

















                        Classics for Children.

                          TOM BROWN AT RUGBY

                            BY AN OLD BOY
                           (THOMAS HUGHES).

                              EDITED BY
                        CLARA WEAVER ROBINSON.

                            BOSTON, U.S.A.
                     GINN & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS.
                                 1902


    Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1888, by
    GINN & COMPANY, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress,
    at Washington.


                         ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

          TYPOGRAPHY BY J. S. CUSHING & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.

               PRESSWORK BY GINN & CO., BOSTON, U.S.A.




INTRODUCTION.


In these days of zealous reform in school methods, it is well to keep
in mind the true aim of all education,--the right development of
character. It is important that our children acquire extensive
knowledge, and sound habits of thought; it is imperative that they
become honest, steadfast, and manly. Dr. Arnold, as head-master of
Rugby School, was eminently successful in attaining this object. In
"Tom Brown's School Days," Mr. Hughes has caught, and immortalized,
the spirit of his old teacher's work. While the book emphasizes the
peculiar moral earnestness of Dr. Arnold's pupils, it is free from all
suspicion of cant. Those who enjoy its pages should read also Dean
Stanley's admirable life of the great schoolmaster. We trust that it
will be many years before we cease to read the life of Mr. Hughes in
his daily works of goodwill to his fellow-men.

The notes have been prepared for children in the grammar school, as
explained in Mr. Ginn's preface to the "Lady of the Lake," in this
series.

A few passages have been omitted from the original text, in the
belief that it will thus be better adapted for the use of American
schoolboys; and the typographical errors of former editions have
been corrected.

                                                            N. L. R.

  CANTON, N.Y.,
    _October_ 20, 1888.




CONTENTS.


PART I.

  CHAPTER I.
  THE BROWN FAMILY                               1

  CHAPTER II.
  THE "VEAST"                                   24

  CHAPTER III.
  SUNDRY WARS AND ALLIANCES                     49

  CHAPTER IV.
  THE STAGE COACH                               73

  CHAPTER V.
  RUGBY AND FOOT-BALL                           92

  CHAPTER VI.
  AFTER THE MATCH                              118

  CHAPTER VII.
  SETTLING TO THE COLLAR                       139

  CHAPTER VIII.
  THE WAR OF INDEPENDENCE                      163

  CHAPTER IX.
  A CHAPTER OF ACCIDENTS                       189


PART II.

  CHAPTER I.
  HOW THE TIDE TURNED                          215

  CHAPTER II.
  THE NEW BOY                                  230

  CHAPTER III.
  ARTHUR MAKES A FRIEND                        246

  CHAPTER IV.
  THE BIRD-FANCIERS                            264

  CHAPTER V.
  THE FIGHT                                    281

  CHAPTER VI.
  FEVER IN THE SCHOOL                          303

  CHAPTER VII.
  HARRY EAST'S DILEMMAS AND DELIVERANCES       324

  CHAPTER VIII.
  TOM BROWN'S LAST MATCH                       343

  CHAPTER IX.
  FINIS                                        370


INDEX TO NOTES                                 381




THOMAS HUGHES.


Thomas Hughes is a native of the royal county of Berkshire, England.
From the nursery windows of the old farmhouse in Uffington, where he
was born, in 1823, he delighted in looking out on that famous White
Horse Hill which he describes in the opening chapters of "Tom Brown's
School Days."

His father was such an English squire as he represents Tom's father to
be, and his grandfather was vicar of the parish, and therefore a man
of a good deal of local influence. When a child, young Hughes must
have become familiar with the old parish church, which dates almost
from the time of William the Conqueror, and which has within it some
Roman brickwork which carries one back to the days when Agricola's
legions were building walled towns in Britain.

Thus the lad's earliest recollections would naturally be of these two
landmarks--the ivy-grown church, with its twenty and more generations
buried round it, and the great chalk hill whose rudely carved White
Horse can be seen gleaming in the sunshine full ten miles away, just
as it did when Alfred the Great cut it to commemorate his victory over
the Northmen a thousand years ago.

Thomas had a brother George, who was a little older than he, and who
was his opposite in many respects. From him he learned many lessons
which helped to shape his after life. George was quick to turn his
hand to anything, and a lover of all out-door sports; if they had a
spice of danger in them, so much the better. Thomas, on the other
hand, was naturally both awkward and timid; the sound of a gun
frightened him; and a pet pony soon found that, while George was his
master, he was Thomas's, and meant to keep so. Thomas was ashamed of
what he called his two left hands, with which he never seemed to get
the right hold of anything the first time. He was still more ashamed
of his timidity. That feeling of fear he could not prevent.
Eventually, however, he did better; he so mastered it that he could
bravely face what he feared, so making duty stand him in the stead of
that mere physical courage, which is often but another name for
insensibility to danger.

When he reached the age of seven he went to Twyford to school. Here he
found how easy it is to get a nickname, and how hard it is to get rid
of it. One of his first lessons related to Greek literature and to the
history of Cadmus, who was said to have "first carried letters from
Asia to Greece." Instead of asking the question in the book, the
master demanded, "What was Cadmus?" This new way of questioning
disconcerted the class, who were prepared to tell who Cadmus was, but
not what he was. But young Hughes, remembering the letter-carrier at
Uffington, suddenly jumped up and shouted out, "I can tell! Cadmus was
a postman, sir!" From that day the boy was christened "Cadmus" by his
companions, a name which, for convenience' sake, was soon shortened to
"Cad,"--a particularly aggravating abbreviation, since in England a
"cad" is the exact opposite of a gentleman. Then all sorts of
ingenious and mischievous changes were rung on it until poor "Cadmus"
was in a fair way of being driven wild with torment. Wherever he went
the walls echoed with the jeering cry. But luckily for him his brother
George happened to hear a big fellow teasing the lad, and rushing up
with clenched fist and blazing eyes, thrashed the bully so soundly
that after that Thomas enjoyed entire immunity from the objectionable
title.

After about three years at Twyford, the two brothers were sent to the
school at Rugby, then under the mastership of Doctor Arnold, who
proved himself to be the ablest teacher in England; not because he
taught his boys more than any other educator, but because more than
any other he awakened in them the true spirit of manhood. "Tom Brown's
School Days" is a record of the eight happy years that the lads spent
under the Doctor's influence. From Rugby they went to Oxford, where
Thomas Hughes graduated at Oriel College in 1845. The timid "Cadmus"
of Twyford not only passed through Rugby with credit to himself in
foot-ball, in Greek verses, and in the manly art of self-defence, but
he got a "Double First" at Oxford--that is, the highest honors in the
mathematics and the classics--and was elected captain of the 'Varsity
Crew and captain of the University Eleven at cricket as well.

It was while young Hughes was at Oriel that the corn law agitation
reached its height. A heavy duty on all imported grain had made bread
so dear that thousands of English workmen, with their families, were
brought to the verge of starvation. John Bright earnestly espoused
their cause and urged Parliament to repeal a tax that enriched a few
at the expense of a suffering multitude. Elliott, the "Corn Law
Rhymer," stirred the feelings of the masses with his impassioned
appeals in verse, so that all over the country hollow-cheeked artisans
were repeating the lines,--

  "England! what for mine and me,
  What hath bread-tax done for thee?

       *       *       *       *       *

  Cursed thy harvest, cursed thy land,
  Hunger-stung thy skill'd right hand."

Thomas Hughes became a convert to the Liberal movement, which shortly
after succeeded in repealing a tariff that had been the cause of such
wide-spread misery. From that day his sympathies have always been with
those classes who are called to earn the least and endure the most;
and when in 1848 he was admitted to the bar at Lincoln's Inn, London,
he had got the name of being a radical and a reformer in politics--a
name, then, rather more dreadful to steady-going, conservative English
country gentlemen of the "Squire Brown" type than that of mad dog.

But long before this the young man had got over his dread of
opprobrious names, and his fear of those who have nothing harder to
hurl.

With a few other resolute spirits he set himself to work to organize
those joint-stock industries and business enterprises which have since
developed into the colossal co-operative stores of London and the
cotton mills of Oldham, representing many millions of capital, the
combined savings of thrifty artisans and other persons of small means.

In all this, Mr. Hughes's avowed object has been "to make England the
best place for workingmen to live in that the sun ever shone upon."
Whether that can be done or not in this age of the world is certainly
open to question, but it is equally certain that there can be no
possible harm in making the attempt. That the workingmen have
appreciated the effort is evident from the fact that they elected Mr.
Hughes to Parliament in 1865. It is said that ordinarily the expense
of getting into the House of Commons--an unpaid body--averages about
$75,000, which the candidate or his friends must be prepared to spend.
But in Lambeth, a district of London, inhabited almost wholly by poor
men, two hundred of Mr. Hughes's admirers came forward and worked
night and day without receiving a single shilling of any man's money,
solely with the determination of seeing their candidate succeed.

Since then, the writer of "Tom Brown's School Days" would certainly
have broken down from overwork if he had not been, as he says, an
"Angular Saxon" and a muscular Christian as well. During his nine
years' pull in the political harness he earned the double honor of
helping forward the cause of the people and at the same time he so won
the regard of the Crown that he received the appointment of Queen's
Counsel. While member of Parliament Mr. Hughes was likewise carrying
on a large and lucrative law practice, acting as president of the
Workingmen's College, which he was instrumental in founding; serving
as referee in disputes between manufacturers and their employees in
such a way as to get the respect and good-will of both; serving also
as director in co-operative banks, coal mines, cotton mills, machine
shops, grocery stores, land and building associations; besides being
chief manager of the Crystal Palace company, and colonel in a
volunteer rifle corps.

Yet well known as Mr. Hughes is for his manifold political and
philanthropic services, he is still better known by his books. Though
with him literature has been rather a recreation than a vocation, yet
his fame seems destined to rest on it, and especially on his "Tom
Brown," which has been pronounced "the best description of public
school life that ever has been, or is ever likely to be, written."
This famous work, published in 1858, was followed the next year by
"The Scouring of the White Horse," a story of his favorite White Horse
Hill. Three years later came "Tom Brown at Oxford," then "The Life of
Alfred the Great," and lastly his "Memoirs of a Brother" and his
"Manliness of Christ," besides scores, if not hundreds, of magazine
and review articles and letters to London and American papers.

In 1870 Mr. Hughes made the tour of this country, receiving such a
welcome from his many friends as "Tom Brown" was sure to get from both
old and young. Ten years afterward he undertook to establish an
English colony in the Cumberland Mountains of East Tennessee. It was
called Rugby, and it was founded in the hope that it might be useful
to many educated young men of good families who could find no opening
worthy of their powers at home. As he said, "Of the many sad sights in
England there is none sadder than this, of first-rate human material
going helplessly to waste, and in too many cases beginning to sour and
taint, instead of strengthening the national life." A hundred years
before, Franklin had expressed the same conviction in his pithy maxim,
"'Tis hard for an empty bag to stand upright." It was to fill these
vacant lives with honest work and its rewards that Thomas Hughes
started his emigration to the wilds of Tennessee. There, co-operation
was to be tried in farming, cattle-raising, lumbering, and trade, thus
saving the community of workers from that "infinite terror of not
making money," which Carlyle declared was the only thing that now
stirred deep fear in the souls of his countrymen. Many an ardent young
man fresh from the old Rugby of "Tom Brown" fame fondly hoped that the
new, western Rugby might enable him to say with Tennyson's "Northern
Farmer," as he listened to the music of his horse's hoofs on the road
home from market,--

  "Proputty, proputty, proputty,--that's what I 'ears 'em saäy";

but, unfortunately, the "proputty" will not always come even at the
bidding of hard work and active brains. The Tennessee enterprise has
not commanded success, though doubtless, as Addison would say, it has
done better--it has deserved it.

Since the inauguration of the movement Mr. Hughes has been appointed
county judge of Cheshire, and now makes his home in the quaint old
town of Chester, the county seat. He is verging on the limit of that
threescore and ten which the Psalmist allotted as the measure of
human life. Few men in our day can look back over a busier or more
fruitful career. The awkward and timid boy has shown the world what
rare force of self-conquest, of persevering growth, of grappling with
difficulties, and of successful achievement was to come out of that
unpromising beginning. Because of this, we are all debtors to the
author of "Tom Brown"; not only for his books, but still more because
we see that these books are the frank expression of a brave, earnest,
and untiring spirit.

                                                            D. H. M.




TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS.

_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,[1] within the memory of the young gentlemen who are
now matriculating[2] 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[3]
work. With the yew bow and cloth-yard shaft[4] at Cressy and
Agincourt[5]--with the brown bill[6] and pike under the brave Lord
Willoughby--with culverin and demi-culverin[7] against Spaniards and
Dutchmen--with hand-grenade[8] and sabre, and musket and bayonet,
under Rodney[9] 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[10]
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.

    [1] #Doyle#: an English artist noted for his humorous and
    satirical designs.

    [2] #Matriculating#: entering.

    [3] #Yeomen#: small independent farmers. They have generally
    constituted the best part of the English army.

    [4] #Cloth-yard shaft#: an arrow a yard in length.

    [5] #Cressy and Agincourt#: English victories over the French
    in 1346 and 1415.

    [6] #Bill#: a combined spear and battle-axe.

    [7] #Culverin and demi-culverin#: ancient forms of cannon.

    [8] #Hand-grenade#: a kind of bomb or shell thrown by hand.

    [9] #Rodney#, etc.: famous English naval and military
    commanders.

    [10] #Talbots#, etc.: noted family names of the English
    nobility.

These latter, indeed, have until the present generation rarely been
sung by poet, or chronicled by sage. They have wanted their "sacer
vates,"[11] 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 honor 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[12] on to the pile.

    [11] #"Sacer vates"#: inspired bard or poet.

    [12] #Throw his stone#, etc.: help to build their cairn or
    monument.


THE BROWN CHARACTER.

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
square-headed and snake-necked generation, broad in the shoulder, deep
in the chest, and thin in the flank, carrying no lumber. Then for
clanship,[13] 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 was 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,[14] and go back, one to his curacy,[15] another to his
chambers,[16] and another to his regiment, freshened for work, and
more than ever convinced that the Browns are the height of company.

    [13] #Clanship#: here, the holding together of a class, tribe,
    or family.

    [14] #Bout#: contest.

    [15] #Curacy#: parish.

    [16] #Chambers#: law offices.

This family training, too, combined with their turn for combativeness,
makes them eminently quixotic.[17] 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[18] going, till the old
man with a scythe[19] 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,[20] and his wife and children to the workhouse,
they will be on the look-out for Bill to take his place.

    [17] #Quixotic#: romantic or visionary

    [18] #Crotchet#: whim, notion, "hobby."

    [19] #Old man with a scythe#: Father Time.

    [20] #Treadmill#: a wheel on which prisoners were formerly
    compelled to work.


TOM BROWN'S BIRTHPLACE.

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,[21] which is called the Vale of White Horse.

    [21] #Berks#: Berkshire, a county west of London. It is called
    "Royal" because it is the seat of Windsor Castle. The Vale of
    the White Horse gets its name from the gigantic image of a
    horse cut through the turf in the side of a chalk hill.
    Tradition says it was done over a thousand year ago, to
    commemorate a great victory over the Danes by Alfred.

Most of you have probably travelled down the Great Western Railway as
far as Swindon. Those of you who did so with your 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 neighborhood is yet more
interesting for its relics of by-gone times. I only know two English
neighborhoods 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.


THE OLD BOY MOURNETH OVER YOUNG ENGLAND.

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,[22] 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.

    [22] #Three pound ten# (shillings): the English shilling is
    about twenty five cents, and the pound may be called five
    dollars.

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 at Dresden[23] and the
Louvre,[24] and know the taste of sauer-kraut.[25] All I say is, you
don't know your own lanes and woods and fields. Though you may be
chock-full of science, not one in twenty of you knows where to find
the wood-sorrel, or bee-orchis,[26] which grows in the next wood or on
the down[27] 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 farm-houses, the place where the last skirmish was fought
in the civil wars,[28] where the parish butts[29] stood, where the
last highwayman turned to bay, where the last ghost was laid[30] by
the parson, they're gone out of date altogether.

    [23] #Dresden#: a city of Germany, noted for its treasures of
    art.

    [24] #The Louvre#: an ancient palace in Paris, containing vast
    collections of sculptures and paintings.

    [25] #Sauer-kraut#: a German dish, prepared from cabbage.

    [26] #Bee-orchis# (orkis): a wild-flower resembling a bee.

    [27] #Down#: a barren hill of chalk or sand.

    [28] #Civil wars#: those between Parliament and King Charles
    I., in the seventeenth century.

    [29] #Butts#: targets for archery practice. Before the
    invention of gunpowder they were set up by law in every
    parish.

    [30] #Laid#: dispelled by religious ceremonies.

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"[31]
at the top of our voices, there we were, fixtures, till black
Monday[32] 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,[33] belonging to all counties 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
backsword play[34] 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.

    [31] #Dulce domum#: sweet home.

    [32] #Black Monday#: the end of the holidays.


VALES IN GENERAL.

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[35] or
spinney,[36] where abideth poor Charley,[37] having no other cover[38]
to which to betake himself for miles and miles, when pushed out some
fine November morning by the Old Berkshire.[39] Those who have been
there, and well mounted, only know how he and the staunch 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
plow-land, 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;[40] 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
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.

    [33] #Cosmopolites#: citizens of the world at large, familiar
    with all countries.

    [34] #Backsword play#: the game of single-stick, or fencing
    with cudgels.

    [35] #Gorse#: a thick, prickly, evergreen shrub, which grows
    wild and bears beautiful yellow flowers.

    [36] #Spinney#: a small grove filled with undergrowth.

    [37] #Charley#: a fox.

    [38] #Cover#: a retreat, or hiding-place.

    [39] #Old Berkshire#: an association of hunters.

    [40] #Thatched#: roofed with straw or reeds.

One of the moralists whom we sat under in our youth--was it the great
Richard Swiveller,[41] or Mr. Stiggins?[42] 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 wern'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 toward him, that's the
essence of a vale. There he is forever in the distance, your friend
and companion; you never lose him as you do in hilly districts.

    [41] #Richard Swiveller#: a jolly character who lives by his
    wits. See Dickens's "Old Curiosity Shop."

    [42] #Mr. Stiggins#: a hypocritical parson. See Dickens's
    "Pickwick Papers."


THE OLD ROMAN CAMP.

And then what a hill is the White Horse Hill! There it stands right
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,[43] 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.[44] 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,[45] on the east side, left by her
majesty's corps of sappers and miners[46] the other day, when they and
the engineer officer had finished their sojourn there, and their
surveys for the Ordnance Map[47] 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[48] 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.

    [43] #Roman camp#: the Romans, when they conquered England,
    about 78 A.D., built a stronghold here.

    [44] #Eyrie#: the nest of a bird of prey; here, a
    gathering-place for Roman soldiers.

    [45] #Cairn#: a heap of stones set up to mark a spot.

    [46] #Sappers and miners#: usually, soldiers employed in
    working on trenches and fortifications or in undermining those
    of an enemy; here, engaged in surveying.

    [47] #Ordnance Map#: an official or government map.

    [48] #Balak#: see Numbers xxii.


BATTLE OF ASHDOWN.

And now we leave the camp, and descend toward 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[49]
won his great battle, the battle of Ashdown "Æscendum" 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[50] 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,[51] as they did at the Alma.[52]
"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![53] 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.

    [49] #Alfred#: Alfred the Great, King of the West Saxons, 871.
    He defeated the Danes, who had overrun most of England, at
    Ashdown, and compelled them to make a treaty of peace. He is
    justly considered one of the noblest and wisest of the English
    sovereigns; and the thousandth anniversary of his birth was
    celebrated in 1849, at Wantage, Berks.

    [50] #Asser#: a contemporary of Alfred; he wrote his life.

    [51] #Saxons#: a name given to certain German tribes who
    conquered Britain, in the fifth century. The name England came
    from the Angles, a people of the same stock, who settled in
    the east and north of the island. From these Anglo-Saxons the
    English have in great part descended.

    [52] #Alma#: a river in the Crimea where a desperate battle
    was fought between the Russians and the allied English and
    French in 1854.

    [53] #Chronicler#: Asser, from whom this is quoted.

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, and
utterly unlike everything round him. On this hill some deliverer of
mankind--St. George[54] 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[55] the place where it ran down is the easiest
way up the hill-side.

    [54] #St. George#: the patron saint of England.

    [55] #More by token#: as a sign or proof that this is so.

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[56] underwood. Here you may find nests of the strong
down-partridge and pewit, but take care that the keeper[57] isn't down
upon you; and in the middle of it is an old cromlech,[58] 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,[59] a place of classic fame now; but as Sir Walter[60] has
touched it, I may as well let it alone, and refer you to Kenilworth
for the legend.

    [56] #Privet#: a shrub much used for hedges.

    [57] #Keeper#: the gamekeeper, a man kept on great estates to
    look after the game.

    [58] #Cromlech#: a rude tomb built by the first inhabitants of
    Britain.

    [59] #Wayland Smith's Cave#: a "supernatural smith" who shod
    horses on payment of sixpence.

    [60] #Sir Walter#: Sir Walter Scott.

The thick deep wood which you see in the hollow, about a mile off,
surrounds Ashdown Park, built by Inigo Jones.[61] 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,[62] I think,
who pitched his tent there.

    [61] #Inigo Jones#: a celebrated architect of the 17th
    century.

    [62] #Lord Craven#: the owner of the estate on which the
    "White Horse" is located.


THE "SEVEN BARROWS" FARM.

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[63] no
more, but grow famous turnips and barley. One of these improvers lives
over there at the "Seven Barrows"[64] 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,[65] 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.

    [63] #Sheep-walks#: sheep pastures, for which the "downs" are
    much used.

    [64] #Barrows#: ancient burial mounds.

    [65] #Public#: a public house.


THE BLOWING STONE.

"What is the name of your hill, landlord?"

"Blawing STWUN Hill, sir, to be sure."

    [READER. "_Sturm?_"

    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,[66] 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 that this here is the Blawing Stwun itself";
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[67] 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,[68] 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 rat-holes. 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 grewsome[69] sound between a moan and a roar, and
spreads itself away over the valley, and up the hill-side, and into
the woods at the back of the house, a ghost-like awful voice. "Um[70]
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 heerd 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[71] round the neighborhood 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[72] you've got here."

"Yes, sir, the Squire's[73] 'mazin' 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 'e."[74]

    [66] #Toby Philpot jug#: a large brown pitcher, shaped like a
    jolly old gentleman of the olden time.

    [67] #Antediluvian#: before the deluge.

    [68] #Un#: it; also him or her.

    [69] #Grewsome#: frightful.

    [70] #Um#: they.

    [71] #Fiery cross#: a cross, the ends of which had been fired
    and then extinguished in blood. It was sent round by the
    chiefs of clans in time of war, to summon their followers.

    [72] #Plantations#: groves of trees set out in regular order.

    [73] #Squire#: a country gentleman.

    [74] #'E#: thee or you.


FARRINGDON AND PUSEY.

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 some more of it? Remember, I've only
been over a little bit of the hill-side 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 I. (the vale was near Oxford, and dreadfully malignant;[75]
full of Throgmortons, Puseys, and Pyes, and such like, and their
brawny retainers). Did you ever read Thomas Ingoldsby's "Legend
of Hamilton Tighe"?[76] If you haven't, you ought to have. Well,
Farringdon is where he lived, before he went to sea; his real name was
Hampden Pye, and the Pyes were the great folk at Farringdon. Then
there's Pusey. You've heard of the Pusey horn,[77] which King Canute
gave to the Puseys of that day, and which the gallant old squire,
lately gone to his rest (whom Berkshire freeholders[78] 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 country-side teems with Saxon names and memories!
And the old moated grange[79] at Compton, nestled close under the
hill-side, where twenty Marianas[80] 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
besides, 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 neighborhood.

    [75] #Malignant#: The Parliamentary or Puritan party during
    the civil wars of Charles I. called those who adhered to the
    king "malignants."

    [76] #Tighe#: this legend relates a conspiracy by which young
    Tighe was led into the thick of a fight and killed.

    [77] #Pusey horn#: the Pusey family hold their estate not by
    a title deed, but by a horn, given, it is said, to William
    Pecote (perhaps an ancestor of the Puseys) by Canute, a Danish
    king of England in the eleventh century. The horn bears the
    following inscription: "I, King Canute, give William Pecote
    this horn to hold by thy land."

    [78] #Freeholders#: landowners.

    [79] #Moated grange#: a farm or estate surrounded by a broad
    deep ditch for defence in old times.

    [80] #Marianas#: Mariana, a beautiful woman, one of the most
    lovable of Shakespeare's characters. See "Measure for
    Measure."

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 holiday, I can't help it. I was born and
bred a west-countryman,[81] thank God! a Wessex man, a citizen of the
noblest Saxon kingdom of Wessex, a regular "Angular Saxon,"[82] the
very soul of me "adscriptus glebæ."[83] 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[84] 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[85] gwoes prating vur and nigh,
  We stwops at whum,[86] my dog and I."[A]

    [A] For this old song see Hughes's "Scouring of the White
    Horse."

    [81] #West-countryman#: a west of England man.

    [82] #Angular Saxon#: a play on the words _Anglo-Saxon_.

    [83] #Adscriptus glebæ#: attached to the soil.

    [84] #Chaw#: "chaw bacon," a nickname for an English peasant.

    [85] #Vools#: fools.

    [86] #Whum#: home.


SQUIRE BROWN AND HIS HOUSEHOLD.

Here at any rate lived and stopped at home Squire Brown, J. P.[87] 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
brought up 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[88] shirts, and smock frocks,[89] 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,[90] when the bands of
mummers[91] came round dressed out in ribbons and colored paper caps,
and stamped round the Squire's kitchen, repeating in true sing-song
vernacular[92] the legend of St. George and his fight, and the
ten-pound doctor,[93] who plays his part at healing the Saint--a
relic, I believe, of the old middle-age mysteries.[94] 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 neighborhood. 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.[95]

    [87] #J. P.#: justice of the peace.

    [88] #Calico#: white cotton cloth called calico in England,
    to distinguish it from print.

    [89] #Smock frocks#: coarse white frocks worn by farm
    laborers.

    [90] #Yule-tide#: Christmas. Clubs are formed by the poor
    several months in advance, to furnish coal, clothes, and
    poultry for Christmas time,--each member contributing a few
    pence weekly.

    [91] #Mummers#: maskers, merrymakers in fantastic costumes.

    [92] #Vernacular#: one's native tongue.

    [93] #Ten-pound doctor#: a quack doctor.

    [94] #Mysteries#: rude dramatic plays of a religious
    character, once very popular.

    [95] #Lieges#: loyal subjects.


THE OLD BOY ABUSETH MOVING ON.

I have been credibly informed, and am inclined to believe, that the
various Boards of Directors of Railway Companies, those gigantic
jobbers[96] 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 county once in five years. A visit to
Reading or Abingdon twice a year, at Assizes or Quarter Sessions[97]
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
neighbor's--or an expedition to a county ball or the yeomanry
review--[98] 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[99] 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-colored 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[100] to "young master," to
come in and have a ride. But as yet the nurse was too much for Tom.

    [96] #Jobbers#: speculators or members of corrupt political
    rings.

    [97] #Assizes or Quarter Sessions#: sessions of courts of
    justice.

    [98] #Yeomanry review#: a review of the county militia.

    [99] #Don#: a nickname for a university professor.

    [100] #Sirens#: sea-nymphs who enticed sailors into their
    power by their singing, and then devoured them.


THE OLD BOY APPROVETH MOVING ON.

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[101] gateway, and blacks my boots for a
penny, takes his month's hop-picking[102] every year as a matter of
course. Why shouldn't he? I am delighted at it. I love vagabonds,
only I prefer poor to rich ones;-couriers[103] and ladies' maids,
imperials[104] 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 limaçon,
  Portant tout son bagage,
  Ses meubles, sa maison,"[105]

on his own back, why, good luck to them, and many a merry road-side
adventure, and steaming supper in the chimney-corners of road-side
inns, Swiss châlets,[106] Hottentot kraals,[107] 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,"[108] as we say in the Vale, "holus bolus,"[109] just as it
comes, and then you'll probably get the truth out of me.

    [101] #Clement's Inn#: formerly a college and residence for
    law students in London. It is now given up to law offices.

    [102] #Hop-picking#: all the vagabonds of London go to Kent
    and Surrey in the autumn to pick hops for the farmers,
    regarding the work as a kind of vacation frolic.

    [103] #Courier#: a person hired by wealthy travellers to go in
    advance and engage rooms at hotels, etc.

    [104] #Imperial#: the best seat on a French diligence or
    stage-coach.

    [105] #Comme le limaçon#, etc.: like the snail, carrying all
    his baggage, his furniture, and his house.

    [106] #Chalet# (shal-ay'): a Swiss herdsman's hut.

    [107] #Kraal#: a Hottentot hut or village.

    [108] #"Sar' it out"#: deal it out.

    [109] #"Holus bolus"#: all at once.




CHAPTER II.

THE "VEAST."

    "And the King commandeth and forbiddeth, that from henceforth
    neither fairs nor markets be kept in church-yards, for the
    honor of the church."--_Statutes_: 13 Edw. I. Stat. II. Chap.
    VI.


As that venerable and learned poet[1] (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_,[2] 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[3] of the child, in the quiet
country village to which we were introduced in the last chapter.

    [1] #Learned poet#: Wordsworth; the quotation, which follows,
    is from "My heart leaps up."

    [2] #A fortiori#: for a stronger reason.

    [3] #Environments#: surroundings.


TOM BROWN'S NURSE.

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[4] was a good-hearted, tearful,
scatter-brain[5] girl, lately taken by Tom's mother, Madam Brown, as
she was called, from the village school to be trained as nursery-maid.
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 house-maids, laundry-maids, nursery-maids, or
kitchen-maids, and, after a year or two's drilling, were started in
life amongst the neighboring 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[6] 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.

    [4] #Functionary#: one charged with the performance of a duty.

    [5] #Scatter-brain#: thoughtless.

    [6] #N[)o]table#: industrious, smart.

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[7] and other virtues; so that one was forever hearing in the
village street, or on the green, shrill sounds of "Prudence! Prudence!
thee cum' out o' the gutter"; or "Mercy! drat[8] the girl, what
bist[9] 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[10] times--there it is, at any rate, very strong still in
the Vale.

    [7] #Cardinal#: chief.

    [8] #Drat#: plague take.

    [9] #Bist#: art.

    [10] #Puritan#: the Puritans were those who were dissatisfied
    with the English Church and wished to _purify_ it, as they
    said, from certain ceremonies. They quite generally gave their
    children Bible names.


TOM BROWN'S FIRST REBELLION.

Well, from early morn 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 head-work was wanted. This
war of independence began every morning before breakfast, when Charity
escorted her charge to a neighboring farm-house which supplied the
Browns, and where by his mother's wish, Master Tom went to drink
whey,[11] 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 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.[12] Charity was some sort of niece of the old lady's, and was
consequently free of the farm-house and garden, into which she could
not resist going for the purposes of gossip and flirtation with the
heir-apparent,[13] 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,[14] 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 his 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.

    [11] #Whey#: in making cheese the milk separates, the thick
    part forming curd, and the watery portion whey.

    [12] #Pattens#: wooden-soled shoes.

    [13] #Heir-apparent#: the legal heir.

    [14] #Break cover#: come out from his hiding-place.


TOM BROWN'S ABETTORS--NOAH.

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.[15] 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[16] worship and abuse turnpike
roads and carriages. He wore an old full-bottomed wig,[17] the gift of
some dandy old Brown whom he had valeted[18] in the middle of last
century, which habiliment Master Tom looked upon with considerable
respect, not to say fear; and indeed his whole feeling toward 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!"

    [15] #Pillion#: a seat, for a woman, attached to the hinder
    part of a saddle.

    [16] #Fetish#: an idol.

    [17] #Full-bottomed wig#: this was a large wig worn by all men
    of fashion in the last century.

    [18] #Valeted#: served; (from _valet_, a gentleman's private
    servant).


TOM BROWN'S ABETTORS--BENJY.

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 extricated
his first stickleback[19] 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 pop-joying,[20] they had caught three
or four 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 favor, 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,[21] 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[22] 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.

    [19] #Stickleback#: a small fish.

    [20] #Pop-joying#: nibbling by fish.

    [21] #Float#: a cork or bit of wood attached to a fish-line.

    [22] #Petty sessions#: a criminal court held by a justice of
    the peace.

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[23] sword and pistol, which hung over the
mantle-piece, flanked by a pair of heavy single-sticks, with which
Benjy himself had won renown long ago as an old gamester,[24] against
the picked men of Wiltshire, and Somersetshire,[25] in many a good
bout at the revels and pastimes of the country-side. For he had been a
famous back-sword man in his young days, and a good wrestler at elbow
and collar.


OUR VEAST.

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[26], but much more ancient
business. They are literally, so far as one can ascertain, feasts of
the dedication, _i.e._, they were first established in the church-yard
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.

    [23] #Dragoons#: soldiers who serve on foot or on horseback,
    as occasion requires.

    [24] #Old gamester#: a person skilled in the game of
    single-stick or back sword.

    [25] #Wiltshire and Somersetshire#: counties west of
    Berkshire.

    [26] #Statute feasts#: festivals established by law.

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 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[27] 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 humanizing 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
plow-boys, always become nuisances and curses to a country. The true
charm of cricket[28] 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.

    [27] #Booths#: temporary sheds, etc., for the sale of
    refreshments, pedlers' goods, and the like.

    [28] #Cricket#: the English national game of ball.


APPROACH OF VEAST-DAY.

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.[29]
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 foot-path running down it from the
church-yard; and the old church, the originator of all the mirth,
towered up with its gray walls and lancet windows[30] overlooking
and sanctioning the whole, though its own share therein had been
forgotten. At the point where the foot-path 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 farm-house, where dwelt an old sporting farmer, a
great promoter of the revels.

    [29] #Tutelage#: guardianship.

    [30] #Lancet windows#: high, narrow windows of the earliest
    Gothic architecture.

Past the old church, and down the foot-path, pottered[31] the old man
and the child, hand in hand, early on the afternoon of the day before
the feast, and wandered all around the ground which was already being
occupied by the "cheap Jacks,"[32] with their green-covered carts and
marvellous assortment of wares, and the booths of more legitimate[33]
small traders with their tempting arrays of fairings[34] and eatables;
and penny peep-shows and other shows, containing pink-eyed ladies, and
dwarfs, and boa-constrictors, and wily 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 forty years back, to which Tom listened with all his
ears and eyes.

    [31] #Pottered#: walked slowly, sauntered.

    [32] #"Cheap Jacks"#: pedlers.

    [33] #Legitimate#: lawful.

    [34] #Fairings#: ribbons, toys, and other small articles sold
    for presents.


MORNING OF THE VEAST.

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[35] and top-boots,[36] 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 button-hole, 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.

    [35] #Buckskins#: buckskin breeches.

    [36] #Top-boots#: high boots.

They quicken their pace when they get into the church-yard, for
already they see the field thronged with country folk, the men in
clean white smocks or velveteen or fustian[37] coats, with rough plush
waistcoats of many colors, and the women in the beautiful scarlet
cloak, the usual outdoor dress of West-country women in those days,
and which often descended in families from mother to daughter, or in
new-fashioned stuff[38] shawls, which, if they would but believe it,
don't become them half so well. The air resounds with the pipe and
tabor,[39] and the drums and trumpets of the showmen shouting at the
doors of their caravans,[40] 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[41]
of his satellite.

    [37] #Fustian#: coarse cloth.

    [38] #Stuff#: woollen.

    [39] #Pipe and tabor#: fife and drum.

    [40] #Caravans#: show wagons.

    [41] #Pan-pipe#: several pipes or fifes fastened together in
    a row, and blown by an attendant or "satellite," in the Punch
    and Judy show.

"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.[42] And how's the squire, and madam, and the family?"

    [42] #Purely#: nicely.

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[43] our Sukey, Mr.
Benjamin? she be growed a rare slip of a wench[44] since you seen her,
tho' her'll be sixteen come Martinmas[45]. I do aim[46] to take her to
see madam to get her a place."

    [43] #Minds#: remember.

    [44] #Wench#: a young peasant girl.

    [45] #Martinmas#: the feast of St. Martin, Nov. 11.

    [46] #Aim#: intend.

And Sukey comes bouncing away from a knot of old school-fellows, and
drops a courtesy 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
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 church-yards 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.


THE JINGLING MATCH.

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?[47] 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[48]
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 blind-folded, 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 blind-folded 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.

    [47] #Tuppence#: two pence or four cents; the English penny,
    being equal to two cents.

    [48] #Quaint#: odd, old-fashioned.

And now, while they are climbing the pole in another part of the
field, and muzzling in a flour-tub[49] 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[50] in money will be
forthcoming for the old gamester who breaks most heads; to which the
squire and he have added a new hat.

    [49] #Muzzling in a flour-tub#: running their heads into a tub
    of flour to fish out prizes.

    [50] #Half-sovereign#: ten shillings ($2.50).

The amount of the prize is sufficient to stimulate the men of the
immediate neighborhood, 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,[51] chucks his hat on to the stage and climbs up
the steps, looking rather sheepish. The crowd, of course, first cheer,
then chaff[52] as usual, as he picks up his hat and begins handling
the sticks to see which will suit him.

    [51] #Down shepherd#: a shepherd on the downs or chalk hills.

    [52] #Chaff#: make fun, ridicule.


THE BACK-SWORDING.

"Wooy,[53] Willum Smith, thee canst plaay wi' he[54] arra[55] 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 back-sword 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.

    [53] #Wooy#: why.

    [54] #He#: here, him.

    [55] #Arra#: any.

Then follows the greasy cap, lined with fur, of a half-gipsy,
poaching,[56] loafing fellow who travels the Vale not for much
good, I fancy:

  "Full twenty times was Peter feared
  For once that Peter was respected,"[B]

    [B] Wordsworth's "Peter Bell."

in fact. And then three or four other hats, including the glossy
castor[57] of Joe Willis, the self-elected and would-be champion of
the neighborhood, 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 has sadly gone out of
late, even in the Vale, and maybe you have never seen it.

    [56] #Poaching#: game-stealing.

    [57] #Castor#: a tall silk hat.

The weapon is a good stout ash-stick with a large basket-handle,[58]
heavier and some what 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 head: 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 bodies 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,[59] and strike, and return at one
another's head, 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 return 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.

    [58] #Basket-handle#: a handle protected by wicker-work.

    [59] #Feint#: to pretend to make a thrust or to give a blow.


JOE AND THE GIPSY.

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!" shouted the spectators,
as a thin stream oozes out slowly from the roots of his hair, and the
umpire[60] 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.

    [60] #Umpire#: judge or referee.

Then follow several stout sets-to between the other candidates for the
new hat, and at last come to 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 favorite 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,[61] child, doan't 'ee go a'nigst[62] it;" but she breaks
away and runs toward the stage calling his name. Willum keeps up his
guard stoutly, but glances for a moment toward 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[63] to buy ee a fairing wi', and I be as vlush[64] o' money as
a twod[65] o' veathers."[66]

    [61] #'ee#: thee, you.

    [62] #A'nigst#: near.

    [63] #Summut#: something or somewhat.

    [64] #Vlush#: flush.

    [65] #Twod#: a toad.

    [66] #Veathers#: feathers.

"Thee minds what I tells ee," rejoins Rachel, saucily, "and doan't ee
keep blethering[67] about fairings." Tom resolves in his heart to give
Willum the remainder of his two shillings after the back-swording.

    [67] #Blethering#: talking nonsense.

Joe Willis had 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
imposter, 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.


A NEW "OLD GAMESTER."

Joe takes the new hat in his hand, and puts the money in 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,[68] is chucked on 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."

    [68] #Shovel#: a broad-brimmed hat turned up at the sides. It
    was formerly much worn by clergymen of the Church of England.

The crowd cheer and begin to chaff Joe, who turns up his nose and
swaggers across to the sticks. "Imp'dent old wos-bird!"[69] says he,
"I'll break the bald head on un to the truth."

    [69] #Wos-bird#: a bird that steals corn.

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


JOE OUT OF LUCK.

He takes off his long-flapped coat, and stands up in a long-flapped
waistcoat, which Sir Roger de Coverley[70] 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 staunch 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's met thy match!" Instead of taking
good advice and getting his wind, Joe loses his temper and strikes at
the old man's body.

    [70] #Sir Roger de Coverley#: a typical old country gentleman
    of delightful simplicity of character. See Addison's
    "Spectator."

"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 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 eyes. 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[71] thy hand," says he, and
they shake hands; but the old gamester gives the hat to the shepherd,
and, soon after, the half-sovereign to Willum, who thereout decorates
his sweetheart with ribbons to his heart's content.

    [71] #Gi's#: give us.

"Who can a[72] be! Wur[73] do a cum from?" ask the crowd. And it soon
flies about that the west-country champion, who played a tie[74] with
Shaw, the life-guardsman[75] at "Vizes"[76] twenty years before, has
broken Joe Willis's crown for him.

    [72] #A#: he.

    [73] #Wur#: where.

    [74] #Tie#: a contest in which neither side gains the victory.

    [75] #Life-guardsman#: one of the Queen's body-guard.

    [76] #"Vizes"#: a contraction of Devizes, a town in Wiltshire.


THE REVELS ARE OVER.

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
church-yard, and by the old yew-tree; and get a quiet dish of tea and
bit of talk with our gossips, as the steady ones of our village do,
and so to bed.


THE OLD BOY MORALIZETH ON VEASTS.

That's a 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,[77]" 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 any interest in them. They
don't either subscribe to the prizes, or go down and enjoy the fun.

    [77] #Yeast#: a novel by Charles Kingsley.

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 aping 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[78] whatever, which hasn't some _bona fide_[79] 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;[80] and your Christian Young Men Societies
in religious Pharisaism.

    [78] #Grapnel#: a grappling hook.

    [79] #Bona fide#: real.

    [80] #Priggism#: affectation, conceit.


ADVICE TO YOUNG SWELLS.

Well, well, we must bide our time. Life isn't all beer and
skittles,--but beer and skittles,[81] 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[82] and West-End clubs,[83]
waiting, always ready to strap yourselves on to the back of poor dear
old John,[84] 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 are guiding him with their
red-tape[85] bridle, tumble, or have to be lifted off.

    [81] #Skittles#: the game of ninepins.

    [82] #Palaver houses#: talk houses--the Houses of Parliament.

    [83] #West-End Clubs#: clubs in the fashionable quarter of
    London.

    [84] #Old John#: John Bull.

    [85] #Red-tape#: official routine and formalism.

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
"aren't so green," though lots of us of all sorts toady[86] you
enough certainly, and try to make you think so.

    [86] #Toady#: flatter.

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,[87] and could act as if they
thought so.

    [87] #Costermonger#: a fruit and vegetable pedler.




CHAPTER III.

SUNDRY WARS AND ALLIANCES.


"Poor old Benjy! the "rheumatiz" has much to answer for all through
English country-sides,[1] 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.

    [1] #Country-sides#: country districts.

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[2] 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.

    [2] #Turnspit#: a kind of dog, formerly trained to turn a spit
    for roasting meat.

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 on 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 neighborhood; a receiver of stolen goods,
the avowed enemy of law and order. Sometimes, however, they are of
quite a different stamp, men who pretend to know nothing, and are with
difficulty persuaded to exercise their occult[3] arts in the simplest
cases.


BENJY RESORTS TO A "WISE MAN."

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[4] 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 rumored
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,[5] 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, toward 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,[6] 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;[7] and
he, shutting up the knife with which he was at work, accompanied them
toward the cottage. A big old lurcher[8] got up slowly from the
doorstone, 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.

    [3] #Occult#: secret or magical.

    [4] #Manor#: the estate of a lord.

    [5] #Publican#: an innkeeper.

    [6] #Dingle#: a narrow valley.

    [7] #Wicket#: gate.

    [8] #Lurcher#: a dog that lies in wait for game, more used by
    poachers or men that steal game than by sportsmen.

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

"Ah, I see as you bean't quite so lissom[9] 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[10] on us, wuss luck."

    [9] #Lissom#: limber.

    [10] #Nother#: neither.


THE "WISE MAN'S" SURROUNDINGS.

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
fire-place, a dresser[11] with shelves, on which some bright pewter
plates and crockery-ware were arranged, an old walnut table, a few
chairs and settles,[12] some framed samplers[13] and an old print or
two, and a book-case with some dozen volumes on the walls, a rack with
flitches[14] 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,[15] and the row of labelled vials on one of the shelves
betoken it.

    [11] #Dresser#: a sideboard or cupboard.

    [12] #Settle#: a bench.

    [13] #Sampler#: a pattern for needlework.

    [14] #Flitch#: a side of bacon.

    [15] #Ingle#: chimney-corner.

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 honor. The two old men's talk
was of old comrades and their deeds, mute inglorious Miltons[16] 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, as old as Benjy or Farmer Ives, which caused
a strange commotion in his small brain.

    [16] #"Mute, inglorious Miltons"#: see Gray's "Elegy."

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 back 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.


BENJY'S RHEUMATISM.

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 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
afeared 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' rhumatiz."

"Wot be that, then, farmer?" inquired Benjy.

"Church-yard mold," 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 acquaintances 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[17] 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?"

    [17] #Stolid#: dull.

"What! beant 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 embrangle.[18] Everything came to pieces in his hands,
and nothing would stop in his head. They nicknamed him Jacob
Doodle-calf.

    [18] #Embrangle#: mix up.

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[19] 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 folks' 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.

    [19] #Crichton#: a Scottish gentleman of the sixteenth
    century, called for his learning and skill "The Admirable
    Crichton."


TORYISM OF SQUIRE BROWN.

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[20] Tory[21] to the backbone, and believed
honestly that the powers which be were ordained of God, and that
loyalty and steadfast obedience were man'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 color. 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 fleshy 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[22] to this belief,
Squire Brown held further that it didn't matter a straw whether his
son associated with lords' sons or plowmen's sons, provided they were
brave and honest. He himself had played foot-ball and gone
birds'-nesting with the farmers whom he met at vestry[23] and the
laborers who tilled their fields, and so had his father and
grandfather, with their progenitors.[24] 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[25] for a playground,
and provided bats and balls and a foot-ball for their sports.

    [20] #True blue#: genuine.

    [21] #Tory#: a member of the conservative party in politics.

    [22] #Corollary#: an inference from something before stated.

    [23] #Vestry#: parish meeting.

    [24] #Progenitors#: forefathers.

    [25] #Close#: any inclosed place; here, probably a field.


TOM'S WATCH-TOWER BY THE SCHOOL.

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[26] 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.

    [26] #Mullioned#: subdivided by slender, upright bars or
    columns.

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.[27] 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[28] 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 neighborhood 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 was asked,
consented, and the two stole down to the school together. Tom first
reconnoitered[29] 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 school-porch. 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[30]
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
prizes, the boys following to the gate in groups, and speculating on
the result.

    [27] #Swiss Family Robinson#: a story of the adventures of a
    shipwrecked family on a desert island.

    [28] #Choleric#: inclined to anger.

    [29] #Reconnoitered#: here, examined in a general way or at a
    little distance.


DEFEAT, CAPTURE, PEACE.

The Squire was very angry at first, but the interview, with 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 forever respected; and that hero and the master
withdrew to the servants' hall,[31] to drink the Squire's health, well
satisfied with their day's work.

    [30] #Forms#: benches.

    [31] #Servants' hall#: the servants' dining-room.

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[32] integuments[33]
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.

    [32] #Nether#: lower.

    [33] #Integuments#: garments.


PLAY AND WORK.

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,[34]
rounders, high-cock-a-lorum, cricket, foot-ball, 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.

    [34] #Prisoner's base#, etc.: boys' games.


RIDING AND WRESTLING.

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 gaze
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 india-rubber
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 backfall 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 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 ever 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 favor, which some
extra ten months of age gave. Tom had often afterward 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 neighborhood; 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;[35] 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 rumor declared that a raven,[36] last of
his race, still lingered; or to the sand hills, in vain quest of
rabbits; and birds'-nesting, in the season, anywhere and everywhere.

    [35] #Green rides#: roads cut through woods or pleasure
    grounds.

    [36] #Raven#: a large black bird of the crow family.


EARLIEST PLAYMATES.

The few neighbors 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 Redtape
might mutter to Squire Straightback 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
a governess or a footman.[37] But, luckily, Squire Brown was full as
stiff-backed as his neighbors, 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 over-nice people or fine ladies' maids.

    [37] #Footman#: a man-servant in livery.

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.


FIRST SCHOOL.

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-tops, white
marbles (called "alley taws" in the Vale), screws, birds'-eggs,
whipcord, Jews-harps, and other miscellaneous boys' wealth. Poor Jacob
Doodle-calf, in floods of tears, had pressed upon him, in 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.


OF PRIVATE SCHOOLS.

Neither have I room to speak of our private schools; what I
have to say is about public schools,[38] those much-abused and
much-belauded[39] institutions peculiar to England. So we must hurry
through Master Tom's year at a private school as fast as we can.

    [38] #Public schools#: a name given to certain large and
    richly endowed schools in England which are chiefly patronized
    by wealthy men. They are wholly unlike the public schools
    of the United States. Eton, Harrow, Winchester, Rugby, and
    Westminster are among the best known of this class of schools.

    [39] #Belauded#: praised.

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
already to be heard. The whole discipline of the school out of lesson
hours was in the hands of the two ushers,[40] one of whom was always
with the boys in their playground, in the school, at meals,--in fact,
at all times and everywhere, till they were fairly in bed at night.

    [40] #Usher#: an under-teacher.

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 cram 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 schoolmaster, 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 in Tom's first school were not gentlemen, were 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 endeavored 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 grossly
favoring 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.


TOM'S FIRST LETTER HOME.

Poor little Tom was made dreadfully unhappy in his first week, by a
catastrophe which happened to his first letter home. With huge labor
he had, on the very evening of his arrival, managed to fill two sides
of a sheet of letter-paper with the assurances of his love for dear
mamma, his happiness at school, and his resolves to do all she would
wish. This missive,[41] 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 afterward that the good dame sent for him, and produced the
precious letter and some wax saying, "Oh, 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[42] 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[43] punishable with
flogging, other hitting only a misdemeanor,--a distinction not
altogether clear in principle. Tom, however, escaped the penalty by
pleading "primum tempus,"[44] 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.

    [41] #Missive#: anything to be sent; hence, a letter.

    [42] #Gaby#: a dunce.

    [43] #Felony#: a serious offence or crime.

    [44] #Primum tempus#: first time.

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 neighborhood 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
bulls'-eyes[45] and unctuous toffee[46] might be procured in exchange
for coin of the realm.

    [45] #Bulls'-eyes and toffee#: the former are hard balls of
    sugar, the latter a kind of candy made of brown sugar and
    butter.

    [46] #Bulls'-eyes and toffee#: the former are hard balls of
    sugar, the latter a kind of candy made of brown sugar and
    butter.


THE AMUSEMENTS.

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 upon 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[47] 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 humble 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 build in a
high bank close to the village, consequently out of bounds;[48] but
one of the bolder spirits of the school, who never could be happy
unless he was doing something to which risk attached, easily persuaded
Tom to break bounds and visit the martin's bank. From whence, it being
only a step to the toffee 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 bulls'-eyes, and, a
search ensuing, discover the state of the breeches' pockets of Tom and
his ally?

    [47] #Humble bees#: "bumble-bees."

    [48] #Bounds#: the school limits, beyond which boys are not to
    go without permission.


THE REPROBATE.

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[49] 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
the doors of the rooms, by a sudden descent caught the performer in
his nightshirt, with a box of phosphorus[50] 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 folks covet much,--the very decided
fear of most of his companions.

    [49] #Necromancer#: (one who communes with the dead) a
    conjurer.

    [50] #Phosphorus#: the yellowish, inflammable substance used
    in making common matches--in a pure state it burns on exposure
    to air. Matches--called "Lucifers" or "light-bringers"--were
    invented in England about 1829. Previous to that time the only
    way of striking a light was by flint and steel, the spark
    being caught on a bit of tinder (half-burnt rag) which was
    then blown into a blaze.

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 week'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[51] at once, for the
last six weeks of this half-year, instead of wasting them, riding and
loitering about home. It is very kind of the Doctor[52] 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!"

    [51] #Rugby#: a small village in Warwickshire on the river
    Avon, nearly in the centre of England. It is the seat of Rugby
    School,--one of the great public schools,--and was founded by
    Lawrence Sheriff, a native of the neighboring village of
    Brownsover, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. The school owes
    its fame chiefly to Dr. Arnold, who became head master in
    1827, and held the position until his death in 1842.

    [52] #Doctor#: Dr. Arnold.

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[53] for his
launch into a public school.

    [53] #Kit#: here, clothes.




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[1] coach for
Leicester'll be round in half an hour, and don't wait for nobody." So
spake the Boots[2] of the Peacock Inn, Islington,[3] 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.

    [1] #Tally-ho#: the cry with which huntsmen urge on their
    hounds; here, a name given to a fast coach.

    [2] #Boots#: a servant in an inn who blacks boots, etc.

    [3] #Islington#: a northern suburb of London.


TOM ARRIVES IN TOWN.

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,[4] 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.

    [4] #Post-chaise#: a hired carriage.

Tom had never been in London, and would have liked to have stopped at
the Belle Sauvage,[5] where they had been put down by the Star,[6]
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.

    [5] #Belle Sauvage#: a famous old inn, formerly in the centre
    of London.

    [6] #Star#: the name of the coach which brought the Squire and
    Tom to London.

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 cosily 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.


SQUIRE BROWN'S PARTING WORDS.

Then being summoned to supper, he had regaled himself in one of the
bright little boxes[7] of the Peacock coffee-room, on the beefsteak
and unlimited oyster-sauce; had at first attended to the excellent
advice which his father was bestowing on him and then begun nodding,
from the united effects of 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.

    [7] #Boxes#: inclosed places for eating.

"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,[8] from which
he was roused in a clean little attic, by that buxom[9] 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.

    [8] #Brown study#: meditation without any particular object of
    thought.

    [9] #Buxom#: rosy with health, merry.


THE SQUIRE'S MEDITATIONS.

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 cheroot,[10]
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.

    [10] #Cheroot#: a kind of cigar.

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
doesn'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;[11] 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 the last words of advice to
Tom, which were well enough suited to his purpose.

    [11] #Digamma#: an ancient letter of the Greek alphabet. Greek
    particles are prepositions and conjunctions--hence nice or
    difficult points of Greek grammar.


THE TALLY-HO.

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[12] on the table.

    [12] #Hard biscuit#: cracker.

"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 great-coat, well warmed through,--a
Petersham coat with velvet collar, made tight after the abominable
fashion of those days. And just as he was 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[13] as it dashes up to the
Peacock.

    [13] #Drag#: a four-horse coach.

"Anything for us, Bob?" says the burly guard,[14] dropping down from
behind, and slapping himself across the chest.

    [14] #Guard#: a person having charge of a mail-coach, a
    conductor.

"Young genl'm'n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper[15] o' game,
Rugby" answers Ostler.

    [15] #Hamper#: a large, strongly made packing basket.

"Tell young gent to look alive," says guard, opening the hind-boot[16]
and shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps. "Here,
shove the portmanteau[17] up a-top,--I'll fasten him presently. Now
then, sir, jump up behind."

    [16] #Hind-boot#: a place at the end of a coach for luggage.

    [17] #Portmanteau#: travelling bag.

"Good-by, father--my love at home." A last shake of the hand. Up goes
Tom, the guard catching his hat-box and holding on with one hand,
while with the other he claps the horn to his mouth. Toot, toot, toot!
the ostlers 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; Ostler, 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.


A NOVEMBER RIDE IN OLD TIMES.

I sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a deal tenderer
fellows than we used to be. At any rate you are much more comfortable
travellers, for I see every one of you with his rug or plaid,[18] and
other dodges for preserving the caloric,[19] and most of you going in
those fuzzy, dusty, padded, first-class carriages.[20] 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 cold, 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,[21] over the leader's ears, into the
darkness; and the cheery toot of the guard's horn, to warn some drowsy
pikeman[22] or the ostler at the next change; and the looking forward
to daylight--and last, but not least, the delight of returning
sensation in your toes.

    [18] #Rug or plaid#: a thick shawl or other wrap.

    [19] #Caloric#: here, heat of the body.

    [20] #First-class carriages#: in England the railway cars
    (called "carriages") are divided into first, second, and third
    class.

    [21] #Hoar-frost#: frozen dew.

    [22] #Pikeman#: the man who takes toll on a turnpike.

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,[23] 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
inward, 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 a 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 chock full of hope and life, notwithstanding the
cold, and kicks his heels against the backboard, and would like to
sing, only he doesn't know how his friend the silent guard might take
it.

    [23] #St. Albans#: about twenty miles north of London.


"PULLING UP."

And now the dawn breaks at the end of the fourth stage,[24] and the
coach pulls up at a little road-side 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 ostler; 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."

    [24] #Stage#: division of a journey.

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[25] as they stand before the fire, coachman and guard exchanging
business remarks. The purl warms Tom up and makes him cough.

    [25] #Purl#: a hot drink made of beer and other ingredients.

"Rare tackle[26] 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 ostler,
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.

    [26] #Tackle#: stuff.


MORNING SIGHTS AND DOINGS.

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,[27] at the heels of
the huntsman's hack,[28] whose face is about the color of the tails
of his old pink,[29] as he exchanges greetings with the coachman
and guard. Now they pull up at a lodge,[30] 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.

    [27] #Meet#: a gathering of huntsmen for a hunt.

    [28] #Hack#: here, nag or horse kept for rough riding.

    [29] #Old pink#: a red hunting-coat.

    [30] #Lodge#: a gentleman's house.

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


BREAKFAST.

Have we not endured nobly this morning, and is not this a worthy
reward for much endurance? There is the low dark wainscoted[31] room
hung with sporting prints; the hat-stand (with a whip or two standing
up in it belonging to bagmen,[32] who are still snug in bed) by
the door; the blazing fire, with the quaint old glass over the
mantel-piece, in which is stuck a large card with the lists 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.[33] And here comes in the stout
head waiter, puffing under a tray of hot viands; kidneys and a steak,
transparent rashers[34] 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.

    [31] #Wainscoted#: lined with boards or panels.

    [32] #Bagmen#: commercial travellers.

    [33] #Trencher#: a large wooden plate.

    [34] #Rashers#: thin slices of bacon.

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

"Coffee, please," says Tom with his mouth full of muffin and kidneys;
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 ostlers, as if
they enjoyed the not being hurried. Coachman comes out with his
way-bill,[35] and puffing a fat cigar which the sportsman has given
him. Guard emerges from the tap,[36] 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.

    [35] #Way-bill#: a list of passengers in a public vehicle.

    [36] #Tap#: bar-room.

The pinks[37] 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.

    [37] #Pinks#: huntsmen.

"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 ostlers fly back, drawing off the cloths from
their glossy loins, and away we go through the market-place and down
the High Street,[38] looking in at the first-floor[39] windows, and
seeing several worthy burgesses[40] shaving thereat; while all the
shop-boys who are cleaning the windows, and the house-maids who are
doing the steps, stop and looked 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.

    [38] #High Street#: the main street.

    [39] #First-floor#: the floor above the ground-floor,--the
    second story.

    [40] #Burgess#: a citizen or voter in a town.


GUARD DISCOURSES ON RUGBY.

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 before twelve
down--ten o'clock up."

"What sort of a 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, 'an one on 'em a two-oss van,[41] more like a hearse nor[42] a
coach--Regulator[43]--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?"

    [41] #Van#: a large light-covered wagon.

    [42] #Nor#: than.

    [43] #Regulator#: the name of the rival coach.

"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."[44] Tom assented. "We takes up fine loads this
day six weeks, and Monday and Tuesday arter.[45] Hopes we shall have
the pleasure of carrying you back."

    [44] #Half#: the half year.

    [45] #Arter#: after.

Tom said he hoped they would; but he thought within himself that his
fate would probably be the Pig and Whistle.[46]

    [46] #Pig and Whistle#: as Oxford lies on the direct road
    between Rugby and White Horse Vale, Tom would naturally return
    by this coach.


PEA-SHOOTERS.

"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,[47] 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."

    [47] #Pea-shooters#: tin tubes used by boys for blowing peas
    at a mark.

"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,[48] 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.'
'Coachee,' says young my lord, 'you ain't afraid; hoora, boys! let 'em
have it.' 'Hoora!' sings out the others, and fill their mouths chuck
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[49] runs right at the leaders, as though he'd ketch 'em
by the heads, only luck'ly for him he misses his tip[50] 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[51] 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[52] 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 pounds 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.

    [48] #First-day boys#: probably those that went up at the
    beginning of the term.

    [49] #Act'ly#: actually.

    [50] #Tip#: here, mark.

    [51] #Rum un#: here, a hard blow.

    [52] #Box's head#: that is, the head of the "young gent"
    sitting on the seat ("box") with the driver.

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

"'Tain't such good fun, though, sir, for the folks 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 is a line of Irish chaps a stone-breaking." 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."


AN OLD YEOMAN.

"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[53] 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' ugly.

    [53] #Cob#: a short, stout horse.

"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
further. 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 bi'st[54] 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.[55] 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."

    [54] #Bi'st#: "beest," art.

    [55] #County members#: members of Parliament.


BLOW-HARD AND HIS YARNS.

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 road
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,[56] with much kindness and humor, 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.

    [56] #File#: a shrewd person.

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.[57]

    [57] #Quoits or bowls#: quoits are iron rings pitched at short
    stakes set in the ground. Bowls are tenpins.


THE RUNNERS.

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,[58] 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, each in a
po-chay[59] 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.

    [58] #Wickets#: stakes which are driven into the ground as a
    mark for the ball in playing cricket.

    [59] #Po-chay#: a post-chaise; a hired chaise.

"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 spurts 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,
laboring 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 FOOT-BALL.

      "--Foot and eye opposed
      In dubious strife."--_Scott._


ARRIVAL AT RUGBY.

"And so here's Rugby, sir, at last, and you'll be in plenty of time
for dinner at the School-house, as I tell'd 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 foot-ball 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 school-gates with the oriel
window[1] 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 the street as well as he.

    [1] #Oriel window#: a bay-window. The great window over the
    arch is a striking feature of the Rugby gateway.


TOM FINDS A PATRON.

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."[2]

    [2] #Lift#: assistance of any kind.

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 heark'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[3] 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.

    [3] #Quadrangle#: a square piece of ground inclosed by
    buildings. English schools and colleges are quite generally
    built round a quadrangle or "quod" as it is commonly called.

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[4]
at seven and sixpence; Nixon undertaking to send the best hat up to
the matron's room, School-house, in half an hour.

    [4] #Regulation cat-skin#: the hat prescribed by custom or
    school law.

"You can send in a note for a tile[5] on Monday, and make it
all right, you know," said the Mentor.[6] "We're allowed two
seven-and-sixers a half, besides what we bring from home."

    [5] #Tile#: a tall silk hat.

    [6] #Mentor#: a wise counsellor. See Homer's Odyssey.

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.[7]

    [7] #Two seven-and-sixers#, etc.: _i.e._, two hats, for each
    half year, costing seven shillings and sixpence ($1.80) each.

"You see," said his friend, as they strolled up toward 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.[8] this half, and
perhaps'll double it next, if I keep in her good books."[9]

    [8] #Half-a-sov.#: half a sovereign ($2.50).

    [9] #Keep in her good books#: keep on good terms with her.

There's nothing for candor like a lower-school boy, and East was a
genuine specimen,--frank, hearty and good-natured, well satisfied with
himself and his position, and chock 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,[10] felt friends with him
at once, and began sucking in all his ways and prejudices, as fast as
he could understand them.

    [10] #Bumptiousness#: domineering manner.


INTRODUCTION TO THE MATRON.

East was great in the character of cicerone;[11] 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[12] are you in?"--and so they passed on through
the quadrangle and a small court-yard, upon which looked down a lot of
little windows (belonging, as his guide informed him, to some of the
School-house studies),[13] 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.

    [11] #Cicerone#: guide.

    [12] #Form#: here, class.

    [13] #Studies#: small private rooms occupied by the Rugby
    boys (two in a room) for study. They are distinct from the
    bed-rooms.


EAST'S STUDY.

"And now come in and see my study; we shall have just time before
dinner; and afterward, before calling-over,[14] we'll do the close."

    [14] #Calling-over#: roll-call.

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 fire-places 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,[15] 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.

    [15] #Convoy#: literally, a merchant-vessel protected by a
    ship-of-war; here, a person under the care of another.

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 further end was occupied by a square table
covered with a reasonably clean and whole red and blue check
table-cloth; 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 dog's heads, Grimaldi[16] winning the
Aylesbury steeple-chase,[17] Amy Robsart,[18] the reigning Waverley
beauty of the day, and Tom Crib[19] in a posture of defence, which did
no credit to the science[20] of that hero, if truly represented. Over
the door was a row of hat-pegs, and on each side book-cases 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.

    [16] #Grimaldi#: the name of a race-horse.

    [17] #Steeple-chase#: a race between horsemen across country
    to see which can first reach a certain distant object, as a
    church steeple.

    [18] #Amy Robsart#: the heroine of Scott's Waverley novel,
    "Kenilworth."

    [19] #Tom Crib#: a noted pugilist.

    [20] #Science#: boxing or pugilistic science.


"OUR OWN" AND THE USE THEREOF.

This was the residence of East and another boy in the same form, and
had more interest for Tom than Windsor Castle,[21] 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?

    [21] #Windsor Castle#: the principal residence of the English
    monarchs. It is on the Thames, about twenty miles west of
    London.

"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
præpostor[22] has the study at the fire end, and he has rigged up an
iron rod and green baize curtains 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 keep a sharp look-out that he
don't catch you behind his curtain when he comes down,--that's all."

    [22] #Præpostors#: the members of the sixth form, the highest
    class in the school. They were charged with the duty of
    looking after the other boys.


TOM'S FIRST RUGBY DINNER.

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 præpostor (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 foot-ball or long walks, some pale and chilly from
hard reading[23] in their studies, some from loitering over the fire
at the pastry-cook's, dainty mortals, bringing with them pickles and
sauce-bottles 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[24] 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,[25] or digging their forks
through the table-cloth. However, notwithstanding his curiosity, he
managed to make a capital dinner by the time the big man called "Stand
up!" and said grace.

    [23] #Reading#: studying.

    [24] #Verger#: here, the porter.

    [25] #Pellets#: wads of paper.

As soon as dinner was over, and Tom had been questioned by such
neighbors 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,[26] which Tom,
athirst for knowledge, gladly assented to, and they went out through
the quadrangle and passed the fives' court,[27] into the great
play-ground.

    [26] #Close#: this close or play-ground contains something
    over thirteen acres.

    [27] #Fives' court#: the space set apart for playing fives, a
    game resembling tennis.

"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 the 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[28] in the farthest
corner; you'll know that well enough next half, when there's island
fagging.[29] 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 milk-sop, laid himself down to the 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.

    [28] #Island#: the island no longer exists.

    [29] #Fagging#: the power given the sixth form, by authority
    and the custom of the school, to require the boys of the lower
    forms or classes to do errands, and act as servants generally.
    The system still has its defenders who regard it as a means of
    discipline.

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


WHITE TROUSERS IN NOVEMBER.

"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
foot-ball.[30] And we all wear white trousers to show 'em we don't
care for hacks.[31] 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 is
fourteen."

    [30] #Foot-ball#: foot-ball is the great game at Rugby. It
    first became popular in America under the Rugby rules, which,
    though modified, are still the basis of the game as now
    played.

    [31] #Hacks#: kicks on the shins.

"Who is 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
foot-ball 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.


EAST DISCOURSETH ON FOOT-BALL.

"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,[32] 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 foot-ball.

    [32] #Technicalities#: here, phrases peculiar to foot-ball.

"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. Aren'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.


CALLING-OVER.

He hadn't long to wonder, however, for the next minute East cried out:
"Hurra; 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 callings-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[33] to calling-over,
and the whole school of three hundred boys swept into the Big
School[34] to answer to their names.

    [33] #Cap and gown#: It is customary in England for holders of
    academic degrees to wear at times the appropriate cap and gown
    indicating their grade and college.

    [34] #The Big School#: the name of one of the school buildings
    at Rugby.

"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 further end, where that
illustrious form, the lower fourth, which had the honor of East's
patronage for the time-being, stood.

The master mounted into the high desk by the door, and one of the
præpostors of the week stood by him on the steps, the other three
marching up and down the middle of the school with their canes,[35]
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,[36] and all the junior
forms in order; while up the middle marched the three præpostors.

    [35] #Canes#: light, limber rattans used as rods.

    [36] #Shell#: the lower fourth form or class.

Then the præpostor 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,[37] must be there.
The rest of the sixth go forward into the close, to see that no one
escapes by any of the side gates.

    [37] #Will-he, nill-he#: willing or not.


"THEY TRUST TO OUR HONOR."

To-day, however, being the School-house match, none of the
School-house præpostors stay by the door to watch for truants of their
side; there is _carte blanche_[38] to the School-house fags to go
where they like: "They trust to our honor," as East proudly informs
Tom; "they know very well that no School-house boy would cut the
match.[39] If he did, we'd very soon cut him,[40] I can tell you."

    [38] #Carte blanche#: literally, a white card to be filled up
    as one pleases; hence, unlimited power.

    [39] #Cut the match#: refuse to be present at the game.

    [40] #Cut him#: drop his society.

The master of the week being short-sighted, and the præpostors 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 præpostors 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 præpostors 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[41] by the authorities; and the whole mass of boys
move up toward 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,[42] 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 color 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
color; but at the time we are speaking of, plush caps had 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 strap,--but we mean business, gentlemen.

    [41] #Impounded#: locked up.

    [42] #Braces#: suspenders.


OLD BROOKE'S GENERALSHIP.

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 half-penny, and got choice of
goals and kick-off? The new ball you may see lie there quite by
itself, in the middle, pointing toward the School or island goal; in
another minute it will be well on its way there. Use that minute in
remarking how the School-house side is drilled. You will see, in the
first place, that the sixth form boy who has charge of goal has spread
his force (the goal-keepers) 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[43] 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,[44]
but wisely and bravely ruling over willing and worshipping subjects, a
true foot-ball 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.

    [43] #Larking#: frolicking.

    [44] #He of Russia#: the Czar.

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.


A SCRUMMAGE.

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
toward 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 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.[45]

    [45] #In the consulship of Plancus#: meaning, perhaps, at the
    time when "old Brooke" was leader.

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 leathern 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 foot-ball 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 foot-ball you can understand if you will. Come along
with me a little nearer, and let us consider it together.


HOW TO GO IN.

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 bull-dogs,
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 he 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 sort 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
foot-ball.


YOUNG BROOKE'S RUSH.

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 color 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 a 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 further, where the opposite line is weak. Old
Brooke strikes it out straight and strong, and it falls opposite his
brother. Hurra! 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-post.

The School leaders come up furious, and administer toco[46] to the
wretched fags nearest at hand; they may well be angry, for it is all
Lombard Street[47] to a China orange[48] 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 forward, 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[49] 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.

    [46] #Toco#: probably kicks and cuffs.

    [47] #Lombard Street#: the centre of the banking business in
    London.

    [48] #China orange#: a sweet orange.

    [49] Fond: here, foolish.


A GOAL.

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[50] 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.[51] 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.

    [50] #Itinerant#: wandering.

    [51] #Pyrenees#: an allusion to the French and English wars in
    Spain.

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 until now, will lead the charges.


"ARE YOU READY?"

"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 School-house
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 honor
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 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.


EAST'S CHARGE.

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 "bravos" 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.[52] 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 the 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.

    [52] #Waterloo#: (in Belgium) the scene of the crushing defeat
    of the French in 1815, by the allied forces under the Duke of
    Wellington, by which the power of Napoleon was finally broken.
    The Old Guard was the emperor's favorite body of troops, and
    was considered irresistible.


TOM'S FIRST EXPLOIT.

There stands the School-house præpostor, 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 præpostor 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 præpostor, but falling flat on
Tom, and knocking all the wind out of his small carcass. "Our ball,"
says the præpostor, 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"[53] is called, and the first day
of the School-house match is over.

    [53] #No side#: a drawn game.




CHAPTER VI.

AFTER THE MATCH.

    "----Some food we had."--_Shakespeare._

    [Greek: "ês potos hadus."]--_Theocr., Id._


CELEBRATING THE VICTORY.

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[1] 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 honor, what a power ye are, and how carelessly wielded by those
who can use them! Surely for these things, also, God will ask an
account.

    [1] #Opodeldoc#: a liniment.

"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,[2]--she bakes such stunning
murphies, we'll have a penn'orth each for tea; come along, or they'll
all be gone."

    [2] #Tuck-shop#: cook or pastry shop.

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[3] 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."[4]

    [3] #Tick#: credit.

    [4] #Bore#: an annoyance.

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 parlor,
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.


HARROWELL'S.

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 bricked-floored
room, with large recess for fire, and chimney-corner seats. Poor
little Sally, the most good-natured and much enduring of woman-kind,
was bustling about with the napkin in her hand, from her own oven to
those of the neighbors' 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., 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,[5]
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.

    [5] #Sedan-chair#: a kind of covered chair for carrying a
    single person, borne on poles by two men.


TEA AND ITS LUXURIES.

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 neighbors, and thought he had never
tasted such good potatoes or seen such jolly boys. They on their part
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 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 neighboring
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 isn'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, and we cut about the quadrangle
between the songs, and it looks like a lot of robbers in a cave. And
the louts[6] come and pound at the great gate, and we pound back
again, and shout at them. But this half we only sing in the hall. Come
along down to my study."

    [6] #Louts#: here, town men or boys, "outsiders."

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


SUPPER.

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
afterward 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 fire-places.
Around the upper fire the fags placed the tables in the form of a
horse-shoe, and upon them the jugs[7] with the Saturday night's
allowance of beer. Then the big boys used to drop in and take their
seats, bringing their song-books with them; 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.

    [7] #Jugs#: pitchers.

The sixth-form boys had not yet appeared; so to fill up the gap, an
interesting and time-honored 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 Bottèl," 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.


BROOKE'S HONORS.

The glasses and mugs are filled, and then the fugle-man[8] 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," "Billie Taylor," "The Siege of
Seringapatam," "Three Jolly Post-boys," and other vociferous songs in
rapid succession, including the "Chesapeake and Shannon,"[9] a song
lately introduced in honor 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.

    [8] #Fugle-man#: leader.

    [9] #Chesapeake and Shannon#: a song on the famous naval duel
    off Boston Harbor, in 1813, between the American frigate
    Chesapeake, and the British ship Shannon. The English gained
    the victory; but later, the Americans effectually beat them.

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 foot-ball, their
leader on this glorious day--Pater[10] Brooke!"

    [10] #Pater Brooke#: Father Brooke, because he was now an "old
    boy" about to graduate.


BROOKE DISCOURSETH ON UNION.

And away goes the pounding and cheering again, becoming deafening when
old Brooke gets on his legs; till, a table having broken down, and all
throats getting dry, silence ensues, and the hero speaks, leaning his
hands on the table, and bending a little forward. 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 sha'n'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
am 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 am 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. Its 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[11] any day--(frantic cheers).

    [11] #Balliol scholarship#: a scholarship in Balliol College,
    one of the leading colleges of Oxford. Such scholarships are
    frequently worth from $800 to $1000 a year.

"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
foot-ball 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-by 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-houses, and drinking bad spirits, and punch, and such
wretched stuff. That won't make good drop-kicks or chargers of you,
take my word for it; 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[12] hasn't been here so
long as some of us, and he's changing all the old customs. Rugby, and
the School-house 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,' is 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 linch-pins 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."

    [12] #Doctor#: Doctor Arnold. He became head-master of Rugby
    in 1828. He was a power for good in every direction. He
    reconstructed the school system, and put the boys on their
    honor, never in any way questioning their word, so that it
    came to be a saying in the school, "that it was a shame to
    tell Arnold a lie; he always believes one." Perhaps no teacher
    in England was so beloved or had such influence.

"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 a keen hand generally.

"Well, we had six or seven mangy harriers and beagles[13] belonging to
the house, I'll allow, and had had them for years, and the Doctor put
them down. But what good ever came of them? Only rows with all the
keepers[14] for ten miles round; and big-side Hare and Hounds[15] is
better fun ten times over. What else?"

    [13] #Harriers and beagles#: dogs used for hunting hares.

    [14] #Keepers#: game-keepers.

    [15] #Hare and Hounds#: next to foot-ball, this is the great
    sport at Rugby. Several boys representing the hares, start to
    run a certain course, and are shortly after followed by the
    whole school as hounds. In some cases thirteen miles have been
    run in less than an hour and a half.

No answer.


STANDETH UP FOR "THE DOCTOR."

"Well, I won't go on. Think it over for yourselves; you'll find, I
believe, that he doesn'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 isn't the Doctor's, for it'll lead to grief. You all
know that I am not the fellow to back a master through thick and thin.
If I saw him stopping foot-ball, or cricket, or bathing, or
sparring,[16] I'd be as ready as any fellow to stand up about it. But
he doesn't--he encourages them. Didn't you see him put 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 stuff, and drink his
health as the head of the house. (Loud cheers.) And now I have 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 honors. 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!"

    [16] #Sparring#: boxing.


SCHOOL IDOLATRIES.

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 my 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 aren'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 of 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 schoolboys, at least the schoolboys
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.


"THE DOCTOR" AND HIS WORKS.

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,[17] and regarded the infringement or variation of it 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 learned
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 in 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.

    [17] #Medes and Persians#: ancient nations of the east; noted
    for their adherence to the laws of their forefathers.

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,[18] a third prosy, and so on, which are not necessary
to be here recorded.

    [18] #Maudlin#: silly.

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 youth 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[19] 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.

    [19] #Dips#: cheap tallow candles.

"Bill, you old muff,[20] the half-hour hasn't struck."

    [20] #Muff#: usually a soft, useless kind of person; here,
    codger.

"Sing us a song, old boy." "Don't you wish you may get the table?"

Bill 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 "Billie 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[21] 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 IV.[22] 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, neighbors all, both great and small,
    Perform your duties here,
  And loudly sing 'live Billy our King,'
    For bating[23] the tax upon beer."

    [21] #Jugs#: pitchers.

    [22] #William IV.#: 1830 to 1837.

    [23] #Bating#: lowering.


LAST LOYAL STRAINS.

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
loyalists. I have forgotten all but the chorus, which ran:--

  "God save our good King William, be his name forever blest,
  He's the father of all his people, and the guardian of all the rest."

In truth 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 honor.


PRAYERS.

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 around 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 furthest 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. 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.


TOSSING.

"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,[24] you just come along and hide, or
else they'll catch you and toss you."

    [24] #Funk#: feel afraid.

"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 up-stairs. "It doesn't hurt unless you fall on the floor.
But most fellows don't like it."

They stopped at the fire-place 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 sha'n'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 the 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 further 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 sung 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," sung out another one 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 his 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.


EAST AND TOM DEVOTE THEMSELVES.

"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," sung 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 plucky one."

"Ah, wait until he has been tossed on to the floor; see how he'll like
it then!"

Meantime the procession went down the passage to No. 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 honor 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 shuttle-cock, but not quite up to the ceiling.

"Now, boys, with a will!" cried Walker. "Once, twice, thrice, and
away!" This time he went clear up, and kept himself from touching the
ceiling with his hands; 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 the 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.


A BULLY'S REFINEMENTS.

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 after all, the two boys were not tossed together. The peculiar
hardship of which tossing, 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 atop 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 præpostor 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[1] 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.


WAKING UP; MOVEMENTS OF BOGLE.

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[2] 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.[3]

    [1] #Entity#: being.

    [2] #Generic name#: class name.

    [3] "No Englishman ever blacks his own shoes," said an English
    visitor to Mr. Lincoln. "Well, whose shoes does he black
    then?" was the President's reply.

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 neighboring plowed
fields. The noise of the room door closing behind Bogle, as he made
his exit with the shoe-basket 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,"[4] said he, "that it's lie-in-bed morning, for I shall
be as lame as a tree, I think."

    [4] #Pull#: lucky thing.

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 afterward 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 fire-place, 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 neighboring 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 forever 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
bed-clothes with one hand, and with the other, armed with a slipper,
belaboring whatever portion of the body of his adversary came within
reach.


GETTING UP.

"Hold that noise, up in the corner!" called out the præpostor, 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 præpostor 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 further, 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.[5]

    [5] #Rota#: list.

"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[6] and mine. Tadpole will show you the way."

    [6] #Jug#: here, a large water-pitcher.

And so Tom and the Tadpole, in night-shirts and trousers, started off
down-stairs, 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[7] from the
fifth-form rooms, who were on the look-out 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," Tadpole remarked, "as we should have had to do, if those
beggars had caught us."

    [7] #Privateers#: literally, ships owned by private
    individuals licensed to plunder an enemy in war.


THE "CLOSE" BEFORE CHAPEL.

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
præpostor 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 out on 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 foot-ball. 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.


MORNING AND AFTERNOON CHAPEL.

The chapel-bell began to ring at a quarter to eleven, and Tom got in
early, 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[8] the Greek text which was inscribed over the door with
the slightest possible success, and wondering 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 paneling 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.

    [8] #Construe#: translate.

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.


THE SERMON.

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
the year, when the only lights in the chapel were in the pulpit and at
the seats of the præpostors 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 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 our hearts, and very little
besides in heaven or earth: who thought more of our sets[9] 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 battle-field 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.

    [9] #Sets#: classes, social groups or cliques.


THE DOCTOR'S FIRST HOLD.

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.[10] 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 or 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[11] of all other
sins in such a boy's mind) which hindered him from doing so with all
his heart.

    [10] #Three-decker#: an old-fashioned man-of-war of the
    largest size.

    [11] #Incarnation#: embodiment.

The next day Tom was duly placed in the third form, and began his
lessons in a corner of the Big School.[12] He found the work very
easy, as he had been well grounded and knew his grammar by heart; and,
as he had no intimate companion 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.

    [12] #Big School#: one of the school buildings.

In the house too all went well. The end of the half-year was drawing
near, which kept everybody in a good humor, 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 further, or dared show itself openly,
stalking about the passages and hall and bedrooms, and making the life
of the small boys a continual fear.


HOUSE-FAGGING.

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 præpostor 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, 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 præpostor 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 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 foot-ball, by continual practice
at the School-house little-side, which played daily.


HARE AND HOUNDS.

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?" cried 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."

"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 a leather strap, and left all superfluous
clothing behind, set off for White Hall, an old gable-ended[13] house
some quarter of a mile from the town, and 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.

    [13] #Gable-ended#: having a triangular end from the eaves or
    cornice to the top.


THE MEET AND THE FIRST BURST.

At the meet they found some forty or fifty boys, and Tom felt sure,
from having seen many of them run at foot-ball, 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.[14] We run to the Cock,[15] 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 gate-way 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 hedge-row 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 plowed field, where
the pace begins to tell; then over a good wattle[16] 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[17]
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 favor
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.

    [14] #Six minutes' law#: six minutes' start.

    [15] #The Cock#: a noted inn.

    [16] #Wattle#: a gate or fence made of sticks woven together.

    [17] #Leicestershire#: a county joining Warwickshire.

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[18] into the
fields on the left and right, and the others get their second winds.

    [18] #Casts#: sallies or explorations in different directions.

Then comes the cry of "Forward" again, from young Brooke, from the
extreme left, and the pack settle 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[19] 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 look-out 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.

    [19] #Vantage-ground#: a place of advantage.

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, 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, panting and
plunging along, Tom and East pretty close, and Tadpole, whose big head
begins to pull him down, some thirty yards behind.


THE FIRST CHECK.

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 earshot, and all hope of coming in is over.


NO GO.

"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[20] 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."

    [20] #Thick#: fool.

"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.


CONSEQUENCES.

"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 in it
up to his elbows in the stiff, wet clay, and a more miserable creature
in the shape of a 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.


THEIR RECEPTION.

Five minutes afterward, 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 toward 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
forward. 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.[21]
Round him stood three or four children; the candles burnt brightly on
a large table at the further 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,[22] 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.

    [21] #Nicias's galleys#: Grecian boats under the command of
    Nicias, a famous general.

    [22] #Homely#: homelike.


THEIR EXPLANATION.

"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.

"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 up-stairs, 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 afterward
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.


LAST DAYS.

A day or two afterward 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[23] went on in the vacant space, the sure sign of a closing
half-year.

    [23] #Bolstering#: fights with pillows and bolsters.

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 masters' last report 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 post-boys[24] in their best
jackets and breeches, and a cornopean[25] player, hired for the
occasion, blowing away, "A southerly wind and a cloudy day," waking
all peaceful inhabitants half-way down the High Street.

    [24] #Post-boys#: the boys that drove the coach and the
    post-chaises.

    [25] #Cornopean#: a kind of trumpet.

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 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[26] at
Dunchurch."

    [26] #Highflyer#: name of a coach.

"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 musicians and post-boys 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[27]--and this is the most
correct public method of notifying the fact.

    [27] #At large#: free from restraint.


OFF.

"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 post-boys. 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 schoolboys 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 is 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[28] 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.

    [28] #Corn Market#: one of the principal streets of Oxford.


DULCE DOMUM.

"Where to, sir?"

"Red Lion, Farringdon," says Tom, giving ostler a shilling.

"All right, sir. Red Lion, Jem," to the post-boy, and Tom rattles away
toward 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
pounds 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.

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 upward 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[1] of Virgil, and the Hecuba[2] 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;[3] 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 endeavoring 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 Irish
women, making fun of their master, one another, and their lessons,
Argus[4] 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 or 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 forever 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.

    [1] #Bucolics#: short poems on country life.

    [2] #Hecuba#: the name of a play.

    [3] #Accidence#: the rudiments of grammar.

    [4] #Argus#: in mythology, a monster with a hundred eyes.

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
lessons 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.[5] 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[6] or ideal form
of the young scapegraces who formed the staple[7] of it.

    [5] #Babel#: confusion. See Genesis, Chapter XI.

    [6] #Elysium#: in mythology, a dwelling-place for happy souls
    after death; hence, any delightful place.

    [7] #Staple#: principal part.

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 favorably 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.[8] 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 look-out holes, marching
slowly down the school straight upon their retreat, while all the boys
in the neighborhood 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.

    [8] #Veto#: the act of forbidding; a prohibition.


MONTHLY EXAMINATIONS.

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[9] 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 kind 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."

    [9] #Tithe#: a tenth.

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.


TRISTE LUPUS.

The boy who was called up first was a clever,[10] merry School-house
boy, one of their set; he was some connection of the Doctor's and a
great favorite, and ran in and out of his house as he liked, and so
was selected for the first victim.

    [10] #Clever#: bright, smart.

"Triste lupus stabulis,"[11] began the luckless youngster, and
stammered through some eight or ten lines.

    [11] #"Triste lupus stabulis"#: "the wolf is fatal to the
    flocks."

"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[12] 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[13] 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[14] 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.

    [12] #Form#: here, bench.

    [13] #Form#: here, class.

    [14] #Rating#: scolding.

But a character for steadiness once gone is not easily recovered, as
Tom found, and for years afterward 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.


MISRULE AND ITS CAUSES.

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
præpostors 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 præpostors,
and to bully and oppress any one 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'[15] 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.

    [15] #Colleagues#: associates.


THE OLD BOY MORALIZETH THEREON.

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[16]
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.

    [16] #Quit#: acquit, behave.

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 præpostor 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 thousandfold 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 præpostor 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.


THE SHOE BEGINS TO PINCH.

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,"[17] which was just
coming out, and which he was luxuriously devouring, stretched on his
back on the sofa.

    [17] #"The Pickwick Papers"#: a humorous novel by Charles
    Dickens.

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
hurra 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.


THE EXPLOSION.

"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 are 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.


THE SIEGE.

In another minute they heard the supper-party turn out and come down
the passage to their door. They held their breath, 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 are 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 inward, 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 & Co. 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[18] 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.

    [18] #Convivial#: relating to a feast; festal.


THE REBELS IN COUNCIL.

There was no pursuit, so the two turned into the hall, where they
found a knot of small boys around 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[19] of the School last
half?" put in another.

    [19] #Levy#: a meeting of the pupils.

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[20]
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 præpostor and laid the case
before him, should be thrashed publicly and sent to Coventry.[21]

    [20] #Premising#: saying to begin with

    [21] #Sent to Coventry#: excluded from their society.


A COUNSELLOR OF THE REBELS

"Well, then, let's try the sixth. Try Morgan," suggested another. "No
use"--"Babbling 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 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[22] the bullies by offering to
fag for them, and peaching[23] against the rest of us."

    [22] #Toady#: seek favor in a mean way.

    [23] #Peaching#: telling.

"Why wasn't he cut,[24] then?" said East.

    [24] #Cut#: the same as "Sent to Coventry."

"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 favor."


"THE MUCKER."

The quarter-to-ten bell now rang, and the small boys went off
up-stairs, 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."[25] 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;[26] 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 around 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[27] 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
schoolbooks, 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 afterward, when he got into the sixth,
chose them for his fags, and excused them from study-fagging,[28]
thereby earning unto himself eternal gratitude from them, and all who
are interested in their history.

    [25] #The Mucker#: the sloven.

    [26] #Tails#: a tail coat.

    [27] #Impecuniosity#: want of money.

    [28] #Study-fagging#: clearing up his study-room.


THE WAR RAGES.

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, tho'," 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
upon 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 foot-ball, 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[29] at the end of the bottom passage.

    [29] #Cockpit#: here, probably, a recess or small place.


THE WEAK TO THE WALL.

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 opinion 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 toward 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.


DIGGS'S BANKRUPTCY.

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[30] 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[31]) 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 sauce-pan;[32] Lot 2, a
villanous 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,[33] 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,[34]
you two--I value that paper-case; my sister gave it me last
holidays--I won't forget;" and so tumbled out into the passage,
leaving them somewhat embarrassed, but not sorry that he knew what
they had done.

    [30] #Penates#: Roman household gods; hence, most precious
    things.

    [31] #Sterling#: English money.

    [32] #Sauce-pan#: a vessel for boiling and stewing.

    [33] #Verses#: Latin verses.

    [34] #Beggars#: here, fellows.


THE DERBY LOTTERY.

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[35] 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[36] and betting, and
other objectionable results; but when our great Houses of Palaver[37]
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[38] 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 School-house, 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 favorite horse.[39]

    [35] #Derby#: a famous English horse-race (pronounced Darby).

    [36] #Books#: an arrangement of bets on a race recorded in a
    book, and so calculated that the book-maker generally wins
    something, whatever the result.

    [37] #Houses of Palaver#: Parliament never sits on Derby Day.

    [38] #Nominally#: in name only.

    [39] #Drawing a favorite horse#: the names of the horses
    running at the Derby were written on folded slips of paper,
    and those who drew the winning names got the prizes.

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 a 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 favorites 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 others
of the standers-by. But no great favorite 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! third favorite," 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.[40] Now I'll give you half-a-crown[41] for him." Tadpole
holds out, but between threats and cajoleries[42] 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[43] is safe anyhow."

    [40] #Hedge#: here, a guard against loss.

    [41] #Half-a-crown#: an English silver coin, two shillings and
    sixpence, or sixty cents.

    [42] #Cajoleries#: coaxing by flatteries.

    [43] #Tizzy#: here, the one and sixpence.


TOM DRAWS THE FAVORITE.

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, Flashy,
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 around 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 under value 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 afterward. 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[44] 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."

    [44] #Coxiest#: most conceited, impudent.

Flashman forgets to explain what risks 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.


ROASTING A FAG.

"Very well, then, let's roast him," cried Flashman, and catches hold
of Tom by the collar; one or two of the boys hesitate, but the rest
join in. East seizes Tom's arm and tries to pull him away, but he is
knocked back by one of the boys, and Tom is dragged along struggling.
His shoulders are pushed against the mantle-piece, and he is held by
main force before the fire. 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 more 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 staunch 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?" whispered East.

"Only the back of my legs," answered 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."[45]


LAST DAYS OF THE WAR.

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.

    [45] Job iii. 17.

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 hairbreadth 'scapes."--_Shakespeare._


TOM DISCLOSES NOTHING.

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 of his
intimate friends, even, 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 favor 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 the 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.[1]

    [1] #The half#: the half-year.


RULE BREAKING.

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 the 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
præpostor would be seized with a fit of district visiting, and would
take 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[2] "Open here" had the effect of the shadow of a hawk
over a chicken-yard; every one cut to cover[3]--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[4] the passages and Hall to find the truants.

    [2] #Ominous#: foretelling evil.

    [3] #Cut to cover#: ran to a hiding-place.

    [4] #Draw#: to force a creature to leave its hiding-place.


THE BRUISED WORM WILL TURN.

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 further 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 favorite old fives'-bat which had
sprung.[5] Presently a step came down the bottom passage; they
listened a moment, assured themselves that it wasn't a præpostor, 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.

    [5] #Sprung#: become strained or cracked.

"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."


ACCOUNTS SQUARED WITH FLASHMAN.

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 him. It was long
odds, though, in point of strength, and in another minute Tom went
plunging backward over the 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 a 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; "'tisn't 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 weight forward. The three tottered for a
moment, then over they went on to the floor, Flashman striking his
head against a form in the Hall.


PENALTIES OF WAR.

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 bad eye, Scud; you'd better go and bathe it well in cold water."

"Cheap enough, too, if we've done with our old friend Flashey," said
East, as they made up-stairs 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
disfavor, 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[6] a hurdle[7] 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.

    [6] #Chartered#: hired.

    [7] #Hurdle#: a framework of twigs.


FATE OF LIBERATORS.

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[8] 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[9] or at their clubs. What can we expect,
then, when we have only poor gallant blundering men like Kossuth,
Garibaldi, Mazzini[10] and righteous causes which do not triumph in
their hands,--men who have holes enough in their armor, God knows,
easy to be hit by respectabilities sitting in their lounging chairs,
and having large balances[11] 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
a 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.

    [8] #Vested interest#: a fixed estate; here, a deeply rooted
    evil or abuse.

    [9] #The Palaver#: a nickname for Parliament.

    [10] #Kossuth#, etc.: patriots and reformers.

    [11] #Balances#: money deposited to one's credit.


THE ISHMAELITES.

So East, and Tom, the Tadpole, and one or two more, became a sort of
young Ishmaelites,[12] 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 præpostors 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
foot-ball, 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 forever
coming up.

    [12] #Ishmaelites#: outcasts.

"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?" asks Snooks.

"Hall and Brown."

"Wouldn't have 'em as a gift."

"Better than East, though, for they aren't quite so sharp," said
Green, getting up and leaning his back against the mantel-piece; 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[13] last half?"

    [13] #Sold me#: tricked or outwitted me.

"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.[14] 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[15] I couldn't sit in
it."

    [14] #Ear-marked#: marked with a private mark.

    [15] #Frowzy#: dirty, slovenly.

"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 both a good licking; that's one comfort."


MISFORTUNE THICKENS.

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,[16] ticket-of-leave
men,[17] 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 have to put up with. Nevertheless, they never quite lost favor
with young Brooke, who was now the cock of the House,[18] 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.

    [16] #Outlaws#: persons deprived of the protection of the law.

    [17] #Ticket-of-leave men#: convicts allowed to go at large
    upon their good behavior.

    [18] #Cock of the House#: leader of the School.

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[19] whether they turned out well or ill, and so they
were just the boys who caused the 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
looks," 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?"

    [19] #A toss-up#: the merest chance; toss of a copper.

The next time 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 now managed to tumble.


THE AVON.

The river Avon at Rugby is a slow and not a 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,[20] 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[21] 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 foot-path to Brownsover[22] 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[23] 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[24] 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.

    [20] #Small jack#: young pike.

    [21] #Reaches#: straight pieces of water.

    [22] #Brownsover#: a neighboring village.

    [23] #Spring-board#: a long board projecting over the water,
    used by divers.

    [24] #Affected#: preferred.


DISPUTED RIGHTS OF FISHING.

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[25] 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 præpostors 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 water so closely.

    [25] #Keepers#: gamekeepers employed on all great estates to
    protect the game and fish. In England, game and fish, except
    in navigable waters, are the private property of the
    land-owners.

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 tackle-maker[26] 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.

    [26] #Tackle-maker#: one who makes fishing-tackle.


CHAFFING A KEEPER.

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 resetting night-lines. They had all left the water, and
were sitting or standing about at their toilets, in all costumes from
a shirt upward, 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?"[27]

    [27] #Velveteens#: alluding to the keeper's velveteen suit.

"I'm the new under-keeper, and master's told me to keep a sharp look
out on all o' you young chaps. And I tells 'ee I mean 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[28] 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 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
favorite 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[29] 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.

    [28] #Beggars#: here, wonderful chaps.

    [29] #Likely#: suitable; convenient.

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[30] of the ephemeræ;[31] the
happiest, laziest, carelessest fly that dances and dreams out his few
hours of sunshiny life by English rivers.

    [30] #Lotus-eaters#: the lotus was a plant fabled by the
    ancients to make strangers who ate of it forget their native
    land and lead a dreamy, happy, careless life. See Homer's
    Odyssey, IX., and Tennyson's poem, "The Lotus-eaters."

    [31] #Ephemeræ#: Insects which live a very short time;
    literally, but a day.

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.


THE RETURN MATCH WITH VELVETEENS.

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:[32] 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 toward the clump of willows.

    [32] #Hot-foot#: with all haste.

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 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: "willow-trees 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."

"Treed 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, 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 learn ee to gee[33] honest
folks names afore I've done with ee."

    [33] #Gee#: give.

"My luck as usual," thinks Tom; "what a fool I was to give him a
black.[34] If I'd called him 'keeper,' now, I might get off. The
return match[35] is all his way."

    [34] #Black#: a nickname.

    [35] #Return match#: the end of the affair.


VELVETEENS' REVENGE.

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."[36]

    [36] #Rise at silver#: let one off for money.

"I say, keeper," said he meekly, "let me go for two bob?"[37]

    [37] #Bob#: a shilling.

"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 School-house, 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 the 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 afterward met Velveteens, and presented
him with a 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.


MORE SCRAPES.

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 reconnoitered the walls carefully, borrowed a coal-hammer from
old Stumps, bought some big nails, and after one or two attempts
scaled the School, 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.


THE DOCTOR REIGNING.

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
grave. "He has sent for them to speak to them 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
præpostor of another house, who goes in to the Doctor; and they hear
his genial, hearty greeting of the new-comer, 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 afterward 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[38] 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 afterward, that boy sought out Holmes and
thanked him, saying it had been the kindest act which had ever been
done to him, and the turning-point in his character; and a very good
fellow he became, and a credit to his School.

    [38] #Wiseacres#: those who make undue pretentions to wisdom.

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 am 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
sha'n'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 sha'n'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 him. Brown is the more 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.




TOM BROWN'S SCHOOL DAYS.

_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's_ "_In Memoriam._"




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."


WHO'S COME BACK?

"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!" cried 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 nightcaps, 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 is some capital cold beef and pickles up stairs, 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."


THE SADDLE IS PUT ON TOM.

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--"

"Oh, 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 doesn'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 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, read Marryat's novels,[1] 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[2] feminine nickname.

    [1] #Marryat's novels#: stories of the sea and of adventure,
    by Captain Marryat.

    [2] #Derogatory#: here, contemptuous; belittling.

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."


TEA WITH THE DOCTOR.

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 afterward, 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 præpostors 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 humor 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 young 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,[3] when tea came in, and immediately
after the Doctor himself.

    [3] #The lakes#: Dr. Arnold and family, during the vacations,
    made their home in the lake district in the northwestern part
    of England.

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 pretty little
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 rookpies and
night-lines forever. 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[4]
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.

    [4] #The eleven#: the number of players selected by a club to
    play a cricket match.

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


ARTHUR'S DEBUT.

At the fire, at the further 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 your's? 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 altogether at the further table,--of all sorts and sizes, like
young bears with all their trouble 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 up-stairs 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 furthest corner by the fire-place 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.


LESSON NO. 1.

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 toward 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 "Goodnight, 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 leaped, 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 burned 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 do 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.


TOM LEARNS HIS LESSON.

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,[5] "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?"[6] 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.[7]

    [5] #Publican#: here, a revenue or tax collector. See Luke
    xviii. 13.

    [6] #Elijah#: see 1 Kings xix. 9.

    [7] #Baal#: an idol; hence any great wickedness.

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 due to the fact that Tom could probably have thrashed
any boy in the room except the præpostor; 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
præpostor 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 forever.




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._


TOM'S RESPONSIBILITIES.

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 chaffing of East and his other 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.


EAST'S ADVICE.

"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 isn't fit to fight his own way yet; I'm trying to get
him to do it every day--but he's very odd. Poor little beggar! I can't
make him out a bit. He isn'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,[1]
labelled 'with care--this side up,' and send him back to mamma."

    [1] #Pap-bottle#: a nursing-bottle.

"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,[2] isn't it, old Scud? But how to get at it and
bring it out?"

    [2] #Wash#: stand; hold its colors.

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 around his
shoulders, as they strolled through the quadrangle together. "Tom,"
said he, "blest if you aren'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,[3]
but I couldn't help laughing at it for the life of me."

    [3] #In a blue funk#: horribly frightened.

"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."


AN EPISODE.

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 pig 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.

"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 biggest
thrashing you ever had."

"Pretty little dear," said East, patting the top of his hat; "listen
to him, Tom. Nicely brought-up young man, isn't he, though?"

"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, "'tisn't improving for little
whippersnappers like you to be indulging in such language; 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 aren'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 into 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.


LESSON NO. 2.

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 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[4] 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.

    [4] #Congenial#: agreeable.

"Why, young un! what's the matter?" said he, kindly. "You aren't
unhappy, are you?"

"Oh, no, Brown," said the little boy, looking up with 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 I do 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 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 afterward, 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[5] 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 that I shall never read them again with
him."

    [5] #Lessons#: here, portions of Scripture.


ARTHUR'S HOME.

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,[6] which had risen into a large town during the war,[7] 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,[8] 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.[9] 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.

    [6] #Midland Counties#: the central counties.

    [7] #The war#: probably the war against Napoleon.

    [8] #Courts#: places; short streets closed at one end.

    [9] #County yeomanry#: that is, with the calling out of the
    militia of the county to quell the riots.

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[10] 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 teapots or salvers,[11] with
flowery inscriptions, setting forth his virtues and the appreciation
of a genteel parish; no fat living or stall,[12] for which he never
looked, and didn't care; no sighs and praises of comfortable
dowagers[13] 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,[14] a comfort to themselves and to their husbands and fathers.

    [10] #Utopian#: fanciful.

    [11] #Salver#: a tray.

    [12] #Fat living or stall#: a high-salaried parish; stall: an
    office in the church.

    [13] #Dowager#: the widow of a person of wealth and rank.

    [14] #Homely#: fond of home; domestic.

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[15] 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[16] 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[17] had been
amongst green fields and near pleasant neighbors, 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 out-rages the
independent poor. And thus they gradually won respect and confidence;
and after sixteen years he was looked up to by the whole neighborhood
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 favor. And the women
had come round to take her advice, and go to her as a friend in all
their troubles, while all the children worshipped the ground she trod
on.

    [15] #Arthur#: here, young Arthur's father.

    [16] #Chartism#: the principles of a political party which
    demanded universal suffrage and other radical reforms. The
    chartists were regarded much as the anarchists are now.

    [17] #Living#: parish.

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 an 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 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 Free-thinking 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 laboring 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 afterward the towns-folk 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 in 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
brought up 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.[18] The spirit of his father was in him, and the Friend
to which his father had left him did not neglect the trust.

    [18] #Proselytizing#: converting to one's particular opinions.


RESULTS OF LESSON NO. 2.

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,[19] and Arthur began talking about
Joseph[20] as if he were a living statesman; just as he might have
talked about Lord Grey and the Reform Bill;[21] 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 forever 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.

    [19] See Genesis xli.

    [20] See Genesis xxxvii.

    [21] #Lord Grey#: he introduced a famous bill for
    parliamentary reform which was passed in 1832.


TOM IS STIFF-NECKED.

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.[22] When the
chapter was finished, Tom shut his Bible with a slap.

    [22] See 2 Kings, Chapter V.

"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
doesn't look like it, and the book doesn'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 aren't most
right things got by proper compromises? I mean where the principle
isn't given up."


THE BROWN COMPROMISE.

"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 Abednego answered and said to
the king, O Nebuchadnezzar,[23] 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.

    [23] See Daniel iii.

They were silent a minute, and then Arthur said: "Yes, that's a
glorious story, but it doesn'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 aren'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
      Mis-shapes 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._


TROUBLES OF A BOY-PHILOSOPHER.

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[1] 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[2] 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
hedge-hogs and rats in his cupboard now, and no one knows what
besides."

    [1] #Gradus ad Parnassum#: a dictionary specially designed to
    aid pupils in writing Greek and Latin verses.

    [2] #Rum#: queer.

"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 trying chemical
experiments and kicking up horrid stenches 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 doesn'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 up-stairs 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 stench 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 musn'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[3] 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 are 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
gravely, '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 into 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.

    [3] #Magpie#: a bird which can be taught to speak like the
    parrot.

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 odor 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 wonderful 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 neighbors, and
they in turn were always on the look-out 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 neighboring 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[4] 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[5] brood. After deep cogitation,[6] 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,[7] 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 endeavor 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[8] the nest in a corner
of his already too well-filled den.

    [4] #Amateur nest#: here, a nest made by himself.

    [5] #Callow#: unfledged; without feathers.

    [6] #Cogitation#: thought.

    [7] #Sebastopol#: a fortified town in the Crimea; the scene of
    a siege in the Crimean War.

    [8] #Ensconce#: to place in a protected place.


THE PHILOSOPHER'S DEN.

The door was barricaded by a set of ingenious bolts of his own
invention, for the sieges were frequent by the neighbors when any
unusually ambrosial[9] odor spread itself from the den to the
neighboring studies. The door-panels were in a normal[10] 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[11] lived in, in the days of
the old moss-troopers,[12] when his hold might be summoned or his
cattle carried off at any minute of night or day.

    [9] #Ambrosial#: here, delicious, in an ironical sense.

    [10] #Normal#: usual; regular.

    [11] #Border-farmer#: one who lived on the border between
    Scotland and England.

    [12] #Moss-troopers#: so called from the mosses or bogs on the
    border; plunderers who infested the border. They sometimes
    summoned the farmers to open the doors of their "holds"
    (fortified houses), to them.

"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 schoolbooks, and a few chemical
books, taxidermy,[13] Stanley on Birds, and an odd volume of
Bewick,[14] 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-cloths. 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 endeavoring 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, the bird-fancier's,[15] in
the Bilton road, who could give a hawk's or nightingale's egg or young
linnet in exchange. Martin's ingenuity was therefore forever 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 fire-light.

    [13] #Taxidermy#: the art of stuffing the skins of animals.

    [14] #Bewick#: an English artist distinguished for wood
    engraving. His most famous work was a "History of British
    Birds."

    [15] #Bird-fancier#: one who keeps birds for sale.


THE INVITATION.

"Well, old boy, you haven't got any sweeter in the den this half. How
that stuff in the bottle smells! Never mind, I'm not 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 birds'
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 rooms, 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 præpostor 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-laborers, the skipping
dinner or calling-over, over some of Phoebe Jennings' 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 Tompkin, 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.


TOM'S WORK.

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
knucklebone of ham, and two or three bottles of beer, together with
the solemn pewter[16] only used on state occasions; while Arthur,
equally elated at the easy accomplishment of his first act of
volition[17] 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 coining 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."

    [16] #Pewter#: pewter mugs and plates.

    [17] #Volition#: will.


THE SUPPER.

"Well, I say," spurted out Martin, eagerly, "will you come to-morrow,
both of you, to Caldecott's Spinney, then? for I know of a kestrel's
nest,[18] up a fir-tree--I can't get at it without help; and Brown,
you can climb against any one."

    [18] #Kestrel#: a bird of the hawk kind.

"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
birds'-nesting campaign, betraying all manner of important secrets; a
golden-crested wren's nest near Butlins's Mound, a moor-hen that 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 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, a knock came at 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"[19] to the feast, although only an extempore[20]
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 friend's pocket-knife.

    [19] #Fidus Achates#: faithful friend.

    [20] #Extempore#: off-hand.

"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 the Hall so
quick with your suppers."

"Well, old Madman, and how goes the birds'-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 the
rooks, 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.[21] Hooray! I'm your man."

    [21] #Ag´a-nip´pe#: a famous Grecian fountain; here, the name
    is applied to some stream or pool.

"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, 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 præpostor comes here now--we havn'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."[22] And doubtless the
method is little changed, for there is nothing new under the sun,
especially at schools.

    [22] #In the consulship of Plancus#: here, meaning in the time
    of Dr. Arnold.


VULGUSES.

Now be it known unto all you boys who are at schools which do not
rejoice in the time-honored institution of the Vulgus (commonly
supposed to have been established by William of Wykeham[23] 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[24] value, as I've always understood), that it is a short
exercise, in Greek or Latin verse, on a given subject, the minimum[25]
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, or 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 master 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[26] 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?

    [23] #William of Wykeham#: the founder of Winchester College,
    the oldest of the great public schools of England. Here Dr.
    Arnold fitted for Oxford.

    [24] #Intrinsic#: inward, real, true.

    [25] #Minimum#: least.

    [26] #Elaborate#: prepared or thought out with great care.


THE SCIENCE OF VERSE-MAKING.

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[27] and
feeble result of eight elegiac[28] lines, the minimum quantity for his
form, and finishing up with two highly moral lines extra, making ten
in all, which he cribbed[29] entire from one of his books, beginning,
"O genus humanum,"[30] 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 threw 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 two more in their place, while if they
passed muster again he would get marks for them.

    [27] #Incongruous#: ill-fitting.

    [28] #Elegiac#: a kind of verse generally used in expressing
    sorrow and lamentation.

    [29] #Cribbed#: stole, copied.

    [30] #O genus humanum#: O human race.

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.[31] This was all he
cared for, to produce eight lines with no false quantities[32] or
concords;[33] 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.

    [31] #Scan#: contain the right number of syllables with the
    accents in the proper places.

    [32] #False quantities#: long syllables placed where short
    ones should be used or the reverse.

    [33] #Concord#: the agreement of words in construction, as
    adjectives with nouns in gender, number, and case.

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 comment. It may be called the vicarious[34] 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 afterward; 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 the Vulguses whole (_experto
crede_),[35] and that the artistic method pays the best, both in marks
and other ways.

    [34] #Vicarious#: acting for another. Here it means, having it
    done for em by another.

    [35] #Experto crede#: believe one who has had experience.


MARTIN'S DEN.

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 coloring and forms astonished and charmed
him who had scarcely even 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[36] egg in the island as big
as Sindbad's[37] and clouded like a titlark's, in blowing[38] which,
Martin and he had nearly been drowned in the yolk.

    [36] #Roc#: a monstrous, imaginary bird.

    [37] #Sindbad#: a sailor in the "Arabian Nights' Tales," who
    had many wonderful adventures.

    [38] #Blowing#: two small holes are made at opposite ends of
    an egg, and the contents are then blown out by the breath.




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."--_M S. Ballad._


TOM PUT OUT.

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 breakfast 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.

"Oh, Tom, look here," cried he, holding out three moor-hen's eggs; "we
have 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 aren't wet, for Martin
made me take off my shoes, stockings and trousers."

"But they are wet and dirty, too--can't I see?" answered Tom, "and
you'll be called up and floored[1] when the master sees what a state
you're in. You haven't looked at second lesson, you know." Oh, Tom,
you old humbug! you to be upbraiding any one with not learning his
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.

    [1] #Floored#: silenced or put back in his lesson for not
    having learned it properly.

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 afterward in their study he begins to get
right again, as he watches Arthur's intense joy at seeing Martin
blowing the eggs and glueing 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,[2] and is repaid by seeing his little sensitive
plant expand again, and sun itself in his smiles.

    [2] #Bile#: here, anger.

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[3] into calling-over, and directly
afterward, having dodged such præpostors as are on the look-out 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.

    [3] #Munitions#: supplies.


BIRDS'-NESTING.

Martin leads the way in high feather.[4] 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 foot-ball 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[5] under
the other, and his pockets and hat full of pill-boxes, cotton-wool,
and other et ceteras.[6] Each of the others carries a pecking-bag, and
East his hatchet.

    [4] #High feather#: high spirits.

    [5] #Pecking-bag#: a strong bag to carry pebbles in.

    [6] #Et ceteras#: things of a like kind.

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 aren'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[7]
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.

    [7] #Mistletoe#: an evergreen plant which grows on various
    trees.

"Well, how curious! it doesn't look a bit like 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 in 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;[8]
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 leaned 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[9] 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!"

    [8] #Swarmed#: climbed by embracing with arms and legs.

    [9] #Slithering#: sliding.

"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 leaned
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 the 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 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 a 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 apiece."

"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
lamp-lighter. 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,"[10] spluttered he,
while the wood rang again with the merry laughter of East and Tom.

    [10] #Addled#: rotten.

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[11] nest, and from
thence struck across the country in high glee, beating[12] the hedges
and brakes as they went along; and Arthur at last, to his intense
delight, was allowed to climb a small hedge-row oak for a magpie's
nest with Tom, who kept all around 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
lissomeness.

    [11] #Sedge-bird#: a bird living in the sedge or water-grass
    on the banks of streams.

    [12] #Beating#: rousing or driving out birds and game.

They crossed a road soon afterward, and there close to them lay a heap
of charming pebbles.


PECKING.

"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[13] birds'-nesting."

    [13] #Foozling#: dull, stupid.

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,[14] 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.

    [14] #Chaffinch#: a fine song-bird.

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),[15] came beating down a high double hedge, two on each
side.

    [15] #Quickset#: a kind of hedge.

"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.


WHAT IS LARCENY?

Now the farmer in question rented a house and yard situated 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 day-time, 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 barn in question for felonious[16] 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.

    [16] #Felonious#: unlawful.


THE TROUBLESOME DUCK.

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 bag full in his hand, and looking disconsolately at the
carcass, not yet half plucked.

"And I do think he's getting high,[17] too, already," said Tom,
smelling at him cautiously, "so we must finish him up soon."

    [17] #High#: tainted; beginning to spoil.

"Yes, all very well, but how are we to cook him? I'm sure I'm not
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 grewsome 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, 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 toward 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[18] louts, your
side! Madman, look ahead!" and then catching hold of Arthur, hurries
him away across the fields 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.

    [18] #'Ware#: beware! look out!


RUNNING FOR A CONVOY.

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 a good run 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.[19] 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.

    [19] #A constitutional#: a walk for the health.

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."


A DEBATE.

Holmes looks grave, and Diggs's face falls. They are quite ready to
fight, no boys in the school more so; but they are præpostors, 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,"[20] seen 'em, sure enough," says Willum, grasping a prong he
carried, and preparing for action.

    [20] #Ees#: yes.

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";[21] and
"leastway,[22] he'll swear he see'd them two in the yard last
Martinmas," indicating East and Tom.

    [21] #Peas'n#: peas.

    [22] #Leastway#: at any rate.

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 honor," 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 seed '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 isn'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 woodpath toward 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.


LECTURE ON SCHOOL LARCENY.

"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 an ugly 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[23] 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 hare-brained youngsters, committed a raid on the barn soon
afterward, 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 brought up to the Doctor.

    [23] #Gee'd 'em#: gave them.


ARTHUR SEALS HIS FRIENDSHIP.

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 Hewlett 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 become 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 tuâ gratiâ
      Feroci hoc Mactwoltro."--_Etonian._


FIGHTING IN GENERAL.

There is a certain sort of fellow--we who are used to studying boys
all know him well enough--of whom you can predicate[1] 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 schoolfellow in the manner of our old
friend _Bell's Life_,[2] 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.

    [1] #Predicate#: say or assert.

    [2] #Bell's Life#: a London sporting journal.

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 neighbors, 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,[3] who settled the matter by a good hearty
mill.[4] 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 neighbors'
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.

    [3] #Tacitly#: without words, silently.

    [4] #Mill#: a set-to or fight.

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 wickedness 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 folks
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.


HOW THE FIGHT AROSE.

It was drawing toward 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 personæ_[5]
now are, were reading amongst other things the last book of Homer's
"Iliad,"[6] and had worked through it as far as the speeches of the
women over Hector's[7] 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[8] lamentation. And
now several long four-syllable words come together, and the boy with
the dictionary strikes work.

    [5] #Dramatis personæ#: persons represented in a drama or in a
    story.

    [6] #Homer's Iliad#: a Greek epic poem relating the siege of
    Ilium or Troy.

    [7] #Hector#: a Trojan hero slain in the siege of Troy.

    [8] #Helen#: a beautiful Grecian princess whose abduction by
    Paris of Troy caused the Trojan war.

"I am not going to look out any more words," says he; "we've done the
quantity. Ten to one we sha'n'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[9] 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."

    [9] #Coach#: teacher or tutor.

So an adjournment to the close was carried _nem con._,[10] little
Arthur not daring to uplift his voice; but, being deeply interested in
what they were reading, stayed quietly behind, and learned on for his
own pleasure.

    [10] #Nem. con.#: no one objecting.

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,[11] 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.

    [11] #Shell lesson#: a lesson for the shell, or lower fourth
    form or class.

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 even 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 around 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[12] 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 at the head of the form, and sure to be able to construe,
and that will tide on safely till the hour strikes.

    [12] #Chivalrous#: here, gallant, polite.

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: "alla su ton g' epeessi paraiphamenos katerukes,
  sê t' aganophrosunê kai sois aganois epeessin."][13]

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 note-book, 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.

    [13] "Thou didst take my part with kindly admonitions,
    and restrain their tongues with soft address and gentle
    words."--_Bryant's translation._

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 looked 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[14] 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."

    [14] #Profane#: here, not sacred.

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 schools
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[15] Williams, from the
force with which it was supposed he could hit. In the main, he was a
rough, good-natured 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 aroused.

    [15] #Slogger#: a "slugger," a hard hitter.

"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 addressed.

"Why, that little sneak Arthur's," replied Williams.

"No, you sha'n'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 book 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 aren'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[16]
vengeance on the innocent cause of his misfortune.

    [16] #Summary#: quick, short.


THE CHALLENGE.

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 sha'n'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."

"Huzzah! there is 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 came 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 singing out: "Fight! Tom
Brown and Slogger Williams."

Up start half the boys at once, leaving bread, eggs, butter,
sprats[17], 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[18] feast.

    [17] #Sprats#: a kind of small fish.

    [18] #Unctuous#: fat, oily.

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[19] for him, as he stripped off
his jacket, waistcoat, and braces. East tied his handkerchief round
his waist, and rolled up his shirt-sleeves 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,[20] 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.

    [19] #Cut out#: prepared, ready.

    [20] #To handle him and give him a knee#: to give him
    assistance between the rounds of the fight.


EARLY ROUNDS.

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,[21] 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,[22] as if he didn't take much
exercise and ate too much tuck.[23] 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.

    [21] #Amateurs#: here, those who enjoy and understand the art
    of pugilism, without being proficient in it.

    [22] #Sodden#: here, soft.

    [23] #Tuck#: sweet stuff.

"If Tom'll only condescend to fight with his head and heels," as East
murmurs to Martin, "we shall do."

But seemingly he won't, for there he goes in, making play[24] with
both hands. Hard all,[25] 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[26] of each make the
air ring with their shouts and counter-shouts of encouragement,
approval and defiance.

    [24] #Making play#: using.

    [25] #Hard all#: do your best.

    [26] #Partisans#: adherents, "backers."

"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!" growled 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[27] waistcoat, and
puffy, good-natured face.

    [27] #Thunder-and-lightning#: probably showy, flashy.

"Done!" says Groove, another amateur of quieter look, taking out his
note-book to enter it, for our friend Rattle sometimes forgets these
little things.


HEAD FIGHTING.

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[28]
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; take care of his
frontispiece[29] by and by."

    [28] #Feint#: make a pretended attack.

    [29] #Frontispiece#: face.

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[30] the Slogger's lunging hits,[31]
instead of trying to counter,[32] and leading his enemy a dance all
round the ring after him. "He's funking--go in, Williams;" "Catch him
up;" "Finish him off," screamed the small boys of the Slogger party.

    [30] #Parrying#: warding off.

    [31] #Lunging hits#: straight-out blows.

    [32] #Counter#: to give a return blow.

"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 close quarters again,
while Tom is keeping away with perfect ease.

They quarter[33] over the ground again and again, Tom always on the
defensive.

    [33] #Quarter#: to move about.

The Slogger pulls up at last for a moment, fairly blown.[34]

    [34] #Blown#: out of breath.

"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, note-book in hand.

"Stop a bit," says that hero, looking uncomfortably at Williams, who
is puffing away on his second's knee, winded[35] enough, but little
the worse in any other way.

    [35] #Winded#: out of breath.


STEADY ALL.

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,[36] 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.[37]

    [36] #Use his head#: be more careful.

    [37] #Pull#: advantage.

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,[38] old boy."

    [38] #Keep your head#: keep cool.

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!" "Huzzah 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.


THE RING BROKEN.

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 the help of the fall he had learned 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
certain 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 doesn'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. Isn't there, Tom?"

Tom looked 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."


THE LAST ROUND.

"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[39] will soon go up in the air.

    [39] #Sponge#: in a pugilistic encounter the sponge is thrown
    up as an acknowledgment of defeat.

And now another new-comer 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,[40] Bill," is all that that excellent servitor
gets by his advice. And being a man of his hands,[41] and a staunch
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.

    [40] #Go to Bath#: shut up; mind your business.

    [41] #Of his hands#: of sturdy make; able to use his fists.

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 to two on the little one in half-crowns," said
Groove to Rattle.

"No, thankee," answers the other, diving his hands further into his
coat-tails.


THE DOCTOR ARRIVES.

Just at this stage of the proceedings the door of the turret[42] 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 were both seated on their seconds' knees for the last time.

    [42] #Turret#: a small tower.

"The Doctor! the Doctor!" shouts one 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 favorite 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.[43]

    [43] #Gravelled#: embarrassed, confused.

"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.


EVENING AFTER THE FIGHT.

Meantime Tom and the staunchest 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, 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 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[44] were doomed to disappointment
this time. Directly after locking-up, one of the night-fags knocked at
Tom's door.

    [44] #The science#: "the manly science of self-defence."

"Brown, young Brooke wants you in the sixth-form room."


THE SHAKE-HANDS.

Up went Tom to the summons, and found the magnates[45] sitting at
their supper.

    [45] #Magnates#: here, the upper class boys.

"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. 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!"


THE OLD BOY'S RULES.

And now, boys all, three words before we quit the subject. I have put
in this chapter on fighting, of malice prepense,[46] partly because I
want to give you a true picture of what every-day school life was in
my time, and not a kid-glove and go-to-meeting-coat-picture; and
partly because of the cant[47] 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.

    [46] #Malice prepense#: with deliberate purpose.

    [47] #Cant#: hypocritical or meaningless talk.

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 foot-ball. 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 is 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 is 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[1] 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, run, and play cricket, and has never hurt
himself by too much reading.

    [1] #Bequest#: something given by will.


DEATH IN THE SCHOOL.

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[2] then at
the end of the half."

    [2] #Marylebone match# (merrybun): a match by the London
    cricket club of that name. It is the leading cricket club of
    the world. The celebrated Lord's grounds in London are its
    property.

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.


THE DOCTOR'S SERMON.

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 death-bed, 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 rumored, 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 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 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 neat little 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[3] eyes
are opened--he knows what it is so to live that death becomes an
infinite blessing. But do I? O God, can I bear to lose him?"

    [3] #Geordie#: Georgie (his full name was George Arthur).


ARTHUR'S ILLNESS.

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 Tom 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, he 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 cricket-bats,
came up cheerily from below.


CONVALESCENCE.

"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, isn't it jolly?" said Tom, proudly; "I'm ninth, too. I made
forty at the last pie-match,[4] 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."

    [4] #Pie-Match#: a match for a supper.

"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 are
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,[5] though Harry wouldn't touch a feather of him now."

    [5] #Dot and go one#: with a skipping movement.

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[6] and geography were faulty, but
sufficient for his needs); "they'll make the old Madman cock
medicine-man[7] 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,[8] and be able to throw them, too, without having old
Thomas sent after him by the Doctor to take them away."

    [6] #Ethnology#: that science which treats of races of men.

    [7] #Cock medicine-man#: chief doctor.

    [8] #Boomerang#: a throw-stick in use as a weapon among the
    natives of Australia. It is so shaped that when thrown at any
    object it returns to the thrower.


MEMORIES.

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 doesn'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 that 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[9] do talk," said Tom, looking up at
them. "How they must abuse me and East, and pray for the Doctor for
stopping the singing!"

    [9] #Blackies#: rooks.

"There! look, look!" cried Arthur, "don't you see the old fellow
without a tail coming up? Martin used to call him the 'clerk.'[10] 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."

    [10] #Clerk#: a clergyman's assistant--he reads the responses
    in the English Church service.

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 aroused 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 aren'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 sha'n'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 examinations, 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."


MORE LESSONS.

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,[11] 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 aren'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."

    [11] #Gammon#: pretend.

"Dear Tom, I'm not going to pitch into you," said Arthur, piteously;
"and it seems so cocky in me to be advising you, who've been my
back-bone 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."[12]

    [12] #Cribs#: translations, "ponies."

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 "Billie 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 isn'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 A 1 at cricket and foot-ball, 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. Isn'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,[13] but he couldn't give
in. "He was at Winchester himself," said he; "he knows all about it."

    [13] #His flank was turned#: he was taken at a disadvantage.

"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
doesn't. Well, I suppose he doesn't."


TOM'S CONFESSIONS.

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;[14] I can only just make head or tail of it with the crib.
Then there's Pericles' 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 labors. "I say, young un, there's only
five weeks or so left to the 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."[15]

    [14] #Agamemnon#, etc.: a Greek tragedy. Thucydides was a
    Greek historian; "The Birds," a Greek comedy; Tacitus, a Latin
    historian.

    [15] 2 Kings v. 18.

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 color a life are so often taken.


TOM OUT-GENERALLED.

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'm not, 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'S FEVER.

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
that 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.[16] There is no work
in the grave;[17] 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."

    [16] Isa. xxxviii. 19.

    [17] Eccl. ix. 10.

Arthur stopped--from exhaustion, Tom thought; but what between his
fear lest Arthur should hurt himself, his awe, and longing for him to
go on, he couldn't ask, or stir to help him.


ARTHUR'S VISION.

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, forever and ever, the
black dead wall was cleft in two, and I was caught up and borne into
the light by some great power, some living mighty spirit. Tom, do you
remember the living creatures and the wheels in Ezekiel?[18] 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 forever. 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[19] was on the foreheads
of all. And I longed to see what the work was, and could not; so I
tried to plunge into 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.'[20] 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."

    [18] Ezek. i. 24.

    [19] #Seal#: here, mark of acceptance.

    [20] Hab. ii. 3.


ARTHUR'S MOTHER.

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 that 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 her straight in the 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."


TOM'S REWARDS.

And then he led away the talk to their home in Devonshire, and the red
bright earth, and the deep green combes,[21] and the peat[22] streams
like cairngorm[23] pebbles, and the wild moor[24] with its high cloudy
Tors[25] 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.

    [21] #Combes#: valleys.

    [22] #Peat#: a kind of turf used as fuel.

    [23] #Cairngorm#: a yellow or brown variety of crystallized
    quartz found in Cairngorm, Scotland.

    [24] #Moor#: an extensive waste plain covered with heath.

    [25] #Tors#: high-pointed hills or rocks.

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
sha'n'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 down stairs to his study, where he sat till old
Thomas came kicking at the door to tell him his allowance[26] would be
stopped if he didn't go off to bed. (It would have been stopped
anyhow, but that he was a great favorite with the old gentleman, who
loved to come out in the afternoon into the close to Tom's wicket, and
bowl slow twisters[27] to him, and talk of the glories of bygone
Surrey[28] heroes, with whom he had played in former generations.)

    [26] #Allowance#: spending-money.

    [27] #Twisters#: balls thrown with a twisting motion.

    [28] #Surrey#: a county in the south of England.

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[29] 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."

    [29] #Eton#: a noted maker of fishing-rods, etc.

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 neighbor, and Me."

                        _Lowell_, "_The Vision of Sir Launfal._"


TOM SPRINGS HIS MINE.

The next morning, after breakfast, Tom, East, and Gower met as usual
to learn their second lessons 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 being quite sure of his ground, took the high and
pathetic tone, and was proceeding to say, "how, that, having learned
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."

"Oh, 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[1] long ago, if it hadn't been for him. And you know
it as well as I."

    [1] #Had the sack#: got expelled.

"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 Squaretoes,"[2] struck
in Gower. "He's no end of a sucking wiseacre,[3] I dare say, but we've
no time to lose, and I've got the fives'-court at half-past nine."

    [2] #Squaretoes#: an over-precise or "goody-good" sort of a
    person.

    [3] #Sucking wiseacre#: a young Solomon.

"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?[4] Why, we sha'n't get through ten lines."

    [4] #Chorus#: the chorus of a Greek play.

"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[5] 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?"

    [5] #Momus#: the god of ridicule; here, a nickname for a
    teacher.

"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 into 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 clew 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."


RESULTS OF THE EXPLOSION.

And on this agreement they started: Tom, satisfied with having made
this confession, and not sorry to have a _locus penitentiæ_,[6] and
not to be deprived altogether of the use of his old and faithful
friend.

    [6] #Locus penitentiæ#: a place or opportunity for repentance
    or reformation.

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 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 chock-full of fun, and then burst
into a roar of laughter.


THE ENEMY'S DEFENCE.

"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 neighbors."

Tom shoved his hand into his back hair. "I'm not so sure," said he;
"you two fellows carried me off my legs; I don't really think we 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 doesn'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 down hill when once
he gets his head before his legs! Listen to me, Tom. Not use old
Vulgus-books! Why, you Goth,[7] aren'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;[8] or never read Shakespeare, but only Sheridan Knowles.[9]
Think of all the work and labor that our predecessors have bestowed on
these very books, and are we to make their work of no value?"

    [7] #Goth#: a barbarian.

    [8] #Churchwarden windows#: probably cheap, narrow windows.

    [9] #Sheridan Knowles#: a writer of popular plays.

"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 make him
kick you off: especially as we shall 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 righteousness 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[10] himself
last night at bed-time."

    [10] #Came out of Egypt#: escaped from bondage, began a new
    course of life.

"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[11] between us and them--like a match
at foot-ball, 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[12] 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."

    [11] #Last#: endurance.

    [12] #Snob#: here, a mean-spirited fellow; one destitute of
    manliness.


THE TRUCE.

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 up-hill 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."[13]

    [13] #Don't hit under the line#: don't take unfair advantage.

"But I must bring you over, Harry, or I sha'n't be comfortable. Now,
I'll allow all you've said. We've always been honorable 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."


ARTHUR GOES HOME.

As they walked out they got a message, to say "that Arthur was just
starting and would like to say good-bye"; 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 humor, 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 spluttering."

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.


THE SIEGE REOPENS.

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[14]
Arthur on leave," after examining the new fishing-rod, which both
pronounced to be the genuine article ("play[15] enough to throw a
midge[16] tied on a single hair against the wind, and strength enough
to hold a grampus[17]") 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 belaboring somebody else with it all, suddenly rushed into
the subject of Arthur's illness, and what he had said about death.

    [14] #Vice# (v[=i]-s[=e]): in place of.

    [15] #Play#: lightness, elasticity.

    [16] #Midge#: a gnat or small fly.

    [17] #Grampus#: a whale-like fish.

East had given him the desired opening; after a seriocomic grumble,
"that life wasn't worth having now they were tied to a young beggar
who was always 'raising his standard';[18] 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 isn'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 doesn'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.

    [18] #Raising his standard#: advancing, improving.

"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.


FRIENDSHIP.

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 that he felt to be real, but he 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 could 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 foot-ball 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 been interrupted by Tom's guardianship of Arthur.


FRIENDSHIP TESTED.

East had often, as has been said, joined them in reading the Bible,
but their discussion 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[19] at its foundation, after such communing
together.

    [19] #Sapped#: undermined.

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'S CONFESSIONS.

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 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 kind-hearted 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 songs, 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 during the Sacrament. I can see, from the
Doctor downward, 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,"[20] said East.

    [20] #Confirmed#: admitted to church membership; here, to that
    of the Church of England.

"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 favor[21] with the Doctor, or any one else."

    [21] #Curry favor#: seek favor by flattery and the like.

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."


TOM'S PRESCRIPTION.

"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 honor 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,[22] whatever the right phrase is.
My sympathies are all the other way; with the many, the poor wretches
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.[23] 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,[24] and that sort of thing,
which means in plain English to go to destruction and the other
twentieth are to rejoice at it all, why--"

    [22] #Elect#: chosen to salvation; one of the favored few.

    [23] #Land me#: here, persuade me.

    [24] #Uncovenanted mercies#: that is, to such mercies as God
    will grant to the heathen or those outside the church.

"Oh I but, Harry, they're not, 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 leaned 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 wretches is got at."

"And you'll stop for 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, up stairs. Tom watched and saw the Doctor
turn round when he heard foot-steps 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.


THE EFFECT THEREOF.

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 had 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 have 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' death, which he had hitherto kept in the background, and by
which he was much exercised;[25] 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.

    [25] #Exercised#: made thoughtful or anxious.

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 aren't going to
punch my head, I hope, because I insist on being sorry when you get to
earth?"[26]

    [26] #When you get to earth#: when you are buried.

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 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 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
church-yards 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.


SCHOOL MEMORIES.

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
further than we are from the dead, and from those who have gone out of
our ken?[1] 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._[2]

This is not mere longing, it is prophecy. So over these two, 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 are 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,"[3]--

will, in His own way and at his own time, lead them also home.

    [1] #Ken#: knowledge.

    [2] #Clough#: poem of "Qua cursum ventus."

    [3] #Tennyson#: "In Memoriam."

       *       *       *       *       *


THE END OF THE HALF-YEAR.

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;[4] 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 neighborhood, and the sorrow of those aspiring young
cricketers who have been reckoning for the last three months on
showing off at Lord's grounds.[5]

    [4] #Exhibitions#: allowances of money, etc., made to certain
    scholars at Oxford and Cambridge. The boys of the sixth form,
    who were preparing for the universities, were competing for
    these.

    [5] #Lord's grounds#: see note on Marylebone, p. 304.

The Doctor started off for the Lakes[6] 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.

    [6] #Lakes#: Dr. Arnold spent his vacations at his country
    place of Fox Howe in Westmoreland, in the beautiful lake
    region of the northwest of England.


CRICKET-MATCHES.

The Wellesburn match was played out with great success yesterday, the
School winning by three wickets;[7] 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,[8] 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 to water and roll it; 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,[9] 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 saw there 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[10] 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.

    [7] #By three wickets#: three players yet to bat.

    [8] #Hard-bitten#: keen.

    [9] #Lawrence Sheriff#: See note on Rugby, p. 72.

    [10] #Runs#: the running from one wicket to the other by the
    batsmen. The game depends on these runs.

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 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,[11] 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!

    [11] #Over#: a certain number of balls pitched in succession
    from one side.

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 the 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 wicket; 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.

       *       *       *       *       *


THE MARYLEBONE MATCH.

"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[12] again and puts the bails[13] on.

    [12] #Middle stump#: the middle stake of a wicket.

    [13] #Bails#: two small, round sticks laid across the top of a
    wicket.

"How many runs?" Away scamper three boys to the scoring-table,[14] and
are back again in a minute amongst the rest of the eleven, who are
collected together in a knot between wickets.

    [14] #Scoring-table#: a table where the reckoning of the game
    is kept.

"Only eighteen runs, and three wickets down!"

"Huzzah for old Rugby!" sings out Jack Raggles, the long-stop,[15]
toughest and burliest of boys, commonly called "Swiper Jack";[16] 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 his back.

    [15] #Long-stop#: a person who stands behind the wicket-keeper
    to stop the balls that escape him.

    [16] #Swiper Jack#: hard-hitting Jack.

"Steady there; don't be such an ass, Jack," says the captain; "we
haven't got the best wicket. Ah, look out now at cover-point,"[17]
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."

    [17] #Cover-point#: the person who stops a ball or the act of
    stopping it.

And they all find that they have got their work to do now; the
new-comer'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[18] in the first ten minutes, and Jack Raggles is furious, and
begins throwing over savagely to the further wicket, until he is
sternly stopped by the captain. It is all that young gentleman can do
to keep his team[19] 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;[20] 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.

    [18] #Byes#: runs on balls that have passed the wicket-keeper.

    [19] #Team#: one of the parties or sides in a game.

    [20] #Off#: to the right of the batsman.

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 past.

I wish I had space to describe the match; how the captain stumped the
next man off a leg-shooter,[21] and bowled small cobs[22] 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[23] What a glorious dinner they had in the fourth-form
School, and how the cover-point hitter sang the most topping[24] comic
songs, and old Mr. Aislabie made the best speeches that ever were
heard, afterward. 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.

    [21] #Stumped off a leg-shooter#: perhaps to put a man out of
    play by knocking down his wicket.

    [22] #Cobs#: balls peculiarly bowled.

    [23] #Innings#: turns for using the bat.

    [24] #Topping#: wonderful.


SOME OLD FRIENDS.

There is much healthy, hearty, happy life scattered up and down the
close; but the group to which I beg to call your special attention is
there on the slope of the island, which looks toward the
cricket-ground. It consists of three figures: two are seated on the
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 favorite 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 præpostor 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 now and then.

All three are watching the game eagerly, and joining in the cheering
that 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.


THEIR TALK.

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,'"[25] answered Tom.

    [25] #"The Knights"#: a Greek comedy by Aristoph´anes.

"Well, I'm sure you would have enjoyed the wonderful humor 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
set-tos[26] between Cleon and the sausage-seller more than I did--eh,
Arthur?" said Tom, giving him a stir with his foot.

    [26] #Set-tos#: fights or encounters of any kind.

"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 masters 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 hat
and clapping furiously, and Tom joined in with a "Bravo, Johnson!"
which might have been heard at the chapel.

"Eh! what is 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.[27] Nothing but that turn of the wrist could have saved
him, and he drew it away to leg[28] for a safe one. Bravo, Johnson!"

    [27] #Leg-bail#: part of the wicket.

    [28] #To leg#: to the left and rear.

"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[29] which
you tell me are the best play, though when you or Raggles hit a ball
hard away for six,[30] I am as delighted as any one. Don't you see the
analogy?"

    [29] #Draws#: good play by the batsman.

    [30] #Hard away for six#: to the best advantage.

"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[31] for pleasure, as
I did Don Quixote,[32] and couldn't have made a false concord if he
tried ever so hard--and then I looked after his cricket."

    [31] #Herodotus#: an early Greek writer, "the father of
    history."

    [32] #Don Quixote#: a Spanish romance.

"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.

"Oh, 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."

"Yes," said Arthur, "the birth-right of British boys old and young, as
_habeas corpus_[33] and trial by jury are of British men."

    [33] #Habeas corpus#: a writ for bringing a prisoner before a
    judge and inquiring into the cause of his detention, its
    object being to prevent illegal imprisonment.

"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 foot-ball and cricket,
now one comes to think of it, are much better games than fives or
hare-and-hounds, or any others where the object is to come in first or
to win for one's self, 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 doesn't he 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[34] as to
let Jack Raggles go in, out of his turn."

    [34] #Flat#: fool.

"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 in 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 first 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[35] was good fun enough."

    [35] #Turf-cart#: Tom, with the other boys, used to decorate
    the "island" in the school-grounds with turf and flowers,
    which they stole "out of all the gardens in Rugby for the
    Easter show." They took the "turf-cart" for this purpose. The
    "island," by the way, no longer exists.

"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 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,[36] the sixth form?"
said the master.

    [36] #Worships#: here, mock titles of honor.

"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 allusions Tom answered by
a sly kick.

"Exactly so," said the master, innocent of the allusion and by-play.


JACK RAGGLES'S INNINGS.

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 off 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[37] 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 is deafening; only seventeen runs to get with four
wickets,--the game is all but ours!

    [37] #Leg-bye#: the ball glances from the batsman's leg.

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 toward 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[38] 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.

    [38] #Swiping#: not a scientific hit.

"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,"[39]
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."

    [39] #His play#: his skill.


THE FINISH.

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 a 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,[40] 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.

    [40] #Winter can get in#: before Winter can get a chance to
    play.

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 had 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."[41]

    [41] #Town#: London.

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 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.


SHUT OUT.

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[42] 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[43] 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 engravings of King's College Chapel[44] over
the mantle-piece looked less stiff than usual, as they settled
themselves down in the twilight to the serious drinking of tea.

    [42] #Snuggery#: a small, cosy room.

    [43] #Hob#: that part of a grate on which things are placed to
    be kept hot.

    [44] #King's College Chapel#: a chapel of King's College,
    Cambridge. It is celebrated for its architectural beauty.


HARRY EAST.

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 moan.

"Well, we shall miss you quite as much as you will miss us," said the
master. "You are the Nestor[45] of the School now, are you not?"

    [45] #Nestor#: oldest member of the School.

"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.[46] How he rose to the situation, and burnt his cigar-cases,
and gave away his pistols, and pondered on the constitutional
authority[47] 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.[48] He couldn't help that, you know.
I'm sure the Doctor must have liked him?" said Tom, looking up
inquiringly.

    [46] #The twenty#: the fifth form.

    [47] #Constitutional authority#: here, the authority
    established by school customs.

    [48] #Constituted authorities#: here, the upper-class boys.

"The Doctor sees the good in every one, and appreciates it," said the
master, dogmatically;[49] "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."

    [49] #Dogmatically#: positively.

"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."


WORK IN THE WORLD.

"What do you mean by 'at work in the world'?" said the master,
pausing, with his lips close to the 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.


THE DOCTOR'S WORK.

"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 his 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. 'Twas 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
afterward, 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."


A NEW LIGHT.

Up to this time, Tom had never wholly given in to or understood the
Doctor. At first he had thoroughly feared him. For some years, as I
have tried to show, he had learned 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 the 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[50] 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[51] School rights, and see that nothing was done to the injury
of the republic without due protest.

    [50] #Toryism#: here, adherence to the established customs of
    the School.

    [51] #Vested#: long established; fixed.

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, he ever thought
particularly of any boy at all.


HERO-WORSHIP.

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 began in the half-year by abolishing fagging,
and foot-ball, 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
short-comings, 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 School-house, a
hero-worshipper who would have satisfied the soul of Thomas
Carlyle[52] himself.

    [52] #Thomas Carlyle#: a distinguished British author, died
    1881. One of his best-known books is "Heroes and Hero
    Worship."

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 remonstrances at his desertion and joy
at his reappearance.

And falling in with the humor of the evening was soon as great a boy
as all the rest; and at ten o'clock was chaired[53] 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.

    [53] #Chaired#: here, carried.

And the next morning after breakfast he squared up all the cricketing
accounts, went round to his tradesmen and other acquaintances, 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 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 the porter, walked
slowly and sadly up towards the town. It was now July. He had rushed
away from Oxford the moment the term was over, for a fishing ramble in
Scotland with two college friends, and had been for three weeks living
on oat-cake and mutton-hams, in the wildest parts of Skye.[1] 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[2] which met the shingle,[3] 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,[4]
and, being a youth of a communicative turn of mind, began imparting
the contents to the fishermen as he went on.

    [1] #Skye#: an island off the west coast of Scotland.

    [2] #Scrub#: stunted shrubs.

    [3] #Shingle#: a pebbly beach.

    [4] #Hostelry#: inn.

"What a bother they are making about these wretched Corn-laws![5]
Here's three or four columns full of nothing but sliding-scales and
fixed duties.[6] 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!"

    [5] #Corn-laws#: laws imposing a heavy tax on imported grain.
    They made bread dear, and caused great distress among the
    laboring classes in England.

    [6] #Sliding-scales and fixed duties#: different kinds of
    revenue tax.

Tom, intent on a fish which had risen at him twice, answered only with
a grunt.

"Anything about the Goodwood?"[7] called out the third man.

    [7] #Goodwood#: a famous annual horse-race.

"Rory O'More drawn. Butterfly colt amiss," shouted the student.

"Just my luck," grumbled the inquirer, jerking his flies[8] off the
water, and throwing again with a heavy sullen splash, and frightening
Tom's fish.

    [8] #Flies#: artificial flies used as bait.

"I say, can't you throw lighter over there? We aren'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[9] of Rugby, is dead."

    [9] #Arnold#: Dr. Arnold died suddenly at the School on Sunday
    morning, June 12, 1842, the day before his forty-seventh
    birthday.

Tom's hand stopped half-way in his cast,[10] 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 had
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.

    [10] #Cast#: throw.

As he wearily labored 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.[11] "Hullo, Brown! what's the matter, old fellow--aren't
you well?"

    [11] #Listlessly#: carelessly.

"Where is it?" said Tom, turning over the leaves, his hand 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,[12] they walked together up to the house.

    [12] #Parley#: conversation.

"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
afterward. 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.[13]

    [13] #Offices#: servants' apartments.

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.[14]

    [14] #Hieroglyphics#: here, writing not easily read.

He looked up through his spectacles, as Tom seized his hand and wrung
it.

"Ah! you 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,[15] sir," answered Thomas. "You'd like
to have the key, I dare say."

    [15] #Chapel#: the late Matthew Arnold wrote the following
    lines on his father's tomb in the chapel:--

      "O strong soul, by what shore
      Tarriest thou now? For that force,
      Surely, has not been left vain!
      Somewhere, surely, afar,
      In the sounding labor-house vast
      Of being, is practised that strength,
      Zealous, beneficent, firm!

      "Yes, in some far-shining sphere,
      Conscious or not of the past,
      Still thou performest the word
      Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live,--
      Prompt, unwearied, as here!

      "Still thou upraisest with zeal
      The humble good from the ground,
      Sternly repressest the bad!
      Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse
      Those who with half-open eyes
      Tread the border-land dim
      'Twixt vice and virtue; reviv'st,
      Succorest!--this was thy work,
      'This was thy life upon earth.'

      "But thou would'st not _alone_
      Be saved, my father! _alone_
      Conquer and come to thy goal,
      Leaving the rest in the wild.
      Therefore to thee it was given
      Many to save with thyself;
      And at the end of thy days,
      O faithful shepherd! to come,
      Bringing thy sheep in thy hand."

              _Rugby Chapel, November, 1857._--_Matthew Arnold._

"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[16] 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.[17] "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
toward him.

    [16] #Gad-fly#: a gad-fly sent by Juno to torment Io, a
    beautiful maiden whom Jupiter had transformed into a heifer.

    [17] #Pall#: lose strength.

No, no! that sight could never be seen again. There was no flag flying
on the round tower;[18] 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 honored, 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.

    [18] #Round tower#: the entrance to the head-master's
    residence at Rugby is through this tower over which a flag
    generally flies.

He passed through the vestibule[19] 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.

    [19] #Vestibule#: entrance hall or anteroom.

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 a 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
colors on the opposite wall, and the perfect stillness soothed his
spirit little by 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 forever 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 felt himself 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 honored 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 were 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
birth-right,[20] and felt the dawning 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?

    [20] #Birth-right#: here, the highest manhood. (See Ephesians
    iv. 13.)

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 fulness.




INDEX TO NOTES.

[D.H.M.]


  A, 44
  Accidence, 163
  Achates, 257
  Act'ly, 87
  Addled, 271
  Adscriptus glebæ, 18
  Affected, 202
  A fortiori, 24
  Agamemnon, 314
  Aganippe, 258
  Agincourt, 2
  Aim, 35
  Alfred, 11
  Allowance, 322
  Alma, 12
  Amateur nest, 250
  Amateurs, 290
  Ambrosial, 251
  Amy Robsart, 97
  Angular Saxon, 18
  A'nigst, 41
  Antediluvian, 15
  Argus, 164
  Arnold, Dr., 372
  Arra, 37
  Arter, 85
  Arthur, 239
  Asser, 12
  Assizes, 21
  At large, 160

  Baal, 228
  Babel, 165
  Backsword, 8
  Bagmen, 82
  Bails, 349
  Balak, 11
  Balances, 197
  Balliol, 127
  Barrows, 14
  Basket handle, 38
  Bath, 296
  Bating, 133
  Beagles, 128
  Beating, 271
  Bee-orchis, 7
  Beggars, 182, 205
  Belauded, 66
  Belle Sauvage, 74
  Bell's Life, 281
  Bequest, 303
  Berks, 5
  Berkshire, 8
  Bewick, 252
  Big School, 147
  Bile, 266
  Bill, 2
  Bird-fancier, 253
  Birth-right, 379
  Biscuit, 77
  Bist, 26
  Bi'st, 89
  Black, 208
  Blackies, 310
  Black Monday, 7
  Blethering, 41
  Blowing, 263
  Blown, 293
  Bob, 208
  Bolstering, 158
  Bona fide, 45
  Books, 95, 182
  Boomerang, 310
  Booths, 32
  Boots, 73
  Border-farmer, 251
  Bore, 119
  Bounds, 70
  Bout, 4
  Bowls, 90
  Boxes, 74
  Box's head, 87
  Braces, 106
  Break cover, 27
  Brownsover, 201
  Brown study, 75
  Buckskins, 34
  Bucolics, 163
  Bulls'-eyes, 69
  Bumptiousness, 95
  Burgess, 84
  Butts, 7
  Buxom, 76
  Byes, 350

  Cairn, 10
  Cairngorm, 321
  Cajoleries, 184
  Calico,  19
  Calling over, 96
  Callow, 250
  Caloric, 79
  Camp, 10
  Canes, 105
  Cant, 301
  Cap and gown, 104
  Caravans, 34
  Cardinal, 26
  Carlyle, 369
  Carte blanche, 105
  Cast, 372
  Castor, 38
  Casts, 152
  Catskin, 94
  Chaff, 37
  Chaffinch, 272
  Chaired, 369
  Chalet, 23
  Chambers, 4
  Chapel, 375
  Charley, 8
  Chartered, 195
  Chartism, 239
  Chaw, 19
  Cheap Jacks, 33
  Cheroot, 76
  Chesapeake and Shannon, 124
  China orange, 112
  Chivalrous, 285
  Choleric, 58
  Chorus, 325
  Chronicler,  12
  Churchwarden windows, 328
  Cicerone, 95
  Civil wars, 7
  Clanship, 3
  Clement's Inn, 22
  Clerk, 310
  Clever, 167
  Close, 57, 100
  Cloth-yard shaft, 2
  Coach, 284
  Cob, 88
  Cobs, 351
  Cock, The, 150
  Cock, 309
  Cock of the House, 200
  Cockpit, 180
  Cogitation, 250
  Colleagues, 169
  Combes, 321
  Comme, etc., 23
  Concord, 261
  Confirmed, 338
  Congenial, 236
  Constituted authorities, 364
  Constitutional, 275
  Constitutional authority, 364
  Construe, 144
  Convivial, 174
  Convoy, 97
  Corn-laws, 371
  Corn Market, 161
  Cornopean, 159
  Corollary, 57
  Cosmopolite, 8
  Costermonger, 48
  Counter, 292
  Country sides, 49
  County members, 89
  Courier, 22
  Courts, 238
  Coventry, 175
  Cover, 8, 191
  Coverley, 43
  Cover-point, 350
  Coxiest, 185
  Cressy, 2
  Cribbed, 261
  Cribs, 312
  Crichton, 56
  Cricket, 32
  Cromlech, 14
  Crotchet, 4
  Culverin, 2
  Curacy, 4
  Curry favor, 338
  Cut, 105, 176, 191
  Cut out, 290

  Derby, 182
  Derogatory, 218
  Digamma, 77
  Dingle, 51
  Dips, 132
  Doctor, 127
  Dogmatically, 364
  Don, 21
  Don Quixote, 355
  Dot, 309
  Dowager, 238
  Down, 7
  Down shepherd, 37
  Doyle, 1
  Drag, 77
  Dragoons, 30
  Dramatis personæ, 283
  Drat, 26
  Draw, 191
  Drawing, 183
  Draws, 354
  Dresden, 7
  Dresser, 53
  Dulce domum, 7

  'E, 17
  Ear-marked, 199
  Earth, 342
  Ee, 41
  Ees, 276
  Egypt, 330
  Elaborate, 260
  Elect, 339
  Elegiac, 260
  Eleven, 221
  Elijah, 228
  Elysium, 165
  Embrangle, 56
  Ensconce, 251
  Entity, 139
  Environments, 24
  Ephemeræ, 206
  Et ceteras, 267
  Ethnology, 309
  Eton, 323
  Exercised, 342
  Exhibitions, 346
  Experto crede, 262
  Extempore, 257
  Eyrie, 10

  Fagging, 101
  Fairings, 33
  Fat living, 238
  Feint, 39, 292
  Felonious, 273
  Felony, 68
  Fetish, 28
  Fiery cross, 16
  File, 90
  First-class carriages, 79
  First-day boys, 86
  First-floor, 84
  Fives' court, 100
  Flank, 314
  Flat, 356
  Flies, 371
  Flitch, 53
  Float, 29
  Floored, 265
  Fond, 113
  Foot-ball, 101
  Footman, 64
  Foozling, 271
  Form, 168
  Forms, 60
  Freeholders, 18
  Frontispiece, 292
  Frowzy, 199
  Fugle-man, 124
  Functionary, 24
  Funk, 135, 232
  Fustian, 34

  Gable ended, 150
  Gaby, 68
  Gad-fly, 376
  Gamester, 30
  Gammon, 312
  Gee, 208
  Gee'd 'em, 279
  Generic, 139
  Genus, 261
  Geordie, 306
  Get in, 360
  Gi's, 43
  Goodwood, 371
  Gorse, 8
  Goth, 328
  Gradus, 246
  Grampus, 333
  Grapnel, 45
  Gravelled, 298
  Green rides, 64
  Grewsome, 16
  Grey, 242
  Grimaldi, 97
  Guard, 78

  Habeas corpus, 356
  Hack, 81
  Hacks, 101
  Half, 190
  Half-a-crown, 184
  Half-a-sov., 95
  Half-sovereign, 37
  Hamper, 78
  Hand-grenade, 2
  Handle, 290
  Hands, 296
  Hard all, 291
  Hard away, 354
  Hard-bitten, 347
  Hare and hounds, 28
  Harriers, 128
  He, 37
  Head, 293, 294
  Hector, 283
  Hecuba, 163
  Hedge, 184
  Heir-apparent, 27
  Helen, 283
  Herodotus, 355
  Hieroglyphics, 374
  High, 273
  High feather, 266
  Highflyer, 160
  High Street, 84
  Hind-boot, 78
  Hoar-frost, 79
  Hob, 363
  Holus bolus, 23
  Homely, 157, 239
  Homer's Iliad, 283
  Hop-picking, 22
  Horn, 17
  Hostelry, 371
  Hot-foot, 206
  Houses of Palaver, 182
  Humble-bees, 70

  Impecuniosity, 177
  Imperial, 22
  Impounded, 106
  Incarnation, 147
  Incongruous, 260
  Ingle, 53
  Inigo Jones, 14
  Innings, 351
  Integuments, 61
  Intrinsic, 259
  Ishmaelites, 197
  Island, 101
  Islington, 73
  Itinerant, 114

  Jack, 201
  J. P., 19
  Jobbers, 20
  John, 46
  Jug, 15, 142
  Jugs, 132

  Keeper, 13
  Keepers, 203
  Ken, 344
  Kestrel, 256
  King's College Chapel, 363
  Kit, 72
  Knee, 290
  Knights, 353
  Kossuth, 196
  Kraal, 23

  Laid, 7
  Lakes, 346
  Lancet windows, 32
  Land me, 339
  Larking, 108
  Last, 330
  Law, 150
  Learned poet, 24
  Leastway, 276
  Leg, 354
  Leg-bail, 354
  Leg-bye, 359
  Legitimate, 33
  Leg-shooter, 351
  Leicestershire, 151
  Lessons, 237
  Levy, 175
  Lieges, 20
  Life-guardsman, 44
  Lift, 93
  Likely, 205
  Line, 331
  Lissom, 52
  Listlessly, 372
  Living, 239
  Locus penitentiæ, 326
  Lodge, 82
  Lombard Street, 112
  Long-stop, 349
  Lord Craven, 14
  Lord Grey, 242
  Lord's grounds, 346
  Lotus-eaters, 205
  Louts, 123
  Louvre, 7
  Lunging hits, 292
  Lupus, 167
  Lurcher, 52

  Magnates, 300
  Magpie, 248
  Malice prepense, 301
  Malignant, 17
  Manor, 50
  Map, 11
  Marianas, 18
  Marryat, 218
  Marylebone, 304
  Martinmas, 35
  Match, 208
  Matriculating, 1
  Maudlin, 132
  Medes and Persians, 131
  Medicine-man, 309
  Meet, 81
  Mentor, 94
  Mercies, 339
  Midge, 333
  Midland, 237
  Mill, 282
  Miltons, 53
  Minds, 35
  Minimum, 259
  Missive, 67
  Mistletoe, 268
  Moated grange, 18
  Momus, 325
  Moor, 321
  More by token, 13
  Moss-troopers, 252
  Mucker, 177
  Muff, 132
  Mullioned, 58
  Mummers, 19
  Munitions, 266
  Muzzling, 37
  Mysteries, 20

  Necromancer, 71
  Nem. con., 284
  Nestor, 363
  Nether, 61
  Nicias's galleys, 157
  Nominally, 182
  Nor, 85
  Normal, 251
  No side, 117
  N[)o]table, 25
  Nother, 53

  Occult, 50
  Off, 350
  Offices, 374
  Old Berkshire, 8
  Old John, 46
  Old man with a scythe, 4
  Ominous, 191
  Opodeldoc, 118
  Ordnance map, 11
  Oriel window, 92
  Outlaws, 200
  Over, 348

  Palaver, 182, 196
  Palaver houses, 46
  Pall, 376
  Pan-pipe, 34
  Pap-bottle, 232
  Parley, 373
  Parrying, 292
  Partisans, 291
  Pater Brooke, 125
  Pattens, 27
  Peaching, 176
  Peas'n, 276
  Pea-shooters, 85
  Peat, 321
  Pecking-bag, 267
  Pellets, 100
  Pence, 36
  Penates, 181
  Penny, 36
  Petty sessions, 29
  Pewter, 255
  Phosphorus, 71
  Pickwick Papers, 171
  Pie match, 308
  Pig and Whistle, 85
  Pikeman, 79
  Pillion, 28
  Pink, 81
  Pinks, 83
  Pipe, 34
  Plancus, 109, 258
  Plantations, 16
  Play, 291, 333, 360
  Poaching, 38
  Po-chay, 91
  Pop-joying, 29
  Portmanteau, 78
  Post-boys, 159
  Post-chaise, 73
  Pottered, 33
  Pound, 6
  Præpostors, 99
  Predicate, 281
  Premising, 175
  Priggism, 46
  Primum tempus, 68
  Prisoner's base, 61
  Privateers, 142
  Privet, 13
  Profane, 286
  Progenitors, 57
  Proselytizing, 242
  Public, 15
  Publican, 51, 228
  Public schools, 66
  Pull, 140, 293
  Purely, 35
  Puritan, 26
  Purl, 81
  Pusey horn, 17
  Pyrenees, 114

  Quadrangle, 94
  Quaint, 36
  Quantities, 261
  Quarter, 293
  Quarter Sessions, 21
  Quickset, 272
  Quit, 170
  Quixotic, 4
  Quoits, 90

  Rashers, 82
  Rating, 168
  Raven, 64
  Reaches, 201
  Reading, 99
  Reconnoitered, 59
  Red tape, 46
  Regulation catskin, 94
  Regulator, 85
  Richard Swiveller, 9
  Rodney, 2
  Roc, 263
  Roman camp, 10
  Rota, 142
  Round tower, 376
  Rug, 79
  Rugby, 72
  Rum, 246
  Rum un, 87
  Runs, 348
  Russia, 108

  Sacer vates, 2
  Sack, 325
  Salver, 238
  Sampler, 53
  Sapped, 336
  Sappers and Miners, 11
  Sar' it out, 23
  Sauce-pan, 181
  Sauer-kraut, 7
  Saxon, 18
  Saxons, 12
  Scan, 261
  Scatter-brain, 24
  Science, 98
  Scoring-table, 349
  Scrub, 370
  Scythe, 4
  Seal, 319
  Sebastopol, 251
  Sedan-chair, 121
  Sedge-bird, 271
  Servants' hall, 61
  Sessions, 21
  Set-tos, 353
  Sets, 146
  Settle, 53
  Seven and sixers, 95
  Sheep-walks, 14
  Shell, 105
  Shell lesson, 284
  Sheridan Knowles, 328
  Sheriff, 348
  Shilling, 6
  Shingle, 370
  Shovel, 42
  Side, 117
  Silver, 208
  Sindbad, 263
  Sirens, 22
  Sir Roger de Coverley, 43
  Sir Walter, 14
  Six minutes' law, 150
  Skittles, 46
  Skye, 370
  Sliding-scales, 371
  Slithering, 269
  Slogger, 287
  Smock frocks, 19
  Snob, 330
  Snuggery, 362
  Sodden, 291
  Sold, 198
  Somersetshire, 30
  Sovereign, 37
  Sparring, 129
  Spinney, 8
  Sponge, 296
  Sprats, 289
  Spring-board, 202
  Sprung, 192
  Squaretoes, 325
  Squire, 17
  Stage, 80
  St. Albans, 80
  Stall, 238
  Standard, 333
  Staple, 165
  Star, 74
  Statute feasts, 31
  Steeple-chase, 97
  Sterling, 181
  St. George, 13
  Stickleback, 28
  Stiggins, Mr., 9
  Stolid, 55
  Stone, 3
  Studies, 96
  Study-fagging, 178
  Stuff, 34
  Stump, 349
  Stumped, 354
  Summary, 288
  Summut, 41
  Surrey, 322
  Swarmed, 269
  Swiper Jack, 350
  Swiping, 359
  Swiss Family Robinson, 58
  Swiveller, Richard, 9

  Tabor, 34
  Tacitly, 282
  Tackle, 81
  Tackle-maker, 204
  Tails, 177
  Talbots, 2
  Tally-ho, 73
  Tap, 83
  Taxidermy, 252
  Team, 350
  Technicalities, 103
  Ten-pound doctor, 20
  Thatched, 9
  Thick, 154
  Three-decker, 147
  Three pound ten, 6
  Thunder-and-lightning, 292
  Tick, 119
  Ticket-of-leave-men, 200
  Tie, 44
  Tighe, 17
  Tile, 94
  Tip, 87
  Tithe, 167
  Tizzy, 184
  Toady, 47, 176
  Toby Philpot jug, 15
  Toco, 112
  Toffee, 69
  Tom Crib, 98
  Top-boots, 34
  Topping, 351
  Tors, 321
  Tory, 57
  Toryism, 368
  Toss-up, 201
  Town, 361
  Treadmill, 5
  Trencher, 82
  True blue, 57
  Tuck, 291
  Tuck-shop, 119
  Tuppence, 36
  Turf-cart, 357
  Turnspit, 49
  Turret, 297
  Tutelage, 32
  Twenty, The, 364
  Twisters, 322
  Twod, 41
  Two seven and sixers, 95

  Um, 16
  Umpire, 40
  Un, 16
  Uncovenanted mercies, 339
  Unctuous, 290
  Usher, 66
  Utopian, 238

  Valeted, 28
  Van, 85
  Vantage-ground, 152
  Veathers, 41
  Velveteens, 204
  Verger, 100
  Vernacular, 19
  Verses, 182
  Vested, 368
  Vested interest, 196
  Vestibule, 377
  Vestry, 57
  Veto, 165
  Vicarious, 262
  Vice,  332
  Vizes, 44
  Vlush, 41
  Volition, 256
  Vools, 19

  Wainscoted, 82
  War, The, 237
  'Ware, 274
  Wash, 232
  Waterloo, 116
  Wattle, 151
  Way-bill, 83
  Wayland Smith's cave, 14
  Wench, 35
  West-countryman, 18
  West End clubs, 46
  Whey, 26
  Whum, 19
  Wicket, 52
  Wickets, 90, 346
  Wig, 28
  Will-he, nill-he, 105
  William IV., 133
  Wiltshire, 30
  Winded, 293
  Windsor Castle, 98
  Wiseacre, 325
  Wiseacres, 213
  Wooy, 37
  Worships, 358
  Wos-bird, 42
  Wur, 44
  Wykeham, 259

  Yeast, 45
  Yeomanry, 21, 238
  Yeomen, 1
  Yule-tide, 19




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES


1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.

2. Passages in bold are indicated by #bold#.

3. Footnotes have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the end
of the paragraph referring to the particular footnote.

4. The original text includes Greek characters. For this text version
these letters have been replaced with transliterations.

5. Obvious punctuation errors have been silently corrected, such as,
addition of missing period at the end of sentences, etc.

6. Other than the changes listed above, printer's inconsistencies in
spelling, hyphenation, and ligature usage have been retained.






