THE NEW SCHOOLFELLOW.
"Father," said Tom one evening near the end of the holidays, "Uncle
Glegg says Lawyer Wakem is going to send his son to Mr. Stelling. You
won't like me to go to school with Wakem's son, will you, father?"
"It's no matter for that, my boy," said Mr. Tulliver; "don't you learn
anything bad of him, that's all. The lad's a poor deformed creatur.
It's a sign Wakem thinks high o' Mr. Stelling, as he sends his son to
him, and Wakem knows meal from bran, lawyer and rascal though he is."
It was a cold, wet January day on which Tom went back to school. If he
had not carried in his pocket a parcel of sugar-candy, there would have
been no ray of pleasure to enliven the gloom.
"Well, Tulliver, we're glad to see you again," said Mr. Stelling
heartily, on his arrival. "Take off your wrappings and come into the
study till dinner. You'll find a bright fire there, and a new
companion."
Tom felt in an uncomfortable flutter as he took off his woollen
comforter and other wrappings. He had seen Philip Wakem at St. Ogg's,
but had always turned his eyes away from him as quickly as possible,
for he knew that for several reasons his father hated the Wakem family
with all his heart.
"Here is a new companion for you to shake hands with, Tulliver," said
Mr. Stelling on entering the study--"Master Philip Wakem. You already
know something of each other, I imagine, for you are neighbours at
home."
Tom looked confused, while Philip rose and glanced at him timidly. Tom
did not like to go up and put out his hand, and he was not prepared to
say, "How do you do?" on so short a notice.
Mr. Stelling wisely turned away, and closed the door behind him. He
knew that boys' shyness only wears off in the absence of their elders.
Philip was at once too proud and too timid to walk towards Tom. He
thought, or rather felt, that Tom did not like to look at him. So they
remained without shaking hands or even speaking, while Tom went to the
fire and warmed himself, every now and then casting glances at Philip,
who seemed to be drawing absently first one object and then another on
a piece of paper he had before him. What was he drawing? wondered Tom,
after a spell of silence. He was quite warm now, and wanted something
new to be going forward. Suddenly he walked across the hearth, and
looked over Philip's paper.
"Why, that's a donkey with panniers, and a spaniel, and partridges in
the corn!" he exclaimed. "Oh, my buttons! I wish I could draw like
that. I'm to learn drawing this half. I wonder if I shall learn to
make dogs and donkeys!"
"Oh, you can do them without learning," said Philip; "I never learned
drawing."
"Never learned?" said Tom, in amazement. "Why, when I make dogs and
horses, and those things, the heads and the legs won't come right,
though I can see how they ought to be very well. I can make houses,
and all sorts of chimneys--chimneys going all down the wall, and
windows in the roof, and all that. But I dare say I could do dogs and
horses if I was to try more," he added.
"Oh yes," said Philip, "it's very easy. You've only to look well at
things, and draw them over and over again. What you do wrong once, you
can alter the next time."
"But haven't you been taught anything?" said Tom.
"Yes," said Philip, smiling; "I've been taught Latin, and Greek, and
mathematics, and writing, and such things."
"Oh, but, I say, you don't like Latin, though, do you?" said Tom.
"Pretty well; I don't care much about it," said Philip. "But I've done
with the grammar," he added. "I don't learn that any more."
"Then you won't have the same lessons as I shall?" said Tom, with a
sense of disappointment.
"No; but I dare say I can help you. I shall be very glad to help you
if I can."
Tom did not say "Thank you," for he was quite absorbed in the thought
that Wakem's son did not seem so spiteful a fellow as might have been
expected.
"I say," he said presently, "do you love your father?"
"Yes," said Philip, colouring deeply; "don't you love yours?"
"Oh yes; I only wanted to know," said Tom, rather ashamed of himself,
now he saw Philip colouring and looking uncomfortable.
"Shall you learn drawing now?" he said, by way of changing the subject.
"No," said Philip. "My father wishes me to give all my time to other
things now."
"What! Latin, and Euclid, and those things?" said Tom.
"Yes," said Philip, who had left off using his pencil, and was resting
his head on one hand, while Tom was leaning forward on both elbows, and
looking at the dog and the donkey.
"And you don't mind that?" said Tom, with strong curiosity.
"No; I like to know what everybody else knows. I can study what I like
by-and-by."
"I can't think why anybody should learn Latin," said Tom. "It's no
good."
"It's part of the education of a gentleman," said Philip. "All
gentlemen learn the same things."
"What! do you think Sir John Crake, the master of the harriers, knows
Latin?" said Tom.
"He learnt it when he was a boy, of course," said Philip. "But I dare
say he's forgotten it."
"Oh, well, I can do that, then," said Tom readily.
"Oh, I don't mind Latin," said Philip, unable to choke a laugh; "I can
remember things easily. And there are some lessons I'm very fond of.
I'm very fond of Greek history, and everything about the Greeks. I
should like to have been a Greek and fought the Persians, and then have
come home and written tragedies, or else have been listened to by
everybody for my wisdom, like Socrates, and have died a grand death."
"Why, were the Greeks great fighters?" said Tom, who saw a vista in
this direction. "Is there anything like David, and Goliath, and Samson
in the Greek history? Those are the only bits I like in the history of
the Jews."
"Oh, there are very fine stories of that sort about the Greeks--about
the heroes of early times who killed the wild beasts, as Samson did.
And in the _Odyssey_ (that's a beautiful poem) there's a more wonderful
giant than Goliath--Polypheme, who had only one eye in the middle of
his forehead; and Ulysses, a little fellow, but very wise and cunning,
got a red-hot pine tree and stuck it into this one eye, and made him
roar like a thousand bulls."
"Oh, what fun!" said Tom, jumping away from the table, and stamping
first with one leg and then the other. "I say, can you tell me all
about those stories? because I shan't learn Greek, you know. Shall
I?" he added, pausing in his stamping with a sudden alarm, lest the
contrary might be possible. "Does every gentleman learn Greek? Will
Mr. Stelling make me begin with it, do you think?"
"No, I should think not--very likely not," said Philip. "But you may
read those stories without knowing Greek. I've got them in English."
"Oh, but I don't like reading; I'd sooner have you tell them me--but
only the fighting ones, you know. My sister Maggie is always wanting
to tell me stories, but they're stupid things. Girls' stories always
are. Can you tell a good many fighting stories?"
"Oh yes," said Philip--"lots of them, besides the Greek stories. I can
tell you about Richard Coeur-de-Lion and Saladin, and about William
Wallace, and Robert Bruce, and James Douglas. I know no end."
"You're older than I am, aren't you?" said Tom.
"Why, how old are you? I'm fifteen."
"I'm only going in fourteen," said Tom. "But I thrashed all the
fellows at Jacobs'--that's where I was before I came here. And I beat
'em all at bandy and climbing. And I wish Mr. Stelling would let us go
fishing. I could show you how to fish. You could fish, couldn't you?
It's only standing, and sitting still, you know."
Philip winced under this allusion to his unfitness for active sports,
and he answered almost crossly,--
"I can't bear fishing. I think people look like fools sitting watching
a line hour after hour, or else throwing and throwing, and catching
nothing."
"Ah, but you wouldn't say they looked like fools when they landed a big
pike, I can tell you," said Tom. Wakem's son, it was plain, had his
disagreeable points, and must be kept in due check.