And now what he so wished for had come to pass; he almost hailed it as a special providence (as indeed it was, but not for the reasons he gave for it—what providences are?) that Arthur should have singled out Martin of all fellows for a friend. “The old Madman is the very fellow,” thought he; “he will take him scrambling over half the country after birds’ eggs and flowers, make him run and swim and climb like an Indian, and not teach him a word of anything bad, or keep him from his lessons. What luck!” And so, with more than his usual heartiness, he dived into his cupboard, and hauled out an old knuckle-bone of ham, and two or three bottles of beer, together with the solemn pewter only used on state occasions; while Arthur, equally elated at the easy accomplishment of his first act of volition in the joint establishment, produced from his side a bottle of pickles and a pot of jam, and cleared the table. In a minute or two the noise of the boys coming up from supper was heard, and Martin knocked and was admitted, bearing his bread and cheese; and the three fell to with hearty good-will upon the viands, talking faster than they ate, for all shyness disappeared in a moment before Tom’s bottled-beer and hospitable ways. “Here’s Arthur, a regular young town-mouse, with a natural taste for the woods, Martin, longing to break his neck climbing trees, and with a passion for young snakes.”
“Well, I say,” sputtered out Martin eagerly, “will you come to-morrow, both of you, to Caldecott’s Spinney then? for I know of a kestrel’s nest, up a fir-tree. I can’t get at it without help; and, Brown, you can climb against any one.”
“Oh yes, do let us go,” said Arthur; “I never saw a hawk’s nest nor a hawk’s egg.”
“You just come down to my study, then, and I’ll show you five sorts,” said Martin.
“Ay, the old Madman has got the best collection in the house, out and out,” said Tom; and then Martin, warming with unaccustomed good cheer and the chance of a convert, launched out into a proposed bird-nesting campaign, betraying all manner of important secrets—a golden-crested wren’s nest near Butlin’s Mound, a moor-hen who was sitting on nine eggs in a pond down the Barby road, and a kingfisher’s nest in a corner of the old canal above Brownsover Mill. He had heard, he said, that no one had ever got a kingfisher’s nest out perfect, and that the British Museum, or the Government, or somebody, had offered 100 pounds to any one who could bring them a nest and eggs not damaged. In the middle of which astounding announcement, to which the others were listening with open ears, and already considering the application of the 100 pounds, a knock came to the door, and East’s voice was heard craving admittance.
“There’s Harry,” said Tom; “we’ll let him in. I’ll keep him steady, Martin. I thought the old boy would smell out the supper.”
The fact was, that Tom’s heart had already smitten him for not asking his fidus Achates to the feast, although only an extempore affair; and though prudence and the desire to get Martin and Arthur together alone at first had overcome his scruples, he was now heartily glad to open the door, broach another bottle of beer, and hand over the old ham-knuckle to the searching of his old friend’s pocket-knife.
 What a stunning tap, Tom! You are a wunner for bottling the swipes.”
“I’ve had practice enough for the sixth in my time, and it’s hard if I haven’t picked up a wrinkle or two for my own benefit.”
“Well, old Madman, and how goes the bird-nesting campaign? How’s Howlett? I expect the young rooks’ll be out in another fortnight, and then my turn comes.”
“There’ll be no young rooks fit for pies for a month yet; shows how much you know about it,” rejoined Martin, who, though very good friends with East, regarded him with considerable suspicion for his propensity to practical jokes.
“Scud knows nothing and cares for nothing but grub and mischief,” said Tom; “but young rook pie, specially when you’ve had to climb for them, is very pretty eating.—However, I say, Scud, we’re all going after a hawk’s nest to-morrow, in Caldecott’s Spinney; and if you’ll come and behave yourself, we’ll have a stunning climb.”
“And a bathe in Aganippe. Hooray! I’m your man.”
“No, no; no bathing in Aganippe; that’s where our betters go.”
“Well, well, never mind. I’m for the hawk’s nest, and anything that turns up.”
And the bottled-beer being finished, and his hunger appeased, East departed to his study, “that sneak Jones,” as he informed them, who had just got into the sixth, and occupied the next study, having instituted a nightly visitation upon East and his chum, to their no small discomfort.
When he was gone Martin rose to follow, but Tom stopped him. “No one goes near New Row,” said he, “so you may just as well stop here and do your verses, and then we’ll have some more talk. We’ll be no end quiet. Besides, no praepostor comes here now. We haven’t been visited once this half.”
So the table was cleared, the cloth restored, and the three fell to work with Gradus and dictionary upon the morning’s vulgus.
They were three very fair examples of the way in which such tasks were done at Rugby, in the consulship of Plancus. And doubtless the method is little changed, for there is nothing new under the sun, especially at schools.
Now be it known unto all you boys who are at schools which do not rejoice in the time-honoured institution of the vulgus (commonly supposed to have been established by William of Wykeham at Winchester, and imported to Rugby by Arnold more for the sake of the lines which were learnt by heart with it than for its own intrinsic value, as I’ve always understood), that it is a short exercise in Greek or Latin verse, on a given subject, the minimum number of lines being fixed for each form.
The master of the form gave out at fourth lesson on the previous day the subject for next morning’s vulgus, and at first lesson each boy had to bring his vulgus ready to be looked over; and with the vulgus, a certain number of lines from one of the Latin or Greek poets then being construed in the form had to be got by heart. The master at first lesson called up each boy in the form in order, and put him on in the lines. If he couldn’t say them, or seem to say them, by reading them off the master’s or some other boy’s book who stood near, he was sent back, and went below all the boys who did so say or seem to say them; but in either case his vulgus was looked over by the master, who gave and entered in his book, to the credit or discredit of the boy, so many marks as the composition merited. At Rugby vulgus and lines were the first lesson every other day in the week, on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays; and as there were thirty-eight weeks in the school year, it is obvious to the meanest capacity that the master of each form had to set one hundred and fourteen subjects every year, two hundred and twenty-eight every two years, and so on. Now, to persons of moderate invention this was a considerable task, and human nature being prone to repeat itself, it will not be wondered that the masters gave the same subjects sometimes over again after a certain lapse of time. To meet and rebuke this bad habit of the masters, the schoolboy mind, with its accustomed ingenuity, had invented an elaborate system of tradition. Almost every boy kept his own vulgus written out in a book, and these books were duly handed down from boy to boy, till (if the tradition has gone on till now) I suppose the popular boys, in whose hands bequeathed vulgus-books have accumulated, are prepared with three or four vulguses on any subject in heaven or earth, or in “more worlds than one,” which an unfortunate master can pitch upon. At any rate, such lucky fellows had generally one for themselves and one for a friend in my time. The only objection to the traditionary method of doing your vulguses was the risk that the successions might have become confused, and so that you and another follower of traditions should show up the same identical vulgus some fine morning; in which case, when it happened, considerable grief was the result. But when did such risk hinder boys or men from short cuts and pleasant paths?
Now in the study that night Tom was the upholder of the traditionary method of vulgus doing. He carefully produced two large vulgus-books, and began diving into them, and picking out a line here, and an ending there (tags, as they were vulgarly called), till he had gotten all that he thought he could make fit. He then proceeded to patch his tags together with the help of his Gradus, producing an incongruous and feeble result of eight elegiac lines, the minimum quantity for his form, and finishing up with two highly moral lines extra, making ten in all, which he cribbed entire from one of his books, beginning “O genus humanum,” and which he himself must have used a dozen times before, whenever an unfortunate or wicked hero, of whatever nation or language under the sun, was the subject. Indeed he began to have great doubts whether the master wouldn’t remember them, and so only throw them in as extra lines, because in any case they would call off attention from the other tags, and if detected, being extra lines, he wouldn’t be sent back to do more in their place, while if they passed muster again he would get marks for them.
The second method, pursued by Martin, may be called the dogged or prosaic method. He, no more than Tom, took any pleasure in the task, but having no old vulgus-books of his own, or any one’s else, could not follow the traditionary method, for which too, as Tom remarked, he hadn’t the genius. Martin then proceeded to write down eight lines in English, of the most matter-of-fact kind, the first that came into his head; and to convert these, line by line, by main force of Gradus and dictionary into Latin that would scan. This was all he cared for—to produce eight lines with no false quantities or concords: whether the words were apt, or what the sense was, mattered nothing; and as the article was all new, not a line beyond the minimum did the followers of the dogged method ever produce.
The third, or artistic method, was Arthur’s. He considered first what point in the character or event which was the subject could most neatly be brought out within the limits of a vulgus, trying always to get his idea into the eight lines, but not binding himself to ten or even twelve lines if he couldn’t do this. He then set to work as much as possible without Gradus or other help, to clothe his idea in appropriate Latin or Greek, and would not be satisfied till he had polished it well up with the aptest and most poetic words and phrases he could get at.
A fourth method, indeed, was used in the school, but of too simple a kind to require a comment. It may be called the vicarious method, obtained amongst big boys of lazy or bullying habits, and consisted simply in making clever boys whom they could thrash do their whole vulgus for them, and construe it to them afterwards; which latter is a method not to be encouraged, and which I strongly advise you all not to practise. Of the others, you will find the traditionary most troublesome, unless you can steal your vulguses whole (experto crede), and that the artistic method pays the best both in marks and other ways.
The vulguses being finished by nine o’clock, and Martin having rejoiced above measure in the abundance of light, and of Gradus and dictionary, and other conveniences almost unknown to him for getting through the work, and having been pressed by Arthur to come and do his verses there whenever he liked, the three boys went down to Martin’s den, and Arthur was initiated into the lore of birds’ eggs, to his great delight. The exquisite colouring and forms astonished and charmed him, who had scarcely ever seen any but a hen’s egg or an ostrich’s, and by the time he was lugged away to bed he had learned the names of at least twenty sorts, and dreamed of the glorious perils of tree-climbing, and that he had found a roc’s egg in the island as big as Sinbad’s, and clouded like a tit-lark’s, in blowing which Martin and he had nearly been drowned in the yolk.
“I have found out a gift for my fair— I have found where the wood-pigeons breed; But let me the plunder forbear, She would say ‘twas a barbarous deed.”—ROWE. “And now, my lad, take them five shilling, And on my advice in future think; So Billy pouched them all so willing, And got that night disguised in drink.”—MS. Ballad.
he next morning, at first lesson, Tom was turned back in his lines, and so had to wait till the second round; while Martin and Arthur said theirs all right, and got out of school at once. When Tom got out and ran down to breakfast at Harrowell’s they were missing, and Stumps informed him that they had swallowed down their breakfasts and gone off together—where, he couldn’t say. Tom hurried over his own breakfast, and went first to Martin’s study and then to his own; but no signs of the missing boys were to be found. He felt half angry and jealous of Martin. Where could they be gone?
He learnt second lesson with East and the rest in no very good temper, and then went out into the quadrangle. About ten minutes before school Martin and Arthur arrived in the quadrangle breathless; and catching sight of him, Arthur rushed up, all excitement, and with a bright glow on his face.
“O Tom, look here!” cried he, holding out three moor-hen’s eggs; “we’ve been down the Barby road, to the pool Martin told us of last night, and just see what we’ve got.”
Tom wouldn’t be pleased, and only looked out for something to find fault with.
“Why, young un,” said he, “what have you been after? You don’t mean to say you’ve been wading?”
The tone of reproach made poor little Arthur shrink up in a moment and look piteous; and Tom with a shrug of his shoulders turned his anger on Martin.
“Well, I didn’t think, Madman, that you’d have been such a muff as to let him be getting wet through at this time of day. You might have done the wading yourself.”
“So I did, of course; only he would come in too, to see the nest. We left six eggs in. They’ll be hatched in a day or two.”
“Hang the eggs!” said Tom; “a fellow can’t turn his back for a moment but all his work’s undone. He’ll be laid up for a week for this precious lark, I’ll be bound.”
“Indeed, Tom, now,” pleaded Arthur, “my feet ain’t wet, for Martin made me take off my shoes and stockings and trousers.”
“But they are wet, and dirty too; can’t I see?” answered Tom; “and you’ll be called up and floored when the master sees what a state you’re in. You haven’t looked at second lesson, you know.”
O Tom, you old humbug! you to be upbraiding any one with not learning their lessons! If you hadn’t been floored yourself now at first lesson, do you mean to say you wouldn’t have been with them? And you’ve taken away all poor little Arthur’s joy and pride in his first birds’ eggs, and he goes and puts them down in the study, and takes down his books with a sigh, thinking he has done something horribly wrong, whereas he has learnt on in advance much more than will be done at second lesson.
But the old Madman hasn’t, and gets called up, and makes some frightful shots, losing about ten places, and all but getting floored. This somewhat appeases Tom’s wrath, and by the end of the lesson he has regained his temper. And afterwards in their study he begins to get right again, as he watches Arthur’s intense joy at seeing Martin blowing the eggs and gluing them carefully on to bits of cardboard, and notes the anxious, loving looks which the little fellow casts sidelong at him. And then he thinks, “What an ill-tempered beast I am! Here’s just what I was wishing for last night come about, and I’m spoiling it all,” and in another five minutes has swallowed the last mouthful of his bile, and is repaid by seeing his little sensitive plant expand again and sun itself in his smiles.
After dinner the Madman is busy with the preparations for their expedition, fitting new straps on to his climbing-irons, filling large pill-boxes with cotton-wool, and sharpening East’s small axe. They carry all their munitions into calling-overs and directly afterwards, having dodged such praepostors as are on the lookout for fags at cricket, the four set off at a smart trot down the Lawford footpath, straight for Caldecott’s Spinney and the hawk’s nest.
Martin leads the way in high feather; it is quite a new sensation to him, getting companions, and he finds it very pleasant, and means to show them all manner of proofs of his science and skill. Brown and East may be better at cricket and football and games, thinks he, but out in the fields and woods see if I can’t teach them something. He has taken the leadership already, and strides away in front with his climbing-irons strapped under one arm, his pecking-bag under the other, and his pockets and hat full of pill-boxes, cotton-wool, and other etceteras. Each of the others carries a pecking-bag, and East his hatchet.
When they had crossed three or four fields without a check, Arthur began to lag; and Tom seeing this shouted to Martin to pull up a bit. “We ain’t out hare-and-hounds. What’s the good of grinding on at this rate?”
“There’s the Spinney,” said Martin, pulling up on the brow of a slope at the bottom of which lay Lawford brook, and pointing to the top of the opposite slope; “the nest is in one of those high fir-trees at this end. And down by the brook there I know of a sedge-bird’s nest. We’ll go and look at it coming back.”
“Oh, come on, don’t let us stop,” said Arthur, who was getting excited at the sight of the wood. So they broke into a trot again, and were soon across the brook, up the slope, and into the Spinney. Here they advanced as noiselessly as possible, lest keepers or other enemies should be about, and stopped at the foot of a tall fir, at the top of which Martin pointed out with pride the kestrel’s nest, the object of their quest.
“Oh, where? which is it?” asks Arthur, gaping up in the air, and having the most vague idea of what it would be like.
“There, don’t you see?” said East, pointing to a lump of mistletoe in the next tree, which was a beech. He saw that Martin and Tom were busy with the climbing-irons, and couldn’t resist the temptation of hoaxing. Arthur stared and wondered more than ever.
“Well, how curious! It doesn’t look a bit like what I expected,” said he.
“Very odd birds, kestrels,” said East, looking waggishly at his victim, who was still star-gazing.
“But I thought it was in a fir-tree?” objected Arthur.
“Ah, don’t you know? That’s a new sort of fir which old Caldecott brought from the Himalayas.”
“Really!” said Arthur; “I’m glad I know that. How unlike our firs they are! They do very well too here, don’t they? The Spinney’s full of them.”
“What’s that humbug he’s telling you?” cried Tom, looking up, having caught the word Himalayas, and suspecting what East was after.
“Only about this fir,” said Arthur, putting his hand on the stem of the beech.

Poor little Arthur looked terribly ashamed, and East exploded in laughter which made the wood ring.
“I’ve hardly ever seen any trees,” faltered Arthur.
“What a shame to hoax him, Scud!” cried Martin.—“Never mind, Arthur; you shall know more about trees than he does in a week or two.”
“And isn’t that the kestrel’s nest, then?” asked Arthur. “That!  There’s the nest, that lump of sticks up this fir.”
“Don’t believe him, Arthur,” struck in the incorrigible East; “I just saw an old magpie go out of it.”
Martin did not deign to reply to this sally, except by a grunt, as he buckled the last buckle of his climbing-irons, and Arthur looked reproachfully at East without speaking.
But now came the tug of war. It was a very difficult tree to climb until the branches were reached, the first of which was some fourteen feet up, for the trunk was too large at the bottom to be swarmed; in fact, neither of the boys could reach more than half round it with their arms. Martin and Tom, both of whom had irons on, tried it without success at first; the fir bark broke away where they stuck the irons in as soon as they leant any weight on their feet, and the grip of their arms wasn’t enough to keep them up; so, after getting up three or four feet, down they came slithering to the ground, barking their arms and faces. They were furious, and East sat by laughing and shouting at each failure, “Two to one on the old magpie!”
“We must try a pyramid,” said Tom at last.  What do you think my skin’s made of?” However, up he got, and leant against the tree, putting his head down and clasping it with his arms as far as he could.
 So Tom got on East’s shoulders, and grasped the tree above, and then Martin scrambled up on to Tom’s shoulders, amidst the totterings and groanings of the pyramid, and, with a spring which sent his supporters howling to the ground, clasped the stem some ten feet up, and remained clinging. For a moment or two they thought he couldn’t get up; but then, holding on with arms and teeth, he worked first one iron then the other firmly into the bark, got another grip with his arms, and in another minute had hold of the lowest branch.
“All up with the old magpie now,” said East; and after a minute’s rest, up went Martin, hand over hand, watched by Arthur with fearful eagerness.
“Isn’t it very dangerous?” said he.
“Not a bit,” answered Tom; “you can’t hurt if you only get good hand-hold. Try every branch with a good pull before you trust it, and then up you go.”
Martin was now amongst the small branches close to the nest, and away dashed the old bird, and soared up above the trees, watching the intruder.
“All right—four eggs!” shouted he.
“Take ‘em all!” shouted East; “that’ll be one a-piece.”
“No, no; leave one, and then she won’t care,” said Tom.
We boys had an idea that birds couldn’t count, and were quite content as long as you left one egg. I hope it is so.
Martin carefully put one egg into each of his boxes and the third into his mouth, the only other place of safety, and came down like a lamplighter. All went well till he was within ten feet of the ground, when, as the trunk enlarged, his hold got less and less firm, and at last down he came with a run, tumbling on to his back on the turf, spluttering and spitting out the remains of the great egg, which had broken by the jar of his fall.
“Ugh, ugh! something to drink—ugh! it was addled,” spluttered he, while the wood rang again with the merry laughter of East and Tom.
Then they examined the prizes, gathered up their things, and went off to the brook, where Martin swallowed huge draughts of water to get rid of the taste; and they visited the sedge-bird’s nest, and from thence struck across the country in high glee, beating the hedges and brakes as they went along; and Arthur at last, to his intense delight, was allowed to climb a small hedgerow oak for a magpie’s nest with Tom, who kept all round him like a mother, and showed him where to hold and how to throw his weight; and though he was in a great fright, didn’t show it, and was applauded by all for his lissomness.
They crossed a road soon afterwards, and there, close to them, lay a great heap of charming pebbles.
“Look here,” shouted East; “here’s luck! I’ve been longing for some good, honest pecking this half-hour. Let’s fill the bags, and have no more of this foozling bird-nesting.”
 They crossed into the next field, Tom and East taking one side of the hedges, and the other two the other side. Noise enough they made certainly, but it was too early in the season for the young birds, and the old birds were too strong on the wing for our young marksmen, and flew out of shot after the first discharge. But it was great fun, rushing along the hedgerows, and discharging stone after stone at blackbirds and chaffinches, though no result in the shape of slaughtered birds was obtained; and Arthur soon entered into it, and rushed to head back the birds, and shouted, and threw, and tumbled into ditches, and over and through hedges, as wild as the Madman himself.
Presently the party, in full cry after an old blackbird (who was evidently used to the thing and enjoyed the fun, for he would wait till they came close to him, and then fly on for forty yards or so, and, with an impudent flicker of his tail, dart into the depths of the quickset), came beating down a high double hedge, two on each side.
“There he is again,” “Head him,” “Let drive,” “I had him there,” “Take care where you’re throwing, Madman.” The shouts might have been heard a quarter of a mile off.
Now, the farmer in question rented a house and yard situate at the end of the field in which the young bird-fanciers had arrived, which house and yard he didn’t occupy or keep any one else in. Nevertheless, like a brainless and unreasoning Briton, he persisted in maintaining on the premises a large stock of cocks, hens, and other poultry. Of course, all sorts of depredators visited the place from time to time: foxes and gipsies wrought havoc in the night; while in the daytime, I regret to have to confess that visits from the Rugby boys, and consequent disappearances of ancient and respectable fowls were not unfrequent. Tom and East had during the period of their outlawry visited the farm in question for felonious purposes, and on one occasion had conquered and slain a duck there, and borne away the carcass triumphantly, hidden in their handkerchiefs. However, they were sickened of the practice by the trouble and anxiety which the wretched duck’s body caused them. They carried it to Sally Harrowell’s, in hopes of a good supper; but she, after examining it, made a long face, and refused to dress or have anything to do with it. Then they took it into their study, and began plucking it themselves; but what to do with the feathers, where to hide them?
“Good gracious, Tom, what a lot of feathers a duck has!” groaned East, holding a bagful in his hand, and looking disconsolately at the carcass, not yet half plucked.
“And I do think he’s getting high, too, already,” said Tom, smelling at him cautiously, “so we must finish him up soon.”
“Yes, all very well; but how are we to cook him? I’m sure I ain’t going to try it on in the hall or passages; we can’t afford to be roasting ducks about—our character’s too bad.”
“I wish we were rid of the brute,” said Tom, throwing him on the table in disgust. And after a day or two more it became clear that got rid of he must be; so they packed him and sealed him up in brown paper, and put him in the cupboard of an unoccupied study, where he was found in the holidays by the matron, a gruesome body.
They had never been duck-hunting there since, but others had, and the bold yeoman was very sore on the subject, and bent on making an example of the first boys he could catch. So he and his shepherds crouched behind the hurdles, and watched the party, who were approaching all unconscious. Why should that old guinea-fowl be lying out in the hedge just at this particular moment of all the year? Who can say? Guinea-fowls always are; so are all other things, animals, and persons, requisite for getting one into scrapes—always ready when any mischief can come of them. At any rate, just under East’s nose popped out the old guinea-hen, scuttling along and shrieking, “Come back, come back,” at the top of her voice. Either of the other three might perhaps have withstood the temptation, but East first lets drive the stone he has in his hand at her, and then rushes to turn her into the hedge again. He succeeds, and then they are all at it for dear life, up and down the hedge in full cry, the “Come back, come back,” getting shriller and fainter every minute.
Meantime, the farmer and his men steal over the hurdles and creep down the hedge towards the scene of action. They are almost within a stone’s throw of Martin, who is pressing the unlucky chase hard, when Tom catches sight of them, and sings out, “Louts, ‘ware louts, your side! Madman, look ahead!” and then catching hold of Arthur, hurries him away across the field towards Rugby as hard as they can tear. Had he been by himself, he would have stayed to see it out with the others, but now his heart sinks and all his pluck goes. The idea of being led up to the Doctor with Arthur for bagging fowls quite unmans and takes half the run out of him.
However, no boys are more able to take care of themselves than East and Martin; they dodge the pursuers, slip through a gap, and come pelting after Tom and Arthur, whom they catch up in no time. The farmer and his men are making good running about a field behind. Tom wishes to himself that they had made off in any other direction, but now they are all in for it together, and must see it out.
“You won’t leave the young un, will you?” says he, as they haul poor little Arthur, already losing wind from the fright, through the next hedge. “Not we,” is the answer from both. The next hedge is a stiff one; the pursuers gain horribly on them, and they only just pull Arthur through, with two great rents in his trousers, as the foremost shepherd comes up on the other side. As they start into the next field, they are aware of two figures walking down the footpath in the middle of it, and recognize Holmes and Diggs taking a constitutional.  Agreed. And in another minute the four boys, to the great astonishment of those worthies, rush breathless up to Holmes and Diggs, who pull up to see what is the matter; and then the whole is explained by the appearance of the farmer and his men, who unite their forces and bear down on the knot of boys.
There is no time to explain, and Tom’s heart beats frightfully quick, as he ponders, “Will they stand by us?”
The farmer makes a rush at East and collars him; and that young gentleman, with unusual discretion, instead of kicking his shins, looks appealingly at Holmes, and stands still.
“Hullo there; not so fast,” says Holmes, who is bound to stand up for them till they are proved in the wrong. “Now what’s all this about?”
“I’ve got the young varmint at last, have I,” pants the farmer; “why, they’ve been a-skulking about my yard and stealing my fowls—that’s where ‘tis; and if I doan’t have they flogged for it, every one on ‘em, my name ain’t Thompson.”
Holmes looks grave and Diggs’s face falls. They are quite ready to fight—no boys in the school more so; but they are praepostors, and understand their office, and can’t uphold unrighteous causes.
“I haven’t been near his old barn this half,” cries East. “Nor I,” “Nor I,” chime in Tom and Martin.
“Now, Willum, didn’t you see ‘em there last week?”
“Ees, I seen ‘em sure enough,” says Willum, grasping a prong he carried, and preparing for action.
The boys deny stoutly, and Willum is driven to admit that “if it worn’t they ‘twas chaps as like ‘em as two peas’n;” and “leastways he’ll swear he see’d them two in the yard last Martinmas,” indicating East and Tom.
Holmes has had time to meditate. “Now, sir,” says he to Willum, “you see you can’t remember what you have seen, and I believe the boys.”
“I doan’t care,” blusters the farmer; “they was arter my fowls to-day—that’s enough for I.—Willum, you catch hold o’ t’other chap. They’ve been a-sneaking about this two hours, I tells ‘ee,” shouted he, as Holmes stands between Martin and Willum, “and have druv a matter of a dozen young pullets pretty nigh to death.”
“Oh, there’s a whacker!” cried East; “we haven’t been within a hundred yards of his barn; we haven’t been up here above ten minutes, and we’ve seen nothing but a tough old guinea-hen, who ran like a greyhound.”
“Indeed, that’s all true, Holmes, upon my honour,” added Tom; “we weren’t after his fowls; guinea-hen ran out of the hedge under our feet, and we’ve seen nothing else.”
“Drat their talk.  The boys haven’t been after your fowls, that’s plain.”
“Tells ‘ee I see’d’em.  “And now I’ll just tell you what it is: you ought to be ashamed of yourself for leaving all that poultry about, with no one to watch it, so near the School. You deserve to have it all stolen. So if you choose to come up to the Doctor with them, I shall go with you, and tell him what I think of it.”
The farmer began to take Holmes for a master; besides, he wanted to get back to his flock. Corporal punishment was out of the question, the odds were too great; so he began to hint at paying for the damage. Arthur jumped at this, offering to pay anything, and the farmer immediately valued the guinea-hen at half a sovereign.
“Half a sovereign!” cried East, now released from the farmer’s grip; “well, that is a good one! The old hen ain’t hurt a bit, and she’s seven years old, I know, and as tough as whipcord; she couldn’t lay another egg to save her life.”
It was at last settled that they should pay the farmer two shillings, and his man one shilling; and so the matter ended, to the unspeakable relief of Tom, who hadn’t been able to say a word, being sick at heart at the idea of what the Doctor would think of him; and now the whole party of boys marched off down the footpath towards Rugby. Holmes, who was one of the best boys in the School, began to improve the occasion. “Now, you youngsters,” said he, as he marched along in the middle of them, “mind this; you’re very well out of this scrape.
Profuse promises from all, especially East.
“Mind, I don’t ask questions,” went on Mentor, “but I rather think some of you have been there before this after his chickens. Now, knocking over other people’s chickens, and running off with them, is stealing. It’s a nasty word, but that’s the plain English of it. If the chickens were dead and lying in a shop, you wouldn’t take them, I know that, any more than you would apples out of Griffith’s basket; but there’s no real difference between chickens running about and apples on a tree, and the same articles in a shop. I wish our morals were sounder in such matters. There’s nothing so mischievous as these school distinctions, which jumble up right and wrong, and justify things in us for which poor boys would be sent to prison.” And good old Holmes delivered his soul on the walk home of many wise sayings, and, as the song says,
“Gee’d ‘em a sight of good advice;”
which same sermon sank into them all, more or less, and very penitent they were for several hours. But truth compels me to admit that East, at any rate, forgot it all in a week, but remembered the insult which had been put upon him by Farmer Thompson, and with the Tadpole and other hair-brained youngsters committed a raid on the barn soon afterwards, in which they were caught by the shepherds and severely handled, besides having to pay eight shillings—all the money they had in the world—to escape being taken up to the Doctor.
Martin became a constant inmate in the joint study from this time, and Arthur took to him so kindly that Tom couldn’t resist slight fits of jealousy, which, however, he managed to keep to himself. The kestrel’s eggs had not been broken, strange to say, and formed the nucleus of Arthur’s collection, at which Martin worked heart and soul, and introduced Arthur to Howlett the bird-fancier, and instructed him in the rudiments of the art of stuffing. In token of his gratitude, Arthur allowed Martin to tattoo a small anchor on one of his wrists; which decoration, however, he carefully concealed from Tom. Before the end of the half-year he had trained into a bold climber and good runner, and, as Martin had foretold, knew twice as much about trees, birds, flowers, and many other things, as our good-hearted and facetious young friend Harry East.
“Surgebat Macnevisius Et mox jactabat ultro, Pugnabo tua gratia Feroci hoc Mactwoltro.”—Etonian.
here is a certain sort of fellow—we who are used to studying boys all know him well enough—of whom you can predicate with almost positive certainty, after he has been a month at school, that he is sure to have a fight, and with almost equal certainty that he will have but one. Tom Brown was one of these; and as it is our well-weighed intention to give a full, true, and correct account of Tom’s only single combat with a school-fellow in the manner of our old friend Bell’s Life, let those young persons whose stomachs are not strong, or who think a good set-to with the weapons which God has given us all an uncivilized, unchristian, or ungentlemanly affair, just skip this chapter at once, for it won’t be to their taste.
It was not at all usual in those days for two School-house boys to have a fight. Of course there were exceptions, when some cross-grained, hard-headed fellow came up who would never be happy unless he was quarrelling with his nearest neighbours, or when there was some class-dispute, between the fifth form and the fags, for instance, which required blood-letting; and a champion was picked out on each side tacitly, who settled the matter by a good hearty mill. But, for the most part, the constant use of those surest keepers of the peace, the boxing-gloves, kept the School-house boys from fighting one another. Two or three nights in every week the gloves were brought out, either in the hall or fifth-form room; and every boy who was ever likely to fight at all knew all his neighbours’ prowess perfectly well, and could tell to a nicety what chance he would have in a stand-up fight with any other boy in the house. But, of course, no such experience could be gotten as regarded boys in other houses; and as most of the other houses were more or less jealous of the School-house, collisions were frequent.
After all, what would life be without fighting, I should like to know? From the cradle to the grave, fighting, rightly understood, is the business, the real highest, honestest business of every son of man. Every one who is worth his salt has his enemies, who must be beaten, be they evil thoughts and habits in himself, or spiritual wickednesses in high places, or Russians, or Border-ruffians, or Bill, Tom, or Harry, who will not let him live his life in quiet till he has thrashed them.
It is no good for quakers, or any other body of men, to uplift their voices against fighting. Human nature is too strong for them, and they don’t follow their own precepts. Every soul of them is doing his own piece of fighting, somehow and somewhere. The world might be a better world without fighting, for anything I know, but it wouldn’t be our world; and therefore I am dead against crying peace when there is no peace, and isn’t meant to be. I am as sorry as any man to see folk fighting the wrong people and the wrong things, but I’d a deal sooner see them doing that than that they should have no fight in them.
It was drawing towards the close of Arthur’s first half-year, and the May evenings were lengthening out. Locking-up was not till eight o’clock, and everybody was beginning to talk about what he would do in the holidays. The shell, in which form all our dramatis personae now are, were reading, amongst other things, the last book of Homer’s “Iliad,” and had worked through it as far as the speeches of the women over Hector’s body. It is a whole school-day, and four or five of the School-house boys (amongst whom are Arthur, Tom, and East) are preparing third lesson together. They have finished the regulation forty lines, and are for the most part getting very tired, notwithstanding the exquisite pathos of Helen’s lamentation. And now several long four-syllabled words come together, and the boy with the dictionary strikes work.
“I am not going to look out any more words,” says he; “we’ve done the quantity. Ten to one we shan’t get so far. Let’s go out into the close.”
“Come along, boys,” cries East, always ready to leave “the grind,” as he called it; “our old coach is laid up, you know, and we shall have one of the new masters, who’s sure to go slow and let us down easy.”
So an adjournment to the close was carried nem. con., little Arthur not daring to uplift his voice; but, being deeply interested in what they were reading, stayed quietly behind, and learnt on for his own pleasure.
As East had said, the regular master of the form was unwell, and they were to be heard by one of the new masters—quite a young man, who had only just left the university. Certainly it would be hard lines if, by dawdling as much as possible in coming in and taking their places, entering into long-winded explanations of what was the usual course of the regular master of the form, and others of the stock contrivances of boys for wasting time in school, they could not spin out the lesson so that he should not work them through more than the forty lines. As to which quantity there was a perpetual fight going on between the master and his form—the latter insisting, and enforcing by passive resistance, that it was the prescribed quantity of Homer for a shell lesson; the former, that there was no fixed quantity, but that they must always be ready to go on to fifty or sixty lines if there were time within the hour. However, notwithstanding all their efforts, the new master got on horribly quick. He seemed to have the bad taste to be really interested in the lesson, and to be trying to work them up into something like appreciation of it, giving them good, spirited English words, instead of the wretched bald stuff into which they rendered poor old Homer, and construing over each piece himself to them, after each boy, to show them how it should be done.
Now the clock strikes the three-quarters; there is only a quarter of an hour more, but the forty lines are all but done. So the boys, one after another, who are called up, stick more and more, and make balder and ever more bald work of it.  So he gives up altogether the lower and middle parts of the form, and looks round in despair at the boys on the top bench, to see if there is one out of whom he can strike a spark or two, and who will be too chivalrous to murder the most beautiful utterances of the most beautiful woman of the old world. His eye rests on Arthur, and he calls him up to finish construing Helen’s speech. Whereupon all the other boys draw long breaths, and begin to stare about and take it easy. They are all safe: Arthur is the head of the form, and sure to be able to construe, and that will tide on safely till the hour strikes.
Arthur proceeds to read out the passage in Greek before construing it, as the custom is. Tom, who isn’t paying much attention, is suddenly caught by the falter in his voice as he reads the two lines—
[greek text deleted]
He looks up at Arthur. “Why, bless us,” thinks he, “what can be the matter with the young un? He’s never going to get floored. He’s sure to have learnt to the end.” Next moment he is reassured by the spirited tone in which Arthur begins construing, and betakes himself to drawing dogs’ heads in his notebook, while the master, evidently enjoying the change, turns his back on the middle bench and stands before Arthur, beating a sort of time with his hand and foot, and saying; “Yes, yes,” “Very well,” as Arthur goes on.
But as he nears the fatal two lines, Tom catches that falter, and again looks up. He sees that there is something the matter; Arthur can hardly get on at all. What can it be?
Suddenly at this point Arthur breaks down altogether, and fairly bursts out crying, and dashes the cuff of his jacket across his eyes, blushing up to the roots of his hair, and feeling as if he should like to go down suddenly through the floor. The whole form are taken aback; most of them stare stupidly at him, while those who are gifted with presence of mind find their places and look steadily at their books, in hopes of not catching the master’s eye and getting called up in Arthur’s place.
The master looks puzzled for a moment, and then seeing, as the fact is, that the boy is really affected to tears by the most touching thing in Homer, perhaps in all profane poetry put together, steps up to him and lays his hand kindly on his shoulder, saying, “Never mind, my little man, you’ve construed very well. Stop a minute; there’s no hurry.”
Now, as luck would have it, there sat next above Tom on that day, in the middle bench of the form, a big boy, by name Williams, generally supposed to be the cock of the shell, therefore of all the school below the fifths. The small boys, who are great speculators on the prowess of their elders, used to hold forth to one another about Williams’s great strength, and to discuss whether East or Brown would take a licking from him. He was called Slogger Williams, from the force with which it was supposed he could hit. In the main, he was a rough, goodnatured fellow enough, but very much alive to his own dignity. He reckoned himself the king of the form, and kept up his position with the strong hand, especially in the matter of forcing boys not to construe more than the legitimate forty lines. He had already grunted and grumbled to himself when Arthur went on reading beyond the forty lines; but now that he had broken down just in the middle of all the long words, the Slogger’s wrath was fairly roused.
“Sneaking little brute,” muttered he, regardless of prudence—“clapping on the water-works just in the hardest place; see if I don’t punch his head after fourth lesson.”
“Whose?” said Tom, to whom the remark seemed to be addressed.
“Why, that little sneak, Arthur’s,” replied Williams.
“No, you shan’t,” said Tom.
“Hullo!” exclaimed Williams, looking at Tom with great surprise for a moment, and then giving him a sudden dig in the ribs with his elbow, which sent Tom’s books flying on to the floor, and called the attention of the master, who turned suddenly round, and seeing the state of things, said,—
“Williams, go down three places, and then go on.”
The Slogger found his legs very slowly, and proceeded to go below Tom and two other boys with great disgust; and then, turning round and facing the master, said, “I haven’t learnt any more, sir; our lesson is only forty lines.”
“Is that so?” said the master, appealing generally to the top bench. No answer.
“Who is the head boy of the form?” said he, waxing wroth.
“Arthur, sir,” answered three or four boys, indicating our friend.
“Oh, your name’s Arthur. Well, now, what is the length of your regular lesson?”
 And now, Arthur, finish construing.”
“Oh! would I be in Arthur’s shoes after fourth lesson?” said the little boys to one another; but Arthur finished Helen’s speech without any further catastrophe, and the clock struck four, which ended third lesson.
Another hour was occupied in preparing and saying fourth lesson, during which Williams was bottling up his wrath; and when five struck, and the lessons for the day were over, he prepared to take summary vengeance on the innocent cause of his misfortune.
Tom was detained in school a few minutes after the rest, and on coming out into the quadrangle, the first thing he saw was a small ring of boys, applauding Williams, who was holding Arthur by the collar.

“I,” said Tom; and suiting the action to the word he struck the arm which held Arthur’s arm so sharply that the Slogger dropped it with a start, and turned the full current of his wrath on Tom.
“Will you fight?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Huzza! There’s going to be a fight between Slogger Williams and Tom Brown!”

“Just run and tell East to come and back me,” said Tom to a small School-house boy, who was off like a rocket to Harrowell’s, just stopping for a moment to poke his head into the School-house hall, where the lower boys were already at tea, and sing out, “Fight! Tom Brown and Slogger Williams.”
Up start half the boys at once, leaving bread, eggs, butter, sprats, and all the rest to take care of themselves. The greater part of the remainder follow in a minute, after swallowing their tea, carrying their food in their hands to consume as they go. Three or four only remain, who steal the butter of the more impetuous, and make to themselves an unctuous feast.
In another minute East and Martin tear through the quadrangle, carrying a sponge, and arrive at the scene of action just as the combatants are beginning to strip.
Tom felt he had got his work cut out for him, as he stripped off his jacket, waistcoat, and braces. East tied his handkerchief round his waist, and rolled up his shirtsleeves for him.  Martin meanwhile folded the clothes, and put them under the chapel rails; and now Tom, with East to handle him, and Martin to give him a knee, steps out on the turf, and is ready for all that may come; and here is the Slogger too, all stripped, and thirsting for the fray.
It doesn’t look a fair match at first glance: Williams is nearly two inches taller, and probably a long year older than his opponent, and he is very strongly made about the arms and shoulders—“peels well,” as the little knot of big fifth-form boys, the amateurs, say, who stand outside the ring of little boys, looking complacently on, but taking no active part in the proceedings. But down below he is not so good by any means—no spring from the loins, and feeblish, not to say shipwrecky, about the knees. Tom, on the contrary, though not half so strong in the arms, is good all over, straight, hard, and springy, from neck to ankle, better perhaps in his legs than anywhere. Besides, you can see by the clear white of his eye, and fresh, bright look of his skin, that he is in tip-top training, able to do all he knows; while the Slogger looks rather sodden, as if he didn’t take much exercise and ate too much tuck. The time-keeper is chosen, a large ring made, and the two stand up opposite one another for a moment, giving us time just to make our little observations.
“If Tom’ll only condescend to fight with his head and heels,” as East mutters to Martin, “we shall do.”
But seemingly he won’t, for there he goes in, making play with both hands. Hard all is the word; the two stand to one another like men; rally follows rally in quick succession, each fighting as if he thought to finish the whole thing out of hand. “Can’t last at this rate,” say the knowing ones, while the partisans of each make the air ring with their shouts and counter-shouts of encouragement, approval, and defiance.
“Take it easy, take it easy; keep away; let him come after you,” implores East, as he wipes Tom’s face after the first round with a wet sponge, while he sits back on Martin’s knee, supported by the Madman’s long arms which tremble a little from excitement.
“Time’s up,” calls the time-keeper.
“There he goes again, hang it all!” growls East, as his man is at it again, as hard as ever.
Loud shouts rise from the boys of Slogger’s house, and the School-house are silent and vicious, ready to pick quarrels anywhere.
“Two to one in half-crowns on the big un,” says Rattle, one of the amateurs, a tall fellow, in thunder-and-lightning waistcoat, and puffy, good-natured face.
“Done!” says Groove, another amateur of quieter look, taking out his notebook to enter it, for our friend Rattle sometimes forgets these little things.
Meantime East is freshening up Tom with the sponges for next round, and has set two other boys to rub his hands.
“Tom, old boy,” whispers he, “this may be fun for you, but it’s death to me. He’ll hit all the fight out of you in another five minutes, and then I shall go and drown myself in the island ditch. Feint him; use your legs; draw him about. He’ll lose his wind then in no time, and you can go into him. Hit at his body too; we’ll take care of his frontispiece by-and-by.”
Tom felt the wisdom of the counsel, and saw already that he couldn’t go in and finish the Slogger off at mere hammer and tongs, so changed his tactics completely in the third round. He now fights cautiously, getting away from and parrying the Slogger’s lunging hits, instead of trying to counter, and leading his enemy a dance all round the ring after him.
“Just what we want,” thinks East, chuckling to himself, as he sees Williams, excited by these shouts, and thinking the game in his own hands, blowing himself in his exertions to get to close quarters again, while Tom is keeping away with perfect ease.
They quarter over the ground again and again, Tom always on the defensive.
The Slogger pulls up at last for a moment, fairly blown.
“Now, then, Tom,” sings out East, dancing with delight. Tom goes in in a twinkling, and hits two heavy body blows, and gets away again before the Slogger can catch his wind, which when he does he rushes with blind fury at Tom, and being skilfully parried and avoided, overreaches himself and falls on his face, amidst terrific cheers from the School-house boys.
“Double your two to one?” says Groove to Rattle, notebook in hand.
“Stop a bit,” says that hero, looking uncomfortably at Williams, who is puffing away on his second’s knee, winded enough, but little the worse in any other way.
After another round the Slogger too seems to see that he can’t go in and win right off, and has met his match or thereabouts. So he too begins to use his head, and tries to make Tom lose his patience, and come in before his time. And so the fight sways on, now one and now the other getting a trifling pull.
 Williams is only slightly marked in the face, but by the nervous movement of his elbows you can see that Tom’s body blows are telling. In fact, half the vice of the Slogger’s hitting is neutralized, for he daren’t lunge out freely for fear of exposing his sides. It is too interesting by this time for much shouting, and the whole ring is very quiet.
“All right, Tommy,” whispers East; “hold on’s the horse that’s to win. We’ve got the last. Keep your head, old boy.”
But where is Arthur all this time? Words cannot paint the poor little fellow’s distress. He couldn’t muster courage to come up to the ring, but wandered up and down from the great fives court to the corner of the chapel rails, now trying to make up his mind to throw himself between them, and try to stop them; then thinking of running in and telling his friend Mary, who, he knew, would instantly report to the Doctor. The stories he had heard of men being killed in prize-fights rose up horribly before him.
Once only, when the shouts of “Well done, Brown!” “Huzza for the School-house!” rose higher than ever, he ventured up to the ring, thinking the victory was won. Catching sight of Tom’s face in the state I have described, all fear of consequences vanishing out of his mind; he rushed straight off to the matron’s room, beseeching her to get the fight stopped, or he should die.
But it’s time for us to get back to the close. What is this fierce tumult and confusion? The ring is broken, and high and angry words are being bandied about. “It’s all fair”—“It isn’t”—“No hugging!” The fight is stopped. The combatants, however, sit there quietly, tended by their seconds, while their adherents wrangle in the middle. East can’t help shouting challenges to two or three of the other side, though he never leaves Tom for a moment, and plies the sponges as fast as ever.
The fact is, that at the end of the last round, Tom, seeing a good opening, had closed with his opponent, and after a moment’s struggle, had thrown him heavily, by help of the fall he had learnt from his village rival in the Vale of White Horse. Williams hadn’t the ghost of a chance with Tom at wrestling; and the conviction broke at once on the Slogger faction that if this were allowed their man must be licked. There was a strong feeling in the School against catching hold and throwing, though it was generally ruled all fair within limits; so the ring was broken and the fight stopped.
The School-house are overruled—the fight is on again, but there is to be no throwing; and East, in high wrath, threatens to take his man away after next round (which he don’t mean to do, by the way), when suddenly young Brooke comes through the small gate at the end of the chapel. The School-house faction rush to him. “Oh, hurrah! now we shall get fair play.”
“Please, Brooke, come up. They won’t let Tom Brown throw him.”
“Throw whom?” says Brooke, coming up to the ring. “Oh! Williams, I see. Nonsense! Of course he may throw him, if he catches him fairly above the waist.”
 He looks hard at both boys. “Anything wrong?” says he to East, nodding at Tom.
 Heaps of fight in him.—Ain’t there, Tom?”
Tom looks at Brooke and grins.
“How’s he?” nodding at Williams.
“So so; rather done, I think, since his last fall. He won’t stand above two more.”
“Time’s up!” The boys rise again and face one another. Brooke can’t find it in his heart to stop them just yet, so the round goes on, the Slogger waiting for Tom, and reserving all his strength to hit him out should he come in for the wrestling dodge again, for he feels that that must be stopped, or his sponge will soon go up in the air.
And now another newcomer appears on the field, to wit, the under-porter, with his long brush and great wooden receptacle for dust under his arm. He has been sweeping out the schools.
“You’d better stop, gentlemen,” he says; “the Doctor knows that Brown’s fighting—he’ll be out in a minute.”
“You go to Bath, Bill,” is all that that excellent servitor gets by his advice; and being a man of his hands, and a stanch upholder of the School-house, can’t help stopping to look on for a bit, and see Tom Brown, their pet craftsman, fight a round.
It is grim earnest now, and no mistake. Both boys feel this, and summon every power of head, hand, and eye to their aid. A piece of luck on either side, a foot slipping, a blow getting well home, or another fall, may decide it. Tom works slowly round for an opening; he has all the legs, and can choose his own time. The Slogger waits for the attack, and hopes to finish it by some heavy right-handed blow. As they quarter slowly over the ground, the evening sun comes out from behind a cloud and falls full on Williams’s face. Tom darts in; the heavy right hand is delivered, but only grazes his head. A short rally at close quarters, and they close; in another moment the Slogger is thrown again heavily for the third time.
“I’ll give you three or two on the little one in half-crowns,” said Groove to Rattle.
“No, thank ‘ee,” answers the other, diving his hands farther into his coat-tails.
Just at this stage of the proceedings, the door of the turret which leads to the Doctor’s library suddenly opens, and he steps into the close, and makes straight for the ring, in which Brown and the Slogger are both seated on their seconds’ knees for the last time.
“The Doctor! the Doctor!” shouts some small boy who catches sight of him, and the ring melts away in a few seconds, the small boys tearing off, Tom collaring his jacket and waistcoat, and slipping through the little gate by the chapel, and round the corner to Harrowell’s with his backers, as lively as need be; Williams and his backers making off not quite so fast across the close; Groove, Rattle, and the other bigger fellows trying to combine dignity and prudence in a comical manner, and walking off fast enough, they hope, not to be recognized, and not fast enough to look like running away.
Young Brooke alone remains on the ground by the time the Doctor gets there, and touches his hat, not without a slight inward qualm.
“Hah! Brooke. I am surprised to see you here. Don’t you know that I expect the sixth to stop fighting?”
Brooke felt much more uncomfortable than he had expected, but he was rather a favourite with the Doctor for his openness and plainness of speech, so blurted out, as he walked by the Doctor’s side, who had already turned back,—
“Yes, sir, generally. But I thought you wished us to exercise a discretion in the matter too—not to interfere too soon.”
“But they have been fighting this half-hour and more,” said the Doctor.
“Yes, sir; but neither was hurt. And they’re the sort of boys who’ll be all the better friends now, which they wouldn’t have been if they had been stopped, any earlier—before it was so equal.”
“Who was fighting with Brown?” said the Doctor.
“Williams, sir, of Thompson’s. He is bigger than Brown, and had the best of it at first, but not when you came up, sir. There’s a good deal of jealousy between our house and Thompson’s, and there would have been more fights if this hadn’t been let go on, or if either of them had had much the worst of it.”
“Well but, Brooke,” said the Doctor, “doesn’t this look a little as if you exercised your discretion by only stopping a fight when the School-house boy is getting the worst of it?”
Brooke, it must be confessed, felt rather gravelled.
“Now remember,” added the Doctor, as he stopped at the turret-door, “this fight is not to go on; you’ll see to that. And I expect you to stop all fights in future at once.”
“Very well, sir,” said young Brooke, touching his hat, and not sorry to see the turret-door close behind the Doctor’s back.
Meantime Tom and the stanchest of his adherents had reached Harrowell’s, and Sally was bustling about to get them a late tea, while Stumps had been sent off to Tew, the butcher, to get a piece of raw beef for Tom’s eye, which was to be healed off-hand, so that he might show well in the morning. He was not a bit the worse, except a slight difficulty in his vision, a singing in his ears, and a sprained thumb, which he kept in a cold-water bandage, while he drank lots of tea, and listened to the babel of voices talking and speculating of nothing but the fight, and how Williams would have given in after another fall (which he didn’t in the least believe), and how on earth the Doctor could have got to know of it—such bad luck! He couldn’t help thinking to himself that he was glad he hadn’t won; he liked it better as it was, and felt very friendly to the Slogger. And then poor little Arthur crept in and sat down quietly near him, and kept looking at him and the raw beef with such plaintive looks that Tom at last burst out laughing.
“Don’t make such eyes, young un,” said he; “there’s nothing the matter.”
“Oh, but, Tom, are you much hurt? I can’t bear thinking it was all for me.”
“Not a bit of it; don’t flatter yourself. We were sure to have had it out sooner or later.”
“Well, but you won’t go on, will you? You’ll promise me you won’t go on?”
“Can’t tell about that—all depends on the houses. We’re in the hands of our countrymen, you know. Must fight for the School-house flag, if so be.”
However, the lovers of the science were doomed to disappointment this time. Directly after locking-up, one of the night-fags knocked at Tom’s door.
“Brown, young Brooke wants you in the sixth-form room.”
Up went Tom to the summons, and found the magnates sitting at their supper.
“Well, Brown,” said young Brooke, nodding to him, “how do you feel?”
“Oh, very well, thank you, only I’ve sprained my thumb, I think.”
“Sure to do that in a fight. Well, you hadn’t the worst of it, I could see. Where did you learn that throw?”
“Down in the country when I was a boy.”
“Hullo! why, what are you now? Well, never mind, you’re a plucky fellow. Sit down and have some supper.”
Tom obeyed, by no means loath. And the fifth-form boy next filled him a tumbler of bottled beer, and he ate and drank, listening to the pleasant talk, and wondering how soon he should be in the fifth, and one of that much-envied society.
As he got up to leave, Brooke said, “You must shake hands to-morrow morning; I shall come and see that done after first lesson.”
And so he did. And Tom and the Slogger shook hands with great satisfaction and mutual respect. And for the next year or two, whenever fights were being talked of, the small boys who had been present shook their heads wisely, saying, “Ah! but you should just have seen the fight between Slogger Williams and Tom Brown!”
 I have put in this chapter on fighting of malice prepense, partly because I want to give you a true picture of what everyday school life was in my time, and not a kid-glove and go-to-meeting-coat picture, and partly because of the cant and twaddle that’s talked of boxing and fighting with fists nowadays. Even Thackeray has given in to it; and only a few weeks ago there was some rampant stuff in the Times on the subject, in an article on field sports.
Boys will quarrel, and when they quarrel will sometimes fight. Fighting with fists is the natural and English way for English boys to settle their quarrels. What substitute for it is there, or ever was there, amongst any nation under the sun? What would you like to see take its place?
Learn to box, then, as you learn to play cricket and football. Not one of you will be the worse, but very much the better, for learning to box well. Should you never have to use it in earnest, there’s no exercise in the world so good for the temper and for the muscles of the back and legs.
As to fighting, keep out of it if you can, by all means. When the time comes, if it ever should, that you have to say “Yes” or “No” to a challenge to fight, say “No” if you can—only take care you make it clear to yourselves why you say “No.” It’s a proof of the highest courage, if done from true Christian motives. It’s quite right and justifiable, if done from a simple aversion to physical pain and danger. But don’t say “No” because you fear a licking, and say or think it’s because you fear God, for that’s neither Christian nor honest. And if you do fight, fight it out; and don’t give in while you can stand and see.
“This our hope for all that’s mortal And we too shall burst the bond; Death keeps watch beside the portal, But ‘tis life that dwells beyond.” —JOHN STERLING.
wo years have passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, and the end of the summer half-year is again drawing on. Martin has left and gone on a cruise in the South Pacific, in one of his uncle’s ships; the old magpie, as disreputable as ever, his last bequest to Arthur, lives in the joint study. Arthur is nearly sixteen, and at the head of the twenty, having gone up the school at the rate of a form a half-year. East and Tom have been much more deliberate in their progress, and are only a little way up the fifth form. Great strapping boys they are, but still thorough boys, filling about the same place in the house that young Brooke filled when they were new boys, and much the same sort of fellows. Constant intercourse with Arthur has done much for both of them, especially for Tom; but much remains yet to be done, if they are to get all the good out of Rugby which is to be got there in these times. Arthur is still frail and delicate, with more spirit than body; but, thanks to his intimacy with them and Martin, has learned to swim, and run, and play cricket, and has never hurt himself by too much reading.
One evening, as they were all sitting down to supper in the fifth-form room, some one started a report that a fever had broken out at one of the boarding-houses. “They say,” he added, “that Thompson is very ill, and that Dr. Robertson has been sent for from Northampton.”
“Then we shall all be sent home,” cried another. “Hurrah! five weeks’ extra holidays, and no fifth-form examination!”
“I hope not,” said Tom; “there’ll be no Marylebone match then at the end of the half.”
Some thought one thing, some another, many didn’t believe the report; but the next day, Tuesday, Dr. Robertson arrived, and stayed all day, and had long conferences with the Doctor.
On Wednesday morning, after prayers, the Doctor addressed the whole school. There were several cases of fever in different houses, he said; but Dr. Robertson, after the most careful examination, had assured him that it was not infectious, and that if proper care were taken, there could be no reason for stopping the school-work at present. The examinations were just coming on, and it would be very unadvisable to break up now. However, any boys who chose to do so were at liberty to write home, and, if their parents wished it, to leave at once. He should send the whole school home if the fever spread.
The next day Arthur sickened, but there was no other case. Before the end of the week thirty or forty boys had gone, but the rest stayed on. There was a general wish to please the Doctor, and a feeling that it was cowardly to run away.
On the Saturday Thompson died, in the bright afternoon, while the cricket-match was going on as usual on the big-side ground. The Doctor, coming from his deathbed, passed along the gravel-walk at the side of the close, but no one knew what had happened till the next day. At morning lecture it began to be rumoured, and by afternoon chapel was known generally; and a feeling of seriousness and awe at the actual presence of death among them came over the whole school. In all the long years of his ministry the Doctor perhaps never spoke words which sank deeper than some of those in that day’s sermon.
“When I came yesterday from visiting all but the very death-bed of him who has been taken from us, and looked around upon all the familiar objects and scenes within our own ground, where your common amusements were going on with your common cheerfulness and activity, I felt there was nothing painful in witnessing that; it did not seem in any way shocking or out of tune with those feelings which the sight of a dying Christian must be supposed to awaken. The unsuitableness in point of natural feeling between scenes of mourning and scenes of liveliness did not at all present itself. But I did feel that if at that moment any of those faults had been brought before me which sometimes occur amongst us; had I heard that any of you had been guilty of falsehood, or of drunkenness, or of any other such sin; had I heard from any quarter the language of profaneness, or of unkindness, or of indecency; had I heard or seen any signs of that wretched folly which courts the laugh of fools by affecting not to dread evil and not to care for good, then the unsuitableness of any of these things with the scene I had just quitted would indeed have been most intensely painful. And why? Not because such things would really have been worse than at any other time, but because at such a moment the eyes are opened really to know good and evil, because we then feel what it is so to live as that death becomes an infinite blessing, and what it is so to live also that it were good for us if we had never been born.”
Tom had gone into chapel in sickening anxiety about Arthur, but he came out cheered and strengthened by those grand words, and walked up alone to their study. And when he sat down and looked round, and saw Arthur’s straw hat and cricket-jacket hanging on their pegs, and marked all his little neat arrangements, not one of which had been disturbed, the tears indeed rolled down his cheeks; but they were calm and blessed tears, and he repeated to himself, “Yes, Geordie’s eyes are opened; he knows what it is so to live as that death becomes an infinite blessing. But do I? O God, can I bear to lose him?”
The week passed mournfully away. No more boys sickened, but Arthur was reported worse each day, and his mother arrived early in the week. Tom made many appeals to be allowed to see him, and several times tried to get up to the sick-room; but the housekeeper was always in the way, and at last spoke to the Doctor, who kindly but peremptorily forbade him.
Thompson was buried on the Tuesday, and the burial service, so soothing and grand always, but beyond all words solemn when read over a boy’s grave to his companions, brought him much comfort, and many strange new thoughts and longings.  It seemed to him that this was the right thing to do, and the new thoughts and longings became more brave and healthy for the effort. The crisis came on Saturday; the day week that Thompson had died; and during that long afternoon Tom sat in his study reading his Bible, and going every half-hour to the housekeeper’s room, expecting each time to hear that the gentle and brave little spirit had gone home. But God had work for Arthur to do. The crisis passed: on Sunday evening he was declared out of danger; on Monday he sent a message to Tom that he was almost well, had changed his room, and was to be allowed to see him the next day.
It was evening when the housekeeper summoned him to the sick-room. Arthur was lying on the sofa by the open window, through which the rays of the western sun stole gently, lighting up his white face and golden hair. Tom remembered a German picture of an angel which he knew; often had he thought how transparent and golden and spirit-like it was; and he shuddered, to think how like it Arthur looked, and felt a shock as if his blood had all stopped short, as he realized how near the other world his friend must have been to look like that. Never till that moment had he felt how his little chum had twined himself round his heart-strings, and as he stole gently across the room and knelt down, and put his arm round Arthur’s head on the pillow, felt ashamed and half-angry at his own red and brown face, and the bounding sense of health and power which filled every fibre of his body, and made every movement of mere living a joy to him. He needn’t have troubled himself: it was this very strength and power so different from his own which drew Arthur so to him.
Arthur laid his thin, white hand, on which the blue veins stood out so plainly, on Tom’s great brown fist, and smiled at him; and then looked out of the window again, as if he couldn’t bear to lose a moment of the sunset, into the tops of the great feathery elms, round which the rooks were circling and clanging, returning in flocks from their evening’s foraging parties. The elms rustled, the sparrows in the ivy just outside the window chirped and fluttered about, quarrelling, and making it up again; the rooks, young and old, talked in chorus, and the merry shouts of the boys and the sweet click of the cricket-bats came up cheerily from below.
“Dear George,” said Tom, “I am so glad to be let up to see you at last. I’ve tried hard to come so often, but they wouldn’t let me before.”
“Oh, I know, Tom; Mary has told me every day about you, and how she was obliged to make the Doctor speak to you to keep you away.  And you’re in the eleven, too, I hear. I’m so glad.”
“Yes; ain’t it jolly?” said Tom proudly. “I’m ninth too. I made forty at the last pie-match, and caught three fellows out. So I was put in above Jones and Tucker. Tucker’s so savage, for he was head of the twenty-two.”
“Well, I think you ought to be higher yet,” said Arthur, who was as jealous for the renown of Tom in games as Tom was for his as a scholar.
“Never mind. I don’t care about cricket or anything now you’re getting well, Geordie; and I shouldn’t have hurt, I know, if they’d have let me come up. Nothing hurts me. But you’ll get about now directly, won’t you? You won’t believe how clean I’ve kept the study. All your things are just as you left them; and I feed the old magpie just when you used, though I have to come in from big-side for him, the old rip. He won’t look pleased all I can do, and sticks his head first on one side and then on the other, and blinks at me before he’ll begin to eat, till I’m half inclined to box his ears. And whenever East comes in, you should see him hop off to the window, dot and go one, though Harry wouldn’t touch a feather of him now.”
Arthur laughed. “Old Gravey has a good memory; he can’t forget the sieges of poor Martin’s den in old times.” He paused a moment, and then went on: “You can’t think how often I’ve been thinking of old Martin since I’ve been ill. I suppose one’s mind gets restless, and likes to wander off to strange, unknown places. I wonder what queer new pets the old boy has got. How he must be revelling in the thousand new birds, beasts, and fishes!”
Tom felt a pang of jealousy, but kicked it out in a moment. “Fancy him on a South Sea island, with the Cherokees, or Patagonians, or some such wild niggers!” (Tom’s ethnology and geography were faulty, but sufficient for his needs.) “They’ll make the old Madman cock medicine-man, and tattoo him all over. Perhaps he’s cutting about now all blue, and has a squaw and a wigwam. He’ll improve their boomerangs, and be able to throw them too, without having old Thomas sent after him by the Doctor to take them away.”
Arthur laughed at the remembrance of the boomerang story, but then looked grave again, and said, “He’ll convert all the island, I know.”
“Yes, if he don’t blow it up first.”
“Do you remember, Tom, how you and East used to laugh at him and chaff him, because he said he was sure the rooks all had calling-over or prayers, or something of the sort, when the locking-up bell rang? Well, I declare,” said Arthur, looking up seriously into Tom’s laughing eyes, “I do think he was right. Since I’ve been lying here, I’ve watched them every night; and, do you know, they really do come and perch, all of them, just about locking-up time; and then first there’s a regular chorus of caws; and then they stop a bit, and one old fellow, or perhaps two or three in different trees, caw solos; and then off they all go again, fluttering about and cawing anyhow till they roost.”
“I wonder if the old blackies do talk,” said Tom, looking up at them. “How they must abuse me and East, and pray for the Doctor for stopping the slinging!”
“There! look, look!” cried Arthur; “don’t you see the old fellow without a tail coming up? Martin used to call him the ‘clerk.’ He can’t steer himself. You never saw such fun as he is in a high wind, when he can’t steer himself home, and gets carried right past the trees, and has to bear up again and again before he can perch.”
The locking-up bell began to toll, and the two boys were silent, and listened to it. The sound soon carried Tom off to the river and the woods, and he began to go over in his mind the many occasions on which he had heard that toll coming faintly down the breeze, and had to pack his rod in a hurry and make a run for it, to get in before the gates were shut. He was roused with a start from his memories by Arthur’s voice, gentle and weak from his late illness.
“Tom, will you be angry if I talk to you very seriously?”
“No, dear old boy, not I. But ain’t you faint, Arthur, or ill? What can I get you?  I’d sooner speak to you now, if you don’t mind. I’ve asked Mary to tell the Doctor that you are with me, so you needn’t go down to calling-over; and I mayn’t have another chance, for I shall most likely have to go home for change of air to get well, and mayn’t come back this half.”
“Oh, do you think you must go away before the end of the half? I’m so sorry. It’s more than five weeks yet to the holidays, and all the fifth-form examination and half the cricket-matches to come yet. And what shall I do all that time alone in our study? Why, Arthur, it will be more than twelve weeks before I see you again. Oh, hang it, I can’t stand that! Besides who’s to keep me up to working at the examination books? I shall come out bottom of the form, as sure as eggs is eggs.”
Tom was rattling on, half in joke, half in earnest, for he wanted to get Arthur out of his serious vein, thinking it would do him harm; but Arthur broke in,—
“Oh, please, Tom, stop, or you’ll drive all I had to say out of my head. And I’m already horribly afraid I’m going to make you angry.”
“Don’t gammon, young un,” rejoined Tom (the use of the old name, dear to him from old recollections, made Arthur start and smile and feel quite happy); “you know you ain’t afraid, and you’ve never made me angry since the first month we chummed together. Now I’m going to be quite sober for a quarter of an hour, which is more than I am once in a year; so make the most of it; heave ahead, and pitch into me right and left.”
“Dear Tom, I ain’t going to pitch into you,” said Arthur piteously; “and it seems so cocky in me to be advising you, who’ve been my backbone ever since I’ve been at Rugby, and have made the school a paradise to me. Ah, I see I shall never do it, unless I go head over heels at once, as you said when you taught me to swim. Tom, I want you to give up using vulgus-books and cribs.”
Arthur sank back on to his pillow with a sigh, as if the effort had been great; but the worst was now over, and he looked straight at Tom, who was evidently taken aback. He leant his elbows on his knees, and stuck his hands into his hair, whistled a verse of “Billy Taylor,” and then was quite silent for another minute. Not a shade crossed his face, but he was clearly puzzled. At last he looked up, and caught Arthur’s anxious look, took his hand, and said simply,—
“Why, young un?”
“Because you’re the honestest boy in Rugby, and that ain’t honest.”
“I don’t see that.”
“What were you sent to Rugby for?”
“Well, I don’t know exactly—nobody ever told me. I suppose because all boys are sent to a public school in England.”
“But what do you think yourself? What do you want to do here, and to carry away?”
Tom thought a minute. “I want to be A1 at cricket and football, and all the other games, and to make my hands keep my head against any fellow, lout or gentleman. I want to get into the sixth before I leave, and to please the Doctor; and I want to carry away just as much Latin and Greek as will take me through Oxford respectably. There, now, young un; I never thought of it before, but that’s pretty much about my figure. Ain’t it all on the square? What have you got to say to that?”
“Why, that you are pretty sure to do all that you want, then.”
“Well, I hope so. But you’ve forgot one thing—what I want to leave behind me. I want to leave behind me,” said Tom, speaking slow, and looking much moved, “the name of a fellow who never bullied a little boy, or turned his back on a big one.”
Arthur pressed his hand, and after a moment’s silence went on, “You say, Tom, you want to please the Doctor. Now, do you want to please him by what he thinks you do, or by what you really do?”
“By what I really do, of course.”
“Does he think you use cribs and vulgus-books?”
Tom felt at once that his flank was turned, but he couldn’t give in. “He was at Winchester himself,” said he; “he knows all about it.”
“Yes; but does he think you use them? Do you think he approves of it?”
“You young villain!” said Tom, shaking his fist at Arthur, half vexed and half pleased, “I never think about it. Hang it! there, perhaps he don’t. Well, I suppose he don’t.”
Arthur saw that he had got his point; he knew his friend well, and was wise in silence as in speech. He only said, “I would sooner have the doctor’s good opinion of me as I really am than any man’s in the world.”
After another minute, Tom began again, “Look here, young un. How on earth am I to get time to play the matches this half if I give up cribs? We’re in the middle of that long crabbed chorus in the Agamemnon. I can only just make head or tail of it with the crib. Then there’s Pericles’s speech coming on in Thucydides, and ‘The Birds’ to get up for the examination, besides the Tacitus.” Tom groaned at the thought of his accumulated labours. “I say, young un, there’s only five weeks or so left to holidays. Mayn’t I go on as usual for this half? I’ll tell the Doctor about it some day, or you may.”
Arthur looked out of the window. The twilight had come on, and all was silent. He repeated in a low voice: “In this thing the Lord pardon thy servant, that when my master goeth into the house of Rimmon to worship there, and he leaneth on my hand, and I bow down myself in the house of Rimmon, when I bow down myself in the house of Rimmon, the Lord pardon thy servant in this thing.”
Not a word more was said on the subject, and the boys were again silent—one of those blessed, short silences in which the resolves which colour a life are so often taken.
Tom was the first to break it. “You’ve been very ill indeed, haven’t you, Geordie?” said he, with a mixture of awe and curiosity, feeling as if his friend had been in some strange place or scene, of which he could form no idea, and full of the memory of his own thoughts during the last week.
“Yes, very. I’m sure the Doctor thought I was going to die. He gave me the Sacrament last Sunday, and you can’t think what he is when one is ill. He said such brave, and tender, and gentle things to me, I felt quite light and strong after it, and never had any more fear.  He said my constitution was quite changed, and that I’m fit for anything now. If it hadn’t, I couldn’t have stood three days of this illness.  Did they tell you—you won’t mind hearing it now, I know—that poor Thompson died last week? The other three boys are getting quite round, like you.”
“Oh yes, I heard of it.”
Then Tom, who was quite full of it, told Arthur of the burial-service in the chapel, and how it had impressed him, and, he believed, all the other boys. “And though the Doctor never said a word about it,” said he, “and it was a half-holiday and match-day, there wasn’t a game played in the close all the afternoon, and the boys all went about as if it were Sunday.”
“I’m very glad of it,” said Arthur. “But, Tom, I’ve had such strange thoughts about death lately. I’ve never told a soul of them, not even my mother. Sometimes I think they’re wrong, but, do you know, I don’t think in my heart I could be sorry at the death of any of my friends.”
Tom was taken quite aback. “What in the world is the young un after now?” thought he; “I’ve swallowed a good many of his crotchets, but this altogether beats me. He can’t be quite right in his head.” He didn’t want to say a word, and shifted about uneasily in the dark; however, Arthur seemed to be waiting for an answer, so at last he said, “I don’t think I quite see what you mean, Geordie. One’s told so often to think about death that I’ve tried it on sometimes, especially this last week. But we won’t talk of it now. I’d better go. You’re getting tired, and I shall do you harm.”
“No, no; indeed I ain’t, Tom. You must stop till nine; there’s only twenty minutes. I’ve settled you shall stop till nine. And oh! do let me talk to you—I must talk to you. I see it’s just as I feared. You think I’m half mad. Don’t you, now?”
“Well, I did think it odd what you said, Geordie, as you ask me.”
Arthur paused a moment, and then said quickly, “I’ll tell you how it all happened. At first, when I was sent to the sick-room, and found I had really got the fever, I was terribly frightened. I thought I should die, and I could not face it for a moment. I don’t think it was sheer cowardice at first, but I thought how hard it was to be taken away from my mother and sisters and you all, just as I was beginning to see my way to many things, and to feel that I might be a man and do a man’s work. To die without having fought, and worked, and given one’s life away, was too hard to bear. I got terribly impatient, and accused God of injustice, and strove to justify myself. And the harder I strove the deeper I sank. Then the image of my dear father often came across me, but I turned from it. Whenever it came, a heavy, numbing throb seemed to take hold of my heart, and say, ‘Dead-dead-dead.’ And I cried out, ‘The living, the living shall praise Thee, O God; the dead cannot praise thee. There is no work in the grave; in the night no man can work. But I can work. I can do great things. I will do great things. Why wilt thou slay me?’ And so I struggled and plunged, deeper and deeper, and went down into a living black tomb. I was alone there, with no power to stir or think; alone with myself; beyond the reach of all human fellowship; beyond Christ’s reach, I thought, in my nightmare. You, who are brave and bright and strong, can have no idea of that agony. Pray to God you never may. Pray as for your life.”
Arthur stopped—from exhaustion, Tom thought; but what between his fear lest Arthur should hurt himself, his awe, and his longing for him to go on, he couldn’t ask, or stir to help him.
Presently he went on, but quite calm and slow.  But I didn’t take much note of time. I thought time was over for me, and that that tomb was what was beyond. Well, on last Sunday morning, as I seemed to lie in that tomb, alone, as I thought, for ever and ever, the black, dead wall was cleft in two, and I was caught up and borne through into the light by some great power, some living, mighty spirit. Tom, do you remember the living creatures and the wheels in Ezekiel? It was just like that. ‘When they went, I heard the noise of their wings, like the noise of great waters, as the voice of the Almighty, the voice of speech, as the noise of an host; when they stood, they let down their wings.’ ‘And they went every one straight forward: whither the spirit was to go, they went; and they turned not when they went.’ And we rushed through the bright air, which was full of myriads of living creatures, and paused on the brink of a great river. And the power held me up, and I knew that that great river was the grave, and death dwelt there, but not the death I had met in the black tomb. That, I felt, was gone for ever. For on the other bank of the great river I saw men and women and children rising up pure and bright, and the tears were wiped from their eyes, and they put on glory and strength, and all weariness and pain fell away. And beyond were a multitude which no man could number, and they worked at some great work; and they who rose from the river went on and joined in the work. They all worked, and each worked in a different way, but all at the same work. And I saw there my father, and the men in the old town whom I knew when I was a child—many a hard, stern man, who never came to church, and whom they called atheist and infidel. There they were, side by side with my father, whom I had seen toil and die for them, and women and little children, and the seal was on the foreheads of all. And I longed to see what the work was, and could not; so I tried to plunge in the river, for I thought I would join them, but I could not. Then I looked about to see how they got into the river. And this I could not see, but I saw myriads on this side, and they too worked, and I knew that it was the same work, and the same seal was on their foreheads. And though I saw that there was toil and anguish in the work of these, and that most that were working were blind and feeble, yet I longed no more to plunge into the river, but more and more to know what the work was. And as I looked I saw my mother and my sisters, and I saw the Doctor, and you, Tom, and hundreds more whom I knew; and at last I saw myself too, and I was toiling and doing ever so little a piece of the great work. Then it all melted away, and the power left me, and as it left me I thought I heard a voice say, ‘The vision is for an appointed time; though it tarry, wait for it, for in the end it shall speak and not lie, it shall surely come, it shall not tarry.’ It was early morning I know, then—it was so quiet and cool, and my mother was fast asleep in the chair by my bedside; but it wasn’t only a dream of mine. I know it wasn’t a dream. Then I fell into a deep sleep, and only woke after afternoon chapel; and the Doctor came and gave me the Sacrament, as I told you. I told him and my mother I should get well—I knew I should; but I couldn’t tell them why. Tom,” said Arthur gently, after another minute, “do you see why I could not grieve now to see my dearest friend die? It can’t be—it isn’t—all fever or illness. God would never have let me see it so clear if it wasn’t true. I don’t understand it all yet; it will take me my life and longer to do that—to find out what the work is.”
When Arthur stopped there was a long pause. Tom could not speak; he was almost afraid to breathe, lest he should break the train of Arthur’s thoughts. He longed to hear more, and to ask questions. In another minute nine o’clock struck, and a gentle tap at the door called them both back into the world again. They did not answer, however, for a moment; and so the door opened, and a lady came in carrying a candle.
She went straight to the sofa, and took hold of Arthur’s hand, and then stooped down and kissed him.
“My dearest boy, you feel a little feverish again. Why didn’t you have lights? You’ve talked too much, and excited yourself in the dark.”
“Oh no, mother; you can’t think how well I feel. I shall start with you to-morrow for Devonshire. But, mother, here’s my friend—here’s Tom Brown. You know him?”
“Yes, indeed; I’ve known him for years,” she said, and held out her hand to Tom, who was now standing up behind the sofa. This was Arthur’s mother: tall and slight and fair, with masses of golden hair drawn back from the broad, white forehead, and the calm blue eye meeting his so deep and open—the eye that he knew so well, for it was his friend’s over again, and the lovely, tender mouth that trembled while he looked—she stood there, a woman of thirty-eight, old enough to be his mother, and one whose face showed the lines which must be written on the faces of good men’s wives and widows, but he thought he had never seen anything so beautiful. He couldn’t help wondering if Arthur’s sisters were like her.
Tom held her hand, and looked on straight in her face; he could neither let it go nor speak.
“Now, Tom,” said Arthur, laughing, “where are your manners? You’ll stare my mother out of countenance.” Tom dropped the little hand with a sigh. “There, sit down, both of you.—Here, dearest mother; there’s room here.” And he made a place on the sofa for her.—“Tom, you needn’t go; I’m sure you won’t be called up at first lesson.” Tom felt that he would risk being floored at every lesson for the rest of his natural school-life sooner than go, so sat down. “And now,” said Arthur, “I have realized one of the dearest wishes of my life—to see you two together.”
And then he led away the talk to their home in Devonshire, and the red, bright earth, and the deep green combes, and the peat streams like cairngorm pebbles, and the wild moor with its high, cloudy tors for a giant background to the picture, till Tom got jealous, and stood up for the clear chalk streams, and the emerald water meadows and great elms and willows of the dear old royal county, as he gloried to call it.  The quarter to ten struck, and the bell rang for bed, before they had well begun their talk, as it seemed.
Then Tom rose with a sigh to go.
“Shall I see you in the morning, Geordie?” said he, as he shook his friend’s hand. “Never mind, though; you’ll be back next half. And I shan’t forget the house of Rimmon.”
 Her voice trembled slightly as she said, “Good-night. You are one who knows what our Father has promised to the friend of the widow and the fatherless. May He deal with you as you have dealt with me and mine!”
Tom was quite upset; he mumbled something about owing everything good in him to Geordie, looked in her face again, pressed her hand to his lips, and rushed downstairs to his study, where he sat till old Thomas came kicking at the door, to tell him his allowance would be stopped if he didn’t go off to bed. (It would have been stopped anyhow, but that he was a great favourite with the old gentleman, who loved to come out in the afternoons into the close to Tom’s wicket, and bowl slow twisters to him, and talk of the glories of bygone Surrey heroes, with whom he had played former generations.) So Tom roused himself, and took up his candle to go to bed; and then for the first time was aware of a beautiful new fishing-rod, with old Eton’s mark on it, and a splendidly-bound Bible, which lay on his table, on the title-page of which was written—“TOM BROWN, from his affectionate and grateful friends, Frances Jane Arthur; George Arthur.”
I leave you all to guess how he slept, and what he dreamt of.
“The Holy Supper is kept indeed, In whatso we share with another’s need Not that which we give, but what we share, For the gift without the giver is bare. Who bestows himself with his alms feeds three, Himself, his hungering neighbour and Me.” —LOWELL, The Vision of Sir Launfal.
he next morning, after breakfast, Tom, East, and Gower met as usual to learn their second lesson together. Tom had been considering how to break his proposal of giving up the crib to the others, and having found no better way (as indeed none better can ever be found by man or boy), told them simply what had happened; how he had been to see Arthur, who had talked to him upon the subject, and what he had said, and for his part he had made up his mind, and wasn’t going to use cribs any more; and not being quite sure of his ground, took the high and pathetic tone, and was proceeding to say “how that, having learnt his lessons with them for so many years, it would grieve him much to put an end to the arrangement, and he hoped, at any rate, that if they wouldn’t go on with him, they should still be just as good friends, and respect one another’s motives; but—”
Here the other boys, who had been listening with open eyes and ears, burst in,—
“Stuff and nonsense!” cried Gower. “Here, East, get down the crib and find the place.”
“O Tommy, Tommy!” said East, proceeding to do as he was bidden, “that it should ever have come to this!  And now the time’s come.” And he made a doleful face.
“I don’t know about ruin,” answered Tom; “I know that you and I would have had the sack long ago if it hadn’t been for him. And you know it as well as I.”
“Well, we were in a baddish way before he came, I own; but this new crotchet of his is past a joke.”
“Let’s give it a trial, Harry; come. You know how often he has been right and we wrong.”
“Now, don’t you two be jawing away about young Square-toes,” struck in Gower. “He’s no end of a sucking wiseacre, I dare say; but we’ve no time to lose, and I’ve got the fives court at half-past nine.”
“I say, Gower,” said Tom appealingly, “be a good fellow, and let’s try if we can’t get on without the crib.”
“What! in this chorus? Why, we shan’t get through ten lines.”
“I say, Tom,” cried East, having hit on a new idea, “don’t you remember, when we were in the upper fourth, and old Momus caught me construing off the leaf of a crib which I’d torn out and put in my book, and which would float out on to the floor, he sent me up to be flogged for it?”
“Yes, I remember it very well.”
“Well, the Doctor, after he’d flogged me, told me himself that he didn’t flog me for using a translation, but for taking it in to lesson, and using it there when I hadn’t learnt a word before I came in. He said there was no harm in using a translation to get a clue to hard passages, if you tried all you could first to make them out without.”
“Did he, though?” said Tom; “then Arthur must be wrong.”
“Of course he is,” said Gower—“the little prig. We’ll only use the crib when we can’t construe without it.—Go ahead, East.”
And on this agreement they started—Tom, satisfied with having made his confession, and not sorry to have a locus penitentiae, and not to be deprived altogether of the use of his old and faithful friend.
The boys went on as usual, each taking a sentence in turn, and the crib being handed to the one whose turn it was to construe. Of course Tom couldn’t object to this, as, was it not simply lying there to be appealed to in case the sentence should prove too hard altogether for the construer? But it must be owned that Gower and East did not make very tremendous exertions to conquer their sentences before having recourse to its help. Tom, however, with the most heroic virtue and gallantry, rushed into his sentence, searching in a high-minded manner for nominative and verb, and turning over his dictionary frantically for the first hard word that stopped him. But in the meantime Gower, who was bent on getting to fives, would peep quietly into the crib, and then suggest, “Don’t you think this is the meaning?” “I think you must take it this way, Brown.” And as Tom didn’t see his way to not profiting by these suggestions, the lesson went on about as quickly as usual, and Gower was able to start for the fives court within five minutes of the half-hour.
When Tom and East were left face to face, they looked at one another for a minute, Tom puzzled, and East chokefull of fun, and then burst into a roar of laughter.
“Well, Tom,” said East, recovering himself, “I don t see any objection to the new way. It’s about as good as the old one, I think, besides the advantage it gives one of feeling virtuous, and looking down on one’s neighbours.”
Tom shoved his hand into his back hair. “I ain’t so sure,” said he; “you two fellows carried me off my legs. I don’t think we really tried one sentence fairly. Are you sure you remember what the Doctor said to you?”
“Yes. And I’ll swear I couldn’t make out one of my sentences to-day—no, nor ever could. I really don’t remember,” said East, speaking slowly and impressively, “to have come across one Latin or Greek sentence this half that I could go and construe by the light of nature. Whereby I am sure Providence intended cribs to be used.”
“The thing to find out,” said Tom meditatively, “is how long one ought to grind at a sentence without looking at the crib. Now I think if one fairly looks out all the words one don’t know, and then can’t hit it, that’s enough.”
“To be sure, Tommy,” said East demurely, but with a merry twinkle in his eye. “Your new doctrine too, old fellow,” added he, “when one comes to think of it, is a cutting at the root of all school morality. You’ll take away mutual help, brotherly love, or, in the vulgar tongue, giving construes, which I hold to be one of our highest virtues. For how can you distinguish between getting a construe from another boy and using a crib? Hang it, Tom, if you’re going to deprive all our school-fellows of the chance of exercising Christian benevolence and being good Samaritans, I shall cut the concern.”
“I wish you wouldn’t joke about it, Harry; it’s hard enough to see one’s way—a precious sight harder than I thought last night. But I suppose there’s a use and an abuse of both, and one’ll get straight enough somehow. But you can’t make out, anyhow, that one has a right to use old vulgus-books and copy-books.”
“Hullo, more heresy! How fast a fellow goes downhill when he once gets his head before his legs. Listen to me, Tom. Not use old vulgus-books! Why, you Goth, ain’t we to take the benefit of the wisdom and admire and use the work of past generations? Not use old copy-books! Why, you might as well say we ought to pull down Westminster Abbey, and put up a go-to-meeting shop with churchwarden windows; or never read Shakespeare, but only Sheridan Knowles. Think of all the work and labour that our predecessors have bestowed on these very books; and are we to make their work of no value?”
“I say, Harry, please don’t chaff; I’m really serious.”
“And then, is it not our duty to consult the pleasure of others rather than our own, and above all, that of our masters? Fancy, then, the difference to them in looking over a vulgus which has been carefully touched and retouched by themselves and others, and which must bring them a sort of dreamy pleasure, as if they’d met the thought or expression of it somewhere or another—before they were born perhaps—and that of cutting up, and making picture-frames round all your and my false quantities, and other monstrosities. Why, Tom, you wouldn’t be so cruel as never to let old Momus hum over the ‘O genus humanum’ again, and then look up doubtingly through his spectacles, and end by smiling and giving three extra marks for it—just for old sake’s sake, I suppose.”
“Well,” said Tom, getting up in something as like a huff as he was capable of, “it’s deuced hard that when a fellow’s really trying to do what he ought, his best friends’ll do nothing but chaff him and try to put him down.” And he stuck his books under his arm and his hat on his head, preparatory to rushing out into the quadrangle, to testify with his own soul of the faithlessness of friendships.
 You can’t expect to ride your new crotchet without anybody’s trying to stick a nettle under his tail and make him kick you off—especially as we shall all have to go on foot still. But now sit down, and let’s go over it again. I’ll be as serious as a judge.”
Then Tom sat himself down on the table, and waxed eloquent about all the righteousnesses and advantages of the new plan, as was his wont whenever he took up anything, going into it as if his life depended upon it, and sparing no abuse which he could think of, of the opposite method, which he denounced as ungentlemanly, cowardly, mean, lying, and no one knows what besides. “Very cool of Tom,” as East thought, but didn’t say, “seeing as how he only came out of Egypt himself last night at bedtime.”
“Well, Tom,” said he at last, “you see, when you and I came to school there were none of these sort of notions. You may be right—I dare say you are. Only what one has always felt about the masters is, that it’s a fair trial of skill and last between us and them—like a match at football or a battle. We’re natural enemies in school—that’s the fact. We’ve got to learn so much Latin and Greek, and do so many verses, and they’ve got to see that we do it. If we can slip the collar and do so much less without getting caught, that’s one to us. If they can get more out of us, or catch us shirking, that’s one to them. All’s fair in war but lying. If I run my luck against theirs, and go into school without looking at my lessons, and don’t get called up, why am I a snob or a sneak? I don’t tell the master I’ve learnt it. He’s got to find out whether I have or not. What’s he paid for? If he calls me up and I get floored, he makes me write it out in Greek and English. Very good. He’s caught me, and I don’t grumble. I grant you, if I go and snivel to him, and tell him I’ve really tried to learn it, but found it so hard without a translation, or say I’ve had a toothache, or any humbug of that kind, I’m a snob. That’s my school morality; it’s served me, and you too, Tom, for the matter of that, these five years. And it’s all clear and fair, no mistake about it. We understand it, and they understand it, and I don’t know what we’re to come to with any other.”
Tom looked at him pleased and a little puzzled. He had never heard East speak his mind seriously before, and couldn’t help feeling how completely he had hit his own theory and practice up to that time.
“Thank you, old fellow,” said he. “You’re a good old brick to be serious, and not put out with me. I said more than I meant, I dare say, only you see I know I’m right. Whatever you and Gower and the rest do, I shall hold on. I must. And as it’s all new and an uphill game, you see, one must hit hard and hold on tight at first.”
“Very good,” said East; “hold on and hit away, only don’t hit under the line.”
“But I must bring you over, Harry, or I shan’t be comfortable. Now, I’ll allow all you’ve said. We’ve always been honourable enemies with the masters. We found a state of war when we came, and went into it of course. Only don’t you think things are altered a good deal? I don’t feel as I used to the masters. They seem to me to treat one quite differently.”
“Yes, perhaps they do,” said East; “there’s a new set you see, mostly, who don’t feel sure of themselves yet. They don’t want to fight till they know the ground.”
“I don’t think it’s only that,” said Tom. “And then the Doctor, he does treat one so openly, and like a gentleman, and as if one was working with him.”
“Well, so he does,” said East; “he’s a splendid fellow, and when I get into the sixth I shall act accordingly. Only you know he has nothing to do with our lessons now, except examining us. I say, though,” looking at his watch, “it’s just the quarter. Come along.”
As they walked out they got a message, to say that Arthur was just starting, and would like to say goodbye. So they went down to the private entrance of the School-house, and found an open carriage, with Arthur propped up with pillows in it, looking already better, Tom thought.
They jumped up on to the steps to shake hands with him, and Tom mumbled thanks for the presents he had found in his study, and looked round anxiously for Arthur’s mother.
East, who had fallen back into his usual humour, looked quaintly at Arthur, and said,—
“So you’ve been at it again, through that hot-headed convert of yours there. He’s been making our lives a burden to us all the morning about using cribs. I shall get floored to a certainty at second lesson, if I’m called up.”
Arthur blushed and looked down. Tom struck in,—
“Oh, it’s all right. He’s converted already; he always comes through the mud after us, grumbling and sputtering.”
The clock struck, and they had to go off to school, wishing Arthur a pleasant holiday, Tom, lingering behind a moment to send his thanks and love to Arthur’s mother.
Tom renewed the discussion after second lesson, and succeeded so far as to get East to promise to give the new plan a fair trial.
Encouraged by his success, in the evening, when they were sitting alone in the large study, where East lived now almost, “vice Arthur on leave,” after examining the new fishing-rod, which both pronounced to be the genuine article (“play enough to throw a midge tied on a single hair against the wind, and strength enough to hold a grampus”), they naturally began talking about Arthur. Tom, who was still bubbling over with last night’s scene and all the thoughts of the last week, and wanting to clinch and fix the whole in his own mind, which he could never do without first going through the process of belabouring somebody else with it all, suddenly rushed into the subject of Arthur’s illness, and what he had said about death.
East had given him the desired opening. After a serio-comic grumble, “that life wasn’t worth having, now they were tied to a young beggar who was always ‘raising his standard;’ and that he, East, was like a prophet’s donkey, who was obliged to struggle on after the donkey-man who went after the prophet; that he had none of the pleasure of starting the new crotchets, and didn’t half understand them, but had to take the kicks and carry the luggage as if he had all the fun,” he threw his legs up on to the sofa, and put his hands behind his head, and said,—
“Well, after all, he’s the most wonderful little fellow I ever came across. There ain’t such a meek, humble boy in the school. Hanged if I don’t think now, really, Tom, that he believes himself a much worse fellow than you or I, and that he don’t think he has more influence in the house than Dot Bowles, who came last quarter, and isn’t ten yet. But he turns you and me round his little finger, old boy—there’s no mistake about that.” And East nodded at Tom sagaciously.
“Now or never!” thought Tom; so, shutting his eyes and hardening his heart, he went straight at it, repeating all that Arthur had said, as near as he could remember it, in the very words, and all he had himself thought. The life seemed to ooze out of it as he went on, and several times he felt inclined to stop, give it all up, and change the subject. But somehow he was borne on; he had a necessity upon him to speak it all out, and did so. At the end he looked at East with some anxiety, and was delighted to see that that young gentleman was thoughtful and attentive. The fact is, that in the stage of his inner life at which Tom had lately arrived, his intimacy with and friendship for East could not have lasted if he had not made him aware of, and a sharer in, the thoughts that were beginning to exercise him. Nor indeed could the friendship have lasted if East had shown no sympathy with these thoughts; so that it was a great relief to have unbosomed himself, and to have found that his friend could listen.
Tom had always had a sort of instinct that East’s levity was only skin-deep, and this instinct was a true one. East had no want of reverence for anything he felt to be real; but his was one of those natures that burst into what is generally called recklessness and impiety the moment they feel that anything is being poured upon them for their good which does not come home to their inborn sense of right, or which appeals to anything like self-interest in them. Daring and honest by nature, and outspoken to an extent which alarmed all respectabilities, with a constant fund of animal health and spirits which he did not feel bound to curb in any way, he had gained for himself with the steady part of the school (including as well those who wished to appear steady as those who really were so) the character of a boy with whom it would be dangerous to be intimate; while his own hatred of everything cruel, or underhand, or false, and his hearty respect for what he would see to be good and true, kept off the rest.
Tom, besides being very like East in many points of character, had largely developed in his composition the capacity for taking the weakest side. This is not putting it strongly enough: it was a necessity with him; he couldn’t help it any more than he could eating or drinking. He could never play on the strongest side with any heart at football or cricket, and was sure to make friends with any boy who was unpopular, or down on his luck.
Now, though East was not what is generally called unpopular, Tom felt more and more every day, as their characters developed, that he stood alone, and did not make friends among their contemporaries, and therefore sought him out. Tom was himself much more popular, for his power of detecting humbug was much less acute, and his instincts were much more sociable. He was at this period of his life, too, largely given to taking people for what they gave themselves out to be; but his singleness of heart, fearlessness, and honesty were just what East appreciated, and thus the two had been drawn into great intimacy.
This intimacy had not been interrupted by Tom’s guardianship of Arthur.
East had often, as has been said, joined them in reading the Bible; but their discussions had almost always turned upon the characters of the men and women of whom they read, and not become personal to themselves. In fact, the two had shrunk from personal religious discussion, not knowing how it might end, and fearful of risking a friendship very dear to both, and which they felt somehow, without quite knowing why, would never be the same, but either tenfold stronger or sapped at its foundation, after such a communing together.
 I wish we could get on without it. But we can’t. However, you’ll all find, if you haven’t found it out already, that a time comes in every human friendship when you must go down into the depths of yourself, and lay bare what is there to your friend, and wait in fear for his answer. A few moments may do it; and it may be (most likely will be, as you are English boys) that you will never do it but once. But done it must be, if the friendship is to be worth the name. You must find what is there, at the very root and bottom of one another’s hearts; and if you are at one there, nothing on earth can or at least ought to sunder you.
East had remained lying down until Tom finished speaking, as if fearing to interrupt him; he now sat up at the table, and leant his head on one hand, taking up a pencil with the other, and working little holes with it in the table-cover. After a bit he looked up, stopped the pencil, and said, “Thank you very much, old fellow. There’s no other boy in the house would have done it for me but you or Arthur. I can see well enough,” he went on, after a pause, “all the best big fellows look on me with suspicion; they think I’m a devil-may-care, reckless young scamp. So I am—eleven hours out of twelve, but not the twelfth. Then all of our contemporaries worth knowing follow suit, of course: we’re very good friends at games and all that, but not a soul of them but you and Arthur ever tried to break through the crust, and see whether there was anything at the bottom of me; and then the bad ones I won’t stand and they know that.”
“Don’t you think that’s half fancy, Harry?”
“Not a bit of it,” said East bitterly, pegging away with his pencil. “I see it all plain enough. Bless you, you think everybody’s as straightforward and kindhearted as you are.”
“Well, but what’s the reason of it? There must be a reason. You can play all the games as well as any one and sing the best song, and are the best company in the house. You fancy you’re not liked, Harry. It’s all fancy.”
“I only wish it was, Tom. I know I could be popular enough with all the bad ones, but that I won’t have, and the good ones won’t have me.”
“Why not?” persisted Tom; “you don’t drink or swear, or get out at night; you never bully, or cheat at lessons. If you only showed you liked it, you’d have all the best fellows in the house running after you.”
“Not I,” said East. Then with an effort he went on, “I’ll tell you what it is. I never stop the Sacrament. I can see, from the Doctor downwards, how that tells against me.”
“Yes, I’ve seen that,” said Tom, “and I’ve been very sorry for it, and Arthur and I have talked about it. I’ve often thought of speaking to you, but it’s so hard to begin on such subjects. I’m very glad you’ve opened it. Now, why don’t you?”
“I’ve never been confirmed,” said East.
“Not been confirmed!” said Tom, in astonishment. “I never thought of that.  I always thought you’d been confirmed at home.”
“No,” answered East sorrowfully; “you see this was how it happened. Last Confirmation was soon after Arthur came, and you were so taken up with him I hardly saw either of you. Well, when the Doctor sent round for us about it, I was living mostly with Green’s set. You know the sort. They all went in. I dare say it was all right, and they got good by it; I don’t want to judge them. Only all I could see of their reasons drove me just the other way. ‘Twas ‘because the Doctor liked it;’ ‘no boy got on who didn’t stay the Sacrament;’ it was the ‘correct thing,’ in fact, like having a good hat to wear on Sundays. I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t feel that I wanted to lead a different life. I was very well content as I was, and I wasn’t going to sham religious to curry favour with the Doctor, or any one else.”
East stopped speaking, and pegged away more diligently than ever with his pencil. Tom was ready to cry. He felt half sorry at first that he had been confirmed himself. He seemed to have deserted his earliest friend—to have left him by himself at his worst need for those long years. He got up and went and sat by East, and put his arm over his shoulder.
“Dear old boy,” he said, “how careless and selfish I’ve been.  It’s too late talking of it now.”
“Why too late? You want to be confirmed now, don’t you?”
“I think so,” said East. “I’ve thought about it a good deal; only, often I fancy I must be changing, because I see it’s to do me good here—just what stopped me last time. And then I go back again.”
“I’ll tell you now how ‘twas with me,” said Tom warmly. “If it hadn’t been for Arthur, I should have done just as you did. I hope I should. I honour you for it. But then he made it out just as if it was taking the weak side before all the world—going in once for all against everything that’s strong and rich, and proud and respectable, a little band of brothers against the whole world. And the Doctor seemed to say so too, only he said a great deal more.”
“Ah!” groaned East, “but there again, that’s just another of my difficulties whenever I think about the matter. I don’t want to be one of your saints, one of your elect, whatever the right phrase is. My sympathies are all the other way—with the many, the poor devils who run about the streets and don’t go to church.  You must be gentle with me if you want to land me. Now I’ve seen a deal of this sort of religion; I was bred up in it, and I can’t stand it. If nineteen-twentieths of the world are to be left to uncovenanted mercies, and that sort of thing, which means in plain English to go to hell, and the other twentieth are to rejoice at it all, why—”
“Oh! but, Harry, they ain’t, they don’t,” broke in Tom, really shocked. “Oh, how I wish Arthur hadn’t gone!  But it’s all you want too, East; it is indeed. It cuts both ways somehow, being confirmed and taking the Sacrament. It makes you feel on the side of all the good and all the bad too, of everybody in the world. Only there’s some great dark strong power, which is crushing you and everybody else. That’s what Christ conquered, and we’ve got to fight.  I can’t explain. If Arthur were only here!”
“I begin to get a glimmering of what you mean,” said East.
 What then?”
“Well, when I came to take the Sacrament, I had a great struggle about that. I tried to put him out of my head; and when I couldn’t do that, I tried to think of him as evil—as something that the Lord who was loving me hated, and which I might hate too. But it wouldn’t do. I broke down; I believe Christ Himself broke me down. And when the Doctor gave me the bread and wine, and leant over me praying, I prayed for poor Flashman, as if it had been you or Arthur.”
East buried his face in his hands on the table. Tom could feel the table tremble. At last he looked up. “Thank you again, Tom,” said he; “you don’t know what you may have done for me to-night. I think I see now how the right sort of sympathy with poor devils is got at.”
“And you’ll stop the Sacrament next time, won’t you?” said Tom.
“Can I, before I’m confirmed?”
“Go and ask the Doctor.”
“I will.”
That very night, after prayers, East followed the Doctor, and the old verger bearing the candle, upstairs. Tom watched, and saw the Doctor turn round when he heard footsteps following him closer than usual, and say, “Hah, East! Do you want to speak to me, my man?”
“If you please, sir.” And the private door closed, and Tom went to his study in a state of great trouble of mind.
It was almost an hour before East came back. Then he rushed in breathless.
“Well, it’s all right,” he shouted, seizing Tom by the hand. “I feel as if a ton weight were off my mind.”
“Hurrah,” said Tom. “I knew it would be; but tell us all about it.”
“Well, I just told him all about it. You can’t think how kind and gentle he was, the great grim man, whom I’ve feared more than anybody on earth. When I stuck, he lifted me just as if I’d been a little child. And he seemed to know all I’d felt, and to have gone through it all. And I burst out crying—more than I’ve done this five years; and he sat down by me, and stroked my head; and I went blundering on, and told him all—much worse things than I’ve told you. And he wasn’t shocked a bit, and didn’t snub me, or tell me I was a fool, and it was all nothing but pride or wickedness, though I dare say it was. And he didn’t tell me not to follow out my thoughts, and he didn’t give me any cut-and-dried explanation. But when I’d done he just talked a bit. I can hardly remember what he said yet; but it seemed to spread round me like healing, and strength, and light, and to bear me up, and plant me on a rock, where I could hold my footing and fight for myself. I don’t know what to do, I feel so happy.  And he seized Tom’s hand again.
“And you’re to come to the Communion?” said Tom.
“Yes, and to be confirmed in the holidays.”
Tom’s delight was as great as his friend’s. But he hadn’t yet had out all his own talk, and was bent on improving the occasion: so he proceeded to propound Arthur’s theory about not being sorry for his friends’ deaths, which he had hitherto kept in the background, and by which he was much exercised; for he didn’t feel it honest to take what pleased him, and throw over the rest, and was trying vigorously to persuade himself that he should like all his best friends to die off-hand.
But East’s powers of remaining serious were exhausted, and in five minutes he was saying the most ridiculous things he could think of, till Tom was almost getting angry again.
Despite of himself, however, he couldn’t help laughing and giving it up, when East appealed to him with, “Well, Tom, you ain’t going to punch my head, I hope, because I insist upon being sorry when you got to earth?”
And so their talk finished for that time, and they tried to learn first lesson, with very poor success, as appeared next morning, when they were called up and narrowly escaped being floored, which ill-luck, however, did not sit heavily on either of their souls.
“Heaven grant the manlier heart, that timely ere Youth fly, with life’s real tempest would be coping; The fruit of dreamy hoping Is, waking, blank despair.”—CLOUGH, Ambarvalia.
he curtain now rises upon the last act of our little drama, for hard-hearted publishers warn me that a single volume must of necessity have an end. Well, well! the pleasantest things must come to an end. I little thought last long vacation, when I began these pages to help while away some spare time at a watering-place, how vividly many an old scene which had lain hid away for years in some dusty old corner of my brain, would come back again, and stand before me as clear and bright as if it had happened yesterday. The book has been a most grateful task to me, and I only hope that all you, my dear young friends, who read it (friends assuredly you must be, if you get as far as this), will be half as sorry to come to the last stage as I am.
Not but what there has been a solemn and a sad side to it. As the old scenes became living, and the actors in them became living too, many a grave in the Crimea and distant India, as well as in the quiet churchyards of our dear old country, seemed to open and send forth their dead, and their voices and looks and ways were again in one’s ears and eyes, as in the old School-days. But this was not sad. How should it be, if we believe as our Lord has taught us? How should it be, when one more turn of the wheel, and we shall be by their sides again, learning from them again, perhaps, as we did when we were new boys.
Then there were others of the old faces so dear to us once who had somehow or another just gone clean out of sight. Are they dead or living? We know not, but the thought of them brings no sadness with it. Wherever they are, we can well believe they are doing God’s work and getting His wages.
But are there not some, whom we still see sometimes in the streets, whose haunts and homes we know, whom we could probably find almost any day in the week if we were set to do it, yet from whom we are really farther than we are from the dead, and from those who have gone out of our ken? Yes, there are and must be such; and therein lies the sadness of old School memories. Yet of these our old comrades, from whom more than time and space separate us, there are some by whose sides we can feel sure that we shall stand again when time shall be no more. We may think of one another now as dangerous fanatics or narrow bigots, with whom no truce is possible, from whom we shall only sever more and more to the end of our lives, whom it would be our respective duties to imprison or hang, if we had the power. We must go our way, and they theirs, as long as flesh and spirit hold together; but let our own Rugby poet speak words of healing for this trial:—
“To veer how vain! on, onward strain, Brave barks, in light, in darkness too; Through winds and tides one compass guides,— To that, and your own selves, be true. “But, O blithe breeze, and O great seas, Though ne’er that earliest parting past, On your wide plain they join again; Together lead them home at last. “One port, methought, alike they sought, One purpose hold where’er they fare. O bounding breeze, O rushing seas, At last, at last, unite them there!” *
* Clough, Ambarvalia.
This is not mere longing; it is prophecy. So over these too, our old friends, who are friends no more, we sorrow not as men without hope. It is only for those who seem to us to have lost compass and purpose, and to be driven helplessly on rocks and quicksands, whose lives are spent in the service of the world, the flesh, and the devil, for self alone, and not for their fellow-men, their country, or their God, that we must mourn and pray without sure hope and without light, trusting only that He, in whose hands they as well as we are, who has died for them as well as for us, who sees all His creatures
“With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all,”
will, in His own way and at His own time, lead them also home.