As soon as prayers were over, and the sixth and fifth-form boys had

withdrawn to the aristocratic seclusion of their own room, and the rest,

or democracy, had sat down to their supper in the Hall, Tom and Arthur,

having secured their allowances of bread and cheese, started on their

feet to catch the eye of the 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, this was

the first attempt at a friendship of his own which Arthur had made, and

Tom hailed it as a grand step. The ease with which he himself became

hail-fellow-well-met with anybody, and blundered into and out of twenty

friendships a half-year, made him sometimes sorry and sometimes angry at

Arthur's reserve and loneliness. True, Arthur was always pleasant, and

even jolly, with any boys who came with Tom to their study; but Tom felt

that it was only through him, as it were, that his chum associated with

others, and that but for him Arthur would have been dwelling in a

wilderness. This increased his consciousness of responsibility; and

though he hadn't reasoned it out and made it clear to himself, yet

somehow he knew that this responsibility, this trust which he had taken

on him without thinking about it, head-over-heels in fact, was the

centre and turning-point of his school-life, that which was to make him

or mar him; his appointed work and trial for the time being. And Tom was

becoming a new boy, though with frequent tumbles in the dirt and

perpetual hard battle with himself, and was daily growing in manfulness

and thoughtfulness, as every high-couraged and well-principled boy must,

when he finds himself for the first time consciously at grips with self

and the devil. Already he could turn almost without a sigh, from the

school-gates, from which had just scampered off East and three or four

others of his own particular set, bound for some jolly lark not quite

according to law, and involving probably a row with louts, keepers, or

farm-labourers, the skipping dinner or calling-over, some of Phoebe

Jennings' beer, and a very possible flogging at the end of all as a

relish. He had quite got over the stage in which he would grumble to

himself, "Well, hang it, it's very hard of the Doctor to have saddled me

with Arthur. Why couldn't he have chummed him with Fogey, or Thomkin,

or any of the fellows who never do anything but walk round the close,

and finish their copies the first day they're set?" But although all

this was past, he often longed, and felt that he was right in longing,

for more time for the legitimate pastimes of cricket, fives, bathing,

and fishing within bounds, in which Arthur could not yet be his

companion; and he felt that when the young 'un (as he now generally

called him) had found a pursuit and some other friend for himself, he

should be able to give more time to the education of his own body with a

clear conscience.

And now what he so wished for had come to pass; he almost hailed it as a

special providence (as indeed it was, but not for the reasons he gave

for it--what providences are?) that Arthur should have singled out

Martin of all fellows for a friend. "The old Madman is the very fellow,"

thought he; "he will take him scrambling over half the country after

birds' eggs and flowers, make him run and swim and climb like an Indian,

and not teach him a word of anything bad, or keep him from his lessons.

What luck!" And so, with more than his usual heartiness, he dived into

his cupboard, and hauled out an old knuckle-bone of ham, and two or

three bottles of beer, together with the solemn pewter only used on

state occasions; while Arthur, equally elated at the easy accomplishment

of his first act of volition in the joint establishment, produced from

his side a bottle of pickles and a pot of jam, and cleared the table. In

a minute or two the noise of the boys coming up from supper was heard,

and Martin knocked and was admitted, bearing his bread and cheese, and

the three fell to with hearty good-will upon the viands, talking faster

than they ate, for all shyness disappeared in a moment before Tom's

bottled beer and hospitable ways. "Here's Arthur, a regular young town

mouse, with a natural taste for the woods, Martin, longing to break his

neck climbing trees, and with a passion for young snakes."

"Well, I say," sputtered out Martin, eagerly, "will you come to-morrow,

both of you, to Caldecott's Spinney, then, for I know of a kestrel's

nest, up a fir-tree--I can't get at it without help; and, Brown, you can

climb against any one."

"Oh yes, do let us go," said Arthur; "I never saw a hawk's nest, nor a

hawk's egg."

"You just come down to my study then, and I'll show you five sorts,"

said Martin.

"Ay, the old Madman has got the best collection in the house,

out-and-out," said Tom; and then Martin, warming with unaccustomed good

cheer and the chance of a convert, launched out into a proposed

birds'-nesting campaign, betraying all manner of important secrets; a

golden-crested wren's nest near Butlin'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, 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" to the feast, although only an extempore affair; and

though prudence and the desire to get Martin and Arthur together alone

at first had overcome his scruples, he was now heartily glad to open the

door, broach another bottle of beer, and hand over the old ham-knuckle

to the searching of his old friend's pocket-knife.

"Ah, you greedy vagabonds," said East, with his mouth full; "I knew

there was something going on when I saw you cut off out of Hall so quick

with your suppers. What a stunning tap, Tom! you are a wunner for

bottling the swipes."

"I've had practice enough for the sixth in my time, and it's hard if I

haven't picked up a wrinkle or two for my own benefit."

"Well, old Madman, 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 them,

is very pretty eating. However, I say, Scud, we're all going after a

hawk's nest to-morrow, in Caldecott's Spinney; and if you'll come and

behave yourself, we'll have a stunning climb."

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

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

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

up."

And the bottled-beer being finished, and his hunger appeased, East

departed to his study, "that sneak Jones," as he informed them, who had

just got into the sixth and occupied the next study, having instituted a

nightly visitation upon East and his chum, to their no small discomfort.

When he was gone, Martin rose to follow, but Tom stopped him. "No one

goes near New Row," said he, "so you may just as well stop here and do

your verses, and then we'll have some more talk. We'll be no end quiet;

besides, no præpostor comes here now--we haven't been visited once this

half."

So the table was cleared, the cloth restored, and the three fell to work

with Gradus and dictionary upon the morning's vulgus.

They were three very fair examples of the way in which such tasks were

done at Rugby, in the consulship of Plancus. And doubtless the method is

little changed, for there is nothing new under the sun, especially at

schools.

Now be it known unto all you boys who are at schools which do not

rejoice in the time-honoured institution of the Vulgus, (commonly

supposed to have been established by William of Wykeham at Winchester,

and imported to Rugby by Arnold, more for the sake of the lines which

were learnt by heart with it, than for its own intrinsic value, as I've

always understood) that it is a short exercise, in Greek or Latin verse,

on a given subject, the minimum number of lines being fixed for each

form. The master of the form gave out at fourth lesson on the previous

day the subject for next morning's vulgus, and at first lesson each boy

had to bring his vulgus ready to be looked over; and with the vulgus, a

certain number of lines from one of the Latin or Greek poets then being

construed in the form had to be got by heart. The master at first lesson

called up each boy in the form in order, and put him on in the lines. If

he couldn't say them, or seem to say them, by reading them off the

master's or some other boy's book who stood near, he was sent back, and

went below all the boys who did so say or seem to say them; but in

either case his vulgus was looked over by the master, who gave and

entered in his book, to the credit or discredit of the boy, so many

marks as the composition merited. At Rugby vulgus and lines were the

first lesson every other day in the week, 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 masters gave the same

subjects sometimes over again after a certain lapse of time. To meet and

rebuke this bad habit of the masters, the school-boy-mind, with its

accustomed ingenuity, had invented an elaborate system of tradition.

Almost every boy kept his own vulgus written out in a book, and these

books were duly handed down from boy to boy, till (if the tradition has

gone on till now) I suppose the popular boys, in whose hands bequeathed

vulgus-books have accumulated, are prepared with three or four vulguses

on any subject in heaven or earth, or in "more worlds than one," which

an unfortunate master can pitch upon. At any rate, such lucky fellows

had generally one for themselves and one for a friend in my time. The

only objection to the traditionary method of doing your vulguses was,

the risk that the successions might have become confused, and so that

you and another follower of traditions should show up the same identical

vulgus some fine morning; in which case, when it happened, considerable

grief was the result--but when did such risk hinder boys or men from

short cuts and pleasant paths?

Now in the study that night, Tom was the upholder of the traditionary

method of vulgus doing. He carefully produced two large vulgus-books,

and began diving into them, and picking out a line here, and an ending

there (tags, as they were vulgarly called), till he had gotten all that

he thought he could make fit. He then proceeded to patch his tags

together with the help of his Gradus, producing an incongruous and

feeble result of eight elegiac lines, the minimum quantity for his form,

and finishing up with two highly moral lines extra, making ten in all,

which he cribbed entire from one of his books, beginning "O genus

humanum," and which he himself must have used a dozen times before,

whenever an unfortunate or wicked hero, of whatever nation or language

under the sun, was the subject. Indeed, he began to have great doubts

whether the master wouldn't remember them, and so only 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.

The second method pursued by Martin may be called the dogged, or prosaic

method. He, no more than Tom, took any pleasure in the task, but having

no old vulgus-books of his own, or any one's else, could not follow the

traditionary method, for which too, as Tom remarked, he hadn't the

genius. Martin then proceeded to write down eight lines in English, of

the most matter-of fact kind, the first that came into his head; and to

convert these, line by line, by main force of Gradus and dictionary,

into Latin that would scan. This was all he cared for, to produce eight

lines with no false quantities or concords: whether the words were apt,

or what the sense was, mattered nothing; and, as the article was all

new, not a line beyond the minimum did the followers of the dogged

method ever produce.

The third, or artistic method, was Arthur's. He considered first what

point in the character or event which was the subject could most neatly

be brought out within the limits of a vulgus, trying always to get his

idea into the eight lines, but not binding himself to ten or even twelve

lines if he couldn't do this. He then set to work, as much as possible

without Gradus or other help, to clothe his idea in appropriate Latin or

Greek, and would not be satisfied till he had polished it well up with

the aptest and most poetic words and phrases he could get at.

A fourth method indeed was used in the school, but of too simple a kind

to require a comment. It may be called the vicarious method, obtained

amongst big boys of lazy or bullying habits, and consisted simply in

making clever boys whom they could thrash do their whole vulgus for

them, and construe it to them afterwards; which latter is a method not

to be encouraged, and which I strongly advise you all not to practise.

Of the others, you will find the traditionary most troublesome, unless

you can steal your vulguses whole (experto crede), and that the artistic

method pays the best both in marks and other ways.

The vulguses being finished by nine o'clock, and Martin having rejoiced

above measure in the abundance of light, and of Gradus and dictionary,

and other conveniences almost unknown to him for getting through the

work, and having been pressed by Arthur to come and do his verses there

whenever he liked, the three boys went down to Martin's den, and Arthur

was initiated into the lore of bird's-eggs, to his great delight. The

exquisite colouring and forms astonished and charmed him who had

scarcely ever seen any but a hen's egg or an ostrich's, and by the time

he was lugged away to bed he had learned the names of at least twenty

sorts, and dreamt of the glorious perils of tree-climbing and that he

had found a roc's egg in the island as big as Sinbad's and clouded like

a tit-lark's, in blowing which Martin and he had nearly been drowned in

the yolk.

CHAPTER IV.

THE BIRD-FANCIERS.

"I have found out a gift for my fair,

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed:

But let me the plunder forbear,

She would say 'twas a barbarous deed."

ROWE.

"And now, my lad, take them five shilling,

And on my advice in future think;

So Billy pouched them all so willing,

And got that night disguised in drink."

MS. BALLAD.

THE next morning at first lesson Tom was turned back in his lines, and

so had to wait till the second round, while Martin and Arthur said

theirs all right and got out of school at once. When Tom got out and ran

down to breakfast at Harrowell's they were missing, and Stumps informed

him that they had swallowed down their breakfasts and gone off

together, where, he couldn't say. Tom hurried over his own breakfast,

and went first to Martin's study and then to his own, but no signs of

the missing boys were to be found. He felt half angry and jealous of

Martin--where could they be gone?

He learnt second lesson with East and the rest in no very good temper,

and then went out into the quadrangle. About ten minutes before school

Martin and Arthur arrived in the quadrangle breathless; and, catching

sight of him, Arthur rushed up all excitement and with a bright glow on

his face.

"Oh, Tom, look here," cried he, holding out three moor-hen's eggs;

"we've been down the Barby Road to the pool Martin told us of last

night, and just see what we've got."

Tom wouldn't be pleased, and only looked out for something to find fault

with.

"Why, young un," said he, "what have you been after? You don't mean to

say you've been wading?"

The tone of reproach made poor little Arthur shrink up in a moment and

look piteous, and Tom with a shrug of his shoulders turned his anger on

Martin.

"Well, I didn't think, Madman, that you'd have been such a muff as to

let him be getting wet through at this time of day. You might have done

the wading yourself."

"So I did, of course, only he would come in too to see the nest. We left

six eggs in; they'll be hatched in a day or two."

"Hang the eggs!" said Tom; "a fellow can't turn his back for a moment

but all his work's undone. He'll be laid up for a week for this

precious lark, I'll be bound."

"Indeed, Tom, now," pleaded Arthur, "my feet ain't wet, for Martin made

me take off my shoes and stockings and trousers."

"But they are wet and dirty, too--can't I see?" answered Tom; "and

you'll be called up and floored when the master sees what a state you're

in. You haven't looked at second lesson, you know." Oh Tom, you old

humbug! you to be upbraiding any one with not learning their lessons! If

you hadn't been floored yourself now at first lesson, do you mean to say

you wouldn't have been with them? and you've taken away all poor little

Arthur's joy and pride in his first birds' eggs; and he goes and puts

them down in the study, and takes down his books with a sigh, thinking

he has done something horribly wrong, whereas he has learnt on in

advance much more than will be done at second lesson.

But the old Madman hasn't, and gets called up and makes some frightful

shots, losing about ten places, and all but getting floored. This

somewhat appeases Tom's wrath, and by the end of the lesson he has

regained his temper. And afterwards in their study he begins to get

right again, as he watches Arthur's intense joy at seeing Martin blowing

the eggs and 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, and

is repaid by seeing his little sensitive-plant expand again, and sun

itself in his smiles.

After dinner the Madman is busy with the preparations for their

expedition, fitting new straps on to his climbing irons, filling large

pill-boxes with cotton wool, and sharpening East's small axe. They carry

all their munitions into calling-over, and directly afterwards, 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.

Martin leads the way in high feather; it is quite a new sensation to him

getting companions, and he finds it very pleasant, and means to show

them all manner of proofs of his science and skill. Brown and East may

be better at cricket and football and games, thinks he, but out in the

fields and woods see if I can't teach them something. He has taken the

leadership already, and strides away in front with his climbing-irons

strapped under one arm, his pecking-bag under the other, and his pockets

and hat full of pill-boxes, cotton wool, and other etceteras. Each of

the others carries a pecking-bag, and East his hatchet.

When they had crossed three or four fields without a check, Arthur began

to lag, and Tom seeing this shouted to Martin to pull up a bit: "We

ain't out Hare-and-hounds--what's the good of grinding on at this rate?"

"There's the Spinney," said Martin, pulling up on the brow of a slope at

the bottom of which lay Lawford brook, and pointing to the top of the

opposite slope; "the nest is in one of those high fir-trees at this

end. And down by the brook there, I know of a sedge-bird's nest; we'll

go and look at it coming back."

"Oh, come on, don't let us stop," said Arthur, who was getting excited

at the sight of the wood; so they broke into a trot again, and were soon

across the brook, up the slope, and into the Spinney. Here they advanced

as noiselessly as possible, lest keepers or other enemies should be

about, and stopped at the foot of a tall fir, at the top of which Martin

pointed out with pride the kestrel's nest, the object of their quest.

"Oh where! which is it?" asks Arthur, gaping up in the air, and having

the most vague idea of what it would be like.

"There, don't you see?" said East, pointing to a lump of mistletoe in

the next tree, which was a beech: he saw that Martin and Tom were busy

with the climbing-irons, and couldn't resist the temptation of hoaxing.

Arthur stared and wondered more than ever.

"Well, how curious! it doesn't look a bit like what I expected," said

he.

"Very odd birds, kestrels," said East, looking waggishly at his victim,

who was still star-gazing.

"But I thought it was in a fir-tree?" objected Arthur.

"Ah, don't you know? that's a new sort of fir, which old Caldecott

brought from the Himalayas."

"Really!" said Arthur; "I'm glad I know that--how unlike our firs they

are! They do very well too here, don't they? the Spinney's full of

them."

"What's that humbug he's telling you?" cried Tom, looking up, having

caught the word Himalayas, and suspecting what East was after.

"Only about this fir," said Arthur, putting his hand on the stem of the

beech.

"Fir!" shouted Tom, "why, you don't mean to say, young 'un, you don't

know a beech when you see one?"

Poor little Arthur looked terribly ashamed, and East exploded in

laughter which made the wood ring.

"I've hardly ever seen any trees," faltered Arthur.

"What a shame to hoax him, Scud!" cried Martin. "Never mind, Arthur, you

shall know more about trees than he does in a week or two."

"And isn't that the kestrel's nest, then?" asked Arthur.

"That! why, that's a piece of mistletoe. There's the nest, that lump of

sticks up this fir."

"Don't believe him, Arthur," struck in the incorrigible East; "I just

saw an old magpie go out of it."

Martin did not deign to reply to this sally, except by a grunt, as he

buckled the last buckle of his climbing-irons; and Arthur looked

reproachfully at East without speaking.

But now came the tug of war. It was a very difficult tree to climb until

the branches were reached, the first of which was some fourteen feet up,

for the trunk was too large at the bottom to be swarmed; in fact,

neither of the boys could reach more than half round it with their arms.

Martin and Tom, both of whom had irons on, tried it without success at

first; the fir bark broke away where they stuck the irons in as soon as

they leant any weight on their feet, and the grip of their arms wasn't

enough to keep them up; so, after getting up three or four feet, down

they came slithering to the ground, barking their arms and faces. They

were furious, and East sat by laughing and shouting at each failure,

"Two to one on the old magpie!"

[Illustration: CLIMBING THE FIR-TREE AFTER THE KESTREL'S NEST. P. 263.]

"We must try a pyramid," said Tom at last. "Now, Scud, you lazy rascal,

stick yourself against the tree!"

"I dare say! and have you standing on my shoulders with the irons on:

what do you think my skin's made of?" However, up he got, and leant

against the tree, putting his head down and clasping it with his arms as

far as he could. "Now then, Madman," said Tom, "you next."

"No, I'm lighter than you; you go next." So Tom got on East's shoulders,

and grasped the tree above, and then Martin scrambled up on Tom's

shoulders, amidst the totterings and groanings of the pyramid, and, with

a spring which sent his supporters howling to the ground, clasped the

stem some ten feet up, and remained clinging. For a moment or two they

thought he couldn't get up, but then, holding on with arms and teeth, he

worked first one iron, then the other, firmly into the bark, got another

grip with his arms, and in another minute had hold of the lowest branch.

"All up with the old magpie now," said East; and, after a minute's rest,

up went Martin, hand over hand, watched by Arthur with fearful

eagerness.

"Isn't it very dangerous?" said he.

"Not a bit," answered Tom; "you can't hurt if you only get good

hand-hold. Try every branch with a good pull before you trust it, and

then up you go."

Martin was now amongst the small branches close to the nest, and away

dashed the old bird, and soared up above the trees, watching the

intruder.

"All right--four eggs!" shouted he.

"Take 'em all!" shouted East; "that'll be one 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

lamplighter. All went well till he was within ten feet of the ground,

when, as the trunk enlarged, his hold got less and less firm, and at

last down he came with a run, tumbling on to his back on the turf,

spluttering and spitting out the remains of the great egg, which had

broken by the jar of his fall.

"Ugh, ugh--something to drink--ugh! it was addled," spluttered he, while

the wood rang again with the merry laughter of East and Tom.

Then they examined the prizes, gathered up their things, and went off to

the brook, where Martin swallowed huge draughts of water to get rid of

the taste; and they visited the sedge-bird's nest, and from thence

struck across the country in high glee, beating the hedges and brakes as

they went along; and Arthur at last, to his intense delight, was allowed

to climb a small hedgerow oak for a magpie's nest with Tom, who kept all

round him like a mother, and showed him where to hold and how to throw

his weight; and though he was in a great fright, didn't show it; and

was applauded by all for his lissomness.

They crossed a road soon afterwards, and there close to them lay a heap

of charming pebbles.

"Look here," shouted East, "here's luck! I've been longing for some good

honest pecking this half hour. Let's fill the bags, and have no more of

this foozling bird's-nesting."

No one objected, so each boy filled the fustian bag he carried full of

stones: they crossed into the next field, Tom and East taking one side

of the hedges, and the other two the other side. Noise enough they made

certainly, but it was too early in the season for the young birds, and

the old birds were too strong on the wing for our young marksmen, and

flew out of shot after the first discharge. But it was great fun,

rushing along the hedgerows, and discharging stone after stone at

blackbirds and chaffinches, though no result in the shape of slaughtered

birds was obtained: and Arthur soon entered into it, and rushed to head

back the birds, and shouted, and threw, and tumbled into ditches and

over and through hedges, as wild as the Madman himself.

Presently the party, in full cry after an old blackbird (who was

evidently used to the thing and enjoyed the fun, for he would wait till

they came close to him and then fly on for forty yards or so, and, with

an impudent flicker of his tail, dart into the depths of the quickset)

came beating down a high double hedge, two on each side.

"There he is again," "Head him," "Let drive," "I had him there," "Take

care where you're throwing, Madman," the shouts might have been heard a

quarter of a mile off. They were heard some two hundred yards off by a

farmer and two of his shepherds, who were doctoring sheep in a fold in

the next field.

Now, the farmer in question rented a house and yard situate at the end

of the field in which the young bird-fanciers had arrived, which house

and yard he didn't occupy or keep any one else in. Nevertheless, like a

brainless and unreasoning Briton, he persisted in maintaining on the

premises a large stock of cocks, hens, and other poultry. Of course, all

sorts of depredators visited the place from time to time: foxes and

gipsies wrought havoc in the night; while in the 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 purposes, and on one occasion had conquered and

slain a duck there, and borne away the carcase triumphantly, hidden in

their handkerchiefs. However, they were sickened of the practice by the

trouble and anxiety which the wretched duck's body caused them. They

carried it to Sally Harrowell's in hopes of a good supper; but she,

after examining it, made a long face, and refused to dress or have

anything to do with it. Then they took it into their study, and began

plucking it themselves; but what to do with the feathers,--where to hide

them?

"Good gracious, Tom, what a lot of feathers a duck has!" groaned East,

holding a bagful in his hand, and looking disconsolately at the carcase,

not yet half plucked.

"And I do think he's getting high too, already," said Tom, smelling at

him cautiously, "so we must finish him up soon."

"Yes, all very well; but how are we to cook him? I'm sure I ain't going

to try it on in the hall or passages; we can't afford to be roasting

ducks about, our character's too bad."

"I wish we were rid of the brute," said Tom, throwing him on the table

in disgust. And after a day or two more it became clear that got rid of

he must be; so they packed him and sealed him up in brown paper, and put

him in the cupboard of an unoccupied study, where he was found in the

holidays by the matron, a 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, and then rushes to turn her into the hedge again. He succeeds, and

then they are all at it for dear life, up and down the hedge in full

cry, the "Come back, come back," getting shriller and fainter every

minute.

Meantime, the farmer and his men steal over the hurdles and creep down

the hedge towards the scene of action. They are almost within a stone's

throw of Martin, who is pressing the unlucky chase hard, when Tom

catches sight of them, and sings out, "Louts, 'ware louts, your side!

Madman, look ahead!" and then catching hold of Arthur, hurries him away

across the field towards Rugby as hard as they can tear. Had he been by

himself, he would have stayed to see it out with the others, but now his

heart sinks and all his pluck goes. The idea of being led up to the

Doctor with Arthur for bagging fowls, quite unmans and takes half the

run out of him.

However, no boys are more able to take care of themselves than East and

Martin; they dodge the pursuers, slip through a gap, and come pelting

after Tom and Arthur, whom they catch up in no time; the farmer and his

men are making good running about a field behind. Tom wishes to himself

that they had made off in any other direction, but now they are all in

for it together, and must see it out. "You won't leave the young 'un,

will you?" says he, as they haul poor little Arthur, already losing wind

from the fright, through the next hedge. "Not we," is the answer from

both. The next hedge is a stiff one; the pursuers gain horribly on them,

and they only just pull Arthur through, with two great rents in his

trousers, as the foremost shepherd comes up on the other side. As they

start into the next field, they are aware of two figures walking down

the footpath in the middle of it, and recognise Holmes and Diggs taking

a constitutional. Those good-natured fellows immediately shout "On."

"Let's go to them and surrender," pants Tom.--Agreed.--And in another

minute the four boys, to the great astonishment of those worthies, rush

breathless up to Holmes and Diggs, who pull up to see what is the

matter; and then the whole is explained by the appearance of the farmer

and his men, who unite their forces and bear down on the knot of boys.

There is no time to explain, and Tom's heart beats frightfully quick, as

he ponders, "Will they stand by us?"

The farmer makes a rush at East and collars him; and that young

gentleman, with unusual discretion, instead of kicking his shins, looks

appealingly at Holmes, and stands still.

"Hullo there, not so fast," says Holmes, who is bound to stand up for

them till they are proved in the wrong. "Now what's all this about?"

"I've got the young varmint at last, have I," pants the farmer; "why

they've been a skulking about my yard and stealing my fowls, that's

where 'tis; and if I doan't have they flogged for it, every one on 'em,

my name ain't Thompson."

Holmes looks grave, and Diggs's face falls. They are quite ready to

fight, no boys in the school more so; but they are 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 'm there last week?"

"Ees, I seen 'em sure enough," says Willum, grasping a prong he carried,

and preparing for action.

The boys deny stoutly, and Willum is driven to admit that, "if it worn't

they, 'twas chaps as like 'em as two peas'n;" and "leastways he'll swear

he see'd them two in the yard last Martinmas," indicating East and Tom.

Holmes had time to meditate. "Now, sir," says he to Willum, "you see you

can't remember what you have seen, and I believe the boys."

"I doan't care," blusters the farmer; "they was arter my fowls to-day,

that's enough for I. Willum, you catch hold o' t'other chap. They've

been a sneaking about this two hours, I tells 'ee," shouted he, as

Holmes stands between Martin and Willum, "and have druv a matter of a

dozen young pullets pretty nigh to death."

"Oh, there's a whacker!" cried East; "we haven't been within a hundred

yards of his barn; we haven't been up here above ten minutes, and we've

seen nothing but a tough old guinea-hen, who ran like a greyhound."

"Indeed, that's all true, Holmes, upon my honour," added Tom; "we

weren't after his fowls; the guinea-hen ran out of the hedge under our

feet, and we've seen nothing else."

"Drat their talk. Thee catch hold o' t'other, Willum, and come along wi

'un."

"Farmer Thompson," said Holmes, warning off Willum and the prong with

his stick, while Diggs faced the other shepherd, cracking his fingers

like pistol shots, "now listen to reason--the boys haven't been after

your fowls, that's plain."

"Tells 'ee I see'd 'em. Who be you, I should like to know?"

"Never you mind, Farmer," answered Holmes. "And now I'll just tell you

what it is--you ought to be ashamed of yourself for leaving all that

poultry about, with no one to watch it, so near the School. You deserve

to have it all stolen. So if you choose to come up to the Doctor with

them, I shall go with you, and tell him what I think of it."

The farmer began to take Holmes for a master; besides, he wanted to get

back to his flock. Corporal punishment was out of the question, the odds

were too great; so he began to hint at paying for the damage. Arthur

jumped at this, offering to pay anything, and the farmer immediately

valued the guinea-hen at half-a-sovereign.

"Half-a-sovereign!" cried East, now released from the farmer's grip;

"well, that is a good one! the hen ain't hurt a bit, and she's seven

years old, I know, and as tough as whipcord; she couldn't lay another

egg to save her life."

It was at last settled that they should pay the farmer two shillings,

and his man one shilling, and so the matter ended, to the unspeakable

relief of Tom, who hadn't been able to say a word, being sick at heart

at the idea of what the Doctor would think of him: and now the whole

party of boys marched off down the footpath towards Rugby. Holmes, who

was one of the best boys in the School, began to improve the occasion.

"Now, you youngsters," said he, as he marched along in the middle of

them, "mind this; you're very well out of this scrape. Don't you go near

Thompson's barn again; do you hear?"

Profuse promises from all, especially East.

"Mind, I don't ask questions," went on Mentor, "but I rather think some

of you have been there before this after his chickens. Now, knocking

over other people's chickens, and running off with them, is stealing.

It's a nasty word, but that's the plain English of it. If the chickens

were dead and lying in a shop, you wouldn't take them, I know that, any

more than you would apples out of Griffith's basket; but there's no real

difference between chickens running about and apples on a tree, and the

same articles in a shop. I wish our morals were sounder in such matters.

There's nothing so mischievous as these school distinctions, which

jumble up right and wrong, and justify things in us for which poor boys

would be sent to prison." And, good old Holmes delivered his soul on the

walk home of many wise sayings, and, as the song says--

"Gee'd 'em a sight of good advice"--

which same sermon sank into them all, more or less, and very penitent

they were for several hours. But truth compels me to admit that East at

any rate forgot it all in a week, but remembered the insult which had

been put upon him by Farmer Thompson, and with the Tadpole and other

harebrained youngsters, committed a raid on the barn soon afterwards, in

which they were caught by the shepherds and severely handled, besides

having to pay eight shillings, all the money they had in the world, to

escape being taken up to the Doctor.

Martin became a constant inmate in the joint study from this time, and

Arthur took to him so kindly, that Tom couldn't resist slight fits of

jealousy, which, however, he managed to keep to himself. The kestrel's

eggs had not been broken, strange to say, and formed the nucleus of

Arthur's collection, at which Martin worked heart and soul; and

introduced Arthur to Howlett the bird-fancier, and instructed him in the

rudiments of the art of stuffing. In token of his gratitude, Arthur

allowed Martin to tattoo a small anchor on one of his wrists, which

decoration, however, he carefully concealed from Tom. Before the end of

the half year he had trained into a bold climber and good runner, and,

as Martin had foretold, knew twice as much about trees, birds, flowers,

and many other things, as our good-hearted and facetious young friend

Harry East.

CHAPTER V.

THE FIGHT.

"Surgebat Macnevisius

Et mox jactabat ultro,

Pugnabo tuâ gratiâ

Feroci hoc Mactwoltro."--_Etonian._

THERE is a certain sort of fellow--we who are used to studying boys all

know him well enough--of whom you can predicate with almost positive

certainty, after he has been a month at school, that he is sure to have

a fight, and with almost equal certainty that he will have but one. Tom

Brown was one of these; and as it is our well-weighed intention to give

a full, true, and correct account of Tom's only single combat with a

school-fellow in the manner of our old friend _Bell's Life,_ let those

young persons whose stomachs are not strong, or who think a good set-to

with the weapons which God has given us all, an uncivilized,

unchristian, or ungentlemanly affair, just skip this chapter at once,

for it won't be to their taste.

It was not at all usual in those days for two School-house boys to have

a fight. Of course there were exceptions, when some cross-grained

hard-headed fellow came up who would never be happy unless he was

quarrelling with his nearest neighbours, or when there was some

class-dispute, between the fifth-form and the fags for instance, which

required blood-letting; and a champion was picked out on each side

tacitly, who settled the matter by a good hearty mill. But for the most

part the constant use of those surest keepers of the peace, the

boxing-gloves, kept the School-house boys from fighting one another. Two

or three nights in every week the gloves were brought out, either in the

hall or fifth-form room; and every boy who was ever likely to fight at

all knew all his neighbours' prowess perfectly well, and could tell to a

nicety what chance he would have in a stand-up fight with any other boy

in the house. But of course no such experience could be gotten as

regarded boys in other houses; and as most of the other houses were more

or less jealous of the School-house, collisions were frequent.

After all, what would life be without fighting, I should like to know?

From the cradle to the grave, fighting, rightly understood, is the

business, the real, highest, honestest business of every son of man.

Every one who is worth his salt has his enemies, who must be beaten, be

they evil thoughts and habits in himself, or spiritual 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 folk

fighting the wrong people and the wrong things, but I'd a deal sooner

see them doing that, than that they should have no fight in them. So

having recorded, and being about to record, my hero's fights of all

sorts, with all sorts of enemies, I shall now proceed to give an account

of his passage-at-arms with the only one of his school-fellows whom he

ever had to encounter in this manner.

It was drawing towards the close of Arthur's first half-year, and the

May evenings were lengthening out. Locking-up was not till eight

o'clock, and everybody was beginning to talk about what he would do in

the holidays. The shell, in which form all our dramatis personæ now are,

were reading amongst other things the last book of Homer's "Iliad," and

had worked through it as far as the speeches of the women over Hector's

body. It is a whole school-day, and four or five of the School-house

boys (amongst whom are Arthur, Tom, and East) are preparing third lesson

together. They have finished the regulation forty lines, and are for

the most part getting very tired, notwithstanding the exquisite pathos

of Helen's lamentation. And now several long four-syllabled words come

together, and the boy with the dictionary strikes work.

"I am not going to look out any more words," says he; "we've done the

quantity. Ten to one we shan't get so far. Let's go out into the close."

"Come along, boys," cries East, always ready to leave the grind, as he

called it; "our old coach is laid up, you know, and we shall have one of

the new masters, who's sure to go slow and let us down easy."

So an adjournment to the close was carried _nem. con._, little Arthur

not daring to uplift his voice; but, being deeply interested in what

they were reading, stayed quietly behind, and learnt on for his own

pleasure.

As East had said, the regular master of the form was unwell, and they

were to be heard by one of the new masters, quite a young man, who had

only just left the university. Certainly it would be hard lines, if, by

dawdling as much as possible in coming in and taking their places,

entering into long-winded explanations of what was the usual course of

the regular master of the form, and others of the stock contrivances of

boys for wasting time in school, they could not spin out the lesson so

that he should not work them through more than the forty lines; as to

which quantity there was a perpetual fight going on between the master

and his form, the latter insisting, and enforcing by passive resistance,

that it was the prescribed quantity of Homer for a shell lesson, the

former that there was no fixed quantity, but that they must always be

ready to go on to fifty or sixty lines if there were time within the

hour. However, notwithstanding all their efforts, the new master got on

horribly quick; he seemed to have the bad taste to be really interested

in the lesson, and to be trying to work them up into something like

appreciation of it, giving them good spirited English words, instead of

the wretched bald stuff into which they rendered poor old Homer; and

construing over each piece himself to them, after each boy, to show them

how it should be done.

Now the clock strikes the three-quarters; there is only a quarter of an

hour more; but the forty lines are all but done. So the boys, one after

another, who are called up, stick more and more, and make balder and

ever more bald work of it. The poor young master is pretty near beat by

this time, and feels ready to knock his head against the wall, or his

fingers against somebody else's head. So he gives up altogether the

lower and middle parts of the form, and looks round in despair at the

boys on the top bench, to see if there is one out of whom he can strike

a spark or two, and who will be too chivalrous to murder the most

beautiful utterances of the most beautiful woman of the old world. His

eye rests on Arthur, and he calls him up to finish construing Helen's

speech. Whereupon all the other boys draw long breaths, and begin to

stare about and take it easy. They are all safe; Arthur is the head of

the form, and sure to be able to construe, and that will tide on safely

till the hour strikes.

Arthur proceeds to read out the passage in Greek before construing it,

as the custom is. Tom, who isn't paying much attention, is suddenly

caught by the falter in his voice as he reads the two lines--

[Greek: alla su ton epeessi paraiphamenos katerukes,

sê t' aganophrosunê kai sois aganois epeessi.]

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.

But as he nears the fatal two lines, Tom catches that falter and again

looks up. He sees that there is something the matter--Arthur can hardly

get on at all. What can it be?

Suddenly at this point Arthur breaks down altogether, and fairly bursts

out crying, and dashes the cuff of his jacket across his eyes, blushing

up to the roots of his hair, and feeling as if he should like to go down

suddenly through the floor. The whole form are taken aback; most of them

stare stupidly at him, while those who are gifted with presence of mind

find their places and look steadily at their books, in hopes of not

catching the master's eye and getting called up in Arthur's place.

The master looks puzzled for a moment, and then seeing, as the fact is,

that the boy is really affected to tears by the most touching thing in

Homer, perhaps in all profane poetry put together, steps up to him and

lays his hand kindly on his shoulder, saying, "Never mind, my little

man, you've construed very well. Stop a minute, there's no hurry."

Now, as luck would have it, there sat next above Tom that day, in the

middle bench of the form, a big boy, by name Williams, generally

supposed to be the cock of the shell, therefore of all the school below

the fifths. The small boys, who are great speculators on the prowess of

their elders, used to hold forth to one another about Williams's great

strength, and to discuss whether East or Brown would take a licking from

him. He was called Slogger Williams, from the force with which it was

supposed he could hit. In the main, he was a rough 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 a strong hand,

especially in the matter of forcing boys not to construe more than the

legitimate forty lines, he had already grunted and grumbled to himself,

when Arthur went on reading beyond the forty lines. But now that he had

broken down just in the middle of all the long words, the Slogger's

wrath was fairly roused.

"Sneaking little brute," muttered he, regardless of prudence, "clapping

on the waterworks just in the hardest place; see if I don't punch his

head after fourth lesson."

"Whose?" said Tom, to whom the remark seemed to be addressed.

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

"No, you shan't," said Tom.

"Hullo!" exclaimed Williams, looking at Tom with great surprise for a

moment, and then giving him a sudden dig in the ribs with his elbow,

which sent Tom's books flying on the floor, and called the attention of

the master, who turned suddenly round, and seeing the state of things,

said--

"Williams, go down three places, and then go on."

The Slogger found his legs very slowly, and proceeded to go below Tom

and two other boys with great disgust, and then, turning round and

facing the master, said, "I haven't learnt any more, sir; our lesson is

only forty lines."

"Is that so?" said the master, appealing generally to the top bench. No

answer.

"Who is the head boy of the form?" said he, waxing wroth.

"Arthur, sir," answered three or four boys, indicating our friend.

"Oh, your name's Arthur. Well now, what is the length of your regular

lesson?"

Arthur hesitated a moment, and then said, "We call it only forty lines,

sir."

"How do you mean, you call it?"

"Well, sir, Mr. Graham says we ain't to stop there, when there's time to

construe more."

"I understand," said the master. "Williams, go down three more places,

and write me out the lesson in Greek and English. And now, Arthur,

finish construing."

"Oh! would I be in Arthur's shoes after fourth lesson?" said the little

boys to one another; but Arthur finished Helen's speech without any

further catastrophe, and the clock struck four, which ended third

lesson.

Another hour was occupied in preparing and saying fourth lesson, during

which Williams was bottling up his wrath; and when five struck, and the

lessons for the day were over, he prepared to take summary vengeance on

the innocent cause of his misfortune.

Tom was detained in school a few minutes after the rest, and on coming

out into the quadrangle, the first thing he saw was a small ring of

boys, applauding Williams, who was holding Arthur by the collar.

"There, you young sneak," said he, giving Arthur a cuff on the head with

his other hand, "what made you say that"--

"Hullo!" said Tom, shouldering into the crowd, "you drop that, Williams;

you shan't touch him."

"Who'll stop me?" said the Slogger, raising his hand again.

"I," said Tom; and suiting the action to the word, struck the arm which

held Arthur's arm so sharply, that the Slogger dropped it with a start,

and turned the full current of his wrath on Tom.

"Will you fight?"

"Yes, of course."

"Huzza, there's going to be a fight between Slogger Williams and Tom

Brown!"

The news ran like wild-fire about, and many boys who were on their way

to tea at their several houses turned back, and sought the back of the

chapel, where the fights come off.

"Just run and tell East to come and back me," said Tom to a small

School-house boy, who was off like a rocket to Harrowell's, just

stopping for a moment to poke his head into the School-house hall, where

the lower boys were already at tea, and sing out, "Fight! Tom Brown and

Slogger Williams."

Up start half the boys at once, leaving bread, eggs, butter, sprats, and

all the rest to take care of themselves. The greater part of the

remainder follow in a minute, after swallowing their tea, carrying their

food in their hands to consume as they go. Three or four only remain,

who steal the butter of the more impetuous, and make to themselves an

unctuous feast.

In another minute East and Martin tear through the quadrangle carrying a

sponge, and arrive at the scene of action just as the combatants are

beginning to strip.

Tom felt he had got his work cut out for him, as he stripped off his

jacket, waistcoat, and braces. East tied his handkerchief round his

waist, and rolled up his 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, steps

out on the turf, and is ready for all that may come: and here is the

Slogger too, all stripped, and thirsting for the fray.

It doesn't look a fair match at first glance: Williams is nearly two

inches taller, and probably a long year older than his opponent, and he

is very strongly made about the arms and shoulders; "peels well," as the

little knot of big fifth-form boys, the amateurs, say; who stand outside

the ring of little boys, looking complacently on, but taking no active

part in the proceedings. But down below he is not so good by any means;

no spring from the loins, and feebleish, not to say shipwrecky, about

the knees. Tom, on the contrary, though not half so strong in the arms,

is good all over, straight, hard, and springy from neck to ankle, better

perhaps in his legs than anywhere. Besides, you can see by the clear

white of his eye and fresh bright look of his skin, that he is in

tip-top training, able to do all he knows; while the Slogger looks

rather sodden, as if he didn't take much exercise and ate too much tuck.

The time-keeper is chosen, a large ring made, and the two stand up

opposite one another for a moment, giving us time just to make our

little observations.

"If Tom'll only condescend to fight with his head and heels," as East

mutters to Martin, "we shall do."

But seemingly he won't, for there he goes in, making play with both

hands. Hard all, is the word; the two stand to one another like men;

rally follows rally in quick succession, each fighting as if he thought

to finish the whole thing out of hand. "Can't last at this rate," say

the knowing ones, while the partisans of each make the air ring with

their shouts and counter-shouts, of encouragement, approval, and

defiance.

"Take it easy, take it easy--keep away, let him come after you,"

implores East, as he wipes Tom's face after the first round with wet

sponge, while he sits back on Martin's knee, supported by the Madman's

long arms, which tremble a little from excitement.

"Time's up," calls the time-keeper.

"There he goes again, hang it all!" growls East as his man is at it

again as hard as ever. A very severe round follows, in which Tom gets

out and out the worst of it, and is at last hit clean off his legs, and

deposited on the grass by a right-hander from the Slogger.

Loud shouts rise from the boys of Slogger's house, and the School-house

are silent and vicious, ready to pick quarrels anywhere.

"Two to one in half-crowns on the big 'un," says Rattle, one of the

amateurs, a tall fellow, in thunder-and-lightning waistcoat, and puffy,

good-natured face.

"Done!" says Groove, another amateur of quieter look, taking out his

note-book to enter it--for our friend Rattle sometimes forgets these

little things.

Meantime East is freshening up Tom with the sponges for next round, and

has set two other boys to rub his hands.

"Tom, old boy," whispers he, "this may be fun for you, but it's death to

me. He'll hit all the fight out of you in another five minutes, and then

I shall go and drown myself in the island ditch. Feint him--use your

legs!--draw him about! he'll lose his wind then in no time, and you can

go into him. Hit at his body too, we'll take care of his frontispiece by

and by."

Tom felt the wisdom of the counsel, and saw already that he couldn't go

in and finish the Slogger off at mere hammer and tongs, so changed his

tactics completely in the third round. He now fights cautious, getting

away from and parrying the Slogger's lunging hits, instead of trying to

counter, and leading his enemy a dance all round the ring after him.

"He's funking; go in, Williams," "Catch him up," "Finish him off,"

scream the small boys of the Slogger party.

"Just what we want," thinks East, chuckling to himself, as he sees

Williams, excited by these shouts, and thinking the game in his own

hands, blowing himself in his exertions to get to close quarters again,

while Tom is keeping away with perfect ease.

They quarter over the ground again and again, Tom always on the

defensive.

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

"Now then, Tom," sings out East, dancing with delight. Tom goes in in a

twinkling, and hits two heavy body blows, and gets away again before the

Slogger can catch his wind; which when he does he rushes with blind fury

at Tom, and being skilfully parried and avoided, over-reaches 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 enough, but little the worse

in any other way.

After another round the Slogger too seems to see that he can't go in and

win right off, and has met his match or thereabouts. So he too begins to

use his head, and tries to make Tom lose patience and come in before his

time. And so the fight sways on, now one, and now the other, getting a

trifling pull.

Tom's face begins to look very one-sided--there are little queer bumps

on his forehead, and his mouth is bleeding; but East keeps the wet

sponge going so scientifically, that he comes up looking as fresh and

bright as ever. Williams is only slightly marked in the face, but by the

nervous movement of his elbows you can see that Tom's body blows are

telling. In fact, half the vice of the Slogger's hitting is neutralized,

for he daren't lunge out freely for fear of exposing his sides. It is

too interesting by this time for much shouting, and the whole ring is

very quiet.

"All right, Tommy," whispers East; "hold on's the horse that's to win.

We've got the last. Keep your head, old boy."

But where is Arthur all this time? Words cannot paint the poor little

fellow's distress. He couldn't muster courage to come up to the ring,

but wandered up and down from the great fives'-court to the corner of

the chapel rails. Now trying to make up his mind to throw himself

between them, and try to stop them; then thinking of running in and

telling his friend Mary, who he knew would instantly report to the

Doctor. The stories he had heard of men being killed in prize-fights

rose up horribly before him.

Once only, when the shouts of "Well done, Brown!" "Huzza for the

School-house!" rose higher than ever, he ventured up to the ring,

thinking the victory was won. Catching sight of Tom's face in the state

I have described, all fear of consequences vanishing out of his mind, he

rushed straight off to the matron's room, beseeching her to get the

fight stopped, or he should die.

But it's time for us to get back to the close. What is this fierce

tumult and confusion? The ring is broken, and high and angry words are

being bandied about; "It's all fair,"--"It isn't,"--"No hugging;" the

fight is stopped. The combatants, however, sit there quietly, tended by

their seconds, while their adherents wrangle in the middle. East can't

help shouting challenges to two or three of the other side, though he

never leaves Tom for a moment, and plies the sponges as fast as ever.

The fact is, that at the end of the last round, Tom seeing a good

opening, had closed with his opponent, and after a moment's struggle had

thrown him heavily, by the help of the fall he had learnt from his

village rival in the vale of White Horse. Williams hadn't the ghost of a

chance with Tom at wrestling; and the conviction broke at once on the

Slogger faction, that if this were allowed their man must be licked.

There was a strong feeling in the school against catching hold and

throwing, though it was generally ruled all fair within certain limits;

so the ring was broken and the fight stopped.

The School-house are over-ruled--the fight is on again, but there is to

be no throwing; and East in high wrath threatens to take his man away

after next round (which he don't mean to do, by the way), when suddenly

young Brooke comes through the small gate at the end of the chapel. The

School-house faction rush to him. "Oh, hurra! now we shall get fair

play."

"Please, Brooke, come up, they won't let Tom Brown throw him."

"Throw whom?" says Brooke, coming up to the ring. "Oh! Williams, I see.

Nonsense! of course he may throw him if he catches him fairly above the

waist."

Now, young Brooke, you're in the sixth, you know, and you ought to stop

all fights. He looks hard at both boys. "Anything wrong?" says he to

East, nodding at Tom.

"Not a bit."

"Not beat at all?"

"Bless you, no! heaps of fight in him. Ain't there, Tom?"

Tom looks at Brooke and grins.

"How's he?" nodding at Williams.

"So, so; rather done, I think, since his last fall. He won't stand above

two more."

"Time's up!" the boys rise again and face one another. Brooke can't find

it in his heart to stop them just yet, so the round goes on, the Slogger

waiting for Tom, and reserving all his strength to hit him out should he

come in for the wrestling dodge again, for he feels that that must be

stopped, or his sponge will soon go up in the air.

And now another 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, Bill," is all that that excellent servitor gets by his

advice. And being a man of his hands, 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.

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, thank'ee," answers the other, diving his hands further into his

coat-tails.

Just at this stage of the proceedings, the door of the turret which

leads to the Doctor's library suddenly opens, and he steps into the

close, and makes straight for the ring, in which Brown and the Slogger

are both seated on their seconds' knees for the last time.

"The Doctor! the Doctor!" shouts some small boy who catches sight of

him, and the ring melts away in a few seconds, the small boys tearing

off, Tom collaring his jacket and waistcoat, and slipping through the

little gate by the chapel, and round the corner to Harrowell's with his

backers, as lively as need be; Williams and his backers making off not

quite so fast across the close; Groove, Rattle, and the other bigger

fellows trying to combine dignity and prudence in a comical manner, and

walking off fast enough, they hope, not to be recognised, 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.

[Illustration: THE DOCTOR'S COUNSEL TO YOUNG BROOKE. P. 290.]

"Hah! Brooke. I am surprised to see you here. Don't you know that I

expect the sixth to stop fighting?"

Brooke felt much more uncomfortable than he had expected, but he was

rather a favourite with the Doctor for his openness and plainness of

speech; so blurted out, as he walked by the Doctor's side, who had

already turned back--

"Yes, sir, generally. But I thought you wished us to exercise a

discretion in the matter too--not to interfere too soon."

"But they have been fighting this half-hour and more," said the Doctor.

"Yes, sir; but neither was hurt. And they're the sort of boys who'll be

all the better friends now, which they wouldn't have been if they had

been stopped any earlier--before it was so equal."

"Who was fighting with Brown?" said the Doctor.

"Williams, sir, of Thompson's. He is bigger than Brown, and had the best

of it at first, but not when you came up, sir. There's a good deal of

jealousy between our house and Thompson's, and there would have been

more fights if this hadn't been let go on, or if either of them had had

much the worst of it."

"Well but, Brooke," said the Doctor, "doesn't this look a little as if

you exercised your discretion by only stopping a fight when the

School-house boy is getting the worst of it?"

Brooke, it must be confessed, felt rather gravelled.

"Remember," added the Doctor, as he stopped at the turret-door, "this

fight is not to go on--you'll see to that. And I expect you to stop all

fights in future at once."

"Very well, sir," said young Brooke, touching his hat, and not sorry

to see the turret-door close behind the Doctor's back.

Meantime Tom and the 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, and kept looking at him and the raw

beef with such plaintive looks, that Tom at last burst out laughing.

"Don't make such eyes, young 'un," said he, "there's nothing the

matter."

"Oh but, Tom, are you much hurt? I can't bear thinking it was all for

me."

"Not a bit of it, don't flatter yourself. We were sure to have had it

out sooner or later."

"Well, but you won't go on, will you? You'll promise me you won't go

on?"

"Can't tell about that--all depends on the houses. We're in the hands of

our countrymen, you know. Must fight for the School-house flag, if so

be."

However, the lovers of the science were doomed to disappointment this

time. Directly after locking-up, one of the night fags knocked at Tom's

door.

"Brown, young Brooke wants you in the sixth-form room."

Up went Tom to the summons, and found the magnates sitting at their

supper.

"Well, Brown," said young Brooke, nodding to him, "how do you feel?"

"Oh, very well, thank you, only I've sprained my thumb, I think."

"Sure to do that in a fight. Well, you hadn't the worst of it, I could

see. Where did you learn that throw?"

"Down in the country, when I was a boy."

"Hullo! why what are you now? Well, never mind, you're a plucky fellow.

Sit down and have some supper."

Tom obeyed, by no means loth. And the fifth-form boy next him filled him

a tumbler of bottled-beer, and he ate and drank, listening to the

pleasant talk, and wondering how soon he should be in the fifth, and one

of that much-envied society.

As he got up to leave, Brooke said, "You must shake hands to-morrow

morning; I shall come and see that done after first lesson."

And so he did. And Tom and the Slogger shook hands with great

satisfaction and mutual respect. And for the next year or two, whenever

fights were being talked of, the small boys who had been present shook

their heads wisely, saying, "Ah! but you should just have seen the fight

between Slogger Williams and Tom Brown!"

And now, boys all, three words before we quit the subject. I have put in

this chapter on fighting of malice prepense, partly because I want to

give you a true picture of what 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 and twaddle that's talked of boxing and fighting with fists

now-a-days. Even Thackeray has given in to it; and only a few weeks ago

there was some rampant stuff in the _Times_ on the subject, in an

article on field sports.

Boys will quarrel, and when they quarrel will sometimes fight. Fighting

with fists is the natural and English way for English boys to settle

their quarrels. What substitute for it is there, or ever was there,

amongst any nation under the sun? What would you like to see take its

place?

Learn to box, then, as you learn to play cricket and football. Not one

of you will be the worse, but very much the better for learning to box

well. Should you never have to use it in earnest, there's no exercise in

the world so good for the temper, and for the muscles of the back and

legs.

As to fighting, keep out of it if you can, by all means. When the time

comes, if it ever should, that you have to say "Yes" or "No" to a

challenge to fight, say "No" if you can,--only take care you make it

clear to yourselves why you say "No." It's a proof of the highest

courage, if done from true Christian motives. It's quite right and

justifiable, if done from a simple aversion to physical pain and danger.

But don't say "No" because you fear a licking, and say or think it's

because you fear God, for that's neither Christian nor honest. And if

you do fight, fight it out; and don't give in while you can stand and

see.

CHAPTER VI.

FEVER IN THE SCHOOL.

"This our hope for all that's mortal,

And we too shall burst the bond;

Death keeps watch beside the portal,

But 'tis life that dwells beyond."

JOHN STERLING.

TWO years have passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, and

the end of the summer half-year is again drawing on. Martin has left and

gone on a cruise in the South Pacific, in one of his uncle's ships; the

old magpie, as disreputable as ever, his last bequest to Arthur, lives

in the joint study. Arthur is nearly sixteen, and is at the head of the

twenty, having gone up the school at the rate of a form a half-year.

East and Tom have been much more deliberate in their progress, and are

only a little way up the fifth form. Great strapping boys they are, but

still thorough boys, filling about the same place in the House that

young Brooke filled when they were new boys, and much the same sort of

fellows. Constant intercourse with Arthur has done much for both of

them, especially for Tom; but much remains yet to be done, if they are

to get all the good out of Rugby which is to be got there in these

times. Arthur is still frail and delicate, with more spirit than body;

but, thanks to his intimacy with them and Martin, has learned to swim,

and run, and play cricket, and has never hurt himself by too much

reading.

One evening, as they were all sitting down to supper in the fifth-form

room, some one started a report that a fever had broken out at one of

the boarding-houses; "they say," he added, "that Thompson is very ill,

and that Dr. Robertson has been sent for from Northampton."

"Then we shall all be sent home," cried another. "Hurrah! five weeks'

extra holidays, and no fifth-form examination!"

"I hope not," said Tom; "there'll be no Marylebone match then at the end

of the half."

Some thought one thing, some another, many didn't believe the report;

but the next day, Tuesday, Dr. Robertson arrived, and stayed all day,

and had long conferences with the Doctor.

On Wednesday morning, after prayers, the Doctor addressed the whole

School. There were several cases of fever in different houses, he said;

but Dr. Robertson, after the most careful examination, had assured him

that it was not infectious, and that if proper care were taken, there

could be no reason for stopping the school work at present. The

examinations were just coming on, and it would be very unadvisable to

break-up now. However, any boys who chose to do so were at liberty to

write home, and, if their parents wished it, to leave at once. He should

send the whole School home if the fever spread.

The next day Arthur sickened, but there was no other case. Before the

end of the week thirty or forty boys had gone, but the rest stayed on.

There was a general wish to please the Doctor, and a feeling that it was

cowardly to run away.

On the Saturday Thompson died, in the bright afternoon, while the

cricket-match was going on as usual on the big-side ground: the Doctor

coming from his 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 rumoured, and by afternoon chapel was

known generally; and a feeling of seriousness and awe at the actual

presence of death among them came over the whole School. In all the long

years of his ministry the Doctor perhaps never spoke words which sank

deeper than some of those in that day's sermon. "When I came yesterday

from visiting all but the very death-bed of him who has been taken from

us, and looked around upon all the familiar objects and scenes within

our own ground, where your common amusements were going on, with your

common cheerfulness and activity, I felt there was nothing painful in

witnessing that; it did not seem in any way shocking or out of tune

with those feelings which the sight of a dying Christian must be

supposed to awaken. The unsuitableness in point of natural feeling

between scenes of mourning and scenes of liveliness did not at all

present itself. But I did feel that if at that moment any of those

faults had been brought before me which sometimes occur amongst us; had

I heard that any of you had been guilty of falsehood, or of drunkenness,

or of any other such sin; had I heard from any quarter the language of

profaneness, or of unkindness, or of indecency; had I heard or seen any

signs of that wretched folly which courts the laugh of fools by

affecting not to dread evil and not to care for good, then the

unsuitableness of any of these things with the scene I had just quitted

would indeed have been most intensely painful. And why? Not because such

things would really have been worse than at any other time, but because

at such a moment the eyes are opened really to know good and evil,

because we then feel what it is so to live as that death becomes an

infinite blessing, and what it is so to live also, that it were good for

us if we had never been born."

Tom had gone into chapel in sickening anxiety about Arthur, but he came

out cheered and strengthened by those grand words, and walked up alone

to their study. And when he sat down and looked round, and saw Arthur's

straw-hat and cricket-jacket hanging on their pegs, and marked all his

little neat arrangements, not one of which had been disturbed, the tears

indeed rolled down his cheeks; but they were calm and blessed tears, and

he repeated to himself, "Yes, Geordie's eyes are opened--he knows what

it is so to live as that death becomes an infinite blessing. But do I?

Oh, God, can I bear to lose him?"

The week passed mournfully away. No more boys sickened, but Arthur was

reported worse each day, and his mother arrived early in the week. Tom

made many appeals to be allowed to see him, and several times tried to

get up to the sick-room; but the housekeeper was always in the way, and

at last spoke to the Doctor, who kindly, but peremptorily, forbade him.

Thompson was buried on the Tuesday; and the burial service, so soothing

and grand always, but beyond all words solemn when read over a boy's

grave to his companions, brought him much comfort, and many strange new

thoughts and longings. He went back to his regular life, and played

cricket and bathed as usual: it seemed to him that this was the right

thing to do, and the new thoughts and longings became more brave and

healthy for the effort. The crisis came on Saturday, the day week that

Thompson had died, and during that long afternoon Tom sat in his study

reading his Bible and going every half-hour to the housekeeper's room,

expecting each time to hear that the gentle and brave little spirit had

gone home. But God had work for Arthur to do: the crisis passed--on

Sunday evening he was declared out of danger; on Monday he sent a

message to Tom that he was almost well, had changed his room, and was to

be allowed to see him the next day.

It was evening when the housekeeper summoned him to the sick-room.

Arthur was lying on the sofa by the open window, through which the rays

of the western sun stole gently, lighting up his white face and golden

hair. Tom remembered a German picture of an angel which he knew; often

had he thought how transparent and golden and spirit-like it was; and he

shuddered to think how like it Arthur looked, and felt a shock as if his

blood had all stopped short, as he realized how near the other world his

friend must have been to look like that. Never till that moment had he

felt how his little chum had twined himself round his heartstrings; 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 the cricket-bats, came up cheerily from

below.

"Dear George," said Tom, "I am so glad to be let up to see you at last.

I've tried hard to come so often, but they wouldn't let me before."

"Oh, I know, Tom; Mary has told me every day about you, and how she was

obliged to make the Doctor speak to you to keep you away. I'm very glad

you didn't get up, for you might have caught it, and you couldn't stand

being ill with all the matches going on. And you're in the eleven too, I

hear--I'm so glad."

"Yes, ain't it jolly?" said Tom proudly; "I'm ninth too. I made forty at

the last pie-match and caught three fellows out. So I was put in above

Jones and Tucker. Tucker's so savage, for he was head of the

twenty-two."

"Well, I think you ought to be higher yet," said Arthur, who was as

jealous for the renown of Tom in games, as Tom was for his as a scholar.

"Never mind, I don't care about cricket or anything now you're getting

well, Geordie; and I shouldn't have hurt, I know, if they'd have let me

come up,--nothing hurts me. But you'll get about now directly, won't

you? You won't believe how clean I've kept the study. All your things

are just as you left them; and I feed the old magpie just when you used,

though I have to come in from big-side for him, the old rip. He won't

look pleased all I can do, and sticks his head first on one side and

then on the other, and blinks at me before he'll begin to eat, till I'm

half inclined to box his ears. And whenever East comes in, you should

see him hop off to the window, dot and go one, though Harry wouldn't

touch a feather of him now."

Arthur laughed. "Old Gravey has a good memory; he can't forget the

sieges of poor Martin's den in old times." He paused a moment, and then

went on. "You can't think how often I've been thinking of old Martin

since I've been ill; I suppose one's mind gets restless, and likes to

wander off to strange unknown places. I wonder what queer new pets the

old boy has got; how he must be revelling in the thousand new birds,

beasts, and fishes."

Tom felt a pang of jealousy, but kicked it out in a moment. "Fancy him

on a South-Sea island, with the Cherokees or Patagonians, or some such

wild niggers;" (Tom's ethnology and geography were faulty, but

sufficient for his needs;) "they'll make the old Madman cock

medicine-man and tattoo him all over. Perhaps he's cutting about now all

blue, and has a squaw and a wigwam. He'll improve their boomerangs, and

be able to throw them too, without having old Thomas sent after him by

the Doctor to take them away."

Arthur laughed at the remembrance of the boomerang story, but then

looked grave again, and said "He'll convert all the island, I know."

"Yes, if he don't blow it up first."

"Do you remember, Tom, how you and East used to laugh at him and chaff

him, because he said he was sure the rooks all had calling-over or

prayers, or something of the sort, when the locking-up bell rang? Well,

I declare," said Arthur, looking up seriously into Tom's laughing eyes,

"I do think he was right. Since I've been lying here, I've watched them

every night; and do you know, they really do come, and perch all of them

just about locking-up time; and then first there's a regular chorus of

caws, and then they stop a bit, and one old fellow, or perhaps two or

three in different trees, caw solos, and then off they all go again,

fluttering about and cawing anyhow till they roost."

"I wonder if the old blackies do talk," said Tom, looking up at them.

"How they must abuse me and East, and pray for the Doctor for stopping

the slinging."

"There! look, look!" cried Arthur; "don't you see the old fellow without

a tail coming up? Martin used to call him the 'clerk.' He can't steer

himself. You never saw such fun as he is in a high wind, when he can't

steer himself home, and gets carried right past the trees, and has to

bear up again and again before he can perch."

The locking-up bell began to toll, and the two boys were silent, and

listened to it. The sound soon carried Tom off to the river and the

woods, and he began to go over in his mind the many occasions on which

he had heard that toll coming faintly down the breeze, and had to pack

up his rod in a hurry, and make a run for it, to get in before the gates

were shut. He was roused with a start from his memories by Arthur's

voice, gentle and weak from his late illness.

"Tom, will you be angry if I talk to you very seriously?"

"No, dear old boy, not I. But ain't you faint, Arthur, or ill? What can

I get you? Don't say anything to hurt yourself now--you are very weak;

let me come up again."

"No, no, I shan't hurt myself: I'd sooner speak to you now, if you don't

mind. I've asked Mary to tell the Doctor that you are with me, so you

needn't go down to calling-over; and I mayn't have another chance, for I

shall most likely have to go home for change of air to get well, and

mayn't come back this half."

"Oh, do you think you must go away before the end of the half? I'm so

sorry. It's more than five weeks yet to the holidays, and all the

fifth-form examination and half the cricket-matches to come yet. And

what shall I do all that time alone in our study? Why, Arthur, it will

be more than twelve weeks before I see you again. Oh, hang it, I can't

stand that! Besides, who's to keep me up to working at the examination

books? I shall come out bottom of the form as sure as eggs is eggs."

Tom was rattling on, half in joke, half in earnest, for he wanted to get

Arthur out of his serious vein, thinking it would do him harm; but

Arthur broke in--

"Oh, please, Tom, stop, or you'll drive all I had to say out of my head.

And I'm already horribly afraid I'm going to make you angry."

"Don't gammon, young 'un," rejoined Tom (the use of the old name, dear

to him from old recollections, made Arthur start and smile, and feel

quite happy); "you know you ain't afraid, and you've never made me angry

since the first month we chummed together. Now I'm going to be quite

sober for a quarter of an hour, which is more than I am once in a year;

so make the most of it; heave ahead, and pitch into me right and left."

"Dear Tom, I ain't going to pitch into you," said Arthur piteously; "and

it seems so cocky in me to be advising you, who've been my backbone ever

since I've been at Rugby, and have made the school a paradise to me. Ah,

I see I shall never do it, unless I go head-over-heels at once, as you

said when you taught me to swim. Tom, I want you to give up using

vulgus-books and cribs."

Arthur sank back on to his pillow with a sigh, as if the effort had been

great; but the worst was now over, and he looked straight at Tom, who

was evidently taken aback. He leant his elbows on his knees, and stuck

his hands into his hair, whistled a verse of "Billy Taylor," and then

was quite silent for another minute. Not a shade crossed his face, but

he was clearly puzzled. At last he looked up and caught Arthur's anxious

look, took his hand, and said simply--

"Why, young 'un?"

"Because you're the honestest boy in Rugby, and that ain't honest."

"I don't see that."

"What were you sent to Rugby for?"

"Well, I don't know exactly--nobody ever told me. I suppose because all

boys are sent to a public school in England."

"But what do you think yourself? What do you want to do here, and to

carry away?"

Tom thought a minute. "I want to be A 1 at cricket and football, and all

the other games, and to make my hands keep my head against any fellow,

lout or gentleman. I want to get into the sixth before I leave, and to

please the Doctor; and I want to carry away just as much Latin and Greek

as will take me through Oxford respectably. There now, young 'un, I

never thought of it before, but that's pretty much about my figure.

Ain't it all on the square? What have you got to say to that?"

"Why, that you are pretty sure to do all that you want, then."

"Well, I hope so. But you've forgot one thing, what I want to leave

behind me. I want to leave behind me," said Tom, speaking slow, and

looking much moved, "the name of a fellow who never bullied a little

boy, or turned his back on a big one."

Arthur pressed his hand, and after a moment's silence went on: "You say,

Tom, you want to please the Doctor. Now, do you want to please him by

what he thinks you do, or by what you really do?"

"By what I really do, of course."

"Does he think you use cribs and vulgus-books?"

Tom felt at once that his flank was turned, but he couldn't give in. "He

was at Winchester himself," said he; "he knows all about it."

"Yes, but does he think _you_ use them? Do you think he approves of it?"

"You young villain!" said Tom, shaking his fist at Arthur, half vexed

and half pleased, "I never think about it. Hang it--there, perhaps he

don't. Well, I suppose he don't."

Arthur saw that he had got his point; he knew his friend well, and was

wise in silence, as in speech. He only said, "I would sooner have the

Doctor's good opinion of me as I really am than any man's in the world."

After another minute, Tom began again: "Look here, young 'un; how on

earth am I to get time to play the matches this half, if I give up

cribs? We're in the middle of that long crabbed chorus in the

'Agamemnon;' I can only just make head or tail of it with the crib. Then

there's Pericles' speech coming on in Thucydides, and 'The Birds' to get

up for the examination, besides the Tacitus." Tom groaned at the thought

of his accumulated labours. "I say, young 'un, there's only five weeks

or so left to holidays; mayn't I go on as usual for this half? I'll tell

the Doctor about it some day, or you may."

Arthur looked out of 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 myself in the house of

Rimmon: when I bow down myself in the house of Rimmon, the Lord pardon

thy servant in this thing."

Not a word more was said on the subject, and the boys were again

silent--one of those blessed, short silences in which the resolves which

colour a life are so often taken.

Tom was the first to break it. "You've been very ill indeed, haven't

you, Geordie?" said he, with a mixture of awe and curiosity, feeling as

if his friend had been in some strange place or scene, of which he could

form no idea, and full of the memory of his own thoughts during the last

week.

"Yes, very. I'm sure the Doctor thought I was going to die. He gave me

the sacrament last Sunday, and you can't think what he is when one is

ill. He said such brave, and tender, and gentle things to me; I felt

quite light and strong after it, and never had any more fear. My mother

brought our old medical man, who attended me when I was a poor sickly

child; he said my constitution was quite changed, and that I'm fit for

anything now. If it hadn't, I couldn't have stood three days of this

illness. That's all thanks to you, and the games you've made me fond

of."

"More thanks to old Martin," said Tom; "he's been your real friend."

"Nonsense, Tom; he never could have done for me what you have."

"Well, I don't know; I did little enough. Did they tell you--you won't

mind hearing it now, I know,--that poor Thompson died last week? The

other three boys are getting quite sound, like you."

"Oh, yes, I heard of it."

Then Tom, who was quite full of it, told Arthur of the burial-service in

the chapel, and how it had impressed him, and he believed all the other

boys. "And though the Doctor never said a word about it," said he, "and

it was a half-holiday and match-day, there wasn't a game played in the

close all the afternoon, and the boys all went about as if it were

Sunday."

"I'm very glad of it," said Arthur. "But, Tom, I've had such strange

thoughts about death lately. I've never told a soul of them, not even my

mother. Sometimes I think they're wrong; but, do you know, I don't think

in my heart I could be sorry at the death of any of my friends."

Tom was taken quite aback. "What in the world is the young 'un after

now?" thought he; "I've swallowed a good many of his crotchets, but this

altogether beats me. He can't be quite right in his head." He didn't

want to say a word, and shifted about uneasily in the dark; however,

Arthur seemed to be waiting for an answer, so at last he said, "I don't

think I quite see what you mean, Geordie. One's told so often to think

about death, that I've tried it on sometimes, especially this last week.

But we won't talk of it now. I'd better go--you're getting tired, and I

shall do you harm."

"No, no, indeed I ain't, Tom; you must stop till nine, there's only

twenty minutes. I've settled you shall stop till nine. And oh! do let me

talk to you--I must talk to you. I see it's just as I feared. You think

I'm half mad--don't you now?"

"Well, I did think it odd what you said, Geordie, as you ask me."

Arthur paused a moment, and then said quickly, "I'll tell you how it all

happened. At first, when I was sent to the sick room, and found I had

really got the fever, I was terribly frightened. I thought I should die,

and I could not face it for a moment. I don't think it was sheer

cowardice at first, but I thought how hard it was to be taken away from

my mother and sisters, and you all, just as I was beginning to see my

way to many things, and to feel that I might be a man and do a man's

work. To die without having fought, and worked, and given one's life

away, was too hard to bear. I got terribly impatient, and accused God of

injustice, and strove to justify myself; and the harder I strove the

deeper I sank. Then the image of my dear father often came across me,

but I turned from it. Whenever it came, a heavy numbing throb seemed to

take hold of my heart and say, 'Dead--dead--dead.' And I cried out, 'The

living, the living shall praise Thee, O God; the dead cannot praise

Thee. There is no work in the grave; in the night no man can work. But I

can work. I can do great things. I _will_ do great things. Why wilt Thou

slay me?' And so I struggled and plunged, deeper and deeper, and went

down into a living black tomb. I was alone there, with no power to stir

or think; alone with myself; beyond the reach of all human fellowship;

beyond Christ's reach, I thought, in my nightmare. You, who are brave

and bright and strong, can have no idea of that agony. Pray to God you

never may. Pray as for your life."

Arthur stopped--from exhaustion, Tom thought; but what between his fear

lest Arthur should hurt himself, his awe, and longing for him to go on,

he couldn't ask, or stir to help him.