In no place in the world has individual character more weight than at a public school. Remember this, I beseech you, all you boys who are getting into the upper forms. Now is the time in all your lives, probably, when you may have more wide influence for good or evil on the society you live in than you ever can have again. Quit yourselves like men, then; speak up, and strike out if necessary, for whatsoever is true, and manly, and lovely, and of good report; never try to be popular, but only to do your duty and help others to do theirs, and you may leave the tone of feeling in the school higher than you found it, and so be doing good which no living soul can measure to generations of your countrymen yet unborn. For boys follow one another in herds like sheep, for good or evil; they hate thinking, and have rarely any settled principles. Every school, indeed, has its own traditionary standard of right and wrong, which cannot be transgressed with impunity, marking certain things as low and blackguard, and certain others as lawful and right. This standard is ever varying, though it changes only slowly and little by little; and, subject only to such standard, it is the leading boys for the time being who give the tone to all the rest, and make the School either a noble institution for the training of Christian Englishmen, or a place where a young boy will get more evil than he would if he were turned out to make his way in London streets, or anything between these two extremes.
The change for the worse in the School-house, however, didn’t press very heavily on our youngsters for some time. They were in a good bedroom, where slept the only praepostor left who was able to keep thorough order, and their study was in his passage.  It wasn’t till some year or so after the events recorded above that the praepostor of their room and passage left. None of the other sixth-form boys would move into their passage, and, to the disgust and indignation of Tom and East, one morning after breakfast they were seized upon by Flashman, and made to carry down his books and furniture into the unoccupied study, which he had taken. From this time they began to feel the weight of the tyranny of Flashman and his friends, and, now that trouble had come home to their own doors, began to look out for sympathizers and partners amongst the rest of the fags; and meetings of the oppressed began to be held, and murmurs to arise, and plots to be laid as to how they should free themselves and be avenged on their enemies.
While matters were in this state, East and Tom were one evening sitting in their study. They had done their work for first lesson, and Tom was in a brown study, brooding, like a young William Tell, upon the wrongs of fags in general, and his own in particular.
“I say, Scud,” said he at last, rousing himself to snuff the candle, “what right have the fifth-form boys to fag us as they do?”
“No more right than you have to fag them,” answered East, without looking up from an early number of “Pickwick,” which was just coming out, and which he was luxuriously devouring, stretched on his back on the sofa.
Tom relapsed into his brown study, and East went on reading and chuckling. The contrast of the boys’ faces would have given infinite amusement to a looker-on—the one so solemn and big with mighty purpose, the other radiant and bubbling over with fun.
“Do you know, old fellow, I’ve been thinking it over a good deal,” began Tom again.
“Oh yes, I know—fagging you are thinking of. Hang it all! But listen here, Tom—here’s fun. Mr. Winkle’s horse—”
“And I’ve made up my mind,” broke in Tom, “that I won’t fag except for the sixth.”
“Quite right too, my boy,” cried East, putting his finger on the place and looking up; “but a pretty peck of troubles you’ll get into, if you’re going to play that game. However, I’m all for a strike myself, if we can get others to join. It’s getting too bad.”
“Can’t we get some sixth-form fellow to take it up?” asked Tom.
“Well, perhaps we might. Morgan would interfere, I think. Only,” added East, after a moment’s pause, “you see, we should have to tell him about it, and that’s against School principles. Don’t you remember what old Brooke said about learning to take our own parts?”
“Ah, I wish old Brooke were back again. It was all right in his time.”
“Why, yes, you see, then the strongest and best fellows were in the sixth, and the fifth-form fellows were afraid of them, and they kept good order; but now our sixth-form fellows are too small, and the fifth don’t care for them, and do what they like in the house.”
“And so we get a double set of masters,” cried Tom indignantly—“the lawful ones, who are responsible to the Doctor at any rate, and the unlawful, the tyrants, who are responsible to nobody.”
“Down with the tyrants!” cried East; “I’m all for law and order, and hurrah for a revolution.”
“I shouldn’t mind if it were only for young Brooke now,” said Tom; “he’s such a good-hearted, gentlemanly fellow, and ought to be in the sixth. I’d do anything for him. But that blackguard Flashman, who never speaks to one without a kick or an oath—”
“The cowardly brute,” broke in East—“how I hate him!  What a bore that he’s got a study in this passage! Don’t you hear them now at supper in his den? Brandy-punch going, I’ll bet. I wish the Doctor would come out and catch him.
“Fa-a-a-ag!” sounded along the passage from Flashman’s study. The two boys looked at one another in silence. It had struck nine, so the regular night-fags had left duty, and they were the nearest to the supper-party. East sat up, and began to look comical, as he always did under difficulties.
“Fa-a-a-ag!” again. No answer.
“Here, Brown! East! you cursed young skulks,” roared out Flashman, coming to his open door; “I know you’re in; no shirking.”
Tom stole to their door, and drew the bolts as noiselessly as he could; East blew out the candle.
“Barricade the first,” whispered he. “Now, Tom, mind, no surrender.”
“Trust me for that,” said Tom between his teeth.
In another minute they heard the supper-party turn out and come down the passage to their door. They held their breaths, and heard whispering, of which they only made out Flashman’s words, “I know the young brutes are in.”
Then came summonses to open, which being unanswered, the assault commenced. Luckily the door was a good strong oak one, and resisted the united weight of Flashman’s party. A pause followed, and they heard a besieger remark, “They’re in safe enough. Don’t you see how the door holds at top and bottom? So the bolts must be drawn. We should have forced the lock long ago.” East gave Tom a nudge, to call attention to this scientific remark.
Then came attacks on particular panels, one of which at last gave way to the repeated kicks; but it broke inwards, and the broken pieces got jammed across (the door being lined with green baize), and couldn’t easily be removed from outside: and the besieged, scorning further concealment, strengthened their defences by pressing the end of their sofa against the door. So, after one or two more ineffectual efforts, Flashman and Company retired, vowing vengeance in no mild terms.
The first danger over, it only remained for the besieged to effect a safe retreat, as it was now near bed-time. They listened intently, and heard the supper-party resettle themselves, and then gently drew back first one bolt and then the other. Presently the convivial noises began again steadily. “Now then, stand by for a run,” said East, throwing the door wide open and rushing into the passage, closely followed by Tom. They were too quick to be caught; but Flashman was on the lookout, and sent an empty pickle-jar whizzing after them, which narrowly missed Tom’s head, and broke into twenty pieces at the end of the passage. “He wouldn’t mind killing one, if he wasn’t caught,” said East, as they turned the corner.
There was no pursuit, so the two turned into the hall, where they found a knot of small boys round the fire. Their story was told. The war of independence had broken out. Who would join the revolutionary forces? Several others present bound themselves not to fag for the fifth form at once. One or two only edged off, and left the rebels. What else could they do? “I’ve a good mind to go to the Doctor straight,” said Tom.
“That’ll never do. Don’t you remember the levy of the school last half?” put in another.
In fact, the solemn assembly, a levy of the School, had been held, at which the captain of the School had got up, and after premising that several instances had occurred of matters having been reported to the masters; that this was against public morality and School tradition; that a levy of the sixth had been held on the subject, and they had resolved that the practice must be stopped at once; and given out that any boy, in whatever form, who should thenceforth appeal to a master, without having first gone to some praepostor and laid the case before him, should be thrashed publicly, and sent to Coventry.
“Well, then, let’s try the sixth. Try Morgan,” suggested another. “No use”—“Blabbing won’t do,” was the general feeling.
“I’ll give you fellows a piece of advice,” said a voice from the end of the hall. They all turned round with a start, and the speaker got up from a bench on which he had been lying unobserved, and gave himself a shake. He was a big, loose-made fellow, with huge limbs which had grown too far through his jacket and trousers.   I’ve tried it on years ago with their forerunners.”
“No! Did you? Tell us how it was?” cried a chorus of voices, as they clustered round him.
“Well, just as it is with you. The fifth form would fag us, and I and some more struck, and we beat ‘em. The good fellows left off directly, and the bullies who kept on soon got afraid.”
“Was Flashman here then?”
“Yes; and a dirty, little, snivelling, sneaking fellow he was too. He never dared join us, and used to toady the bullies by offering to fag for them, and peaching against the rest of us.”
“Why wasn’t he cut, then?” said East.
“Oh, toadies never get cut; they’re too useful. Besides, he has no end of great hampers from home, with wine and game in them; so he toadied and fed himself into favour.”
The quarter-to-ten bell now rang, and the small boys went off upstairs, still consulting together, and praising their new counsellor, who stretched himself out on the bench before the hall fire again. There he lay, a very queer specimen of boyhood, by name Diggs, and familiarly called “the Mucker.” He was young for his size, and a very clever fellow, nearly at the top of the fifth. His friends at home, having regard, I suppose, to his age, and not to his size and place in the school, hadn’t put him into tails; and even his jackets were always too small; and he had a talent for destroying clothes and making himself look shabby. He wasn’t on terms with Flashman’s set, who sneered at his dress and ways behind his back; which he knew, and revenged himself by asking Flashman the most disagreeable questions, and treating him familiarly whenever a crowd of boys were round him. Neither was he intimate with any of the other bigger boys, who were warned off by his oddnesses, for he was a very queer fellow; besides, amongst other failings, he had that of impecuniosity in a remarkable degree. He brought as much money as other boys to school, but got rid of it in no time, no one knew how; and then, being also reckless, borrowed from any one; and when his debts accumulated and creditors pressed, would have an auction in the hall of everything he possessed in the world, selling even his school-books, candlestick, and study table. For weeks after one of these auctions, having rendered his study uninhabitable, he would live about in the fifth-form room and hall, doing his verses on old letter-backs and odd scraps of paper, and learning his lessons no one knew how. He never meddled with any little boy, and was popular with them, though they all looked on him with a sort of compassion, and called him “Poor Diggs,” not being able to resist appearances, or to disregard wholly even the sneers of their enemy Flashman. However, he seemed equally indifferent to the sneers of big boys and the pity of small ones, and lived his own queer life with much apparent enjoyment to himself. It is necessary to introduce Diggs thus particularly, as he not only did Tom and East good service in their present warfare, as is about to be told, but soon afterwards, when he got into the sixth, chose them for his fags, and excused them from study-fagging, thereby earning unto himself eternal gratitude from them and all who are interested in their history.
And seldom had small boys more need of a friend, for the morning after the siege the storm burst upon the rebels in all its violence. Flashman laid wait, and caught Tom before second lesson, and receiving a point-blank “No” when told to fetch his hat, seized him and twisted his arm, and went through the other methods of torture in use. “He couldn’t make me cry, though,” as Tom said triumphantly to the rest of the rebels; “and I kicked his shins well, I know.” And soon it crept out that a lot of the fags were in league, and Flashman excited his associates to join him in bringing the young vagabonds to their senses; and the house was filled with constant chasings, and sieges, and lickings of all sorts; and in return, the bullies’ beds were pulled to pieces and drenched with water, and their names written up on the walls with every insulting epithet which the fag invention could furnish. The war, in short, raged fiercely; but soon, as Diggs had told them, all the better fellows in the fifth gave up trying to fag them, and public feeling began to set against Flashman and his two or three intimates, and they were obliged to keep their doings more secret, but being thorough bad fellows, missed no opportunity of torturing in private. Flashman was an adept in all ways, but above all in the power of saying cutting and cruel things, and could often bring tears to the eyes of boys in this way, which all the thrashings in the world wouldn’t have wrung from them.
And as his operations were being cut short in other directions, he now devoted himself chiefly to Tom and East, who lived at his own door, and would force himself into their study whenever he found a chance, and sit there, sometimes alone, and sometimes with a companion, interrupting all their work, and exulting in the evident pain which every now and then he could see he was inflicting on one or the other.
The storm had cleared the air for the rest of the house, and a better state of things now began than there had been since old Brooke had left; but an angry, dark spot of thunder-cloud still hung over the end of the passage where Flashman’s study and that of East and Tom lay.
He felt that they had been the first rebels, and that the rebellion had been to a great extent successful; but what above all stirred the hatred and bitterness of his heart against them was that in the frequent collisions which there had been of late they had openly called him coward and sneak. The taunts were too true to be forgiven. While he was in the act of thrashing them, they would roar out instances of his funking at football, or shirking some encounter with a lout of half his own size. These things were all well enough known in the house, but to have his own disgrace shouted out by small boys, to feel that they despised him, to be unable to silence them by any amount of torture, and to see the open laugh and sneer of his own associates (who were looking on, and took no trouble to hide their scorn from him, though they neither interfered with his bullying nor lived a bit the less intimately with him), made him beside himself. Come what might, he would make those boys’ lives miserable. So the strife settled down into a personal affair between Flashman and our youngsters—a war to the knife, to be fought out in the little cockpit at the end of the bottom passage.
Flashman, be it said, was about seventeen years old, and big and strong of his age. He played well at all games where pluck wasn’t much wanted, and managed generally to keep up appearances where it was; and having a bluff, off-hand manner, which passed for heartiness, and considerable powers of being pleasant when he liked, went down with the school in general for a good fellow enough. Even in the School-house, by dint of his command of money, the constant supply of good things which he kept up, and his adroit toadyism, he had managed to make himself not only tolerated, but rather popular amongst his own contemporaries; although young Brooke scarcely spoke to him, and one or two others of the right sort showed their opinions of him whenever a chance offered. But the wrong sort happened to be in the ascendant just now, and so Flashman was a formidable enemy for small boys. This soon became plain enough. Flashman left no slander unspoken, and no deed undone, which could in any way hurt his victims, or isolate them from the rest of the house. One by one most of the other rebels fell away from them, while Flashman’s cause prospered, and several other fifth-form boys began to look black at them and ill-treat them as they passed about the house. By keeping out of bounds, or at all events out of the house and quadrangle, all day, and carefully barring themselves in at night, East and Tom managed to hold on without feeling very miserable; but it was as much as they could do. Greatly were they drawn then towards old Diggs, who, in an uncouth way, began to take a good deal of notice of them, and once or twice came to their study when Flashman was there, who immediately decamped in consequence. The boys thought that Diggs must have been watching.
When therefore, about this time, an auction was one night announced to take place in the hall, at which, amongst the superfluities of other boys, all Diggs’s penates for the time being were going to the hammer, East and Tom laid their heads together, and resolved to devote their ready cash (some four shillings sterling) to redeem such articles as that sum would cover. Accordingly, they duly attended to bid, and Tom became the owner of two lots of Diggs’s things:—Lot 1, price one-and-threepence, consisting (as the auctioneer remarked) of a “valuable assortment of old metals,” in the shape of a mouse-trap, a cheese-toaster without a handle, and a saucepan: Lot 2, of a villainous dirty table-cloth and green-baize curtain; while East, for one-and-sixpence, purchased a leather paper-case, with a lock but no key, once handsome, but now much the worse for wear. But they had still the point to settle of how to get Diggs to take the things without hurting his feelings. This they solved by leaving them in his study, which was never locked when he was out. Diggs, who had attended the auction, remembered who had bought the lots, and came to their study soon after, and sat silent for some time, cracking his great red finger-joints. Then he laid hold of their verses, and began looking over and altering them, and at last got up, and turning his back to them, said, “You’re uncommon good-hearted little beggars, you two. I value that paper-case; my sister gave it to me last holidays. I won’t forget.” And so he tumbled out into the passage, leaving them somewhat embarrassed, but not sorry that he knew what they had done.
The next morning was Saturday, the day on which the allowances of one shilling a week were paid—an important event to spendthrift youngsters; and great was the disgust amongst the small fry to hear that all the allowances had been impounded for the Derby lottery. That great event in the English year, the Derby, was celebrated at Rugby in those days by many lotteries. It was not an improving custom, I own, gentle reader, and led to making books, and betting, and other objectionable results; but when our great Houses of Palaver think it right to stop the nation’s business on that day and many of the members bet heavily themselves, can you blame us boys for following the example of our betters? At any rate we did follow it. First there was the great school lottery, where the first prize was six or seven pounds; then each house had one or more separate lotteries. These were all nominally voluntary, no boy being compelled to put in his shilling who didn’t choose to do so. But besides Flashman, there were three or four other fast, sporting young gentlemen in the Schoolhouse, who considered subscription a matter of duty and necessity; and so, to make their duty come easy to the small boys, quietly secured the allowances in a lump when given out for distribution, and kept them. It was no use grumbling—so many fewer tartlets and apples were eaten and fives balls bought on that Saturday; and after locking-up, when the money would otherwise have been spent, consolation was carried to many a small boy by the sound of the night-fags shouting along the passages, “Gentlemen sportsmen of the School-house; the lottery’s going to be drawn in the hall.” It was pleasant to be called a gentleman sportsman, also to have a chance of drawing a favourite horse.
The hall was full of boys, and at the head of one of the long tables stood the sporting interest, with a hat before them, in which were the tickets folded up. One of them then began calling out the list of the house. Each boy as his name was called drew a ticket from the hat, and opened it; and most of the bigger boys, after drawing, left the hall directly to go back to their studies or the fifth-form room. The sporting interest had all drawn blanks, and they were sulky accordingly; neither of the favourites had yet been drawn, and it had come down to the upper-fourth. So now, as each small boy came up and drew his ticket, it was seized and opened by Flashman, or some other of the standers-by. But no great favourite is drawn until it comes to the Tadpole’s turn, and he shuffles up and draws, and tries to make off, but is caught, and his ticket is opened like the rest.
“Here you are! Wanderer—the third favourite!” shouts the opener.
“I say, just give me my ticket, please,” remonstrates Tadpole.
“Hullo! don’t be in a hurry,” breaks in Flashman; “what’ll you sell Wanderer for now?”
“I don’t want to sell,” rejoins Tadpole.
“Oh, don’t you!  He won’t win, but I want him as a hedge. Now, I’ll give you half a crown for him.” Tadpole holds out, but between threats and cajoleries at length sells half for one shilling and sixpence—about a fifth of its fair market value; however, he is glad to realize anything, and, as he wisely remarks, “Wanderer mayn’t win, and the tizzy is safe anyhow.”
East presently comes up and draws a blank. Soon after comes Tom’s turn. His ticket, like the others, is seized and opened. “Here you are then,” shouts the opener, holding it up—“Harkaway!—By Jove, Flashey, your young friend’s in luck.”
“Give me the ticket,” says Flashman, with an oath, leaning across the table with open hand and his face black with rage.
“Wouldn’t you like it?” replies the opener, not a bad fellow at the bottom, and no admirer of Flashman. “Here, Brown, catch hold.” And he hands the ticket to Tom, who pockets it. Whereupon Flashman makes for the door at once, that Tom and the ticket may not escape, and there keeps watch until the drawing is over and all the boys are gone, except the sporting set of five or six, who stay to compare books, make bets, and so on; Tom, who doesn’t choose to move while Flashman is at the door; and East, who stays by his friend, anticipating trouble. The sporting set now gathered round Tom. Public opinion wouldn’t allow them actually to rob him of his ticket, but any humbug or intimidation by which he could be driven to sell the whole or part at an undervalue was lawful.
“Now, young Brown, come, what’ll you sell me Harkaway for? I hear he isn’t going to start. I’ll give you five shillings for him,” begins the boy who had opened the ticket. Tom, remembering his good deed, and moreover in his forlorn state wishing to make a friend, is about to accept the offer, when another cries out, “I’ll give you seven shillings.” Tom hesitated and looked from one to the other.
“No, no!” said Flashman, pushing in, “leave me to deal with him; we’ll draw lots for it afterwards. Now sir, you know me: you’ll sell Harkaway to us for five shillings, or you’ll repent it.”
“I won’t sell a bit of him,” answered Tom shortly.
“You hear that now!” said Flashman, turning to the others. “He’s the coxiest young blackguard in the house. I always told you so. We’re to have all the trouble and risk of getting up the lotteries for the benefit of such fellows as he.”
Flashman forgets to explain what risk they ran, but he speaks to willing ears. Gambling makes boys selfish and cruel as well as men.
“That’s true. We always draw blanks,” cried one.—“Now, sir, you shall sell half, at any rate.”
“I won’t,” said Tom, flushing up to his hair, and lumping them all in his mind with his sworn enemy.
“Very well then; let’s roast him,” cried Flashman, and catches hold of Tom by the collar. One or two boys hesitate, but the rest join in. East seizes Tom’s arm, and tries to pull him away, but is knocked back by one of the boys, and Tom is dragged along struggling. His shoulders are pushed against the mantelpiece, and he is held by main force before the fire, Flashman drawing his trousers tight by way of extra torture. Poor East, in more pain even than Tom, suddenly thinks of Diggs, and darts off to find him. “Will you sell now for ten shillings?” says one boy who is relenting.
Tom only answers by groans and struggles.
“I say, Flashey, he has had enough,” says the same boy, dropping the arm he holds.
“No, no; another turn’ll do it,” answers Flashman. But poor Tom is done already, turns deadly pale, and his head falls forward on his breast, just as Diggs, in frantic excitement, rushes into the hall with East at his heels.
“You cowardly brutes!” is all he can say, as he catches Tom from them and supports him to the hall table. “Good God! he’s dying. Here, get some cold water—run for the housekeeper.”
Flashman and one or two others slink away; the rest, ashamed and sorry, bend over Tom or run for water, while East darts off for the housekeeper. Water comes, and they throw it on his hands and face, and he begins to come to. “Mother!”—the words came feebly and slowly—“it’s very cold to-night.”  “Where am I?” goes on Tom, opening his eyes, “Ah! I remember now.”
“I say,” is whispered, “we can’t do any good, and the housekeeper will be here in a minute.” And all but one steal away. He stays with Diggs, silent and sorrowful, and fans Tom’s face.
The housekeeper comes in with strong salts, and Tom soon recovers enough to sit up. There is a smell of burning. She examines his clothes, and looks up inquiringly. The boys are silent.
“How did he come so?” No answer. “There’s been some bad work here,” she adds, looking very serious, “and I shall speak to the Doctor about it.” Still no answer.
“Hadn’t we better carry him to the sick-room?” suggests Diggs.
“Oh, I can walk now,” says Tom; and, supported by East and the housekeeper, goes to the sick-room. The boy who held his ground is soon amongst the rest, who are all in fear of their lives.
Meantime Tom is stretched on the sofa in the housekeeper’s room, with East by his side, while she gets wine and water and other restoratives.

“Only the back of my legs,” answers Tom. They are indeed badly scorched, and part of his trousers burnt through. But soon he is in bed with cold bandages. At first he feels broken, and thinks of writing home and getting taken away; and the verse of a hymn he had learned years ago sings through his head, and he goes to sleep, murmuring,—
“Where the wicked cease from troubling, And the weary are at rest.”
But after a sound night’s rest, the old boy-spirit comes back again. East comes in, reporting that the whole house is with him; and he forgets everything, except their old resolve never to be beaten by that bully Flashman.
Not a word could the housekeeper extract from either of them, and though the Doctor knew all that she knew that morning, he never knew any more.
I trust and believe that such scenes are not possible now at school, and that lotteries and betting-books have gone out; but I am writing of schools as they were in our time, and must give the evil with the good.
“Wherein I [speak] of most disastrous chances, Of moving accidents by flood and field, Of hair-breadth ‘scapes.”—SHAKESPEARE.
hen Tom came back into school after a couple of days in the sick-room, he found matters much changed for the better, as East had led him to expect. Flashman’s brutality had disgusted most even of his intimate friends, and his cowardice had once more been made plain to the house; for Diggs had encountered him on the morning after the lottery, and after high words on both sides, had struck him, and the blow was not returned. However, Flashey was not unused to this sort of thing, and had lived through as awkward affairs before, and, as Diggs had said, fed and toadied himself back into favour again. Two or three of the boys who had helped to roast Tom came up and begged his pardon, and thanked him for not telling anything. Morgan sent for him, and was inclined to take the matter up warmly, but Tom begged him not to do it; to which he agreed, on Tom’s promising to come to him at once in future—a promise which, I regret to say, he didn’t keep. Tom kept Harkaway all to himself, and won the second prize in the lottery, some thirty shillings, which he and East contrived to spend in about three days in the purchase of pictures for their study, two new bats and a cricket-ball—all the best that could be got—and a supper of sausages, kidneys, and beef-steak pies to all the rebels. Light come, light go; they wouldn’t have been comfortable with money in their pockets in the middle of the half.
The embers of Flashman’s wrath, however, were still smouldering, and burst out every now and then in sly blows and taunts, and they both felt that they hadn’t quite done with him yet. It wasn’t long, however, before the last act of that drama came, and with it the end of bullying for Tom and East at Rugby. They now often stole out into the hall at nights, incited thereto partly by the hope of finding Diggs there and having a talk with him, partly by the excitement of doing something which was against rules; for, sad to say, both of our youngsters, since their loss of character for steadiness in their form, had got into the habit of doing things which were forbidden, as a matter of adventure,—just in the same way, I should fancy, as men fall into smuggling, and for the same sort of reasons—thoughtlessness in the first place. It never occurred to them to consider why such and such rules were laid down: the reason was nothing to them, and they only looked upon rules as a sort of challenge from the rule-makers, which it would be rather bad pluck in them not to accept; and then again, in the lower parts of the school they hadn’t enough to do. The work of the form they could manage to get through pretty easily, keeping a good enough place to get their regular yearly remove; and not having much ambition beyond this, their whole superfluous steam was available for games and scrapes. Now, one rule of the house which it was a daily pleasure of all such boys to break was that after supper all fags, except the three on duty in the passages, should remain in their own studies until nine o’clock; and if caught about the passages or hall, or in one another’s studies, they were liable to punishments or caning. The rule was stricter than its observance; for most of the sixth spent their evenings in the fifth-form room, where the library was, and the lessons were learnt in common. Every now and then, however, a praepostor would be seized with a fit of district visiting, and would make a tour of the passages and hall and the fags’ studies. Then, if the owner were entertaining a friend or two, the first kick at the door and ominous “Open here” had the effect of the shadow of a hawk over a chicken-yard: every one cut to cover—one small boy diving under the sofa, another under the table, while the owner would hastily pull down a book or two and open them, and cry out in a meek voice, “Hullo, who’s there?” casting an anxious eye round to see that no protruding leg or elbow could betray the hidden boys. “Open, sir, directly; it’s Snooks.” “Oh, I’m very sorry; I didn’t know it was you, Snooks.” And then with well-feigned zeal the door would be opened, young hopeful praying that that beast Snooks mightn’t have heard the scuffle caused by his coming. If a study was empty, Snooks proceeded to draw the passages and hall to find the truants.
Well, one evening, in forbidden hours, Tom and East were in the hall. They occupied the seats before the fire nearest the door, while Diggs sprawled as usual before the farther fire. He was busy with a copy of verses, and East and Tom were chatting together in whispers by the light of the fire, and splicing a favourite old fives bat which had sprung. Presently a step came down the bottom passage. They listened a moment, assured themselves that it wasn’t a praepostor, and then went on with their work, and the door swung open, and in walked Flashman. He didn’t see Diggs, and thought it a good chance to keep his hand in; and as the boys didn’t move for him, struck one of them, to make them get out of his way.
“What’s that for?” growled the assaulted one.
“Because I choose. You’ve no business here.  Then I’ll thrash you if you stay,” said Flashman savagely.
“I say, you two,” said Diggs, from the end of the hall, rousing up and resting himself on his elbow—“you’ll never get rid of that fellow till you lick him. Go in at him, both of you. I’ll see fair play.”
Flashman was taken aback, and retreated two steps. East looked at Tom. “Shall we try!” said he. “Yes,” said Tom desperately. So the two advanced on Flashman, with clenched fists and beating hearts. They were about up to his shoulder, but tough boys of their age, and in perfect training; while he, though strong and big, was in poor condition from his monstrous habit of stuffing and want of exercise. Coward as he was, however, Flashman couldn’t swallow such an insult as this; besides, he was confident of having easy work, and so faced the boys, saying, “You impudent young blackguards!” Before he could finish his abuse, they rushed in on him, and began pummelling at all of him which they could reach. He hit out wildly and savagely; but the full force of his blows didn’t tell—they were too near to him. It was long odds, though, in point of strength; and in another minute Tom went spinning backwards over a form, and Flashman turned to demolish East with a savage grin. But now Diggs jumped down from the table on which he had seated himself. “Stop there,” shouted he; “the round’s over—half-minute time allowed.”
“What the —- is it to you?” faltered Flashman, who began to lose heart.
“I’m going to see fair, I tell you,” said Diggs, with a grin, and snapping his great red fingers; “‘taint fair for you to be fighting one of them at a time.—Are you ready, Brown? Time’s up.”
The small boys rushed in again. Closing, they saw, was their best chance, and Flashman was wilder and more flurried than ever: he caught East by the throat, and tried to force him back on the iron-bound table. Tom grasped his waist, and remembering the old throw he had learned in the Vale from Harry Winburn, crooked his leg inside Flashman’s, and threw his whole weight forward. The three tottered for a moment, and then over they went on to the floor, Flashman striking his head against a form in the hall.
The two youngsters sprang to their legs, but he lay there still. They began to be frightened. Tom stooped down, and then cried out, scared out of his wits, “He’s bleeding awfully. Come here, East! Diggs, he’s dying!”
“Not he,” said Diggs, getting leisurely off the table; “it’s all sham; he’s only afraid to fight it out.”
East was as frightened as Tom. Diggs lifted Flashman’s head, and he groaned.
“What’s the matter?” shouted Diggs.
“My skull’s fractured,” sobbed Flashman.
“Oh, let me run for the housekeeper!” cried Tom. “What shall we do?”
“Fiddlesticks! It’s nothing but the skin broken,” said the relentless Diggs, feeling his head. “Cold water and a bit of rag’s all he’ll want.”
“Let me go,” said Flashman surlily, sitting up; “I don’t want your help.”
“We’re really very sorry—” began East.
“Hang your sorrow!” answered Flashman, holding his handkerchief to the place; “you shall pay for this, I can tell you, both of you.” And he walked out of the hall.
“He can’t be very bad,” said Tom, with a deep sigh, much relieved to see his enemy march so well.
“Not he,” said Diggs; “and you’ll see you won’t be troubled with him any more.  And you have got a nasty eye, Scud. You’d better go and bathe it well in cold water.”
“Cheap enough too, if we’re done with our old friend Flashey,” said East, as they made off upstairs to bathe their wounds.
They had done with Flashman in one sense, for he never laid finger on either of them again; but whatever harm a spiteful heart and venomous tongue could do them, he took care should be done. Only throw dirt enough, and some of it is sure to stick; and so it was with the fifth form and the bigger boys in general, with whom he associated more or less, and they not at all. Flashman managed to get Tom and East into disfavour, which did not wear off for some time after the author of it had disappeared from the School world. This event, much prayed for by the small fry in general, took place a few months after the above encounter. One fine summer evening Flashman had been regaling himself on gin-punch, at Brownsover; and, having exceeded his usual limits, started home uproarious. He fell in with a friend or two coming back from bathing, proposed a glass of beer, to which they assented, the weather being hot, and they thirsty souls, and unaware of the quantity of drink which Flashman had already on board. The short result was, that Flashey became beastly drunk. They tried to get him along, but couldn’t; so they chartered a hurdle and two men to carry him. One of the masters came upon them, and they naturally enough fled. The flight of the rest raised the master’s suspicions, and the good angel of the fags incited him to examine the freight, and, after examination, to convoy the hurdle himself up to the School-house; and the Doctor, who had long had his eye on Flashman, arranged for his withdrawal next morning.
The evil that men and boys too do lives after them: Flashman was gone, but our boys, as hinted above, still felt the effects of his hate. Besides, they had been the movers of the strike against unlawful fagging. The cause was righteous—the result had been triumphant to a great extent; but the best of the fifth—even those who had never fagged the small boys, or had given up the practice cheerfully—couldn’t help feeling a small grudge against the first rebels. After all, their form had been defied, on just grounds, no doubt—so just, indeed, that they had at once acknowledged the wrong, and remained passive in the strife. Had they sided with Flashman and his set, the rebels must have given way at once. They couldn’t help, on the whole, being glad that they had so acted, and that the resistance had been successful against such of their own form as had shown fight; they felt that law and order had gained thereby, but the ringleaders they couldn’t quite pardon at once. “Confoundedly coxy those young rascals will get, if we don’t mind,” was the general feeling.
So it is, and must be always, my dear boys. If the angel Gabriel were to come down from heaven, and head a successful rise against the most abominable and unrighteous vested interest which this poor old world groans under, he would most certainly lose his character for many years, probably for centuries, not only with the upholders of said vested interest, but with the respectable mass of the people whom he had delivered. They wouldn’t ask him to dinner, or let their names appear with his in the papers; they would be very careful how they spoke of him in the Palaver, or at their clubs. What can we expect, then, when we have only poor gallant blundering men like Kossuth, Garibaldi, Mazzini, and righteous causes which do not triumph in their hands—men who have holes enough in their armour, God knows, easy to be hit by respectabilities sitting in their lounging chairs, and having large balances at their bankers’?  You only want to have your heads set straight, to take the right side; so bear in mind that majorities, especially respectable ones, are nine times out of ten in the wrong; and that if you see a man or boy striving earnestly on the weak side, however wrong-headed or blundering he may be, you are not to go and join the cry against him. If you can’t join him and help him, and make him wiser, at any rate remember that he has found something in the world which he will fight and suffer for, which is just what you have got to do for yourselves; and so think and speak of him tenderly.
So East and Tom, the Tadpole, and one or two more, became a sort of young Ishmaelites, their hands against every one, and every one’s hand against them. It has been already told how they got to war with the masters and the fifth form, and with the sixth it was much the same. They saw the praepostors cowed by or joining with the fifth and shirking their own duties; so they didn’t respect them, and rendered no willing obedience. It had been one thing to clean out studies for sons of heroes like old Brooke, but was quite another to do the like for Snooks and Green, who had never faced a good scrummage at football, and couldn’t keep the passages in order at night. So they only slurred through their fagging just well enough to escape a licking, and not always that, and got the character of sulky, unwilling fags. In the fifth-form room, after supper, when such matters were often discussed and arranged, their names were for ever coming up.
“I say, Green,” Snooks began one night, “isn’t that new boy, Harrison, your fag?”
“Yes; why?”
“Oh, I know something of him at home, and should like to excuse him. Will you swop?”
“Who will you give me?”
“Well, let’s see. There’s Willis, Johnson. No, that won’t do. Yes, I have it. There’s young East; I’ll give you him.”
“Don’t you wish you may get it?” replied Green. “I’ll give you two for Willis, if you like.”
“Who, then?” asked Snooks. “Hall and Brown.”
“Wouldn’t have ‘em at a gift.”
“Better than East, though; for they ain’t quite so sharp,” said Green, getting up and leaning his back against the mantelpiece. He wasn’t a bad fellow, and couldn’t help not being able to put down the unruly fifth form. His eye twinkled as he went on, “Did I ever tell you how the young vagabond sold me last half?”
“No; how?”
“Well, he never half cleaned my study out—only just stuck the candlesticks in the cupboard, and swept the crumbs on to the floor. So at last I was mortal angry, and had him up, and made him go through the whole performance under my eyes. The dust the young scamp made nearly choked me, and showed that he hadn’t swept the carpet before. Well, when it was all finished, ‘Now, young gentleman,’ says I, ‘mind, I expect this to be done every morning—floor swept, table-cloth taken off and shaken, and everything dusted.’ ‘Very well,’ grunts he. Not a bit of it though. I was quite sure, in a day or two, that he never took the table-cloth off even. So I laid a trap for him. I tore up some paper, and put half a dozen bits on my table one night, and the cloth over them as usual. Next morning after breakfast up I came, pulled off the cloth, and, sure enough, there was the paper, which fluttered down on to the floor. I was in a towering rage. ‘I’ve got you now,’ thought I, and sent for him, while I got out my cane. Up he came as cool as you please, with his hands in his pockets. ‘Didn’t I tell you to shake my table-cloth every morning?’ roared I. ‘Yes,’ says he. ‘Did you do it this morning?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You young liar! I put these pieces of paper on the table last night, and if you’d taken the table-cloth off you’d have seen them, so I’m going to give you a good licking.’ Then my youngster takes one hand out of his pocket, and just stoops down and picks up two of the bits of paper, and holds them out to me. There was written on each, in great round text, ‘Harry East, his mark.’ The young rogue had found my trap out, taken away my paper, and put some of his there, every bit ear-marked. I’d a great mind to lick him for his impudence; but, after all, one has no right to be laying traps, so I didn’t. Of course I was at his mercy till the end of the half, and in his weeks my study was so frowzy I couldn’t sit in it.”
“They spoil one’s things so, too,” chimed in a third boy. “Hall and Brown were night-fags last week. I called ‘fag,’ and gave them my candlesticks to clean. Away they went, and didn’t appear again. When they’d had time enough to clean them three times over, I went out to look after them. They weren’t in the passages so down I went into the hall, where I heard music; and there I found them sitting on the table, listening to Johnson, who was playing the flute, and my candlesticks stuck between the bars well into the fire, red-hot, clean spoiled. They’ve never stood straight since, and I must get some more. However, I gave them a good licking; that’s one comfort.”
Such were the sort of scrapes they were always getting into; and so, partly by their own faults, partly from circumstances, partly from the faults of others, they found themselves outlaws, ticket-of-leave men, or what you will in that line—in short, dangerous parties—and lived the sort of hand-to-mouth, wild, reckless life which such parties generally have to put up with. Nevertheless they never quite lost favour with young Brooke, who was now the cock of the house, and just getting into the sixth; and Diggs stuck to them like a man, and gave them store of good advice, by which they never in the least profited.
And even after the house mended, and law and order had been restored, which soon happened after young Brooke and Diggs got into the sixth, they couldn’t easily or at once return into the paths of steadiness, and many of the old, wild, out-of-bounds habits stuck to them as firmly as ever. While they had been quite little boys, the scrapes they got into in the School hadn’t much mattered to any one; but now they were in the upper school, all wrong-doers from which were sent up straight to the Doctor at once. So they began to come under his notice; and as they were a sort of leaders in a small way amongst their own contemporaries, his eye, which was everywhere, was upon them.
It was a toss-up whether they turned out well or ill, and so they were just the boys who caused most anxiety to such a master. You have been told of the first occasion on which they were sent up to the Doctor, and the remembrance of it was so pleasant that they had much less fear of him than most boys of their standing had. “It’s all his look,” Tom used to say to East, “that frightens fellows. Don’t you remember, he never said anything to us my first half-year for being an hour late for locking-up?”
The next time that Tom came before him, however, the interview was of a very different kind. It happened just about the time at which we have now arrived, and was the first of a series of scrapes into which our hero managed now to tumble.
The river Avon at Rugby is a slow and not very clear stream, in which chub, dace, roach, and other coarse fish are (or were) plentiful enough, together with a fair sprinkling of small jack, but no fish worth sixpence either for sport or food. It is, however, a capital river for bathing, as it has many nice small pools and several good reaches for swimming, all within about a mile of one another, and at an easy twenty minutes’ walk from the school. This mile of water is rented, or used to be rented, for bathing purposes by the trustees of the School, for the boys. The footpath to Brownsover crosses the river by “the Planks,” a curious old single-plank bridge running for fifty or sixty yards into the flat meadows on each side of the river—for in the winter there are frequent floods. Above the Planks were the bathing-places for the smaller boys—Sleath’s, the first bathing-place, where all new boys had to begin, until they had proved to the bathing men (three steady individuals, who were paid to attend daily through the summer to prevent accidents) that they could swim pretty decently, when they were allowed to go on to Anstey’s, about one hundred and fifty yards below. Here there was a hole about six feet deep and twelve feet across, over which the puffing urchins struggled to the opposite side, and thought no small beer of themselves for having been out of their depths. Below the Planks came larger and deeper holes, the first of which was Wratislaw’s, and the last Swift’s, a famous hole, ten or twelve feet deep in parts, and thirty yards across, from which there was a fine swimming reach right down to the mill. Swift’s was reserved for the sixth and fifth forms, and had a spring board and two sets of steps: the others had one set of steps each, and were used indifferently by all the lower boys, though each house addicted itself more to one hole than to another. The School-house at this time affected Wratislaw’s hole, and Tom and East, who had learnt to swim like fishes, were to be found there as regular as the clock through the summer, always twice, and often three times a day.
Now the boys either had, or fancied they had, a right also to fish at their pleasure over the whole of this part of the river, and would not understand that the right (if any) only extended to the Rugby side. As ill-luck would have it, the gentleman who owned the opposite bank, after allowing it for some time without interference, had ordered his keepers not to let the boys fish on his side—the consequence of which had been that there had been first wranglings and then fights between the keepers and boys; and so keen had the quarrel become that the landlord and his keepers, after a ducking had been inflicted on one of the latter, and a fierce fight ensued thereon, had been up to the great school at calling-over to identify the delinquents, and it was all the Doctor himself and five or six masters could do to keep the peace. Not even his authority could prevent the hissing; and so strong was the feeling that the four praepostors of the week walked up the school with their canes, shouting “S-s-s-s-i-lenc-c-c-c-e” at the top of their voices. However, the chief offenders for the time were flogged and kept in bounds; but the victorious party had brought a nice hornet’s nest about their ears. The landlord was hissed at the School-gates as he rode past, and when he charged his horse at the mob of boys, and tried to thrash them with his whip, was driven back by cricket-bats and wickets, and pursued with pebbles and fives balls; while the wretched keepers’ lives were a burden to them, from having to watch the waters so closely.
The School-house boys of Tom’s standing, one and all, as a protest against this tyranny and cutting short of their lawful amusements, took to fishing in all ways, and especially by means of night-lines. The little tacklemaker at the bottom of the town would soon have made his fortune had the rage lasted, and several of the barbers began to lay in fishing-tackle. The boys had this great advantage over their enemies, that they spent a large portion of the day in nature’s garb by the river-side, and so, when tired of swimming, would get out on the other side and fish, or set night-lines, till the keepers hove in sight, and then plunge in and swim back and mix with the other bathers, and the keepers were too wise to follow across the stream.
While things were in this state, one day Tom and three or four others were bathing at Wratislaw’s, and had, as a matter of course, been taking up and re-setting night-lines. They had all left the water, and were sitting or standing about at their toilets, in all costumes, from a shirt upwards, when they were aware of a man in a velveteen shooting-coat approaching from the other side. He was a new keeper, so they didn’t recognize or notice him, till he pulled up right opposite, and began:
“I see’d some of you young gentlemen over this side a-fishing just now.”
“Hullo! who are you? What business is that of yours, old Velveteens?”
“I’m the new under-keeper, and master’s told me to keep a sharp lookout on all o’ you young chaps. And I tells ‘ee I means business, and you’d better keep on your own side, or we shall fall out.”
“Well, that’s right, Velveteens; speak out, and let’s know your mind at once.”
“Look here, old boy,” cried East, holding up a miserable, coarse fish or two and a small jack; “would you like to smell ‘em and see which bank they lived under?”
“I’ll give you a bit of advice, keeper,” shouted Tom, who was sitting in his shirt paddling with his feet in the river: “you’d better go down there to Swift’s, where the big boys are; they’re beggars at setting lines, and’ll put you up to a wrinkle or two for catching the five-pounders.” Tom was nearest to the keeper, and that officer, who was getting angry at the chaff, fixed his eyes on our hero, as if to take a note of him for future use. Tom returned his gaze with a steady stare, and then broke into a laugh, and struck into the middle of a favourite School-house song,—
“As I and my companions Were setting of a snare The gamekeeper was watching us; For him we did not care: For we can wrestle and fight, my boys, And jump out anywhere. For it’s my delight of a likely night, In the season of the year.”
The chorus was taken up by the other boys with shouts of laughter, and the keeper turned away with a grunt, but evidently bent on mischief. The boys thought no more of the matter.
But now came on the May-fly season; the soft, hazy summer weather lay sleepily along the rich meadows by Avon side, and the green and gray flies flickered with their graceful, lazy up-and-down flight over the reeds and the water and the meadows, in myriads upon myriads. The May-flies must surely be the lotus-eaters of the ephemerae—the happiest, laziest, carelessest fly that dances and dreams out his few hours of sunshiny life by English rivers.
Every little pitiful, coarse fish in the Avon was on the alert for the flies, and gorging his wretched carcass with hundreds daily, the gluttonous rogues! and every lover of the gentle craft was out to avenge the poor May-flies.
So one fine Thursday afternoon, Tom, having borrowed East’s new rod, started by himself to the river. He fished for some time with small success—not a fish would rise at him; but as he prowled along the bank, he was presently aware of mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite side, under the shade of a huge willow-tree. The stream was deep here, but some fifty yards below was a shallow, for which he made off hot-foot; and forgetting landlords, keepers, solemn prohibitions of the Doctor, and everything else, pulled up his trousers, plunged across, and in three minutes was creeping along on all fours towards the clump of willows.
It isn’t often that great chub, or any other coarse fish, are in earnest about anything; but just then they were thoroughly bent on feeding, and in half an hour Master Tom had deposited three thumping fellows at the foot of the giant willow. As he was baiting for a fourth pounder, and just going to throw in again, he became aware of a man coming up the bank not one hundred yards off. Another look told him that it was the under-keeper. Could he reach the shallow before him? No, not carrying his rod. Nothing for it but the tree. So Tom laid his bones to it, shinning up as fast as he could, and dragging up his rod after him. He had just time to reach and crouch along upon a huge branch some ten feet up, which stretched out over the river, when the keeper arrived at the clump. Tom’s heart beat fast as he came under the tree; two steps more and he would have passed, when, as ill-luck would have it, the gleam on the scales of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a dead point at the foot of the tree. He picked up the fish one by one; his eye and touch told him that they had been alive and feeding within the hour. Tom crouched lower along the branch, and heard the keeper beating the clump. “If I could only get the rod hidden,” thought he, and began gently shifting it to get it alongside of him; “willowtrees don’t throw out straight hickory shoots twelve feet long, with no leaves, worse luck.” Alas! the keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight of the rod, and then of Tom’s hand and arm.
“Oh, be up ther’, be ‘ee?” says he, running under the tree. “Now you come down this minute.”
“Tree’d at last,” thinks Tom, making no answer, and keeping as close as possible, but working away at the rod, which he takes to pieces. “I’m in for it, unless I can starve him out.” And then he begins to meditate getting along the branch for a plunge, and scramble to the other side; but the small branches are so thick, and the opposite bank so difficult, that the keeper will have lots of time to get round by the ford before he can get out, so he gives that up. And now he hears the keeper beginning to scramble up the trunk. That will never do; so he scrambles himself back to where his branch joins the trunk; and stands with lifted rod.
“Hullo, Velveteens; mind your fingers if you come any higher.”
The keeper stops and looks up, and then with a grin says, “Oh! be you, be it, young measter? Well, here’s luck. Now I tells ‘ee to come down at once, and ‘t’ll be best for ‘ee.”
“Thank ‘ee, Velveteens; I’m very comfortable,” said Tom, shortening the rod in his hand, and preparing for battle.
“Werry well; please yourself,” says the keeper, descending, however, to the ground again, and taking his seat on the bank. “I bean’t in no hurry, so you may take your time. I’ll l’arn ‘ee to gee honest folk names afore I’ve done with ‘ee.”
“My luck as usual,” thinks Tom; “what a fool I was to give him a black!  The return match is all his way.”
The keeper quietly proceeded to take out his pipe, fill, and light it, keeping an eye on Tom, who now sat disconsolately across the branch, looking at keeper—a pitiful sight for men and fishes. The more he thought of it the less he liked it. “It must be getting near second calling-over,” thinks he. Keeper smokes on stolidly. “If he takes me up, I shall be flogged safe enough. I can’t sit here all night. Wonder if he’ll rise at silver.”
“I say, keeper,” said he meekly, “let me go for two bob?”
“Not for twenty neither,” grunts his persecutor.
And so they sat on till long past second calling-over, and the sun came slanting in through the willow-branches, and telling of locking-up near at hand.
“I’m coming down, keeper,” said Tom at last, with a sigh, fairly tired out. “Now what are you going to do?”
“Walk ‘ee up to School, and give ‘ee over to the Doctor; them’s my orders,” says Velveteens, knocking the ashes out of his fourth pipe, and standing up and shaking himself.

Keeper looked at him a minute. “Werry good,” said he at last. And so Tom descended, and wended his way drearily by the side of the keeper, up to the Schoolhouse, where they arrived just at locking-up. As they passed the School-gates, the Tadpole and several others who were standing there caught the state of things, and rushed out, crying, “Rescue!” But Tom shook his head; so they only followed to the Doctor’s gate, and went back sorely puzzled.
How changed and stern the Doctor seemed from the last time that Tom was up there, as the keeper told the story, not omitting to state how Tom had called him blackguard names. “Indeed, sir,” broke in the culprit, “it was only Velveteens.” The Doctor only asked one question.
“You know the rule about the banks, Brown?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then wait for me to-morrow, after first lesson.”
“I thought so,” muttered Tom.
“And about the rod, sir?” went on the keeper. “Master’s told we as we might have all the rods—”
“Oh, please, sir,” broke in Tom, “the rod isn’t mine.”
The Doctor looked puzzled; but the keeper, who was a good-hearted fellow, and melted at Tom’s evident distress, gave up his claim. Tom was flogged next morning, and a few days afterwards met Velveteens, and presented him with half a crown for giving up the rod claim, and they became sworn friends; and I regret to say that Tom had many more fish from under the willow that May-fly season, and was never caught again by Velveteens.
It wasn’t three weeks before Tom, and now East by his side, were again in the awful presence. This time, however, the Doctor was not so terrible. A few days before, they had been fagged at fives to fetch the balls that went off the court. While standing watching the game, they saw five or six nearly new balls hit on the top of the School.
So they reconnoitred the walls carefully, borrowed a coal-hammer from old Stumps, bought some big nails, and after one or two attempts, scaled the Schools, and possessed themselves of huge quantities of fives balls. The place pleased them so much that they spent all their spare time there, scratching and cutting their names on the top of every tower; and at last, having exhausted all other places, finished up with inscribing H.EAST, T.BROWN, on the minute-hand of the great clock; in the doing of which they held the minute-hand, and disturbed the clock’s economy. So next morning, when masters and boys came trooping down to prayers, and entered the quadrangle, the injured minute-hand was indicating three minutes to the hour. They all pulled up, and took their time. When the hour struck, doors were closed, and half the school late. Thomas being set to make inquiry, discovers their names on the minute-hand, and reports accordingly; and they are sent for, a knot of their friends making derisive and pantomimic allusions to what their fate will be as they walk off.
But the Doctor, after hearing their story, doesn’t make much of it, and only gives them thirty lines of Homer to learn by heart, and a lecture on the likelihood of such exploits ending in broken bones.
Alas! almost the next day was one of the great fairs in the town; and as several rows and other disagreeable accidents had of late taken place on these occasions, the Doctor gives out, after prayers in the morning, that no boy is to go down into the town. Wherefore East and Tom, for no earthly pleasure except that of doing what they are told not to do, start away, after second lesson, and making a short circuit through the fields, strike a back lane which leads into the town, go down it, and run plump upon one of the masters as they emerge into the High Street. The master in question, though a very clever, is not a righteous man. He has already caught several of his own pupils, and gives them lines to learn, while he sends East and Tom, who are not his pupils, up to the Doctor, who, on learning that they had been at prayers in the morning, flogs them soundly.
The flogging did them no good at the time, for the injustice of their captor was rankling in their minds; but it was just the end of the half, and on the next evening but one Thomas knocks at their door, and says the Doctor wants to see them. They look at one another in silent dismay. What can it be now? Which of their countless wrong-doings can he have heard of officially? However, it’s no use delaying, so up they go to the study. There they find the Doctor, not angry, but very graver. “He has sent for them to speak to very seriously before they go home. They have each been flogged several times in the half-year for direct and wilful breaches of rules. This cannot go on. They are doing no good to themselves or others, and now they are getting up in the School, and have influence. They seem to think that rules are made capriciously, and for the pleasure of the masters; but this is not so. They are made for the good of the whole School, and must and shall be obeyed. Those who thoughtlessly or wilfully break them will not be allowed to stay at the School. He should be sorry if they had to leave, as the School might do them both much good, and wishes them to think very seriously in the holidays over what he has said. Good-night.”
And so the two hurry off horribly scared; the idea of having to leave has never crossed their minds, and is quite unbearable.
As they go out, they meet at the door old Holmes, a sturdy, cheery praepostor of another house, who goes in to the Doctor; and they hear his genial, hearty greeting of the newcomer, so different to their own reception, as the door closes, and return to their study with heavy hearts, and tremendous resolves to break no more rules.
Five minutes afterwards the master of their form—a late arrival and a model young master—knocks at the Doctor’s study-door. “Come in!” And as he enters, the Doctor goes on, to Holmes—“You see, I do not know anything of the case officially, and if I take any notice of it at all, I must publicly expel the boy. I don’t wish to do that, for I think there is some good in him. There’s nothing for it but a good sound thrashing.” He paused to shake hands with the master, which Holmes does also, and then prepares to leave.
“I understand. Good-night, sir.”
“Good-night, Holmes. And remember,” added the Doctor, emphasizing the words, “a good sound thrashing before the whole house.”
The door closed on Holmes; and the Doctor, in answer to the puzzled look of his lieutenant, explained shortly. “A gross case of bullying. Wharton, the head of the house, is a very good fellow, but slight and weak, and severe physical pain is the only way to deal with such a case; so I have asked Holmes to take it up. He is very careful and trustworthy, and has plenty of strength. I wish all the sixth had as much. We must have it here, if we are to keep order at all.”
Now I don’t want any wiseacres to read this book, but if they should, of course they will prick up their long ears, and howl, or rather bray, at the above story. Very good—I don’t object; but what I have to add for you boys is this, that Holmes called a levy of his house after breakfast next morning, made them a speech on the case of bullying in question, and then gave the bully a “good sound thrashing;” and that years afterwards, that boy sought out Holmes, and thanked him, saying it had been the kindest act which had ever been done upon him, and the turning-point in his character; and a very good fellow he became, and a credit to his School.
After some other talk between them, the Doctor said, “I want to speak to you about two boys in your form, East and Brown. I have just been speaking to them. What do you think of them?”
“Well, they are not hard workers, and very thoughtless and full of spirits; but I can’t help liking them. I think they are sound, good fellows at the bottom.”
“I’m glad of it. I think so too: But they make me very uneasy. They are taking the lead a good deal amongst the fags in my house, for they are very active, bold fellows. I should be sorry to lose them, but I shan’t let them stay if I don’t see them gaining character and manliness. In another year they may do great harm to all the younger boys.”
“Oh, I hope you won’t send them away,” pleaded their master.
“Not if I can help it. But now I never feel sure, after any half-holiday, that I shan’t have to flog one of them next morning, for some foolish, thoughtless scrape. I quite dread seeing either of them.”
They were both silent for a minute. Presently the Doctor began again:—
“They don’t feel that they have any duty or work to do in the school, and how is one to make them feel it?”
“I think if either of them had some little boy to take care of, it would steady them. Brown is the most reckless of the two, I should say. East wouldn’t get into so many scrapes without him.”
“Well,” said the Doctor, with something like a sigh, “I’ll think of it.” And they went on to talk of other subjects.
“I [hold] it truth, with him who sings, To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.” —TENNYSON.
“Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side. . . . . Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified.” —LOWELL.
he turning-point in our hero’s school career had now come, and the manner of it was as follows. On the evening of the first day of the next half-year, Tom, East, and another School-house boy, who had just been dropped at the Spread Eagle by the old Regulator, rushed into the matron’s room in high spirits, such as all real boys are in when they first get back, however fond they may be of home.
“Well, Mrs. Wixie,” shouted one, seizing on the methodical, active, little dark-eyed woman, who was busy stowing away the linen of the boys who had already arrived into their several pigeon-holes, “here we are again, you see, as jolly as ever. Let us help you put the things away.”
“And, Mary,” cried another (she was called indifferently by either name), “who’s come back? Has the Doctor made old Jones leave? How many new boys are there?”
“Am I and East to have Gray’s study? You know you promised to get it for us if you could,” shouted Tom.
“And am I to sleep in Number 4?” roared East.
“How’s old Sam, and Bogle, and Sally?”
“Bless the boys!” cries Mary, at last getting in a word; “why, you’ll shake me to death. There, now, do go away up to the housekeeper’s room and get your suppers; you know I haven’t time to talk. You’ll find plenty more in the house.—Now, Master East, do let those things alone. You’re mixing up three new boys’ things.” And she rushed at East, who escaped round the open trunks holding up a prize.
“Hullo! look here, Tommy,” shouted he; “here’s fun!” and he brandished above his head some pretty little night-caps, beautifully made and marked, the work of loving fingers in some distant country home. The kind mother and sisters who sewed that delicate stitching with aching hearts little thought of the trouble they might be bringing on the young head for which they were meant. The little matron was wiser, and snatched the caps from East before he could look at the name on them.
“Now, Master East, I shall be very angry if you don’t go,” said she; “there’s some capital cold beef and pickles upstairs, and I won’t have you old boys in my room first night.”
“Hurrah for the pickles! Come along, Tommy—come along, Smith. We shall find out who the young count is, I’ll be bound. I hope he’ll sleep in my room. Mary’s always vicious first week.”
As the boys turned to leave the room, the matron touched Tom’s arm, and said, “Master Brown, please stop a minute; I want to speak to you.”
“Very well, Mary. I’ll come in a minute, East. Don’t finish the pickles.”
“O Master Brown,” went on the little matron, when the rest had gone, “you’re to have Gray’s study, Mrs. Arnold says. And she wants you to take in this young gentleman. He’s a new boy, and thirteen years old though he don’t look it. He’s very delicate, and has never been from home before. And I told Mrs. Arnold I thought you’d be kind to him, and see that they don’t bully him at first. He’s put into your form, and I’ve given him the bed next to yours in Number 4; so East can’t sleep there this half.”
Tom was rather put about by this speech. He had got the double study which he coveted, but here were conditions attached which greatly moderated his joy. He looked across the room, and in the far corner of the sofa was aware of a slight, pale boy, with large blue eyes and light fair hair, who seemed ready to shrink through the floor. He saw at a glance that the little stranger was just the boy whose first half-year at a public school would be misery to himself if he were left alone, or constant anxiety to any one who meant to see him through his troubles. Tom was too honest to take in the youngster, and then let him shift for himself; and if he took him as his chum instead of East, where were all his pet plans of having a bottled-beer cellar under his window, and making night-lines and slings, and plotting expeditions to Brownsover Mills and Caldecott’s Spinney? East and he had made up their minds to get this study, and then every night from locking-up till ten they would be together to talk about fishing, drink bottled-beer, read Marryat’s novels, and sort birds’ eggs. And this new boy would most likely never go out of the close, and would be afraid of wet feet, and always getting laughed at, and called Molly, or Jenny, or some derogatory feminine nickname.
The matron watched him for a moment, and saw what was passing in his mind, and so, like a wise negotiator, threw in an appeal to his warm heart.  And his mamma—such a kind, sweet lady—almost broke her heart at leaving him this morning; and she said one of his sisters was like to die of decline, and so—”
“Well, well,” burst in Tom, with something like a sigh at the effort, “I suppose I must give up East.—Come along, young un. What’s your name? We’ll go and have some supper, and then I’ll show you our study.”
“His name’s George Arthur,” said the matron, walking up to him with Tom, who grasped his little delicate hand as the proper preliminary to making a chum of him, and felt as if he could have blown him away. “I’ve had his books and things put into the study, which his mamma has had new papered, and the sofa covered, and new green-baize curtains over the door” (the diplomatic matron threw this in, to show that the new boy was contributing largely to the partnership comforts).  You know the way, Master Brown, and the things are just gone up, I know.”
Here was an announcement for Master Tom! He was to go up to tea the first night, just as if he were a sixth or fifth form boy, and of importance in the School world, instead of the most reckless young scapegrace amongst the fags. He felt himself lifted on to a higher social and moral platform at once. Nevertheless he couldn’t give up without a sigh the idea of the jolly supper in the housekeeper’s room with East and the rest, and a rush round to all the studies of his friends afterwards, to pour out the deeds and wonders of the holidays, to plot fifty plans for the coming half-year, and to gather news of who had left and what new boys had come, who had got who’s study, and where the new praepostors slept. However, Tom consoled himself with thinking that he couldn’t have done all this with the new boy at his heels, and so marched off along the passages to the Doctor’s private house with his young charge in tow, in monstrous good-humour with himself and all the world.
It is needless, and would be impertinent, to tell how the two young boys were received in that drawing-room. The lady who presided there is still living, and has carried with her to her peaceful home in the north the respect and love of all those who ever felt and shared that gentle and high-bred hospitality. Ay, many is the brave heart, now doing its work and bearing its load in country curacies, London chambers, under the Indian sun, and in Australian towns and clearings, which looks back with fond and grateful memory to that School-house drawing-room, and dates much of its highest and best training to the lessons learnt there.
Besides Mrs. Arnold and one or two of the elder children, there were one of the younger masters, young Brooke (who was now in the sixth, and had succeeded to his brother’s position and influence), and another sixth-form boy, talking together before the fire. The master and young Brooke, now a great strapping fellow six feet high, eighteen years old, and powerful as a coal-heaver, nodded kindly to Tom, to his intense glory, and then went on talking. The other did not notice them. The hostess, after a few kind words, which led the boys at once and insensibly to feel at their ease and to begin talking to one another, left them with her own children while she finished a letter. The young ones got on fast and well, Tom holding forth about a prodigious pony he had been riding out hunting, and hearing stories of the winter glories of the lakes, when tea came in, and immediately after the Doctor himself.
How frank, and kind, and manly was his greeting to the party by the fire! It did Tom’s heart good to see him and young Brooke shake hands, and look one another in the face; and he didn’t fail to remark that Brooke was nearly as tall and quite as broad as the Doctor. And his cup was full when in another moment his master turned to him with another warm shake of the hand, and, seemingly oblivious of all the late scrapes which he had been getting into, said, “Ah, Brown, you here! I hope you left your father and all well at home?”
“Yes, sir, quite well.”
“And this is the little fellow who is to share your study. Well, he doesn’t look as we should like to see him. He wants some Rugby air, and cricket. And you must take him some good long walks, to Bilton Grange, and Caldecott’s Spinney, and show him what a little pretty country we have about here.”
Tom wondered if the Doctor knew that his visits to Bilton Grange were for the purpose of taking rooks’ nests (a proceeding strongly discountenanced by the owner thereof), and those to Caldecott’s Spinney were prompted chiefly by the conveniences for setting night-lines. What didn’t the Doctor know? And what a noble use he always made of it! He almost resolved to abjure rook-pies and night-lines for ever. The tea went merrily off, the Doctor now talking of holiday doings, and then of the prospects of the half-year—what chance there was for the Balliol scholarship, whether the eleven would be a good one. Everybody was at his ease, and everybody felt that he, young as he might be, was of some use in the little School world, and had a work to do there.
Soon after tea the Doctor went off to his study, and the young boys a few minutes afterwards took their leave and went out of the private door which led from the Doctor’s house into the middle passage.
At the fire, at the farther end of the passage, was a crowd of boys in loud talk and laughter. There was a sudden pause when the door opened, and then a great shout of greeting, as Tom was recognized marching down the passage.
“Hullo, Brown! where do you come from?”
“Oh, I’ve been to tea with the Doctor,” says Tom, with great dignity.
 You lost something. That beef and pickles was no end good.”
“I say, young fellow,” cried Hall, detecting Arthur and catching him by the collar, “what’s your name? Where do you come from? How old are you?”
Tom saw Arthur shrink back and look scared as all the group turned to him, but thought it best to let him answer, just standing by his side to support in case of need.
“Arthur, sir. I come from Devonshire.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir,’ you young muff. How old are you?”
“Thirteen.”
“Can you sing?”
The poor boy was trembling and hesitating. Tom struck in—“You be hanged, Tadpole. He’ll have to sing, whether he can or not, Saturday twelve weeks, and that’s long enough off yet.”
“Do you know him at home, Brown?”
“No; but he’s my chum in Gray’s old study, and it’s near prayer-time, and I haven’t had a look at it yet.—Come along, Arthur.”
Away went the two, Tom longing to get his charge safe under cover, where he might advise him on his deportment.
“What a queer chum for Tom Brown,” was the comment at the fire; and it must be confessed so thought Tom himself, as he lighted his candle, and surveyed the new green-baize curtains and the carpet and sofa with much satisfaction.
 But look here now; you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you, and don’t be afraid. If you’re afraid, you’ll get bullied.

“But, please,” said he, “mayn’t I talk about—about home to you?”
“Oh yes; I like it.  What a jolly desk! Is that yours? And what stunning binding! Why, your school-books look like novels.”
And Tom was soon deep in Arthur’s goods and chattels, all new, and good enough for a fifth-form boy, and hardly thought of his friends outside till the prayer-bell rang.
I have already described the School-house prayers. They were the same on the first night as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused by the absence of those boys who came late, and the line of new boys who stood all together at the farther table—of all sorts and sizes, like young bears with all their troubles to come, as Tom’s father had said to him when he was in the same position. He thought of it as he looked at the line, and poor little slight Arthur standing with them, and as he was leading him upstairs to Number 4, directly after prayers, and showing him his bed. It was a huge, high, airy room, with two large windows looking on to the School close. There were twelve beds in the room. The one in the farthest corner by the fireplace, occupied by the sixth-form boy, who was responsible for the discipline of the room, and the rest by boys in the lower-fifth and other junior forms, all fags (for the fifth-form boys, as has been said, slept in rooms by themselves). Being fags, the eldest of them was not more than about sixteen years old, and were all bound to be up and in bed by ten. The sixth-form boys came to bed from ten to a quarter-past (at which time the old verger came round to put the candles out), except when they sat up to read.
Within a few minutes therefore of their entry, all the other boys who slept in Number 4 had come up. The little fellows went quietly to their own beds, and began undressing, and talking to each other in whispers; while the elder, amongst whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one another’s beds, with their jackets and waistcoats off.  The idea of sleeping in the room with strange boys had clearly never crossed his mind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. He could hardly bear to take his jacket off; however, presently, with an effort, off it came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the bottom of his bed talking and laughing.
 You’ll have to go down for more water in the morning if you use it all.” And on he went with his talk, while Arthur stole timidly from between the beds out to his washhand-stand, and began his ablutions, thereby drawing for a moment on himself the attention of the room.
On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his washing and undressing, and put on his night-gown. He then looked round more nervously than ever.  The light burned clear, the noise went on. It was a trying moment for the poor little lonely boy; however, this time he didn’t ask Tom what he might or might not do, but dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he had done every day from his childhood, to open his heart to Him who heareth the cry and beareth the sorrows of the tender child, and the strong man in agony.
Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so that his back was towards Arthur, and he didn’t see what had happened, and looked up in wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys laughed and sneered, and a big, brutal fellow who was standing in the middle of the room picked up a slipper, and shied it at the kneeling boy, calling him a snivelling young shaver. Then Tom saw the whole, and the next moment the boot he had just pulled off flew straight at the head of the bully, who had just time to throw up his arm and catch it on his elbow.
“Confound you, Brown! what’s that for?” roared he, stamping with pain.
“Never mind what I mean,” said Tom, stepping on to the floor, every drop of blood in his body tingling; “if any fellow wants the other boot, he knows how to get it.”
What would have been the result is doubtful, for at this moment the sixth-form boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom and the rest rushed into bed and finished their unrobing there, and the old verger, as punctual as the clock, had put out the candle in another minute, and toddled on to the next room, shutting their door with his usual “Good-night, gen’lm’n.”
There were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was taken to heart before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the pillow of poor Tom. For some time his excitement, and the flood of memories which chased one another through his brain, kept him from thinking or resolving. His head throbbed, his heart leapt, and he could hardly keep himself from springing out of bed and rushing about the room. Then the thought of his own mother came across him, and the promise he had made at her knee, years ago, never to forget to kneel by his bedside, and give himself up to his Father, before he laid his head on the pillow, from which it might never rise; and he lay down gently, and cried as if his heart would break. He was only fourteen years old.
It was no light act of courage in those days, my dear boys, for a little fellow to say his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A few years later, when Arnold’s manly piety had begun to leaven the School, the tables turned; before he died, in the School-house at least, and I believe in the other house, the rule was the other way. But poor Tom had come to school in other times. The first few nights after he came he did not kneel down because of the noise, but sat up in bed till the candle was out, and then stole out and said his prayers, in fear lest some one should find him out.  Then he began to think that he might just as well say his prayers in bed, and then that it didn’t matter whether he was kneeling, or sitting, or lying down. And so it had come to pass with Tom, as with all who will not confess their Lord before men; and for the last year he had probably not said his prayers in earnest a dozen times.
Poor Tom! the first and bitterest feeling which was like to break his heart was the sense of his own cowardice. The vice of all others which he loathed was brought in and burnt in on his own soul. He had lied to his mother, to his conscience, to his God. How could he bear it? And then the poor little weak boy, whom he had pitied and almost scorned for his weakness, had done that which he, braggart as he was, dared not do. The first dawn of comfort came to him in swearing to himself that he would stand by that boy through thick and thin, and cheer him, and help him, and bear his burdens for the good deed done that night.  And then peace came to him as he resolved, lastly, to bear his testimony next morning. The morning would be harder than the night to begin with, but he felt that he could not afford to let one chance slip. Several times he faltered, for the devil showed him first all his old friends calling him “Saint” and “Square-toes,” and a dozen hard names, and whispered to him that his motives would be misunderstood, and he would only be left alone with the new boy; whereas it was his duty to keep all means of influence, that he might do good to the largest number. And then came the more subtle temptation, “Shall I not be showing myself braver than others by doing this? Have I any right to begin it now? Ought I not rather to pray in my own study, letting other boys know that I do so, and trying to lead them to it, while in public at least I should go on as I have done?” However, his good angel was too strong that night, and he turned on his side and slept, tired of trying to reason, but resolved to follow the impulse which had been so strong, and in which he had found peace.
Next morning he was up and washed and dressed, all but his jacket and waistcoat, just as the ten minutes’ bell began to ring, and then in the face of the whole room knelt down to pray. Not five words could he say—the bell mocked him; he was listening for every whisper in the room—what were they all thinking of him? He was ashamed to go on kneeling, ashamed to rise from his knees. At last, as it were from his inmost heart, a still, small voice seemed to breathe forth the words of the publican, “God be merciful to me a sinner!”  It was not needed: two other boys besides Arthur had already followed his example, and he went down to the great School with a glimmering of another lesson in his heart—the lesson that he who has conquered his own coward spirit has conquered the whole outward world; and that other one which the old prophet learnt in the cave in Mount Horeb, when he hid his face, and the still, small voice asked, “What doest thou here, Elijah?” that however we may fancy ourselves alone on the side of good, the King and Lord of men is nowhere without His witnesses; for in every society, however seemingly corrupt and godless, there are those who have not bowed the knee to Baal.
He found, too, how greatly he had exaggerated the effect to be produced by his act. For a few nights there was a sneer or a laugh when he knelt down, but this passed off soon, and one by one all the other boys but three or four followed the lead. I fear that this was in some measure owing to the fact that Tom could probably have thrashed any boy in the room except the praepostor; at any rate, every boy knew that he would try upon very slight provocation, and didn’t choose to run the risk of a hard fight because Tom Brown had taken a fancy to say his prayers. Some of the small boys of Number 4 communicated the new state of things to their chums, and in several other rooms the poor little fellows tried it on—in one instance or so, where the praepostor heard of it and interfered very decidedly, with partial success; but in the rest, after a short struggle, the confessors were bullied or laughed down, and the old state of things went on for some time longer. Before either Tom Brown or Arthur left the School-house, there was no room in which it had not become the regular custom. I trust it is so still, and that the old heathen state of things has gone out for ever.
“And Heaven’s rich instincts in him grew As effortless as woodland nooks Send violets up and paint them blue.”—LOWELL.
do not mean to recount all the little troubles and annoyances which thronged upon Tom at the beginning of this half-year, in his new character of bear-leader to a gentle little boy straight from home. He seemed to himself to have become a new boy again, without any of the long-suffering and meekness indispensable for supporting that character with moderate success. From morning till night he had the feeling of responsibility on his mind, and even if he left Arthur in their study or in the close for an hour, was never at ease till he had him in sight again. He waited for him at the doors of the school after every lesson and every calling-over; watched that no tricks were played him, and none but the regulation questions asked; kept his eye on his plate at dinner and breakfast, to see that no unfair depredations were made upon his viands; in short, as East remarked, cackled after him like a hen with one chick.
Arthur took a long time thawing, too, which made it all the harder work; was sadly timid; scarcely ever spoke unless Tom spoke to him first; and, worst of all, would agree with him in everything—the hardest thing in the world for a Brown to bear. He got quite angry sometimes, as they sat together of a night in their study, at this provoking habit of agreement, and was on the point of breaking out a dozen times with a lecture upon the propriety of a fellow having a will of his own and speaking out, but managed to restrain himself by the thought that he might only frighten Arthur, and the remembrance of the lesson he had learnt from him on his first night at Number 4. Then he would resolve to sit still and not say a word till Arthur began; but he was always beat at that game, and had presently to begin talking in despair, fearing lest Arthur might think he was vexed at something if he didn’t, and dog-tired of sitting tongue-tied.
It was hard work. But Tom had taken it up, and meant to stick to it, and go through with it so as to satisfy himself; in which resolution he was much assisted by the chafing of East and his other old friends, who began to call him “dry-nurse,” and otherwise to break their small wit on him. But when they took other ground, as they did every now and then, Tom was sorely puzzled.
“Tell you what, Tommy,” East would say; “you’ll spoil young Hopeful with too much coddling. Why can’t you let him go about by himself and find his own level? He’ll never be worth a button if you go on keeping him under your skirts.”
“Well, but he ain’t fit to fight his own way yet; I’m trying to get him to it every day, but he’s very odd.  I can’t make him out a bit.  Now I’ll tell you what to do, Tommy.  There’s something about him, every now and then, which shows me he’s got pluck somewhere in him. That’s the only thing after all that’ll wash, ain’t it, old Scud? But how to get at it and bring it out?”
Tom took one hand out of his breeches-pocket and stuck it in his back hair for a scratch, giving his hat a tilt over his nose, his one method of invoking wisdom. He stared at the ground with a ludicrously puzzled look, and presently looked up and met East’s eyes. That young gentleman slapped him on the back, and then put his arm round his shoulder, as they strolled through the quadrangle together. “Tom,” said he, “blest if you ain’t the best old fellow ever was. I do like to see you go into a thing. Hang it, I wish I could take things as you do; but I never can get higher than a joke. Everything’s a joke. If I was going to be flogged next minute, I should be in a blue funk, but I couldn’t help laughing at it for the life of me.”
“Brown and East, you go and fag for Jones on the great fives court.”
“Hullo, though, that’s past a joke,” broke out East, springing at the young gentleman who addressed them, and catching him by the collar.—“Here, Tommy, catch hold of him t’other side before he can holla.”
The youth was seized, and dragged, struggling, out of the quadrangle into the School-house hall. He was one of the miserable little pretty white-handed, curly-headed boys, petted and pampered by some of the big fellows, who wrote their verses for them, taught them to drink and use bad language, and did all they could to spoil them for everything * in this world and the next. One of the avocations in which these young gentlemen took particular delight was in going about and getting fags for their protectors, when those heroes were playing any game. They carried about pencil and paper with them, putting down the names of all the boys they sent, always sending five times as many as were wanted, and getting all those thrashed who didn’t go. The present youth belonged to a house which was very jealous of the School-house, and always picked out School-house fags when he could find them. However, this time he’d got the wrong sow by the ear. His captors slammed the great door of the hall, and East put his back against it, while Tom gave the prisoner a shake up, took away his list, and stood him up on the floor, while he proceeded leisurely to examine that document.
* A kind and wise critic, an old Rugboean, notes here in the margin: “The small friend system was not so utterly bad from 1841-1847.” Before that, too, there were many noble friendships between big and little boys; but I can’t strike out the passage. Many boys will know why it is left in.
“Let me out, let me go!” screamed the boy, in a furious passion. “I’ll go and tell Jones this minute, and he’ll give you both the —- thrashing you ever had.”
“Pretty little dear,” said East, patting the top of his hat.—“Hark how he swears, Tom. Nicely brought up young man, ain’t he, I don’t think.”
“Let me alone, —- you,” roared the boy, foaming with rage, and kicking at East, who quietly tripped him up, and deposited him on the floor in a place of safety.
“Gently, young fellow,” said he; “‘tain’t improving for little whippersnappers like you to be indulging in blasphemy; so you stop that, or you’ll get something you won’t like.”
“I’ll have you both licked when I get out, that I will,” rejoined the boy, beginning to snivel.
“Two can play at that game, mind you,” said Tom, who had finished his examination of the list. “Now you just listen here. We’ve just come across the fives court, and Jones has four fags there already—two more than he wants. If he’d wanted us to change, he’d have stopped us himself. And here, you little blackguard, you’ve got seven names down on your list besides ours, and five of them School-house.” Tom walked up to him, and jerked him on to his legs; he was by this time whining like a whipped puppy. “Now just listen to me.   And Tom tore up the list and threw the pieces into the fire.
 You haven’t got the sort of hide to take a sound licking kindly.” And he opened the door and sent the young gentleman flying into the quadrangle with a parting kick.
“Nice boy, Tommy,” said East, shoving his hands in his pockets, and strolling to the fire.
“Worst sort we breed,” responded Tom, following his example. “Thank goodness, no big fellow ever took to petting me.”
“You’d never have been like that,” said East. “I should like to have put him in a museum: Christian young gentleman, nineteenth century, highly educated.  He’d make a respectable public open its eyes, I think.”
“Think he’ll tell Jones?” said Tom.
“No,” said East. “Don’t care if he does.”
“Nor I,” said Tom. And they went back to talk about Arthur.
The young gentleman had brains enough not to tell Jones, reasoning that East and Brown, who were noted as some of the toughest fags in the School, wouldn’t care three straws for any licking Jones might give them, and would be likely to keep their words as to passing it on with interest.
After the above conversation, East came a good deal to their study, and took notice of Arthur, and soon allowed to Tom that he was a thorough little gentleman, and would get over his shyness all in good time; which much comforted our hero. He felt every day, too, the value of having an object in his life—something that drew him out of himself; and it being the dull time of the year, and no games going about for which he much cared, was happier than he had ever yet been at school, which was saying a great deal.
The time which Tom allowed himself away from his charge was from locking-up till supper-time. During this hour or hour and a half he used to take his fling, going round to the studies of all his acquaintance, sparring or gossiping in the hall, now jumping the old iron-bound tables, or carving a bit of his name on them, then joining in some chorus of merry voices—in fact, blowing off his steam, as we should now call it.
This process was so congenial to his temper, and Arthur showed himself so pleased at the arrangement, that it was several weeks before Tom was ever in their study before supper. One evening, however, he rushed in to look for an old chisel, or some corks, or other article essential to his pursuit for the time being, and while rummaging about in the cupboards, looked up for a moment, and was caught at once by the figure of poor little Arthur. The boy was sitting with his elbows on the table, and his head leaning on his hands, and before him an open book, on which his tears were falling fast. Tom shut the door at once, and sat down on the sofa by Arthur, putting his arm round his neck.
  What are you reading, then? Hang it! you must come about with me, and not mope yourself.” And Tom cast down his eyes on the book, and saw it was the Bible. He was silent for a minute, and thought to himself, “Lesson Number 2, Tom Brown;” and then said gently, “I’m very glad to see this, Arthur, and ashamed that I don’t read the Bible more myself. Do you read it every night before supper while I’m out?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I wish you’d wait till afterwards, and then we’d read together. But, Arthur, why does it make you cry?”
“Oh, it isn’t that I’m unhappy. But at home, while my father was alive, we always read the lessons after tea; and I love to read them over now, and try to remember what he said about them. I can’t remember all and I think I scarcely understand a great deal of what I do remember. But it all comes back to me so fresh that I can’t help crying sometimes to think I shall never read them again with him.”
Arthur had never spoken of his home before, and Tom hadn’t encouraged him to do so, as his blundering schoolboy reasoning made him think that Arthur would be softened and less manly for thinking of home. But now he was fairly interested, and forgot all about chisels and bottled beer; while with very little encouragement Arthur launched into his home history, and the prayer-bell put them both out sadly when it rang to call them to the hall.
From this time Arthur constantly spoke of his home, and above all, of his father, who had been dead about a year, and whose memory Tom soon got to love and reverence almost as much as his own son did.
Arthur’s father had been the clergyman of a parish in the Midland counties, which had risen into a large town during the war, and upon which the hard years which followed had fallen with fearful weight. The trade had been half ruined; and then came the old, sad story, of masters reducing their establishments, men turned off and wandering about, hungry and wan in body, and fierce in soul, from the thought of wives and children starving at home, and the last sticks of furniture going to the pawnshop; children taken from school, and lounging about the dirty streets and courts, too listless almost to play, and squalid in rags and misery; and then the fearful struggle between the employers and men—lowerings of wages, strikes, and the long course of oft-repeated crime, ending every now and then with a riot, a fire, and the county yeomanry. There is no need here to dwell upon such tales: the Englishman into whose soul they have not sunk deep is not worthy the name.
Into such a parish and state of society Arthur’s father had been thrown at the age of twenty-five—a young married parson, full of faith, hope, and love. He had battled with it like a man, and had lots of fine Utopian ideas about the perfectibility of mankind, glorious humanity, and such-like, knocked out of his head, and a real, wholesome Christian love for the poor, struggling, sinning men, of whom he felt himself one, and with and for whom he spent fortune, and strength, and life, driven into his heart. He had battled like a man, and gotten a man’s reward—no silver tea-pots or salvers, with flowery inscriptions setting forth his virtues and the appreciation of a genteel parish; no fat living or stall, for which he never looked, and didn’t care; no sighs and praises of comfortable dowagers and well-got-up young women, who worked him slippers, sugared his tea, and adored him as “a devoted man;” but a manly respect, wrung from the unwilling souls of men who fancied his order their natural enemies; the fear and hatred of every one who was false or unjust in the district, were he master or man; and the blessed sight of women and children daily becoming more human and more homely, a comfort to themselves and to their husbands and fathers.
These things, of course, took time, and had to be fought for with toil and sweat of brain and heart, and with the life-blood poured out. All that, Arthur had laid his account to give, and took as a matter of course, neither pitying himself, nor looking on himself as a martyr, when he felt the wear and tear making him feel old before his time, and the stifling air of fever-dens telling on his health. His wife seconded him in everything. She had been rather fond of society, and much admired and run after before her marriage; and the London world to which she had belonged pitied poor Fanny Evelyn when she married the young clergyman, and went to settle in that smoky hole Turley; a very nest of Chartism and Atheism, in a part of the country which all the decent families had had to leave for years. However, somehow or other she didn’t seem to care. If her husband’s living had been amongst green fields and near pleasant neighbours she would have liked it better—that she never pretended to deny. But there they were. The air wasn’t bad, after all; the people were very good sort of people—civil to you if you were civil to them, after the first brush; and they didn’t expect to work miracles, and convert them all off-hand into model Christians. So he and she went quietly among the folk, talking to and treating them just as they would have done people of their own rank. They didn’t feel that they were doing anything out of the common way, and so were perfectly natural, and had none of that condescension or consciousness of manner which so outrages the independent poor. And thus they gradually won respect and confidence; and after sixteen years he was looked up to by the whole neighbourhood as the just man, the man to whom masters and men could go in their strikes, and in all their quarrels and difficulties, and by whom the right and true word would be said without fear or favour. And the women had come round to take her advice, and go to her as a friend in all their troubles; while the children all worshipped the very ground she trod on.
They had three children, two daughters and a son, little Arthur, who came between his sisters. He had been a very delicate boy from his childhood; they thought he had a tendency to consumption, and so he had been kept at home and taught by his father, who had made a companion of him, and from whom he had gained good scholarship, and a knowledge of and interest in many subjects which boys in general never come across till they are many years older.
Just as he reached his thirteenth year, and his father had settled that he was strong enough to go to school, and, after much debating with himself, had resolved to send him there, a desperate typhus fever broke out in the town. Most of the other clergy, and almost all the doctors, ran away; the work fell with tenfold weight on those who stood to their work. Arthur and his wife both caught the fever, of which he died in a few days; and she recovered, having been able to nurse him to the end, and store up his last words. He was sensible to the last, and calm and happy, leaving his wife and children with fearless trust for a few years in the hands of the Lord and Friend who had lived and died for him, and for whom he, to the best of his power, had lived and died. His widow’s mourning was deep and gentle. She was more affected by the request of the committee of a freethinking club, established in the town by some of the factory hands (which he had striven against with might and main, and nearly suppressed), that some of their number might be allowed to help bear the coffin, than by anything else. Two of them were chosen, who, with six other labouring men, his own fellow-workmen and friends, bore him to his grave—a man who had fought the Lord’s fight even unto the death. The shops were closed and the factories shut that day in the parish, yet no master stopped the day’s wages; but for many a year afterwards the townsfolk felt the want of that brave, hopeful, loving parson and his wife, who had lived to teach them mutual forbearance and helpfulness, and had almost at last given them a glimpse of what this old world would be if people would live for God and each other instead of for themselves.
What has all this to do with our story?  I must show you what sort of a man it was who had begotten and trained little Arthur, or else you won’t believe in him, which I am resolved you shall do; and you won’t see how he, the timid, weak boy, had points in him from which the bravest and strongest recoiled, and made his presence and example felt from the first on all sides, unconsciously to himself, and without the least attempt at proselytizing. The spirit of his father was in him, and the Friend to whom his father had left him did not neglect the trust.
After supper that night, and almost nightly for years afterwards, Tom and Arthur, and by degrees East occasionally, and sometimes one, sometimes another, of their friends, read a chapter of the Bible together, and talked it over afterwards. Tom was at first utterly astonished, and almost shocked, at the sort of way in which Arthur read the book and talked about the men and women whose lives were there told. The first night they happened to fall on the chapters about the famine in Egypt, and Arthur began talking about Joseph as if he were a living statesman—just as he might have talked about Lord Grey and the Reform Bill, only that they were much more living realities to him. The book was to him, Tom saw, the most vivid and delightful history of real people, who might do right or wrong, just like any one who was walking about in Rugby—the Doctor, or the masters, or the sixth-form boys. But the astonishment soon passed off, the scales seemed to drop from his eyes, and the book became at once and for ever to him the great human and divine book, and the men and women, whom he had looked upon as something quite different from himself, became his friends and counsellors.
For our purposes, however, the history of one night’s reading will be sufficient, which must be told here, now we are on the subject, though it didn’t happen till a year afterwards, and long after the events recorded in the next chapter of our story.
Arthur, Tom, and East were together one night, and read the story of Naaman coming to Elisha to be cured of his leprosy. When the chapter was finished, Tom shut his Bible with a slap.
“I can’t stand that fellow Naaman,” said he, “after what he’d seen and felt, going back and bowing himself down in the house of Rimmon, because his effeminate scoundrel of a master did it. I wonder Elisha took the trouble to heal him. How he must have despised him!”
“Yes; there you go off as usual, with a shell on your head,” struck in East, who always took the opposite side to Tom, half from love of argument, half from conviction. “How do you know he didn’t think better of it? How do you know his master was a scoundrel? His letter don’t look like it, and the book don’t say so.”
“I don’t care,” rejoined Tom; “why did Naaman talk about bowing down, then, if he didn’t mean to do it? He wasn’t likely to get more in earnest when he got back to court, and away from the prophet.”
“Well, but, Tom,” said Arthur, “look what Elisha says to him—‘Go in peace.’ He wouldn’t have said that if Naaman had been in the wrong.”
“I don’t see that that means more than saying, ‘You’re not the man I took you for.’”
“No, no; that won’t do at all,” said East. “Read the words fairly, and take men as you find them. I like Naaman, and think he was a very fine fellow.”
“I don’t,” said Tom positively.
“Well, I think East is right,” said Arthur; “I can’t see but what it’s right to do the best you can, though it mayn’t be the best absolutely. Every man isn’t born to be a martyr.”
“Of course, of course,” said East; “but he’s on one of his pet hobbies.—How often have I told you, Tom, that you must drive a nail where it’ll go.”
“And how often have I told you,” rejoined Tom, “that it’ll always go where you want, if you only stick to it and hit hard enough.  Must have the whole animal-hair and teeth, claws and tail,” laughed East. “Sooner have no bread any day than half the loaf.”
“I don’t know;” said Arthur—“it’s rather puzzling; but ain’t most right things got by proper compromises—I mean where the principle isn’t given up?”
“That’s just the point,” said Tom; “I don’t object to a compromise, where you don’t give up your principle.”
“Not you,” said East laughingly.—“I know him of old, Arthur, and you’ll find him out some day. There isn’t such a reasonable fellow in the world, to hear him talk. He never wants anything but what’s right and fair; only when you come to settle what’s right and fair, it’s everything that he wants, and nothing that you want. And that’s his idea of a compromise. Give me the Brown compromise when I’m on his side.”
“Now, Harry,” said Tom, “no more chaff. I’m serious. Look here. This is what makes my blood tingle.” And he turned over the pages of his Bible and read, “Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego answered and said to the king, O Nebuchadnezzar, we are not careful to answer thee in this matter. If it be so, our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, and he will deliver us out of thine hand, O king. But if not, be it known unto thee, O king, that we will not serve thy gods, nor worship the golden image which thou hast set up.” He read the last verse twice, emphasizing the nots, and dwelling on them as if they gave him actual pleasure, and were hard to part with.
They were silent a minute, and then Arthur said, “Yes, that’s a glorious story, but it don’t prove your point, Tom, I think. There are times when there is only one way, and that the highest, and then the men are found to stand in the breach.”
“There’s always a highest way, and it’s always the right one,” said Tom. “How many times has the Doctor told us that in his sermons in the last year, I should like to know?”
“Well, you ain’t going to convince us—is he, Arthur? No Brown compromise to-night,” said East, looking at his watch. “But it’s past eight, and we must go to first lesson. What a bore!”
So they took down their books and fell to work; but Arthur didn’t forget, and thought long and often over the conversation.
“Let Nature be your teacher: Sweet is the lore which Nature brings. Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things. We murder to dissect. Enough of Science and of Art: Close up those barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.”—WORDSWORTH.
bout six weeks after the beginning of the half, as Tom and Arthur were sitting one night before supper beginning their verses, Arthur suddenly stopped, and looked up, and said, “Tom, do you know anything of Martin?”
“Yes,” said Tom, taking his hand out of his back hair, and delighted to throw his Gradus ad Parnassum on to the sofa; “I know him pretty well. He’s a very good fellow, but as mad as a hatter. He’s called Madman, you know. And never was such a fellow for getting all sorts of rum things about him. He tamed two snakes last half, and used to carry them about in his pocket; and I’ll be bound he’s got some hedgehogs and rats in his cupboard now, and no one knows what besides.”
“I should like very much to know him,” said Arthur; “he was next to me in the form to-day, and he’d lost his book and looked over mine, and he seemed so kind and gentle that I liked him very much.”
“Ah, poor old Madman, he’s always losing his books,” said Tom, “and getting called up and floored because he hasn’t got them.”
“I like him all the better,” said Arthur.
“Well, he’s great fun, I can tell you,” said Tom, throwing himself back on the sofa, and chuckling at the remembrance. “We had such a game with him one day last half. He had been kicking up horrid stinks for some time in his study, till I suppose some fellow told Mary, and she told the Doctor. Anyhow, one day a little before dinner, when he came down from the library, the Doctor, instead of going home, came striding into the hall. East and I and five or six other fellows were at the fire, and preciously we stared, for he don’t come in like that once a year, unless it is a wet day and there’s a fight in the hall. ‘East,’ says he, ‘just come and show me Martin’s study.’ ‘Oh, here’s a game,’ whispered the rest of us; and we all cut upstairs after the Doctor, East leading. As we got into the New Row, which was hardly wide enough to hold the Doctor and his gown, click, click, click, we heard in the old Madman’s den. Then that stopped all of a sudden, and the bolts went to like fun. The Madman knew East’s step, and thought there was going to be a siege.
“‘It’s the Doctor, Martin. He’s here and wants to see you,’ sings out East.
 ‘Twas all the Doctor could do to stand his ground, and East and I, who were looking in under his arms, held our noses tight. The old magpie was standing on the window-sill, all his feathers drooping, and looking disgusted and half-poisoned.
“‘What can you be about, Martin?’ says the Doctor. ‘You really mustn’t go on in this way; you’re a nuisance to the whole passage.’
“‘Please, sir, I was only mixing up this powder; there isn’t any harm in it. And the Madman seized nervously on his pestle and mortar, to show the Doctor the harmlessness of his pursuits, and went on pounding—click, click, click. He hadn’t given six clicks before, puff! up went the whole into a great blaze, away went the pestle and mortar across the study, and back we tumbled into the passage. The magpie fluttered down into the court, swearing, and the Madman danced out, howling, with his fingers in his mouth. The Doctor caught hold of him, and called to us to fetch some water.  Then he took hold of his arm and looked at it, and I saw he had to bite his lip, and his eyes twinkled; but he said, quite grave, ‘Here, you see, you’ve been making all these foolish marks on yourself, which you can never get out, and you’ll be very sorry for it in a year or two. Now come down to the housekeeper’s room, and let us see if you are hurt.’ And away went the two, and we all stayed and had a regular turn-out of the den, till Martin came back with his hand bandaged and turned us out. However, I’ll go and see what he’s after, and tell him to come in after prayers to supper.” And away went Tom to find the boy in question, who dwelt in a little study by himself, in New Row.
The aforesaid Martin, whom Arthur had taken such a fancy for, was one of those unfortunates who were at that time of day (and are, I fear, still) quite out of their places at a public school. If we knew how to use our boys, Martin would have been seized upon and educated as a natural philosopher. He had a passion for birds, beasts, and insects, and knew more of them and their habits than any one in Rugby—except perhaps the Doctor, who knew everything. He was also an experimental chemist on a small scale, and had made unto himself an electric machine, from which it was his greatest pleasure and glory to administer small shocks to any small boys who were rash enough to venture into his study. And this was by no means an adventure free from excitement; for besides the probability of a snake dropping on to your head or twining lovingly up your leg, or a rat getting into your breeches-pocket in search of food, there was the animal and chemical odour to be faced, which always hung about the den, and the chance of being blown up in some of the many experiments which Martin was always trying, with the most wondrous results in the shape of explosions and smells that mortal boy ever heard of. Of course, poor Martin, in consequence of his pursuits, had become an Ishmaelite in the house. In the first place, he half-poisoned all his neighbours, and they in turn were always on the lookout to pounce upon any of his numerous live-stock, and drive him frantic by enticing his pet old magpie out of his window into a neighbouring study, and making the disreputable old bird drunk on toast soaked in beer and sugar. Then Martin, for his sins, inhabited a study looking into a small court some ten feet across, the window of which was completely commanded by those of the studies opposite in the Sick-room Row, these latter being at a slightly higher elevation. East, and another boy of an equally tormenting and ingenious turn of mind, now lived exactly opposite, and had expended huge pains and time in the preparation of instruments of annoyance for the behoof of Martin and his live colony. One morning an old basket made its appearance, suspended by a short cord outside Martin’s window, in which were deposited an amateur nest containing four young hungry jackdaws, the pride and glory of Martin’s life, for the time being, and which he was currently asserted to have hatched upon his own person. Early in the morning and late at night he was to be seen half out of window, administering to the varied wants of his callow brood. After deep cogitation, East and his chum had spliced a knife on to the end of a fishing-rod; and having watched Martin out, had, after half an hour’s severe sawing, cut the string by which the basket was suspended, and tumbled it on to the pavement below, with hideous remonstrance from the occupants. Poor Martin, returning from his short absence, collected the fragments and replaced his brood (except one whose neck had been broken in the descent) in their old location, suspending them this time by string and wire twisted together, defiant of any sharp instrument which his persecutors could command. But, like the Russian engineers at Sebastopol, East and his chum had an answer for every move of the adversary, and the next day had mounted a gun in the shape of a pea-shooter upon the ledge of their window, trained so as to bear exactly upon the spot which Martin had to occupy while tending his nurslings. The moment he began to feed they began to shoot. In vain did the enemy himself invest in a pea-shooter, and endeavour to answer the fire while he fed the young birds with his other hand; his attention was divided, and his shots flew wild, while every one of theirs told on his face and hands, and drove him into howlings and imprecations. He had been driven to ensconce the nest in a corner of his already too-well-filled den.
His door was barricaded by a set of ingenious bolts of his own invention, for the sieges were frequent by the neighbours when any unusually ambrosial odour spread itself from the den to the neighbouring studies. The door panels were in a normal state of smash, but the frame of the door resisted all besiegers, and behind it the owner carried on his varied pursuits—much in the same state of mind, I should fancy, as a border-farmer lived in, in the days of the moss-troopers, when his hold might be summoned or his cattle carried off at any minute of night or day.
“Open, Martin, old boy; it’s only I, Tom Brown.”
“Oh, very well; stop a moment.” One bolt went back. “You’re sure East isn’t there?”
“No, no; hang it, open.” Tom gave a kick, the other bolt creaked, and he entered the den.
Den indeed it was—about five feet six inches long by five wide, and seven feet high. About six tattered school-books, and a few chemical books, Taxidermy, Stanley on Birds, and an odd volume of Bewick, the latter in much better preservation, occupied the top shelves. The other shelves, where they had not been cut away and used by the owner for other purposes, were fitted up for the abiding-places of birds, beasts, and reptiles. There was no attempt at carpet or curtain. The table was entirely occupied by the great work of Martin, the electric machine, which was covered carefully with the remains of his table-cloth. The jackdaw cage occupied one wall; and the other was adorned by a small hatchet, a pair of climbing irons, and his tin candle-box, in which he was for the time being endeavouring to raise a hopeful young family of field-mice. As nothing should be let to lie useless, it was well that the candle-box was thus occupied, for candles Martin never had. A pound was issued to him weekly, as to the other boys; but as candles were available capital, and easily exchangeable for birds’ eggs or young birds, Martin’s pound invariably found its way in a few hours to Howlett’s the bird-fancier’s, in the Bilton road, who would give a hawk’s or nightingale’s egg or young linnet in exchange. Martin’s ingenuity was therefore for ever on the rack to supply himself with a light.  When light altogether failed him, Martin would loaf about by the fires in the passages or hall, after the manner of Diggs, and try to do his verses or learn his lines by the firelight.
“Well, old boy, you haven’t got any sweeter in the den this half. How that stuff in the bottle stinks! Never mind; I ain’t going to stop; but you come up after prayers to our study. You know young Arthur. We’ve got Gray’s study. We’ll have a good supper and talk about bird-nesting.”
Martin was evidently highly pleased at the invitation, and promised to be up without fail.
As soon as prayers were over, and the sixth and fifth form boys had withdrawn to the aristocratic seclusion of their own room, and the rest, or democracy, had sat down to their supper in the hall, Tom and Arthur, having secured their allowances of bread and cheese, started on their feet to catch the eye of the praepostor of the week, who remained in charge during supper, walking up and down the hall. He happened to be an easy-going fellow, so they got a pleasant nod to their “Please may I go out?” and away they scrambled to prepare for Martin a sumptuous banquet. This Tom had insisted on, for he was in great delight on the occasion, the reason of which delight must be expounded. The fact was that this was the first attempt at a friendship of his own which Arthur had made, and Tom hailed it as a grand step. The ease with which he himself became hail-fellow-well-met with anybody, and blundered into and out of twenty friendships a half-year, made him sometimes sorry and sometimes angry at Arthur’s reserve and loneliness. True, Arthur was always pleasant, and even jolly, with any boys who came with Tom to their study; but Tom felt that it was only through him, as it were, that his chum associated with others, and that but for him Arthur would have been dwelling in a wilderness. This increased his consciousness of responsibility; and though he hadn’t reasoned it out and made it clear to himself yet somehow he knew that this responsibility, this trust which he had taken on him without thinking about it, head over heels in fact, was the centre and turning-point of his school-life, that which was to make him or mar him, his appointed work and trial for the time being. And Tom was becoming a new boy, though with frequent tumbles in the dirt and perpetual hard battle with himself, and was daily growing in manfulness and thoughtfulness, as every high-couraged and well-principled boy must, when he finds himself for the first time consciously at grips with self and the devil. Already he could turn almost without a sigh from the School-gates, from which had just scampered off East and three or four others of his own particular set, bound for some jolly lark not quite according to law, and involving probably a row with louts, keepers, or farm-labourers, the skipping dinner or calling-over, some of Phoebe Jennings’s beer, and a very possible flogging at the end of all as a relish. He had quite got over the stage in which he would grumble to himself—“Well, hang it, it’s very hard of the Doctor to have saddled me with Arthur. Why couldn’t he have chummed him with Fogey, or Thomkin, or any of the fellows who never do anything but walk round the close, and finish their copies the first day they’re set?” But although all this was past, he longed, and felt that he was right in longing, for more time for the legitimate pastimes of cricket, fives, bathing, and fishing, within bounds, in which Arthur could not yet be his companion; and he felt that when the “young un” (as he now generally called him) had found a pursuit and some other friend for himself, he should be able to give more time to the education of his own body with a clear conscience.