hold my footing and fight for myself. I don't know
what to do, I feel so happy. And it's all owing to you, dear old boy!”
 And he seized Tom's hand again.

“And you're to come to the Communion?” said Tom.

“Yes, and to be confirmed in the holidays.”

Tom's delight was as great as his friend's. But he hadn't yet had
out all his own talk, and was bent on improving the occasion: so he
proceeded to propound Arthur's theory about not being sorry for his
friends' deaths, which he had hitherto kept in the background, and by
which he was much exercised; for he didn't feel it honest to take what
pleased him, and throw over the rest, and was trying vigorously to
persuade himself that he should like all his best friends to die
off-hand.

But East's powers of remaining serious were exhausted, and in five
minutes he was saying the most ridiculous things he could think of, till
Tom was almost getting angry again.

Despite of himself, however, he couldn't help laughing and giving it up,
when East appealed to him with, “Well, Tom, you ain't going to punch my
head, I hope, because I insist upon being sorry when you got to earth?”

And so their talk finished for that time, and they tried to learn first
lesson, with very poor success, as appeared next morning, when they were
called up and narrowly escaped being floored, which ill-luck, however,
did not sit heavily on either of their souls.



CHAPTER VIII--TOM BROWN'S LAST MATCH.

     “Heaven grant the manlier heart, that timely ere
     Youth fly, with life's real tempest would be coping;
     The fruit of dreamy hoping
     Is, waking, blank despair.”--CLOUGH, Ambarvalia.

The curtain now rises upon the last act of our little drama, for
hard-hearted publishers warn me that a single volume must of necessity
have an end. Well, well! the pleasantest things must come to an end.
I little thought last long vacation, when I began these pages to help
while away some spare time at a watering-place, how vividly many an old
scene which had lain hid away for years in some dusty old corner of my
brain, would come back again, and stand before me as clear and bright as
if it had happened yesterday. The book has been a most grateful task
to me, and I only hope that all you, my dear young friends, who read it
(friends assuredly you must be, if you get as far as this), will be half
as sorry to come to the last stage as I am.

Not but what there has been a solemn and a sad side to it. As the old
scenes became living, and the actors in them became living too, many
a grave in the Crimea and distant India, as well as in the quiet
churchyards of our dear old country, seemed to open and send forth their
dead, and their voices and looks and ways were again in one's ears and
eyes, as in the old School-days. But this was not sad. How should it be,
if we believe as our Lord has taught us? How should it be, when one more
turn of the wheel, and we shall be by their sides again, learning from
them again, perhaps, as we did when we were new boys.

Then there were others of the old faces so dear to us once who had
somehow or another just gone clean out of sight. Are they dead or
living? We know not, but the thought of them brings no sadness with it.
Wherever they are, we can well believe they are doing God's work and
getting His wages.

But are there not some, whom we still see sometimes in the streets,
whose haunts and homes we know, whom we could probably find almost any
day in the week if we were set to do it, yet from whom we are really
farther than we are from the dead, and from those who have gone out of
our ken? Yes, there are and must be such; and therein lies the sadness
of old School memories. Yet of these our old comrades, from whom more
than time and space separate us, there are some by whose sides we can
feel sure that we shall stand again when time shall be no more. We may
think of one another now as dangerous fanatics or narrow bigots, with
whom no truce is possible, from whom we shall only sever more and more
to the end of our lives, whom it would be our respective duties to
imprison or hang, if we had the power. We must go our way, and they
theirs, as long as flesh and spirit hold together; but let our own Rugby
poet speak words of healing for this trial:--

     “To veer how vain! on, onward strain,
     Brave barks, in light, in darkness too;
     Through winds and tides one compass guides,--
     To that, and your own selves, be true.

     “But, O blithe breeze, and O great seas,
     Though ne'er that earliest parting past,
     On your wide plain they join again;
     Together lead them home at last.

     “One port, methought, alike they sought,
     One purpose hold where'er they fare.
     O bounding breeze, O rushing seas,
     At last, at last, unite them there!” *


     * Clough, Ambarvalia.

This is not mere longing; it is prophecy. So over these too, our old
friends, who are friends no more, we sorrow not as men without hope. It
is only for those who seem to us to have lost compass and purpose, and
to be driven helplessly on rocks and quicksands, whose lives are spent
in the service of the world, the flesh, and the devil, for self alone,
and not for their fellow-men, their country, or their God, that we must
mourn and pray without sure hope and without light, trusting only that
He, in whose hands they as well as we are, who has died for them as well
as for us, who sees all His creatures

     “With larger other eyes than ours,
     To make allowance for us all,”

will, in His own way and at His own time, lead them also home.

Another two years have passed, and it is again the end of the summer
half-year at Rugby; in fact, the School has broken up. The fifth-form
examinations were over last week, and upon them have followed the
speeches, and the sixth-form examinations for exhibitions; and they too
are over now. The boys have gone to all the winds of heaven, except the
town boys and the eleven, and the few enthusiasts besides who have asked
leave to stay in their houses to see the result of the cricket matches.
For this year the Wellesburn return match and the Marylebone match are
played at Rugby, to the great delight of the town and neighbourhood, and
the sorrow of those aspiring young cricketers who have been reckoning
for the last three months on showing off at Lord's ground.

The Doctor started for the Lakes yesterday morning, after an interview
with the captain of the eleven, in the presence of Thomas, at which he
arranged in what school the cricket dinners were to be, and all other
matters necessary for the satisfactory carrying out of the festivities,
and warned them as to keeping all spirituous liquors out of the close,
and having the gates closed by nine o'clock.

The Wellesburn match was played out with great success yesterday, the
School winning by three wickets; and to-day the great event of the
cricketing year, the Marylebone match, is being played. What a match it
has been! The London eleven came down by an afternoon train yesterday,
in time to see the end of the Wellesburn match; and as soon as it was
over, their leading men and umpire inspected the ground, criticising it
rather unmercifully. The captain of the School eleven, and one or
two others, who had played the Lord's match before, and knew old Mr.
Aislabie and several of the Lord's men, accompanied them; while the rest
of the eleven looked on from under the Three Trees with admiring eyes,
and asked one another the names of the illustrious strangers, and
recounted how many runs each of them had made in the late matches in
Bell's Life. They looked such hard-bitten, wiry, whiskered fellows that
their young adversaries felt rather desponding as to the result of the
morrow's match. The ground was at last chosen, and two men set to work
upon it to water and roll; and then, there being yet some half-hour of
daylight, some one had suggested a dance on the turf. The close was
half full of citizens and their families, and the idea was hailed
with enthusiasm. The cornopean player was still on the ground. In five
minutes the eleven and half a dozen of the Wellesburn and Marylebone men
got partners somehow or another, and a merry country-dance was going on,
to which every one flocked, and new couples joined in every minute, till
there were a hundred of them going down the middle and up again; and the
long line of school buildings looked gravely down on them, every window
glowing with the last rays of the western sun; and the rooks clanged
about in the tops of the old elms, greatly excited, and resolved on
having their country-dance too; and the great flag flapped lazily in the
gentle western breeze. Altogether it was a sight which would have made
glad the heart of our brave old founder, Lawrence Sheriff, if he were
half as good a fellow as I take him to have been. It was a cheerful
sight to see. But what made it so valuable in the sight of the captain
of the School eleven was that he there saw his young hands shaking
off their shyness and awe of the Lord's men, as they crossed hands and
capered about on the grass together; for the strangers entered into
it all, and threw away their cigars, and danced and shouted like boys;
while old Mr. Aislabie stood by looking on in his white hat, leaning on
a bat, in benevolent enjoyment. “This hop will be worth thirty runs to
us to-morrow, and will be the making of Raggles and Johnson,” thinks the
young leader, as he revolves many things in his mind, standing by the
side of Mr. Aislabie, whom he will not leave for a minute, for he
feels that the character of the School for courtesy is resting on his
shoulders.

But when a quarter to nine struck, and he saw old Thomas beginning
to fidget about with the keys in his hand, he thought of the Doctor's
parting monition, and stopped the cornopean at once, notwithstanding the
loud-voiced remonstrances from all sides; and the crowd scattered away
from the close, the eleven all going into the School-house, where supper
and beds were provided for them by the Doctor's orders.

Deep had been the consultations at supper as to the order of going in,
who should bowl the first over, whether it would be best to play steady
or freely; and the youngest hands declared that they shouldn't be a
bit nervous, and praised their opponents as the jolliest fellows in the
world, except perhaps their old friends the Wellesburn men. How far
a little good-nature from their elders will go with the right sort of
boys!

The morning had dawned bright and warm, to the intense relief of many
an anxious youngster, up betimes to mark the signs of the weather. The
eleven went down in a body before breakfast, for a plunge in the cold
bath in a corner of the close. The ground was in splendid order, and
soon after ten o'clock, before spectators had arrived, all was ready,
and two of the Lord's men took their places at the wickets--the School,
with the usual liberality of young hands, having put their adversaries
in first. Old Bailey stepped up to the wicket, and called play, and the
match has begun.

“Oh, well bowled! well bowled, Johnson!” cries the captain, catching
up the ball and sending it high above the rook trees, while the third
Marylebone man walks away from the wicket, and old Bailey gravely sets
up the middle stump again and puts the bails on.

“How many runs?” Away scamper three boys to the scoring table, and are
back again in a minute amongst the rest of the eleven, who are collected
together in a knot between wicket. “Only eighteen runs, and three
wickets down!” “Huzza for old Rugby!” sings out Jack Raggles, the
long-stop, toughest and burliest of boys, commonly called “Swiper Jack,”
 and forthwith stands on his head, and brandishes his legs in the air
in triumph, till the next boy catches hold of his heels, and throws him
over on to his back.

“Steady there; don't be such an ass, Jack,” says the captain; “we
haven't got the best wicket yet. Ah, look out now at cover-point,” adds
he, as he sees a long-armed bare-headed, slashing-looking player coming
to the wicket. “And, Jack, mind your hits. He steals more runs than any
man in England.”

And they all find that they have got their work to do now. The
newcomer's off-hitting is tremendous, and his running like a flash of
lightning. He is never in his ground except when his wicket is down.
Nothing in the whole game so trying to boys. He has stolen three byes in
the first ten minutes, and Jack Raggles is furious, and begins throwing
over savagely to the farther wicket, until he is sternly stopped by the
captain. It is all that young gentlemen can do to keep his team steady,
but he knows that everything depends on it, and faces his work bravely.
The score creeps up to fifty; the boys begin to look blank; and the
spectators, who are now mustering strong, are very silent. The ball
flies off his bat to all parts of the field, and he gives no rest and
no catches to any one. But cricket is full of glorious chances, and
the goddess who presides over it loves to bring down the most skilful
players. Johnson, the young bowler, is getting wild, and bowls a ball
almost wide to the off; the batter steps out and cuts it beautifully to
where cover-point is standing very deep--in fact almost off the ground.
The ball comes skimming and twisting along about three feet from the
ground; he rushes at it, and it sticks somehow or other in the fingers
of his left hand, to the utter astonishment of himself and the whole
field. Such a catch hasn't been made in the close for years, and the
cheering is maddening. “Pretty cricket,” says the captain, throwing
himself on the ground by the deserted wicket with a long breath. He
feels that a crisis has passed.

I wish I had space to describe the match--how the captain stumped the
next man off a leg-shooter, and bowled small cobs to old Mr. Aislabie,
who came in for the last wicket; how the Lord's men were out by
half-past twelve o'clock for ninety-eight runs; how the captain of
the School eleven went in first to give his men pluck, and scored
twenty-five in beautiful style; how Rugby was only four behind in
the first innings; what a glorious dinner they had in the fourth-form
school; and how the cover-point hitter sang the most topping comic
songs, and old Mr. Aislabie made the best speeches that ever were heard,
afterwards. But I haven't space--that's the fact; and so you must fancy
it all, and carry yourselves on to half-past seven o'clock, when the
School are again in, with five wickets down, and only thirty-two runs
to make to win. The Marylebone men played carelessly in their second
innings, but they are working like horses now to save the match.

There is much healthy, hearty, happy life scattered up and down the
close; but the group to which I beg to call your especial attention
is there, on the slope of the island, which looks towards the
cricket-ground. It consists of three figures; two are seated on a bench,
and one on the ground at their feet. The first, a tall, slight and
rather gaunt man, with a bushy eyebrow and a dry, humorous smile, is
evidently a clergyman. He is carelessly dressed, and looks rather used
up, which isn't much to be wondered at, seeing that he has just finished
six weeks of examination work; but there he basks, and spreads himself
out in the evening sun, bent on enjoying life, though he doesn't quite
know what to do with his arms and legs. Surely it is our friend the
young master, whom we have had glimpses of before, but his face has
gained a great deal since we last came across him.

And by his side, in white flannel shirt and trousers, straw hat, the
captain's belt, and the untanned yellow cricket shoes which all the
eleven wear, sits a strapping figure, near six feet high, with ruddy,
tanned face and whiskers, curly brown hair, and a laughing, dancing eye.
He is leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, and dandling
his favourite bat, with which he has made thirty or forty runs to-day,
in his strong brown hands. It is Tom Brown, grown into a young man
nineteen years old, a praepostor and captain of the eleven, spending
his last day as a Rugby boy, and, let us hope, as much wiser as he is
bigger, since we last had the pleasure of coming across him.

And at their feet on the warm, dry ground, similarly dressed, sits
Arthur, Turkish fashion, with his bat across his knees. He too is no
longer a boy--less of a boy, in fact, than Tom, if one may judge from
the thoughtfulness of his face, which is somewhat paler, too, than one
could wish; but his figure, though slight, is well knit and active, and
all his old timidity has disappeared, and is replaced by silent, quaint
fun, with which his face twinkles all over, as he listens to the broken
talk between the other two, in which he joins every now and then.

All three are watching the game eagerly, and joining in the cheering
which follows every good hit. It is pleasing to see the easy, friendly
footing which the pupils are on with their master, perfectly respectful,
yet with no reserve and nothing forced in their intercourse. Tom has
clearly abandoned the old theory of “natural enemies” in this case at
any rate.

But it is time to listen to what they are saying, and see what we can
gather out of it.

“I don't object to your theory,” says the master, “and I allow you have
made a fair case for yourself. But now, in such books as Aristophanes,
for instance, you've been reading a play this half with the Doctor,
haven't you?”

“Yes, the Knights,” answered Tom.

“Well, I'm sure you would have enjoyed the wonderful humour of it twice
as much if you had taken more pains with your scholarship.”

“Well, sir, I don't believe any boy in the form enjoyed the sets-to
between Cleon and the Sausage-seller more than I did--eh, Arthur?” said
Tom, giving him a stir with his foot.

“Yes, I must say he did,” said Arthur. “I think, sir, you've hit upon
the wrong book there.”

“Not a bit of it,” said the master. “Why, in those very passages of
arms, how can you thoroughly appreciate them unless you are master of
the weapons? and the weapons are the language, which you, Brown, have
never half worked at; and so, as I say, you must have lost all the
delicate shades of meaning which make the best part of the fun.”

“Oh, well played! bravo, Johnson!” shouted Arthur, dropping his bat and
clapping furiously, and Tom joined in with a “Bravo, Johnson!” which
might have been heard at the chapel.

“Eh! what was it? I didn't see,” inquired the master. “They only got one
run, I thought?”

“No, but such a ball, three-quarters length, and coming straight for his
leg bail. Nothing but that turn of the wrist could have saved him, and
he drew it away to leg for a safe one.--Bravo, Johnson!”

“How well they are bowling, though,” said Arthur; “they don't mean to be
beat, I can see.”

“There now,” struck in the master; “you see that's just what I have been
preaching this half-hour. The delicate play is the true thing. I don't
understand cricket, so I don't enjoy those fine draws which you tell me
are the best play, though when you or Raggles hit a ball hard away for
six I am as delighted as any one. Don't you see the analogy?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, looking up roguishly, “I see; only the
question remains whether I should have got most good by understanding
Greek particles or cricket thoroughly. I'm such a thick, I never should
have had time for both.”

“I see you are an incorrigible,” said the master, with a chuckle; “but
I refute you by an example. Arthur there has taken in Greek and cricket
too.”

“Yes, but no thanks to him; Greek came natural to him. Why, when he
first came I remember he used to read Herodotus for pleasure as I did
Don Quixote, and couldn't have made a false concord if he'd tried ever
so hard; and then I looked after his cricket.”

“Out! Bailey has given him out. Do you see, Tom?” cries Arthur. “How
foolish of them to run so hard.”

“Well, it can't be helped; he has played very well. Whose turn is it to
go in?”

“I don't know; they've got your list in the tent.”

“Let's go and see,” said Tom, rising; but at this moment Jack Raggles
and two or three more came running to the island moat.

“O Brown, mayn't I go in next?” shouts the Swiper.

“Whose name is next on the list?” says the captain.

“Winter's, and then Arthur's,” answers the boy who carries it; “but
there are only twenty-six runs to get, and no time to lose. I heard
Mr. Aislabie say that the stumps must be drawn at a quarter past eight
exactly.”

“Oh, do let the Swiper go in,” chorus the boys; so Tom yields against
his better judgment.

“I dare say now I've lost the match by this nonsense,” he says, as he
sits down again; “they'll be sure to get Jack's wicket in three or four
minutes; however, you'll have the chance, sir, of seeing a hard hit or
two,” adds he, smiling, and turning to the master.

“Come, none of your irony, Brown,” answers the master. “I'm beginning to
understand the game scientifically. What a noble game it is, too!”

“Isn't it? But it's more than a game. It's an institution,” said Tom.

“Yes,” said Arthur--“the birthright of British boys old and young, as
habeas corpus and trial by jury are of British men.”

“The discipline and reliance on one another which it teaches is
so valuable, I think,” went on the master, “it ought to be such an
unselfish game. It merges the individual in the eleven; he doesn't play
that he may win, but that his side may.”

“That's very true,” said Tom, “and that's why football and cricket,
now one comes to think of it, are such much better games than fives or
hare-and-hounds, or any others where the object is to come in first or
to win for oneself, and not that one's side may win.”

“And then the captain of the eleven!” said the master; “what a post is
his in our School-world! almost as hard as the Doctor's--requiring skill
and gentleness and firmness, and I know not what other rare qualities.”

“Which don't he may wish he may get!” said Tom, laughing; “at any rate
he hasn't got them yet, or he wouldn't have been such a flat to-night as
to let Jack Raggles go in out of his turn.”

“Ah, the Doctor never would have done that,” said Arthur demurely. “Tom,
you've a great deal to learn yet in the art of ruling.”

“Well, I wish you'd tell the Doctor so then, and get him to let me stop
till I'm twenty. I don't want to leave, I'm sure.”

“What a sight it is,” broke in the master, “the Doctor as a ruler!
Perhaps ours is the only little corner of the British Empire which
is thoroughly, wisely, and strongly ruled just now. I'm more and more
thankful every day of my life that I came here to be under him.”

“So am I, I'm sure,” said Tom, “and more and more sorry that I've got to
leave.”

“Every place and thing one sees here reminds one of some wise act of
his,” went on the master. “This island now--you remember the time,
Brown, when it was laid out in small gardens, and cultivated by
frost-bitten fags in February and March?”

“Of course I do,” said Tom; “didn't I hate spending two hours in the
afternoon grubbing in the tough dirt with the stump of a fives bat? But
turf-cart was good fun enough.”

“I dare say it was, but it was always leading to fights with the
townspeople; and then the stealing flowers out of all the gardens in
Rugby for the Easter show was abominable.”

“Well, so it was,” said Tom, looking down, “but we fags couldn't help
ourselves. But what has that to do with the Doctor's ruling?”

“A great deal, I think,” said the master; “what brought island-fagging
to an end?”

“Why, the Easter speeches were put off till midsummer,” said Tom, “and
the sixth had the gymnastic poles put up here.”

“Well, and who changed the time of the speeches, and put the idea of
gymnastic poles into the heads of their worships the sixth form?” said
the master.

“The Doctor, I suppose,” said Tom. “I never thought of that.”

“Of course you didn't,” said the master, “or else, fag as you were,
you would have shouted with the whole school against putting down old
customs. And that's the way that all the Doctor's reforms have been
carried out when he has been left to himself--quietly and naturally,
putting a good thing in the place of a bad, and letting the bad die out;
no wavering, and no hurry--the best thing that could be done for the
time being, and patience for the rest.”

“Just Tom's own way,” chimed in Arthur, nudging Tom with his
elbow--“driving a nail where it will go;” to which allusion Tom answered
by a sly kick.

“Exactly so,” said the master, innocent of the allusion and by-play.

Meantime Jack Raggles, with his sleeves tucked up above his great brown
elbows, scorning pads and gloves, has presented himself at the wicket;
and having run one for a forward drive of Johnson's, is about to receive
his first ball. There are only twenty-four runs to make, and four
wickets to go down--a winning match if they play decently steady. The
ball is a very swift one, and rises fast, catching Jack on the outside
of the thigh, and bounding away as if from india-rubber, while they
run two for a leg-bye amidst great applause and shouts from Jack's many
admirers. The next ball is a beautifully-pitched ball for the outer
stump, which the reckless and unfeeling Jack catches hold of, and hits
right round to leg for five, while the applause becomes deafening. Only
seventeen runs to get with four wickets! The game is all but ours!

It is over now, and Jack walks swaggering about his wicket, with his bat
over his shoulder, while Mr. Aislabie holds a short parley with his
men. Then the cover-point hitter, that cunning man, goes on to bowl slow
twisters. Jack waves his hand triumphantly towards the tent, as much as
to say, “See if I don't finish it all off now in three hits.”

Alas, my son Jack, the enemy is too old for thee. The first ball of the
over Jack steps out and meets, swiping with all his force. If he had
only allowed for the twist! But he hasn't, and so the ball goes spinning
up straight in the air, as if it would never come down again. Away runs
Jack, shouting and trusting to the chapter of accidents; but the bowler
runs steadily under it, judging every spin, and calling out, “I have
it,” catches it, and playfully pitches it on to the back of the stalwart
Jack, who is departing with a rueful countenance.

“I knew how it would be,” says Tom, rising. “Come along; the game's
getting very serious.”

So they leave the island and go to the tent; and after deep
consultation, Arthur is sent in, and goes off to the wicket with a last
exhortation from Tom to play steady and keep his bat straight. To the
suggestions that Winter is the best bat left, Tom only replies, “Arthur
is the steadiest, and Johnson will make the runs if the wicket is only
kept up.”

“I am surprised to see Arthur in the eleven,” said the master, as they
stood together in front of the dense crowd, which was now closing in
round the ground.

“Well, I'm not quite sure that he ought to be in for his play,” said
Tom, “but I couldn't help putting him in. It will do him so much good,
and you can't think what I owe him.”

The master smiled. The clock strikes eight, and the whole field becomes
fevered with excitement. Arthur, after two narrow escapes, scores one,
and Johnson gets the ball. The bowling and fielding are superb, and
Johnson's batting worthy the occasion. He makes here a two, and there a
one, managing to keep the ball to himself, and Arthur backs up and runs
perfectly. Only eleven runs to make now, and the crowd scarcely breathe.
At last Arthur gets the ball again, and actually drives it forward
for two, and feels prouder than when he got the three best prizes, at
hearing Tom's shout of joy, “Well played, well played, young un!”

But the next ball is too much for the young hand, and his bails fly
different ways. Nine runs to make, and two wickets to go down: it is too
much for human nerves.

Before Winter can get in, the omnibus which is to take the Lord's men
to the train pulls up at the side of the close, and Mr. Aislabie and Tom
consult, and give out that the stumps will be drawn after the next over.
And so ends the great match. Winter and Johnson carry out their bats,
and, it being a one day's match, the Lord's men are declared the
winners, they having scored the most in the first innings.

But such a defeat is a victory: so think Tom and all the School eleven,
as they accompany their conquerors to the omnibus, and send them off
with three ringing cheers, after Mr. Aislabie has shaken hands all
round, saying to Tom, “I must compliment you, sir, on your eleven, and I
hope we shall have you for a member if you come up to town.”

As Tom and the rest of the eleven were turning back into the close, and
everybody was beginning to cry out for another country-dance, encouraged
by the success of the night before, the young master, who was just
leaving the close, stopped him, and asked him to come up to tea at
half-past eight, adding, “I won't keep you more than half an hour, and
ask Arthur to come up too.”

“I'll come up with you directly, if you'll let me,” said Tom, “for I
feel rather melancholy, and not quite up to the country-dance and supper
with the rest.”

“Do, by all means,” said the master; “I'll wait here for you.”

So Tom went off to get his boots and things from the tent, to tell
Arthur of the invitation, and to speak to his second in command about
stopping the dancing and shutting up the close as soon as it grew dusk.
Arthur promised to follow as soon as he had had a dance. So Tom handed
his things over to the man in charge of the tent, and walked quietly
away to the gate where the master was waiting, and the two took their
way together up the Hillmorton road.

Of course they found the master's house locked up, and all the servants
away in the close--about this time, no doubt, footing it away on the
grass, with extreme delight to themselves, and in utter oblivion of the
unfortunate bachelor their master, whose one enjoyment in the shape
of meals was his “dish of tea” (as our grandmothers called it) in the
evening; and the phrase was apt in his case, for he always poured his
out into the saucer before drinking. Great was the good man's horror at
finding himself shut out of his own house. Had he been alone he
would have treated it as a matter of course, and would have strolled
contentedly up and down his gravel walk until some one came home; but he
was hurt at the stain on his character of host, especially as the guest
was a pupil. However, the guest seemed to think it a great joke, and
presently, as they poked about round the house, mounted a wall, from
which he could reach a passage window. The window, as it turned out, was
not bolted, so in another minute Tom was in the house and down at the
front door, which he opened from inside. The master chuckled grimly at
this burglarious entry, and insisted on leaving the hall-door and two
of the front windows open, to frighten the truants on their return; and
then the two set about foraging for tea, in which operation the master
was much at fault, having the faintest possible idea of where to find
anything, and being, moreover, wondrously short-sighted; but Tom, by a
sort of instinct, knew the right cupboards in the kitchen and pantry,
and soon managed to place on the snuggery table better materials for a
meal than had appeared there probably during the reign of his tutor, who
was then and there initiated, amongst other things, into the excellence
of that mysterious condiment, a dripping-cake. The cake was newly baked,
and all rich and flaky; Tom had found it reposing in the cook's private
cupboard, awaiting her return; and as a warning to her they finished
it to the last crumb. The kettle sang away merrily on the hob of the
snuggery, for, notwithstanding the time of year, they lighted a fire,
throwing both the windows wide open at the same time; the heaps of books
and papers were pushed away to the other end of the table, and the great
solitary engraving of King's College Chapel over the mantelpiece looked
less stiff than usual, as they settled themselves down in the twilight
to the serious drinking of tea.

After some talk on the match, and other indifferent subjects, the
conversation came naturally back to Tom's approaching departure, over
which he began again to make his moan.

“Well, we shall all miss you quite as much as you will miss us,” said
the master. “You are the Nestor of the School now, are you not?”

“Yes, ever since East left,” answered Tom. “By-the-bye, have you heard
from him?”

“Yes, I had a letter in February, just before he started for India to
join his regiment.”

“He will make a capital officer.”

“Ay, won't he!” said Tom, brightening. “No fellow could handle boys
better, and I suppose soldiers are very like boys. And he'll never tell
them to go where he won't go himself. No mistake about that. A braver
fellow never walked.”

“His year in the sixth will have taught him a good deal that will be
useful to him now.”

“So it will,”' said Tom, staring into the fire. “Poor dear Harry,” he
went on--“how well I remember the day we were put out of the twenty! How
he rose to the situation, and burnt his cigar-cases, and gave away his
pistols, and pondered on the constitutional authority of the sixth, and
his new duties to the Doctor, and the fifth form, and the fags! Ay, and
no fellow ever acted up to them better, though he was always a people's
man--for the fags, and against constituted authorities. He couldn't
help that, you know. I'm sure the Doctor must have liked him?” said Tom,
looking up inquiringly.

“The Doctor sees the good in every one, and appreciates it,” said the
master dogmatically; “but I hope East will get a good colonel. He won't
do if he can't respect those above him. How long it took him, even here,
to learn the lesson of obeying!”

“Well, I wish I were alongside of him,” said Tom. “If I can't be at
Rugby, I want to be at work in the world, and not dawdling away three
years at Oxford.”

“What do you mean by 'at work in the world'?” said the master, pausing
with his lips close to his saucerful of tea, and peering at Tom over it.

“Well, I mean real work--one's profession--whatever one will have really
to do and make one's living by. I want to be doing some real good,
feeling that I am not only at play in the world,” answered Tom, rather
puzzled to find out himself what he really did mean.

“You are mixing up two very different things in your head, I think,
Brown,” said the master, putting down the empty saucer, “and you ought
to get clear about them. You talk of 'working to get your living,' and
'doing some real good in the world,' in the same breath. Now, you may be
getting a very good living in a profession, and yet doing no good at all
in the world, but quite the contrary, at the same time. Keep the latter
before you as your one object, and you will be right, whether you make
a living or not; but if you dwell on the other, you'll very likely drop
into mere money-making, and let the world take care of itself for good
or evil. Don't be in a hurry about finding your work in the world for
yourself--you are not old enough to judge for yourself yet; but just
look about you in the place you find yourself in, and try to make things
a little better and honester there. You'll find plenty to keep your hand
in at Oxford, or wherever else you go. And don't be led away to think
this part of the world important and that unimportant. Every corner of
the world is important. No man knows whether this part or that is most
so, but every man may do some honest work in his own corner.” And then
the good man went on to talk wisely to Tom of the sort of work which
he might take up as an undergraduate, and warned him of the prevalent
university sins, and explained to him the many and great differences
between university and school life, till the twilight changed into
darkness, and they heard the truant servants stealing in by the back
entrance.

“I wonder where Arthur can be,” said Tom at last, looking at his watch;
“why, it's nearly half-past nine already.”

“Oh, he is comfortably at supper with the eleven, forgetful of his
oldest friends,” said the master. “Nothing has given me greater
pleasure,” he went on, “than your friendship for him; it has been the
making of you both.”

“Of me, at any rate,” answered Tom; “I should never have been here now
but for him. It was the luckiest chance in the world that sent him to
Rugby and made him my chum.”

“Why do you talk of lucky chances?” said the master. “I don't know that
there are any such things in the world; at any rate, there was neither
luck nor chance in that matter.”

Tom looked at him inquiringly, and he went on. “Do you remember when the
Doctor lectured you and East at the end of one half-year, when you were
in the shell, and had been getting into all sorts of scrapes?”

“Yes, well enough,” said Tom; “it was the half-year before Arthur came.”

“Exactly so,” answered the master. “Now, I was with him a few minutes
afterwards, and he was in great distress about you two. And after some
talk, we both agreed that you in particular wanted some object in the
School beyond games and mischief; for it was quite clear that you never
would make the regular school work your first object. And so the Doctor,
at the beginning of the next half-year, looked out the best of the new
boys, and separated you and East, and put the young boy into your study,
in the hope that when you had somebody to lean on you, you would
begin to stand a little steadier yourself, and get manliness and
thoughtfulness. And I can assure you he has watched the experiment ever
since with great satisfaction. Ah! not one of you boys will ever know
the anxiety you have given him, or the care with which he has watched
over every step in your school lives.”

Up to this time Tom had never given wholly in to or understood the
Doctor. At first he had thoroughly feared him. For some years, as I have
tried to show, he had learnt to regard him with love and respect, and
to think him a very great and wise and good man. But as regarded his own
position in the School, of which he was no little proud, Tom had no idea
of giving any one credit for it but himself, and, truth to tell, was a
very self-conceited young gentleman on the subject. He was wont to boast
that he had fought his own way fairly up the School, and had never made
up to or been taken up by any big fellow or master, and that it was
now quite a different place from what it was when he first came. And,
indeed, though he didn't actually boast of it, yet in his secret soul
he did to a great extent believe that the great reform in the School
had been owing quite as much to himself as to any one else. Arthur,
he acknowledged, had done him good, and taught him a good deal; so had
other boys in different ways, but they had not had the same means of
influence on the School in general. And as for the Doctor, why, he was
a splendid master; but every one knew that masters could do very little
out of school hours. In short, he felt on terms of equality with his
chief, so far as the social state of the School was concerned, and
thought that the Doctor would find it no easy matter to get on without
him. Moreover, his School Toryism was still strong, and he looked still
with some jealousy on the Doctor, as somewhat of a fanatic in the matter
of change, and thought it very desirable for the School that he should
have some wise person (such as himself) to look sharply after vested
School-rights, and see that nothing was done to the injury of the
republic without due protest.

It was a new light to him to find that, besides teaching the sixth, and
governing and guiding the whole School, editing classics, and writing
histories, the great headmaster had found time in those busy years
to watch over the career even of him, Tom Brown, and his particular
friends, and, no doubt, of fifty other boys at the same time, and all
this without taking the least credit to himself, or seeming to know, or
let any one else know, that he ever thought particularly of any boy at
all.

However, the Doctor's victory was complete from that moment over Tom
Brown at any rate. He gave way at all points, and the enemy marched
right over him--cavalry, infantry, and artillery, and the land transport
corps, and the camp followers. It had taken eight long years to do it;
but now it was done thoroughly, and there wasn't a corner of him left
which didn't believe in the Doctor. Had he returned to School again, and
the Doctor begun the half-year by abolishing fagging, and football, and
the Saturday half-holiday, or all or any of the most cherished School
institutions, Tom would have supported him with the blindest faith. And
so, after a half confession of his previous shortcomings, and sorrowful
adieus to his tutor, from whom he received two beautifully-bound volumes
of the Doctor's sermons, as a parting present, he marched down to the
Schoolhouse, a hero-worshipper, who would have satisfied the soul of
Thomas Carlyle himself.

There he found the eleven at high jinks after supper, Jack Raggles
shouting comic songs and performing feats of strength, and was greeted
by a chorus of mingled remonstrance at his desertion and joy at his
reappearance. And falling in with the humour of the evening, he was soon
as great a boy as all the rest; and at ten o'clock was chaired round
the quadrangle, on one of the hall benches, borne aloft by the eleven,
shouting in chorus, “For he's a jolly good fellow,” while old Thomas, in
a melting mood, and the other School-house servants, stood looking on.

And the next morning after breakfast he squared up all the cricketing
accounts, went round to his tradesmen and other acquaintance, and said
his hearty good-byes; and by twelve o'clock was in the train, and away
for London, no longer a school-boy, and divided in his thoughts between
hero-worship, honest regrets over the long stage of his life which was
now slipping out of sight behind him, and hopes and resolves for the
next stage upon which he was entering with all the confidence of a young
traveller.



CHAPTER IX--FINIS.

     “Strange friend, past, present, and to be;
     Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
     Behold I dream a dream of good,
     And mingle all the world with thee.”--TENNYSON.

In the summer of 1842, our hero stopped once again at the well-known
station; and leaving his bag and fishing-rod with a porter, walked
slowly and sadly up towards the town. It was now July. He had rushed
away from Oxford the moment that term was over, for a fishing ramble in
Scotland with two college friends, and had been for three weeks living
on oatcake, mutton-hams, and whisky, in the wildest parts of Skye. They
had descended one sultry evening on the little inn at Kyle Rhea ferry;
and while Tom and another of the party put their tackle together
and began exploring the stream for a sea-trout for supper, the third
strolled into the house to arrange for their entertainment. Presently he
came out in a loose blouse and slippers, a short pipe in his mouth, and
an old newspaper in his hand, and threw himself on the heathery scrub
which met the shingle, within easy hail of the fishermen. There he lay,
the picture of free-and-easy, loafing, hand-to-mouth young England,
“improving his mind,” as he shouted to them, by the perusal of the
fortnight-old weekly paper, soiled with the marks of toddy-glasses and
tobacco-ashes, the legacy of the last traveller, which he had hunted
out from the kitchen of the little hostelry, and, being a youth of
a communicative turn of mind, began imparting the contents to the
fishermen as he went on.

“What a bother they are making about these wretched corn-laws! Here's
three or four columns full of nothing but sliding scales and fixed
duties. Hang this tobacco, it's always going out! Ah, here's something
better--a splendid match between Kent and England, Brown, Kent winning
by three wickets. Felix fifty-six runs without a chance, and not out!”

Tom, intent on a fish which had risen at him twice, answered only with a
grunt.

“Anything about the Goodwood?” called out the third man.

“Rory O'More drawn. Butterfly colt amiss,” shouted the student.

“Just my luck,” grumbled the inquirer, jerking his flies off the water,
and throwing again with a heavy, sullen splash, and frightening Tom's
fish.

“I say, can't you throw lighter over there? We ain't fishing for
grampuses,” shouted Tom across the stream.

“Hullo, Brown! here's something for you,” called out the reading man
next moment. “Why, your old master, Arnold of Rugby, is dead.”

Tom's hand stopped half-way in his cast, and his line and flies went all
tangling round and round his rod; you might have knocked him over with a
feather. Neither of his companions took any notice of him, luckily; and
with a violent effort he set to work mechanically to disentangle his
line. He felt completely carried off his moral and intellectual legs, as
if he had lost his standing-point in the invisible world. Besides which,
the deep, loving loyalty which he felt for his old leader made the shock
intensely painful. It was the first great wrench of his life, the first
gap which the angel Death had made in his circle, and he felt numbed,
and beaten down, and spiritless. Well, well! I believe it was good for
him and for many others in like case, who had to learn by that loss
that the soul of man cannot stand or lean upon any human prop, however
strong, and wise, and good; but that He upon whom alone it can stand and
lean will knock away all such props in His own wise and merciful way,
until there is no ground or stay left but Himself, the Rock of Ages,
upon whom alone a sure foundation for every soul of man is laid.

As he wearily laboured at his line, the thought struck him, “It may
be all false--a mere newspaper lie.” And he strode up to the recumbent
smoker.

“Let me look at the paper,” said he.

“Nothing else in it,” answered the other, handing it up to him
listlessly. “Hullo, Brown! what's the matter, old fellow? Ain't you
well?”

“Where is it?” said Tom, turning over the leaves, his hands trembling,
and his eyes swimming, so that he could not read.

“What? What are you looking for?” said his friend, jumping up and
looking over his shoulder.

“That--about Arnold,” said Tom.

“Oh, here,” said the other, putting his finger on the paragraph. Tom
read it over and over again. There could be no mistake of identity,
though the account was short enough.

“Thank you,” said he at last, dropping the paper. “I shall go for a
walk. Don't you and Herbert wait supper for me.” And away he strode,
up over the moor at the back of the house, to be alone, and master his
grief if possible.

His friend looked after him, sympathizing and wondering, and, knocking
the ashes out of his pipe, walked over to Herbert. After a short parley
they walked together up to the house.

“I'm afraid that confounded newspaper has spoiled Brown's fun for this
trip.”

“How odd that he should be so fond of his old master,” said Herbert. Yet
they also were both public-school men.

The two, however, notwithstanding Tom's prohibition, waited supper
for him, and had everything ready when he came back some half an hour
afterwards. But he could not join in their cheerful talk, and the party
was soon silent, notwithstanding the efforts of all three. One thing
only had Tom resolved, and that was, that he couldn't stay in Scotland
any longer: he felt an irresistible longing to get to Rugby, and then
home, and soon broke it to the others, who had too much tact to oppose.

So by daylight the next morning he was marching through Ross-shire,
and in the evening hit the Caledonian Canal, took the next steamer,
and travelled as fast as boat and railway could carry him to the Rugby
station.

As he walked up to the town, he felt shy and afraid of being seen,
and took the back streets--why, he didn't know, but he followed his
instinct. At the School-gates he made a dead pause; there was not a soul
in the quadrangle--all was lonely, and silent, and sad. So with another
effort he strode through the quadrangle, and into the School-house
offices.

He found the little matron in her room in deep mourning; shook her hand,
tried to talk, and moved nervously about. She was evidently thinking of
the same subject as he, but he couldn't begin talking.

“Where shall I find Thomas?” said he at last, getting desperate.

“In the servants' hall, I think, sir. But won't you take anything?” said
the matron, looking rather disappointed.

“No, thank you,” said he, and strode off again to find the old
verger, who was sitting in his little den, as of old, puzzling over
hieroglyphics.

He looked up through his spectacles as Tom seized his hand and wrung it.

“Ah! you've heard all about it, sir, I see,” said he. Tom nodded, and
then sat down on the shoe-board, while the old man told his tale, and
wiped his spectacles, and fairly flowed over with quaint, homely, honest
sorrow.

By the time he had done Tom felt much better.

“Where is he buried, Thomas?” said he at last.

“Under the altar in the chapel, sir,” answered Thomas. “You'd like to
have the key, I dare say?”

“Thank you, Thomas--yes, I should, very much.”

And the old man fumbled among his bunch, and then got up, as though
he would go with him; but after a few steps stopped short, and said,
“Perhaps you'd like to go by yourself, sir?”

Tom nodded, and the bunch of keys were handed to him, with an injunction
to be sure and lock the door after him, and bring them back before eight
o'clock.

He walked quickly through the quadrangle and out into the close. The
longing which had been upon him and driven him thus far, like the
gad-fly in the Greek legends, giving him no rest in mind or body, seemed
all of a sudden not to be satisfied, but to shrivel up and pall. “Why
should I go on? It's no use,” he thought, and threw himself at full
length on the turf, and looked vaguely and listlessly at all the
well-known objects. There were a few of the town boys playing cricket,
their wicket pitched on the best piece in the middle of the big-side
ground--a sin about equal to sacrilege in the eyes of a captain of the
eleven. He was very nearly getting up to go and send them off. “Pshaw!
they won't remember me. They've more right there than I,” he muttered.
And the thought that his sceptre had departed, and his mark was wearing
out, came home to him for the first time, and bitterly enough. He was
lying on the very spot where the fights came off--where he himself had
fought six years ago his first and last battle. He conjured up the scene
till he could almost hear the shouts of the ring, and East's whisper in
his ear; and looking across the close to the Doctor's private door,
half expected to see it open, and the tall figure in cap and gown come
striding under the elm-trees towards him.

No, no; that sight could never be seen again. There was no flag flying
on the round tower; the School-house windows were all shuttered up; and
when the flag went up again, and the shutters came down, it would be
to welcome a stranger. All that was left on earth of him whom he had
honoured was lying cold and still under the chapel floor. He would go in
and see the place once more, and then leave it once for all. New men and
new methods might do for other people; let those who would, worship the
rising star; he, at least, would be faithful to the sun which had
set. And so he got up, and walked to the chapel door, and unlocked it,
fancying himself the only mourner in all the broad land, and feeding on
his own selfish sorrow.

He passed through the vestibule, and then paused for a moment to glance
over the empty benches. His heart was still proud and high, and he
walked up to the seat which he had last occupied as a sixth-form boy,
and sat himself down there to collect his thoughts.

And, truth to tell, they needed collecting and setting in order not a
little. The memories of eight years were all dancing through his brain,
and carrying him about whither they would; while, beneath them all, his
heart was throbbing with the dull sense of a loss that could never be
made up to him. The rays of the evening sun came solemnly through the
painted windows above his head, and fell in gorgeous colours on the
opposite wall, and the perfect stillness soothed his spirit by little
and little. And he turned to the pulpit, and looked at it, and then,
leaning forward with his head on his hands, groaned aloud. If he could
only have seen the Doctor again for one five minutes--have told him all
that was in his heart, what he owed to him, how he loved and reverenced
him, and would, by God's help, follow his steps in life and death--he
could have borne it all without a murmur. But that he should have gone
away for ever without knowing it all, was too much to bear. “But am I
sure that he does not know it all?” The thought made him start. “May he
not even now be near me, in this very chapel? If he be, am I sorrowing
as he would have me sorrow, as I should wish to have sorrowed when I
shall meet him again?”

He raised himself up and looked round, and after a minute rose and
walked humbly down to the lowest bench, and sat down on the very seat
which he had occupied on his first Sunday at Rugby. And then the old
memories rushed back again, but softened and subdued, and soothing him
as he let himself be carried away by them. And he looked up at the great
painted window above the altar, and remembered how, when a little boy,
he used to try not to look through it at the elm-trees and the rooks,
before the painted glass came; and the subscription for the painted
glass, and the letter he wrote home for money to give to it. And there,
down below, was the very name of the boy who sat on his right hand on
that first day, scratched rudely in the oak panelling.

And then came the thought of all his old schoolfellows; and form after
form of boys nobler, and braver, and purer than he rose up and seemed to
rebuke him. Could he not think of them, and what they had felt and were
feeling--they who had honoured and loved from the first the man whom he
had taken years to know and love? Could he not think of those yet dearer
to him who was gone, who bore his name and shared his blood, and were
now without a husband or a father? Then the grief which he began to
share with others became gentle and holy, and he rose up once more, and
walked up the steps to the altar, and while the tears flowed freely down
his cheeks, knelt down humbly and hopefully, to lay down there his share
of a burden which had proved itself too heavy for him to bear in his own
strength.

Here let us leave him. Where better could we leave him than at the
altar before which he had first caught a glimpse of the glory of his
birthright, and felt the drawing of the bond which links all living
souls together in one brotherhood--at the grave beneath the altar of him
who had opened his eyes to see that glory, and softened his heart till
it could feel that bond?

And let us not be hard on him, if at that moment his soul is fuller of
the tomb and him who lies there than of the altar and Him of whom it
speaks. Such stages have to be gone through, I believe, by all young and
brave souls, who must win their way through hero-worship to the worship
of Him who is the King and Lord of heroes. For it is only through our
mysterious human relationships--through the love and tenderness and
purity of mothers and sisters and wives, through the strength and
courage and wisdom of fathers and brothers and teachers--that we can
come to the knowledge of Him in whom alone the love, and the tenderness,
and the purity, and the strength, and the courage, and the wisdom of all
these dwell for ever and ever in perfect fullness.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Tom Brown's Schooldays, by Thomas Hughes

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