Enter the Knife-boy.--Hamper for Briggses! Master Brown.--Hurray, Tom
Briggs! I'll lend you my knife.
If this story does not carry its own moral, what fable does, I wonder?
Before the arrival of that hamper, Master Briggs was in no better repute
than any other young gentleman of the lower school; and in fact I had
occasion myself, only lately, to correct Master Brown for kicking his
friend's shins during the writing-lesson. But how this basket, directed
by his mother's housekeeper and marked "Glass with care," (whence I
conclude that it contains some jam and some bottles of wine, probably,
as well as the usual cake and game-pie, and half a sovereign for the
elder Master B., and five new shillings for Master Decimus Briggs)--how,
I say, the arrival of this basket alters all Master Briggs's
circumstances in life, and the estimation in which many persons regard
him!
If he is a good-hearted boy, as I have reason to think, the very first
thing he will do, before inspecting the contents of the hamper, or
cutting into them with the knife which Master Brown has so considerately
lent him, will be to read over the letter from home which lies on the
top of the parcel. He does so, as I remark to Miss Raby (for whom I
happened to be mending pens when the little circumstance arose), with a
flushed face and winking eyes. Look how the other boys are peering into
the basket as he reads.--I say to her, "Isn't it a pretty picture?" Part
of the letter is in a very large hand. This is from his little sister.
And I would wager that she netted the little purse which he has just
taken out of it, and which Master Lynx is eying.
"You are a droll man, and remark all sorts of queer things," Miss Raby
says, smiling, and plying her swift needle and fingers as quick as
possible.
"I am glad we are both on the spot, and that the little fellow lies
under our guns as it were, and so is protected from some such brutal
school-pirate as young Duval for instance, who would rob him, probably,
of some of those good things; good in themselves, and better because
fresh from home. See, there is a pie as I said, and which I dare say is
better than those which are served at our table (but you never take any
notice of such kind of things, Miss Raby), a cake of course, a bottle
of currant-wine, jam-pots, and no end of pears in the straw. With their
money little Briggs will be able to pay the tick which that imprudent
child has run up with Mrs. Ruggles; and I shall let Briggs Major pay for
the pencil-case which Bullock sold to him.--It will be a lesson to the
young prodigal for the future. But, I say, what a change there will be
in his life for some time to come, and at least until his present wealth
is spent! The boys who bully him will mollify towards him, and accept
his pie and sweetmeats. They will have feasts in the bedroom; and that
wine will taste more delicious to them than the best out of the Doctor's
cellar. The cronies will be invited. Young Master Wagg will tell his
most dreadful story and sing his best song for a slice of that pie. What
a jolly night they will have! When we go the rounds at night, Mr. Prince
and I will take care to make a noise before we come to Briggs's room,
so that the boys may have time to put the light out, to push the things
away, and to scud into bed. Doctor Spry may be put in requisition the
next morning."
"Nonsense! you absurd creature," cries out Miss Raby, laughing; and I
lay down the twelfth pen very nicely mended.
"Yes; after luxury comes the doctor, I say; after extravagance a hole
in the breeches pocket. To judge from his disposition, Briggs Major will
not be much better off a couple of days hence than he is now; and, if
I am not mistaken, will end life a poor man. Brown will be kicking his
shins before a week is over, depend upon it. There are boys and men of
all sorts, Miss R.--There are selfish sneaks who hoard until the store
they daren't use grows mouldy--there are spendthrifts who fling away,
parasites who flatter and lick its shoes, and snarling curs who hate and
envy, good fortune."
I put down the last of the pens, brushing away with it the quill-chips
from her desk first, and she looked at me with a kind, wondering face. I
brushed them away, clicked the penknife into my pocket, made her a bow,
and walked off--for the bell was ringing for school.