TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS


By Thomas Hughes


Chapter 1: The Brown Family

I'm the Poet of White Horse Vale, Sir,
With liberal notions under my cap.
Ballad.


The Browns have become illustrious by the pen of Thackeray and the pencil of 
Doyle, within the memory of the young gentlemen who are now matriculating at 
the Universities. Notwithstanding the well-merited but late fame which has now 
fallen upon them, any one at all acquainted with the family must feel that 
much has yet to be written and said before the British nation will be properly 
sensible of how much of its greatness it owes to the Browns. For centuries, in 
their quiet, dogged, homespun way, they have been subduing the earth in most 
English counties, and leaving their mark in American forests and Australian 
uplands. Wherever the fleets and armies of England have won renown, there 
stalwart sons of the Browns have done yeomen's work. With the yew bow and 
cloth-yard shaft at Cressy and Agincourt, with the brown bill and pike under 
the brave Lord Willoughby, with culverin and demi-culverin against Spaniards 
and Dutchmen, with hand-grenade and sabre, and musket and bayonet, under 
Rodney and St. Vincent, Wolfe and Moore, Nelson and Wellington, they have 
carried their lives in their hands; getting hard knocks and hard work in 
plenty, which was on the whole what they looked for, and the best thing for 
them; and little praise or pudding, which indeed they, and most of us, are 
better without. Talbots and Stanleys, St. Maurs, and suchlike folk, have led 
armies and made laws time out of mind; but those noble families would be 
somewhat astounded, if the accounts ever came to be fairly taken, to find how 
small their work for England has been by the side of that of the Browns.
These latter, indeed, have until the present generation rarely been sung by 
poet, or chronicled by sage. They have wanted their "Sacer vates," having been 
too solid to rise to the top by themselves, and not having been largely gifted 
with the talent of catching hold of, and holding on tight to, whatever good 
things happened to be going -the foundation of the fortunes of so many noble 
families. But the world goes on its way, and the wheel turns, and the wrongs 
of the Browns, like other wrongs, seem in a fair way to get righted. And this 
present writer having for many years of his life been a devout 
Brown-worshipper, and moreover having the honour of being nearly connected 
with an eminently respectable branch of the great Brown family, is anxious, so 
far as in him lies, to help the wheel over, and throw his stone on to the pile.
However, gentle reader, or simple reader, whichever you may be, lest you 
should be led to waste your precious time upon these pages, I make so bold as 
at once to tell you the sort of folk you'll have to meet and put up with, if 
you and I are to jog on comfortably together. You shall hear at once what sort 
of folk the Browns are, at least my branch of them; and then, if you don't 
like the sort, why cut the concern at once, and let you and I cry quits before 
either of us can grumble at the other.
In the first place, the Browns are a fighting family. One may question their 
wisdom, or wit, or beauty, but about their fight there can be no question. 
Wherever hard knocks of any kind, visible or invisible, are going, there the 
Brown who is nearest must shove in his carcase. And these carcases for the 
most part answer very well to the characteristic propensity; they are a 
square-headed and snake-necked generation, broad in the shoulder, deep in the 
chest, and thin in the flank, carrying no lumber. Then for clanship, they are 
as bad as Highlanders; it is amazing the belief they have in one another. With 
them there is nothing like the Browns, to the third and fourth generation. 
"Blood is thicker than water," is one of their pet sayings. They can't be 
happy unless they are always meeting one another. Never were such people for 
family gatherings, which, were you a stranger, or sensitive, you might think 
had better not have been gathered together. For during the whole time of their 
being together they luxuriate in telling one another their minds on whatever 
subject turns up; and their minds are wonderfully antagonistic, and all their 
opinions are downright beliefs. Till you've been among them some time and 
understand them, you can't think but that they are quarrelling. Not a bit of 
it; they love and respect one another ten times the more after a good set 
family arguing bout, and go back, one to his curacy, another to his chambers, 
and another to his regiment, freshened for work, and more than ever convinced 
that the Browns are the height of company.
This family training too, combined with their turn for combativeness, makes 
them eminently quixotic. They can't let anything alone which they think going 
wrong. They must speak their mind about it, annoying all easy-going folk; and 
spend their time and money in having a tinker at it, however hopeless the job. 
It is an impossibility to a Brown to leave the most disreputable lame dog on 
the other side of a stile. Most other folk get tired of such work. The old 
Browns, with red faces, white whiskers, and bald heads, go on believing and 
fighting to a green old age. They have always a crotchet going, till the old 
man with the scythe reaps and garners them away for troublesome old boys as 
they are. And the most provoking thing is that no failures knock them up, or 
make them hold their hands, or think you, or me, or other sane people in the 
right. Failures slide off them like July rain off a duck's back feathers. Jem 
and his whole family turn out bad, and cheat them one week, and the next they 
are doing the same thing for Jack; and when he goes to the treadmill, and his 
wife and children to the workhouse, they will be on the lookout for Bill to 
take his place.
However, it is time for us to get from the general to the particular; so, 
leaving the great army of Browns, who are scattered over the whole empire on 
which the sun never sets, and whose general diffusion I take to be the chief 
cause of that empire's stability, let us at once fix our attention upon the 
small nest of Browns in which our hero was hatched, and which dwelt in that 
portion of the Royal county of Berks which is called the Vale of White Horse.
Most of you have probably travelled down the Great Western Railway as far as 
Swindon. Those of you who did so with their eyes open have been aware, soon 
after leaving the Didcot station, of a fine range of chalk hills running 
parallel with the railway on the left-hand side as you go down, and distant 
some two or three miles, more or less, from the line. The highest point in the 
range is the White Horse Hill, which you come in front of just before you stop 
at the Shrivenham station. If you love English scenery and have a few hours to 
spare, you can't do better, the next time you pass, than stop at the 
Farringdon Road or Shrivenham station and make your way to that highest point. 
And those who care for the vague old stories that haunt countrysides all about 
England will not, if they are wise, be content with only a few hours' stay; 
for, glorious as the view is, the neighbourhood is yet more interesting for 
its relics of bygone times. I only know two English neighbourhoods thoroughly, 
and in each, within a circle of five miles, there is enough of interest and 
beauty to last any reasonable man his life. I believe this to be the case 
almost throughout the country, but each has a special attraction, and none can 
be richer than the one I am speaking of and going to introduce you to very 
particularly; for on this subject I must be prosy, so those that don't care 
for England in detail may skip the chapter.
Oh, young England! young England! You who are born into these racing railroad 
times, when there's a Great Exhibition, or some monster sight, every year, and 
you can get over a couple of thousand miles of ground for three pound ten, in 
a five weeks' holiday -why don't you know more of your own birthplaces? You're 
all in the ends of the earth, it seems to me, as soon as you get your necks 
out of the educational collar, for midsummer holidays, long vacations, or what 
not. Going round Ireland with a return ticket in a fortnight! dropping your 
copies of Tennyson on the tops of Swiss mountains! or pulling down the Danube 
in Oxford racing-boats! And when you get home for a quiet fortnight, you turn 
the steam off, and lie on your backs in the paternal garden, surrounded by the 
last batch of books from Mudie's library, and half bored to death. Well, well! 
I know it has its good side. You all patter French more or less, and perhaps 
German; you have seen men and cities, no doubt, and have your opinions, such 
as they are, about schools of painting, high art, and all that; have seen the 
pictures at Dresden and the Louvre, and know the taste of sauerkraut. All I 
say is, you don't know your own lanes and woods and fields. Though you may be 
chock-full of science, not one in twenty of you knows where to find the 
wood-sorrel, or bee-orchis, which grow in the next wood, or on the down three 
miles off, or what the bog-bean and wood-sage are good for. And as for the 
country legends, the stories of the old gable-ended farmhouses, the place 
where the last skirmish was fought in the civil wars, where the parish butts 
stood, where the last highwayman turned to bay, where the last ghost was laid 
by the parson, they're gone out of date altogether.
Now, in my time, when we got home by the old coach, which puts us down at the 
crossroads with our boxes the first day of the holidays, and had been driven 
off by the family coachman, singing "Dulce domum" at the top of our voices, 
there we were, fixtures, till Black Monday came round. We had to cut out our 
own amusements within a walk or a ride of home. And so we got to know all the 
country-folk, and their ways and songs and stories, by heart; and went over 
the fields, and wolds, and hills, again and again, till we made friends of 
them all. We were Berkshire, or Gloucestershire, or Yorkshire boys; and you're 
young cosmopolites, belonging to all counties and no countries. No doubt it's 
all right, I dare say it is. This is the day of large views and glorious 
humanity, and all that; but I wish back-sword play hadn't gone out in the Vale 
of White Horse, and that that confounded Great Western hadn't carried away 
Alfred's Hill to make an embankment.
But to return to the said Vale of White Horse, the country in which the first 
scenes of this true and interesting story are laid. As I said, the Great 
Western now runs right through it, and it is a land of large rich pastures, 
bounded by ox-fences, and covered with fine hedgerow timber, with here and 
there a nice little gorse or spinney, where abideth poor Charley, having no 
other cover to which to betake himself for miles and miles, when pushed out 
some fine November morning by the Old Berkshire. Those who have been there, 
and well mounted, only know how he and the staunch little pack who dash after 
him, heads high and sterns low, with a breast-high scent, can consume the 
ground at such times. There being little plough-land, and few woods, the Vale 
is only an average sporting country, except for hunting. The villages are 
straggling, queer, old-fashioned places, the houses being dropped down without 
the least regularity, in nooks and out-of-the-way corners, by the sides of 
shadowy lanes and footpaths, each with its patch of garden. They are built 
chiefly of good grey stone, and thatched; though I see that within the last 
year or two the red-brick cottages are multiplying, for the Vale is beginning 
to manufacture largely both brick and tiles. There are lots of waste ground by 
the side of the roads in every village, amounting often to village greens, 
where feed the pigs and ganders of the people; and these roads are 
old-fashioned, homely roads, very dirty and badly made, and hardly endurable 
in winter, but still pleasant jog-trot roads, running through the great 
pasture lands, dotted here and there with little clumps of thorns, where the 
sleek kine are feeding, with no fence on either side of them, and a gate at 
the end of each field, which makes you get out of your gig (if you keep one), 
and gives you a chance of looking about you every quarter of a mile.
One of the moralists whom we sat under in my youth, -was it the great Richard 
Swiveller, or Mr. Stiggins? -says, "We are born in a vale, and must take the 
consequences of being found in such a situation." These consequences, I for 
one am ready to encounter. I pity people who weren't born in a vale. I don't 
mean a flat country, but a vale: that is, a flat country bounded by hills. The 
having your hill always in view if you choose to turn towards him, that's the 
essence of a vale. There he is for ever in the distance, your friend and 
companion; you never lose him as you do in hilly districts.
And then what a hill is the White Horse Hill! There it stands right up above 
all the rest, nine hundred feet above the sea, and the boldest, bravest shape 
for a chalk hill that you ever saw. Let us go up to the top of him, and see 
what is to be found there. Aye, you may well wonder, and think it odd you 
never heard of this before; but, wonder or not, as you please, there are 
hundreds of such things lying about England, which wiser folks than you know 
nothing of, and care nothing for. Yes, it's a magnificent Roman camp, and no 
mistake, with gates, and ditch, and mounds, all as complete as it was twenty 
years after the strong old rogues left it. Here, right up on the highest 
point, from which they say you can see eleven counties, they trenched round 
all the table-land, some twelve or fourteen acres, as was their custom, for 
they couldn't bear anybody to overlook them, and made their eyrie. The ground 
falls away rapidly on all sides. Was there ever such turf in the whole world? 
You sink up to your ankles at every step, and yet the spring of it is 
delicious. There is always a breeze in the "camp," as it is called; and here 
it lies, just as the Romans left it, except that cairn on the east side, left 
by her Majesty's corps of Sappers and Miners the other day, when they and the 
Engineer officer had finished their sojourn there, and their surveys for the 
Ordnance Map of Berkshire. It is altogether a place that you won't forget -a 
place to open a man's soul and make him prophesy, as he looks down on that 
great Vale spread out as the garden of the Lord before him, and wave on wave 
of the mysterious downs behind; and to the right and left the chalk hills 
running away into the distance, along which he can trace for miles the old 
Roman road, "the Ridgeway" (the "Rudge" as the country-folk call it), keeping 
straight along the highest back of the hills: -such a place as Balak brought 
Balaam to, and told him to prophesy against the people in the valley beneath. 
And he could not, neither shall you, for they are a people of the Lord who 
abide there.
And now we leave the camp, and descend towards the west, and are on the 
Ash-down. We are treading on heroes. It is sacred ground for Englishmen, more 
sacred than all but one or two fields where their bones lie whitening. For 
this is the actual place where our Alfred won his great battle, the battle of 
Ashdown ("Aescendun" in the chroniclers), which broke the Danish power, and 
made England a Christian land. The Danes held the camp and the slope where we 
are standing, the whole crown of the hill in fact. "The heathen had beforehand 
seized the higher ground," as old Asser says, having wasted everything behind 
them from London, and being just ready to burst down on the fair vale, 
Alfred's own birthplace and heritage. And up the heights came the Saxons, as 
they did at the Alma. "The Christians led up their line from the lower ground. 
There stood also on that same spot a single thorn-tree, marvellous stumpy 
(which we ourselves with our very own eyes have seen)." Bless the old 
chronicler! does he think nobody ever saw the "single thorn-tree" but himself? 
Why, there it stands to this very day, just on the edge of the slope, and I 
saw it not three weeks since; an old single thorn-tree, "marvellous stumpy." 
At least if it isn't the same tree, it ought to have been, for it's just in 
the place where the battle must have been won or lost -"around which," as I 
was saying, "the two lines of foemen came together in battle with a huge 
shout. And in this place, one of the two Kings of the heathen and five of his 
earls fell down and died, and many thousands of the heathen side in the same 
place." After which crowning mercy, the pious King, that there might never be 
wanting a sign and a memorial to the countryside, carved out on the northern 
side of the chalk hill, under the camp, where it is almost precipitous, the 
great Saxon white horse, which he who will may see from the railway, and which 
gives its name to the vale, over which it has looked these thousand years and 
more.
Right down below the White Horse is a curious deep and broad gully called "the 
Manger," into one side of which the hills fall with a series of the most 
lovely sweeping curves, known as "the Giant's Stairs;" they are not a bit like 
stairs, but I never saw anything like them anywhere else, with their short 
green turf, and tender bluebells, and gossamer and thistledown gleaming in the 
sun, and the sheep-paths running along their sides like ruled lines.
The other side of the Manger is formed by the Dragon's Hill, a curious little 
round self-confident fellow, thrown forward from the range, and utterly unlike 
everything round him. On this hill some deliverer of mankind, St. George, the 
country-folk used to tell me, killed a dragon. Whether it were St. George, I 
cannot say; but surely a dragon was killed there, for you may see the marks 
yet where his blood ran down, and more by token the place where it ran down is 
the easiest way up the hillside.
Passing along the Ridgeway to the west for about a mile, we come to a little 
clump of young beech and firs, with a growth of thorn and privet underwood. 
Here you may find nests of the partridge and peewit, but take care that the 
keeper isn't down upon you; and in the middle of it is an old cromlech, a huge 
flat stone raised on seven or eight others, and led up to by a path, with 
large single stones set up on each side. This is Wayland Smith's cave, a place 
of classic fame now; but as Sir Walter has touched it, I may as well let it 
alone, and refer you to Kenilworth for the legend.
The thick deep wood which you see in the hollow, about a mile off, surrounds 
Ashdown Park, built by Inigo Jones. Four broad alleys are cut through the wood 
from circumference to centre, and each leads to one face of the house. The 
mystery of the downs hangs about house and wood, as they stand there alone, so 
unlike all around, with the green slopes studded with great stones just about 
this part, stretching away on all sides. It was a wise Lord Craven, I think, 
who pitched his tent there.
Passing along the Ridgeway to the east, we soon come to cultivated land. The 
downs, strictly so called, are no more; Lincolnshire farmers have been 
imported, and the long fresh slopes are sheep-walks no more, but grow famous 
turnips and barley. One of these improvers lives over there at the "Seven 
Barrows" farm, another mystery of the great downs. There are the barrows 
still, solemn and silent, like ships in the calm sea, the sepulchres of some 
sons of men. But of whom? It is three miles from the White Horse, too far for 
the slain of Ashdown to be buried there -who shall say what heroes are waiting 
there? But we must get down into the vale again, and so away by the Great 
Western Railway to town, for time and the printer's devil press, and it is a 
terrible long and slippery descent, and a shocking bad road. At the bottom, 
however, there is a pleasant public, whereat we must really take a modest 
quencher, for the down air is provocative of thirst. So we pull up under an 
old oak which stands before the door.
"What is the name of your hill, landlord?"
"Blawing STWUN Hill, sir, to be sure."
[READER. "Sturm?"
AUTHOR. "Stone, stupid! the Blowing Stone."]
"And of your house? I can't make out the sign."
"Blawing Stwun, sir," says the landlord, pouring out his old ale from a Toby 
Philpot jug, with a melodious crash, into the long-necked glass.
"What queer names!" say we, sighing at the end of our draught, and holding out 
the glass to be replenished.
"Be'ant queer at all, as I can see, sir," says mine host, handing back our 
glass, "seeing as this here is the Blawing Stwun his self," putting his hand 
on a square lump of stone, some three feet and a half high, perforated with 
two or three queer holes, like petrified antediluvian rat-holes, which lies 
there close under the oak, under our very nose. We are more than ever puzzled, 
and drink our second glass of ale, wondering what will come next. "Like to 
hear un, sir?" says mine host, setting down Toby Philpot on the tray, and 
resting both hands on the "Stwun." We are ready for anything; and he, without 
waiting for a reply, applies his mouth to one of the rat-holes. Something must 
come of it, if he doesn't burst. Good heavens! I hope he has no apoplectic 
tendencies. Yes, here it comes, sure enough, a gruesome sound between a moan 
and a roar, and spreads itself away over the valley, and up the hillside, and 
into the woods at the back of the house, a ghost-like awful voice. "Um do say, 
sir," says mine host, rising purple-faced, while the moan is still coming out 
of the Stwun, "as they used in old times to warn the countryside, by blawing 
the Stwun when the enemy was a comin' -and as how folks could make un heered 
then for seven mile round; leastways so I've heered Lawyer Smith say, and he 
knows a smart sight about them old times." We can scarcely swallow Lawyer 
Smith's seven miles, but could the blowing of the stone have been a summons, a 
sort of sending the fiery cross round the neighbourhood in the old times? What 
old times? Who knows? We pay for our beer, and are thankful.
"And what's the name of the village just below, landlord?"
"Kingstone Lisle, sir."
"Fine plantations you've got here?"
"Yes, sir, the Squire's 'mazin' fond of trees and suchlike."
"No wonder. He's got some real beauties to be fond of. Good day, landlord."
"Good day, sir, and a pleasant ride to 'e."
And now, my boys, you whom I want to get for readers, have you had enough? 
Will you give in at once, and say you're convinced, and let me begin my story, 
or will you have more of it? Remember, I've only been over a little bit of the 
hillside yet, what you could ride round easily on your ponies in an hour. I'm 
only just come down into the vale, by Blowing Stone Hill, and if I once begin 
about the vale, what's to stop me? You'll have to hear all about Wantage, the 
birthplace of Alfred, and Farringdon, which held out so long for Charles the 
First (the vale was near Oxford, and dreadfully malignant; full of 
Throgmortons, Puseys, and Pyes, and suchlike, and their brawny retainers). Did 
you ever read Thomas Ingoldsby's "Legend of Hamilton Tighe"? If you haven't, 
you ought to have. Well, Farringdon is where he lived before he went to sea; 
his real name was Hamden Pye, and the Pyes were the great folk at Farringdon. 
Then there's Pusey. You've heard of the Pusey horn, which King Canute gave to 
the Puseys of that day, and which the gallant old Squire, lately gone to his 
rest (whom Berkshire freeholders turned out of last Parliament, to their 
eternal disgrace, for voting according to his conscience), used to bring out 
on high days, holidays, and bonfire nights. And the splendid old Cross church 
at Uffington, the Uffingas town -how the whole countryside teems with Saxon 
names and memories! And the old moated grange at Compton, nestled close under 
the hillside, where twenty Marianas may have lived, with its bright 
water-lilies in the moat, and its yew walk, "the Cloister walk," and its 
peerless terraced gardens. There they all are, and twenty things besides, for 
those who care about them, and have eyes. And these are the sort of things you 
may find, I believe, every one of you, in any common English country 
neighbourhood.
Will you look for them under your own noses, or will you not? Well, well; I've 
done what I can to make you, and if you will go gadding over half Europe now 
every holidays, I can't help it. I was born and bred a west-countryman, thank 
God! a Wessex man, a citizen of the noblest Saxon kingdom of Wessex, a regular 
"Angular Saxon," the very soul of me "adscriptus glebae." There's nothing like 
the old countryside for me, and no music like the twang of the real old Saxon 
tongue, as one gets it fresh from the veritable chaw in the White Horse Vale: 
and I say with "Gaarge Ridler," the old west-country yeoman,

Throo aall the waarld owld Gaarge would bwoast,
Commend me to merry owld England mwoast;
While vools gwoes praating vur and nigh,
We stwops at whum, my dog and I.

Here, at any rate, lived and stopped at home Squire Brown, J.P. for the County 
of Berks, in a village near the foot of the White Horse range. And here he 
dealt out justice and mercy in a rough way, and begat sons and daughters, and 
hunted the fox, and grumbled at the badness of the roads and the times. And 
his wife dealt out stockings, and calico shirts, and smock frocks, and 
comforting drinks to the old folks with the "rheumatiz," and good counsel to 
all; and kept the coal and clothes clubs going, for yule tide, when the bands 
of mummers came round, dressed out in ribbons and coloured paper caps, and 
stamped round the Squire's kitchen, repeating in true sing-song vernacular the 
legend of St. George and his fight, and the ten-pound Doctor, who plays his 
part at healing the Saint -a relic, I believe, of the old middle-age 
mysteries. It was the first dramatic representation which greeted the eyes of 
little Tom, who was brought down into the kitchen by his nurse to witness it, 
at the mature age of three years. Tom was the eldest child of his parents, and 
from his earliest babyhood exhibited the family characteristics in great 
strength. He was a hearty strong boy from the first, given to fighting with 
and escaping from his nurse, and fraternising with all the village boys, with 
whom he made expeditions all round the neighbourhood. And here in the quiet 
old-fashioned country village, under the shadow of the everlasting hills, Tom 
Brown was reared, and never left it till he went first to school when nearly 
eight years of age -for in those days change of air twice a year was not 
thought absolutely necessary for the health of all her Majesty's lieges.
I have been credibly informed, and am inclined to believe, that the various 
Boards of Directors of Railway Companies, those gigantic jobbers and bribers, 
while quarrelling about everything else, agreed together some ten years back 
to buy up the learned profession of Medicine, body and soul. To this end they 
set apart several millions of money, which they continually distribute 
judiciously amongst the Doctors, stipulating only this one thing, that they 
shall prescribe change of air to every patient who can pay, or borrow money to 
pay, a railway fare, and see their prescription carried out. If it be not for 
this, why is it that none of us can be well at home for a year together? It 
wasn't so twenty years ago -not a bit of it. The Browns didn't go out of the 
county once in five years. A visit to Reading or Abingdon twice a year, at 
Assizes or Quarter Sessions, which the Squire made on his horse with a pair of 
saddlebags containing his wardrobe, a stay of a day or two at some country 
neighbour's, or an expedition to a county ball or the yeomanry review, made up 
the sum of the Brown locomotion in most years. A stray Brown from some distant 
county dropped in every now and then; or from Oxford, on grave nag, an old 
don, contemporary of the Squire; and were looked upon by the Brown household, 
and the villagers, with the same sort of feeling with which we now regard a 
man who has crossed the Rocky mountains, or launched a boat on the Great Lake 
in Central Africa. The White Horse Vale, remember, was traversed by no great 
road, -nothing but country parish roads, and these very bad. Only one coach 
ran there, and this one only from Wantage to London, so that the western part 
of the Vale was without regular means of moving on, and certainly didn't seem 
to want them. There was the canal, by the way, which supplied the countryside 
with coal, and up and down which continually went the long barges, with the 
big black men lounging by the side of the horses along the towing-path, and 
the women in bright coloured handkerchiefs standing in the sterns steering. 
Standing I say, but you could never see whether they were standing or sitting, 
all but their heads and shoulders being out of sight in the cosy little cabins 
which occupied some eight feet of the stern, and which Tom Brown pictured to 
himself as the most desirable of residences. His nurse told him that those 
good-natured-looking women were in the constant habit of enticing children 
into the barges and taking them up to London and selling them, which Tom 
wouldn't believe, and which made him resolve as soon as possible to accept the 
oft-proffered invitation of these sirens to "young Master" to come in and have 
a ride. But as yet the nurse was too much for Tom.
Yet why should I after all abuse the gadabout propensities of my countrymen? 
We are a vagabond nation now, that's certain, for better for worse. I am a 
vagabond; I have been away from home no less than five distinct times in the 
last year. The Queen sets us the example -we are moving on from top to bottom. 
Little dirty Jack, who abides in Clement's Inn gateway, and blacks my boots 
for a penny, takes his month's hop-picking every year as a matter of course. 
Why shouldn't he? I'm delighted at it. I love vagabonds, only I prefer poor to 
rich ones: couriers and ladies' maids, imperials and travelling carriages are 
an abomination unto me -I cannot away with them. But for dirty Jack, and every 
good fellow who, in the words of the capital French song, moves about,

"Comme le limacon
Portant tout son bagage,
Ses meubles, sa maison,"

on his own back, why, good luck to them, and many a merry roadside adventure, 
and steaming supper in the chimney corners of roadside inns, Swiss chalets, 
Hottentot kraals, or wherever else they like to go. So having succeeded in 
contradicting myself in my first chapter (which gives me great hopes that you 
will all go on, and think me a good fellow notwithstanding my crotchets), I 
shall here shut up for the present, and consider my ways; having resolved to 
"sar' it out," as we say in the Vale, "holus-bolus" just as it comes, and then 
you'll probably get the truth out of me.



Chapter 2: The Veast

"And the king commandeth and forbiddeth, that from henceforth neither fairs 
nor markets be kept in Churchyards, for the honour of the Church." -STATUTES, 
13 Edw.I. Stat.II cap.vi.


As that venerable and learned poet (whose voluminous works we all think it the 
correct thing to admire and talk about, but don't read often) most truly says, 
"the child is father to the man;" a fortiori, therefore, he must be father to 
the boy. So, as we are going at any rate to see Tom Brown through his boyhood, 
supposing we never get any further (which, if you show a proper sense of the 
value of this history, there is no knowing but what we may), let us have a 
look at the life and environments of the child in the quiet country village to 
which we were introduced in the last chapter.
Tom, as has been already said, was a robust and combative urchin, and at the 
age of four began to struggle against the yoke and authority of his nurse. 
That functionary was a good-hearted, tearful, scatter-brained girl, lately 
taken by Tom's mother, Madam Brown as she was called, from the village school 
to be trained as nurserymaid. Madam Brown was a rare trainer of servants, and 
spent herself freely in the profession; for profession it was, and gave her 
more trouble by half than many people take to earn a good income. Her servants 
were known and sought after for miles round. Almost all the girls who attained 
a certain place in the village school were taken by her, one or two at a time, 
as housemaids, laundrymaids, nurserymaids, or kitchenmaids, and after a year 
or two's drilling were started in life amongst the neighbouring families, with 
good principles and wardrobes. One of the results of this system was the 
perpetual despair of Mrs. Brown's cook and own maid, who no sooner had a 
notable girl made to their hands, than Missus was sure to find a good place 
for her and send her off, taking in fresh importations from the school. 
Another was that the house was always full of young girls, with clean shining 
faces; who broke plates and scorched linen, but made an atmosphere of cheerful 
homely life about the place, good for every one who came within its influence. 
Mrs. Brown loved young people, and in fact human creatures in general, above 
plates and linen. They were more like a lot of elder children than servants, 
and felt to her more as a mother or aunt than as a mistress.
Tom's nurse was one who took in her instruction very slowly -she seemed to 
have two left hands and no head; and so Mrs. Brown kept her on longer than 
usual, that she might expend her awkwardness and forgetfulness upon those who 
would not judge and punish her too strictly for them.
Charity Lamb was her name. It had been the immemorial habit of the village to 
christen children either by Bible names, or by those of the cardinal and other 
virtues; so that one was for ever hearing in the village street, or on the 
green, shrill sounds of, "Prudence! Prudence! thee cum' out o' the gutter;" 
or, "Mercy! drat the girl, what bist thee a doin' wi' little Faith?" and there 
were Ruths, Rachels, Keziahs, in every corner. The same with the boys; they 
were Benjamins, Jacobs, Noahs, Enochs. I suppose the custom has come down from 
Puritan times -there it is, at any rate, very strong still in the Vale.
Well, from early morn till dewy eve, when she had it out of him in the cold 
tub before putting him to bed, Charity and Tom were pitted against one 
another. Physical power was as yet on the side of Charity, but she hadn't a 
chance with him wherever head-work was wanted. This war of independence began 
every morning before breakfast, when Charity escorted her charge to a 
neighbouring farmhouse which supplied the Browns, and where, by his mother's 
wish, Master Tom went to drink whey before breakfast. Tom had no sort of 
objection to whey, but he had a decided liking for curds, which were forbidden 
as unwholesome, and there was seldom a morning that he did not manage to 
secure a handful of hard curds, in defiance of Charity and of the farmer's 
wife. The latter good soul was a gaunt angular woman, who, with an old black 
bonnet on the top of her head, the strings dangling about her shoulders, and 
her gown tucked through her pocket-holes, went clattering about the dairy, 
cheese-room, and yard in high pattens. Charity was some sort of niece of the 
old lady's, and was consequently free of the farmhouse and garden, into which 
she could not resist going for the purposes of gossip and flirtation with the 
heir apparent, who was a dawdling fellow, never out at work as he ought to 
have been. The moment Charity had found her cousin, or any other occupation, 
Tom would slip away; and in a minute shrill cries would be heard from the 
dairy, "Charity, Charity, thee lazy huzzy, where bist?" and Tom would break 
cover, hands and mouth full of curds, and take refuge on the shaky surface of 
the great muck reservoir in the middle of the yard, disturbing the repose of 
the great pigs. Here he was in safety, as no grown person could follow without 
getting over their knees; and the luckless Charity, while her aunt scolded her 
from the dairy-door for being "allus hankering about arter our Willum, instead 
of minding Master Tom," would descend from threats to coaxing to lure Tom out 
of the muck, which was rising over his shoes, and would soon tell a tale on 
his stockings, for which she would be sure to catch it from Missus's maid.
Tom had two abettors in the shape of a couple of old boys, Noah and Benjamin 
by name, who defended him from Charity, and expended much time upon his 
education. They were both of them retired servants of former generations of 
the Browns. Noah Crooke was a keen dry old man of almost ninety, but still 
able to totter about. He talked to Tom quite as if he were one of his own 
family, and indeed had long completely identified the Browns with himself. In 
some remote age he had been the attendant of a Miss Brown, and had conveyed 
her about the country on a pillion. He had a little round picture of the 
identical grey horse, caparisoned with the identical pillion, before which he 
used to do a sort of fetish worship, and abuse turnpike-roads and carriages. 
He wore an old full-bottomed wig, the gift of some dandy old Brown whom he had 
valeted in the middle of last century, which habiliment Master Tom looked upon 
with considerable respect, not to say fear; and indeed his whole feeling 
towards Noah was strongly tainted with awe; and when the old gentleman was 
gathered to his fathers, Tom's lamentation over him was not unaccompanied by a 
certain joy at having seen the last of the wig: "Poor old Noah, dead and 
gone," said he, "Tom Brown so sorry! Put him in the coffin, wig and all."
But old Benjy was young Master's real delight and refuge. He was a youth by 
the side of Noah, scarce seventy years old. A cheery, humorous, kind-hearted 
old man, full of sixty years of Vale gossip, and of all sorts of helpful ways 
for young and old, but above all for children. It was he who bent the first 
pin with which Tom extracted his first stickleback out of "Pebbly Brook," the 
little stream which ran through the village. The first stickleback was a 
splendid fellow, with fabulous red and blue gills. Tom kept him in a small 
basin until the day of his death, and became a fisherman from that day. Within 
a month from the taking of the first stickleback, Benjy had carried off our 
hero to the canal, in defiance of Charity, and between them, after a whole 
afternoon's popjoying, they had caught three or four small coarse fish and a 
perch, averaging perhaps two and a half ounces each, which Tom bore home in 
rapture to his mother as a precious gift, and she received like a true mother 
with equal rapture, instructing the cook nevertheless, in a private interview, 
not to prepare the same for the Squire's dinner. Charity had appealed against 
old Benjy in the meantime, representing the dangers of the canal banks; but 
Mrs. Brown, seeing the boy's inaptitude for female guidance, had decided in 
Benjy's favour, and from thenceforth the old man was Tom's dry nurse. And as 
they sat by the canal watching their little green-and-white float, Benjy would 
instruct him in the doings of deceased Browns. How his grandfather, in the 
early days of the great war, when there was much distress and crime in the 
Vale, and the magistrates had been threatened by the mob, had ridden in with a 
big stick in his hand, and held the Petty Sessions by himself. How his 
great-uncle, the Rector, had encountered and laid the last ghost, who had 
frightened the old women, male and female, of the parish out of their senses, 
and who turned out to be the blacksmith's apprentice disguised in drink and a 
white sheet. It was Benjy too who saddled Tom's first pony, and instructed him 
in the mysteries of horsemanship, teaching him to throw his weight back and 
keep his hand low; and who stood chuckling outside the door of the girls' 
school, when Tom rode his little Shetland into the cottage and round the 
table, where the old dame and her pupils were seated at their work.
Benjy himself was come of a family distinguished in the Vale for their prowess 
in all athletic games. Some half-dozen of his brothers and kinsmen had gone to 
the wars, of whom only one had survived to come home, with a small pension, 
and three bullets in different parts of his body; he had shared Benjy's 
cottage till his death, and had left him his old dragoon's sword and pistol, 
which hung over the mantelpiece, flanked by a pair of heavy single-sticks with 
which Benjy himself had won renown long ago as an old gamester, against the 
picked men of Wiltshire and Somersetshire, in many a good bout at the revels 
and pastimes of the countryside. For he had been a famous backswordsman in his 
young days, and a good wrestler at elbow and collar.
Backswording and wrestling were the most serious holiday pursuits of the Vale 
-those by which men attained fame -and each village had its champion. I 
suppose that on the whole, people were less worked then than they are now; at 
any rate they seemed to have more time and energy for the old pastimes. The 
great times for backswording came round once a year in each village, at the 
feast. The Vale "veasts" were not the common statute feasts, but much more 
ancient business. They are literally, so far as one can ascertain, feasts of 
the dedication, i.e. they were first established in the churchyard on the day 
on which the village church was opened for public worship, which was on the 
wake or festival of the patron Saint, and have been held on the same day in 
every year since that time.
There was no longer any remembrance of why the "veast" had been instituted, 
but nevertheless it had a pleasant and almost sacred character of its own. For 
it was then that all the children of the village, wherever they were 
scattered, tried to get home for a holiday to visit their fathers and mothers 
and friends, bringing with them their wages or some little gift from up the 
country for the old folk. Perhaps for a day or two before, but at any rate on 
"veast day" and the day after, in our village, you might see strapping healthy 
young men and women from all parts of the country going round from house to 
house in their best clothes, and finishing up with a call on Madam Brown, whom 
they would consult as to putting out their earnings to the best advantage, or 
how best to expend the same for the benefit of the old folk. Every household, 
however poor, managed to raise a "feast cake" and bottle of ginger or raisin 
wine, which stood on the cottage table ready for all comers, and not unlikely 
to make them remember feast-time -for feast-cake is very solid, and full of 
huge raisins. Moreover, feast-time was the day of reconciliation for the 
parish. If Job Higgins and Noah Freeman hadn't spoken for the last six months, 
their "old women" would be sure to get it patched up by that day. And though 
there was a good deal of drinking and low vice in the booths of an evening, it 
was pretty well confined to those who would have been doing the like, "veast 
or no veast," and on the whole, the effect was humanising and Christian. In 
fact, the only reason why this is not the case still, is that gentlefolk and 
farmers have taken to other amusements, and have, as usual, forgotten the 
poor. They don't attend the feasts themselves, and call them disreputable, 
whereupon the steadiest of the poor leave them also, and they become what they 
are called. Class amusements, be they for dukes or ploughboys, always become 
nuisances and curses to a country. The true charm of cricket and hunting is 
that they are still more or less sociable and universal; there's a place for 
every man who will come and take his part.
No one in the village enjoyed the approach of "veast day" more than Tom, in 
the year in which he was taken under old Benjy's tutelage. The feast was held 
in a large green field at the lower end of the village. The road to Farringdon 
ran along one side of it, and the brook by the side of the road; and above the 
brook was another large gently sloping pasture-land, with a footpath running 
down it from the churchyard; and the old church, the originator of all the 
mirth, towered up with its grey walls and lancet windows, overlooking and 
sanctioning the whole, though its own share therein had been forgotten. At the 
point where the footpath crossed the brook and road, and entered on the field 
where the feast was held, was a long low roadside inn, and on the opposite 
side of the field was a large white thatched farmhouse, where dwelt an old 
sporting farmer, a great promoter of the revels.
Past the old church and down the footpath pottered the old man and the child 
hand in hand early on the afternoon of the day before the feast, and wandered 
all round the ground, which was already being occupied by the "cheap Jacks," 
with their green covered carts and marvellous assortment of wares, and the 
booths of more legitimate small traders with their tempting arrays of fairings 
and eatables; and penny peep-shows and other shows, containing pink-eyed 
ladies, and dwarfs, and boa-constrictors, and wild Indians. But the object of 
most interest to Benjy, and of course to his pupil also, was the stage of 
rough planks some four feet high, which was being put up by the village 
carpenter for the backswording and wrestling; and after surveying the whole 
tenderly, old Benjy led his charge away to the roadside inn, where he ordered 
a glass of ale and a long pipe for himself, and discussed these unwonted 
luxuries on the bench outside in the soft autumn evening with mine host, 
another old servant of the Browns, and speculated with him on the likelihood 
of a good show of old gamesters to contend for the morrow's prizes, and told 
tales of the gallant bouts of forty years back, to which Tom listened with all 
his ears and eyes.
But who shall tell the joy of the next morning, when the church bells were 
ringing a merry peal, and old Benjy appeared in the servants' hall resplendent 
in a long blue coat and brass buttons, and a pair of old yellow buckskins and 
top-boots which he had cleaned for and inherited from Tom's grandfather, a 
stout thornstick in his hand, and a nosegay of pinks and lavender in his 
buttonhole, and led away Tom in his best clothes, and two new shillings in his 
breeches-pockets? Those two, at any rate, look like enjoying the day's revel.
They quicken their pace when they get into the churchyard, for already they 
see the field thronged with country-folk, the men in clean white smocks or 
velveteen or fustian coats, with rough plush waistcoats of many colours, and 
the women in the beautiful long scarlet cloak, -the usual outdoor dress of 
west-country women in those days, and which often descended in families from 
mother to daughter, -or in new-fashioned stuff-shawls, which, if they would 
but believe it, don't become them half so well. The air resounds with the pipe 
and tabor, and the drums and trumpets of the showmen shouting at the doors of 
their caravans, over which tremendous pictures of the wonders to be seen 
within hang temptingly; while through all rises the shrill "root-too-too-too" 
of Mr. Punch, and the unceasing pan-pipe of his satellite.
"Lawk a' massey, Mr. Benjamin," cries a stout motherly woman in a red cloak, 
as they enter the field, "be that you? Well I never! you do look purely. And 
how's the Squire, and Madam, and the family?"
Benjy graciously shakes hands with the speaker, -who has left our village for 
some years, but has come over for veast-day on a visit to an old gossip, -and 
gently indicates the heir apparent of the Browns.
"Bless his little heart! I must gi'un a kiss. Here, Susannah, Susannah!" cries 
she, raising herself from the embrace, "come and see Mr. Benjamin and young 
Master Tom. You minds our Sukey, Mr. Benjamin, she be growed a rare slip of a 
wench since you seen her, tho' her'll be sixteen come Martinmas. I do aim to 
take her to see Madam to get her a place."
And Sukey comes bouncing away from a knot of old schoolfellows, and drops a 
curtsey to Mr. Benjamin. And elders come up from all parts to salute Benjy, 
and girls who have been Madam's pupils to kiss Master Tom. And they carry him 
off to load him with fairings; and he returns to Benjy, his hat and coat 
covered with ribands, and his pockets crammed with wonderful boxes which open 
upon ever new boxes and boxes, and popguns, and trumpets, and apples, and gilt 
gingerbread from the stall of Angel Heavens, sole vendor thereof, whose booth 
groans with kings and queens, and elephants, and prancing steeds, all gleaming 
with gold. There was more gold on Angel's cakes than there is ginger in those 
of this degenerate age. Skilled diggers might yet make a fortune in the 
churchyards of the Vale by carefully washing the dust of the consumers of 
Angel's gingerbread. Alas! he is with his namesakes, and his receipts have, I 
fear, died with him.
And then they inspect the penny peep-show, at least Tom does, while old Benjy 
stands outside and gossips, and walks up the steps, and enters the mysterious 
doors of the pink-eyed lady and the Irish Giant, who do not by any means come 
up to their pictures; and the boa will not swallow his rabbit, but there the 
rabbit is waiting to be swallowed -and what can you expect for tuppence? We 
are easily pleased in the Vale. Now there is a rush of the crowd, and a 
tinkling bell is heard, and shouts of laughter; and Master Tom mounts on 
Benjy's shoulders and beholds a jingling match in all its glory. The games are 
begun, and this is the opening of them. It is a quaint game, immensely amusing 
to look at, and as I don't know whether it is used in your counties, I had 
better describe it. A large roped ring is made, into which are introduced a 
dozen or so of big boys and young men who mean to play; these are carefully 
blinded and turned loose into the ring, and then a man is introduced not 
blindfolded, with a bell hung round his neck, and his two hands tied behind 
him. Of course, every time he moves the bell must ring, as he has no hand to 
hold it, and so the dozen blindfolded men have to catch him. This they cannot 
always manage if he is a lively fellow, but half of them always rush into the 
arms of the other half, or drive their heads together, or tumble over; and 
then the crowd laughs vehemently, and invents nicknames for them on the spur 
of the moment, and they, if they be choleric, tear off the handkerchiefs which 
blind them, and not unfrequently pitch into one another, each thinking that 
the other must have run against him on purpose. It is great fun to look at a 
jingling match certainly, and Tom shouts and jumps on old Benjy's shoulders at 
the sight, until the old man feels weary, and shifts him to the strong young 
shoulders of the groom, who has just got down to the fun.
And now, while they are climbing the pole in another part of the field, and 
muzzling in a flour-tub in another, the old farmer whose house, as has been 
said, overlooks the field, and who is master of the revels, gets up the steps 
on to the stage and announces to all whom it may concern that a half-sovereign 
in money will be forthcoming to the old gamester who breaks most heads; to 
which the Squire and he have added a new hat.
The amount of the prize is sufficient to stimulate the men of the immediate 
neighbourhood, but not enough to bring any very high talent from a distance; 
so, after a glance or two round, a tall fellow, who is a down shepherd, chucks 
his hat on to the stage and climbs up the steps, looking rather sheepish. The 
crowd, of course, first cheer, and then chaff as usual, as he picks up his hat 
and begins handling the sticks to see which will suit him.
"Wooy, Willum Smith, thee canst plaay wi' he arra daay," says his companion to 
the blacksmith's apprentice, a stout young fellow of nineteen or twenty. 
Willum's sweetheart is in the "veast" somewhere, and has strictly enjoined him 
not to get his head broke at backswording, on pain of her highest displeasure; 
but as she is not to be seen (the women pretend not to like to see the 
backsword play, and keep away from the stage), and his hat is decidedly 
getting old, he chucks it on to the stage, and follows himself, hoping that he 
will only have to break other people's heads, or that after all Rachel won't 
really mind.
Then follows the greasy cap lined with fur of a half-gypsy, poaching, loafing 
fellow, who travels the Vale, not for much good I fancy:

Full twenty times was Peter feared
For once that Peter was respected,

in fact. And then three or four other hats, including the glossy castor of Joe 
Willis, the self-elected and would-be champion of the neighbourhood, a 
well-to-do young butcher of twenty-eight or thereabouts, and a great strapping 
fellow with his full allowance of bluster. This is a capital show of 
gamesters, considering the amount of the prize; so while they are picking 
their sticks and drawing their lots, I think I must tell you, as shortly as I 
can, how the noble old game of backsword is played; for it is sadly gone out 
of late, even in the Vale, and maybe you have never seen it.
The weapon is a good stout ash-stick with a large basket handle, heavier and 
somewhat shorter than a common single-stick. The players are called "old 
gamesters" -why I can't tell you -and their object is simply to break one 
another's heads: for the moment that blood runs an inch anywhere above the 
eyebrow, the old gamester to whom it belongs is beaten, and has to stop. A 
very slight blow with the sticks will fetch blood, so that it is by no means a 
punishing pastime, if the men don't play on purpose, and savagely, at the body 
and arms of their adversaries. The old gamester going into action only takes 
off his hat and coat, and arms himself with a stick; he then loops the fingers 
of his left hand in a handkerchief or strap which he fastens round his left 
leg, measuring the length, so that when he draws it tight with his left elbow 
in the air, that elbow shall just reach as high as his crown. Thus, you see, 
so long as he chooses to keep his left elbow up, regardless of cuts, he has a 
perfect guard for the left side of his head. Then he advances his right hand 
above and in front of his head, holding his stick across so that its point 
projects an inch or two over his left elbow, and thus his whole head is 
completely guarded, and he faces his man armed in like manner, and they stand 
some three feet apart, often nearer, and feint, and strike, and return at one 
another's heads, until one cries "hold," or blood flows; in the first case 
they are allowed a minute's time, and go on again; in the latter, another pair 
of gamesters are called on. If good men are playing, the quickness of the 
returns is marvellous; you hear the rattle like that a boy makes drawing his 
stick along palings, only heavier, and the closeness of the men in action to 
one another gives it a strange interest, and makes a spell at backswording a 
very noble sight.
They all are suited now with sticks, and Joe Willis and the gypsy man have 
drawn the first lot. So the rest lean against the rails of the stage, and Joe 
and the dark man meet in the middle, the boards having been strewed with 
sawdust; Joe's white shirt and spotless drab breeches and boots contrasting 
with the gypsy's coarse blue shirt and dirty green velveteen breeches and 
leather gaiters. Joe is evidently turning up his nose at the other, and half 
insulted at having to break his head.
The gypsy is a tough active fellow, but not very skilful with his weapon, so 
that Joe's weight and strength tell in a minute; he is too heavy metal for 
him: whack, whack, whack, come his blows, breaking down the gypsy's guard, and 
threatening to reach his head every moment. There it is at last -"Blood, 
blood!" shout the spectators as a thin stream oozes out slowly from the roots 
of his hair, and the umpire calls to them to stop. The gypsy scowls at Joe 
under his brows in no pleasant manner, while Master Joe swaggers about, and 
makes attitudes, and thinks himself, and shows that he thinks himself, the 
greatest man in the field.
Then follow several stout sets-to between the other candidates for the new 
hat, and at last come the shepherd and Willum Smith. This is the crack set-to 
of the day. They are both in famous wind, and there is no crying "hold!" The 
shepherd is an old hand, and up to all the dodges; he tries them one after 
another, and very nearly gets at Willum's head by coming in near, and playing 
over his guard at the half-stick, but somehow Willum blunders through, 
catching the stick on his shoulders, neck, sides, every now and then, anywhere 
but on his head, and his returns are heavy and straight, and he is the 
youngest gamester, and a favourite in the parish, and his gallant stand brings 
down shouts and cheers, and the knowing ones think he'll win if he keeps 
steady, and Tom on the groom's shoulders holds his hands together, and can 
hardly breathe for excitement.
Alas for Willum! his sweetheart getting tired of female companionship has been 
hunting the booths to see where he can have got to, and now catches sight of 
him on the stage in full combat. She flushes and turns pale; her old aunt 
catches hold of her, saying, "Bless 'ee, child, doan't 'ee go a'nigst it;" but 
she breaks away, and runs towards the stage calling his name. Willum keeps up 
his guard stoutly, but glances for a moment towards the voice. No guard will 
do it, Willum, without the eye. The shepherd steps round and strikes, and the 
point of his stick just grazes Willum's forehead, fetching off the skin, and 
the blood flows, and the umpire cries "Hold!" and poor Willum's chance is up 
for the day. But he takes it very well, and puts on his old hat and coat, and 
goes down to be scolded by his sweetheart, and led away out of mischief. Tom 
hears him say coaxingly, as he walks off:
"Now doan't 'ee, Rachel! I wouldn't ha' done it, only I wanted summut to buy 
'ee a fairing wi', and I be as vlush o' money as a twod o' veathers."
"Thee mind what I tells 'ee," rejoins Rachel saucily, "and doan't 'ee kep 
blethering about fairings." Tom resolves in his heart to give Willum the 
remainder of his two shillings after the backswording.
Joe Willis has all the luck today. His next bout ends in an easy victory, 
while the shepherd has a tough job to break his second head; and when Joe and 
the shepherd meet, and the whole circle expect and hope to see him get a 
broken crown, the shepherd slips in the first round and falls against the 
rails, hurting himself so that the old farmer will not let him go on, much as 
he wishes to try; and that impostor Joe (for he is certainly not the best man) 
struts and swaggers about the stage the conquering gamester, though he hasn't 
had five minutes' really trying play.
Joe takes the new hat in his hand, and puts the money into it, and then, as if 
a thought strikes him, and he doesn't think his victory quite acknowledged 
down below, walks to each face of the stage, and looks down, shaking the money 
and chaffing as how he'll stake hat and money and another half-sovereign "agin 
any gamester as hasn't played already." Cunning Joe! he thus gets rid of 
Willum and the shepherd, who is quite fresh again.
No one seems to like the offer, and the umpire is just coming down, when a 
queer old hat, something like a Doctor of Divinity's shovel, is chucked on to 
the stage, and an elderly quiet man steps out, who has been watching the play, 
saying he should like to cross a stick wi' the prodigalish young chap.
The crowd cheer and begin to chaff Joe, who turns up his nose and swaggers 
across to the sticks. "Imp'dent old wosbird!" says he, "I'll break the bald 
head on un to the truth."
The old boy is very bald certainly, and the blood will show fast enough if you 
can touch him, Joe.
He takes off his long-flapped coat, and stands up in a long-flapped waistcoat, 
which Sir Roger de Coverley might have worn when it was new, picks out a 
stick, and is ready for Master Joe, who loses no time, but begins his old 
game, whack, whack, whack, trying to break down the old man's guard by sheer 
strength. But it won't do -he catches every blow close by the basket, and 
though he is rather stiff in his returns, after a minute walks Joe about the 
stage, and is clearly a staunch old gamester. Joe now comes in, and making the 
most of his height, tries to get over the old man's guard at half-stick, by 
which he takes a smart blow in the ribs and another on the elbow and nothing 
more. And now he loses wind and begins to puff, and the crowd laugh: "Cry 
`hold,' Joe -thee'st met thy match!" Instead of taking good advice and getting 
his wind, Joe loses his temper, and strikes at the old man's body.
"Blood, blood!" shout the crowd, "Joe's head's broke!"
Who'd have thought it? How did it come? That body-blow left Joe's head 
unguarded for a moment, and with one turn of the wrist the old gentleman has 
picked a neat little bit of skin off the middle of his forehead, and though he 
won't believe it, and hammers on for three more blows despite of the shouts, 
is then convinced by the blood trickling into his eye. Poor Joe is sadly 
crestfallen, and fumbles in his pocket for the other half-sovereign, but the 
old gamester won't have it. "Keep thy money, man, and gi's thy hand," says he, 
and they shake hands; but the old gamester gives the new hat to the shepherd, 
and soon after the half-sovereign to Willum, who thereout decorates his 
sweetheart with ribbons to his heart's content.
"Who can a be?" "Wur do a cum from?" ask the crowd. And it soon flies about 
that the old west-country champion, who played a tie with Shaw the 
Life-guardsman at "Vizes" twenty years before, has broken Joe Willis's crown 
for him.
How my country fair is spinning out! I see I must skip the wrestling, and the 
boys jumping in sacks, and rolling wheelbarrows blindfolded; and the 
donkey-race, and the fight which arose thereout, marring the otherwise 
peaceful "veast"; and the frightened scurrying away of the female feast-goers, 
and descent of Squire Brown, summoned by the wife of one of the combatants to 
stop it; which he wouldn't start to do till he had got on his top-boots. Tom 
is carried away by old Benjy, dog-tired and surfeited with pleasure, as the 
evening comes on and the dancing begins in the booths; and though Willum, and 
Rachel in her new ribbons, and many another good lad and lass don't come away 
just yet, but have a good step out, and enjoy it, and get no harm thereby, yet 
we, being sober folk, will just stroll away up through the churchyard and by 
the old yew-tree; and get a quiet dish of tea and a parley with our gossips, 
as the steady ones of our village do, and so to bed.
That's the fair true sketch, as far as it goes, of one of the larger village 
feasts in the Vale of Berks, when I was a little boy. They are much altered 
for the worse, I am told. I haven't been at one these twenty years, but I have 
been at the statute fairs in some west-country towns, where servants are 
hired, and greater abominations cannot be found. What village feasts have come 
to, I fear, in many cases, may be read in the pages of Yeast (though I never 
saw one so bad -thank God!).
Do you want to know why? It is because, as I said before, gentlefolk and 
farmers have left off joining or taking an interest in them. They don't either 
subscribe to the prizes, or go down and enjoy the fun.
Is this a good or a bad sign? I hardly know. Bad, sure enough, if it only 
arises from the further separation of classes consequent on twenty years of 
buying cheap and selling dear, and its accompanying overwork; or because our 
sons and daughters have their hearts in London Club-life, or so-called 
Society, instead of in the old English home duties; because farmers' sons are 
apeing fine gentlemen, and farmers' daughters caring more to make bad foreign 
music than good English cheeses. Good perhaps, if it be that the time for the 
old "veast" has gone by, that it is no longer the healthy sound expression of 
English country holiday-making; that, in fact, we as a nation have got beyond 
it, and are in a transition state, feeling for and soon likely to find some 
better substitute.
Only I have just got this to say before I quit the text. Don't let reformers 
of any sort think that they are going really to lay hold of the working boys 
and young men of England by any educational grapnel whatever, which hasn't 
some bona fide equivalent for the games of the old country "veast" in it; 
something to put in the place of the backswording and wrestling and racing; 
something to try the muscles of men's bodies, and the endurance of their 
hearts, to make them rejoice in their strength. In all the new-fangled 
comprehensive plans which I see, this is all left out: and the consequence is 
that your great Mechanics' Institutes end in intellectual priggism, and your 
Christian Young Men's Societies in religious Pharisaism.
Well, well, we must bide our time. Life isn't all beer and skittles -but beer 
and skittles, or something better of the same sort, must form a good part of 
every Englishman's education. If I could only drive this into the heads of you 
rising Parliamentary Lords, and young swells who "have your ways made for 
you," as the saying is -you, who frequent palaver houses and West-end clubs, 
waiting always ready to strap yourselves on to the back of poor dear old John, 
as soon as the present used-up lot (your fathers and uncles) who sit there on 
the great Parliamentary-majorities' pack-saddle, and make believe they're 
guiding him with their red-tape bridle, tumble, or have to be lifted off!
I don't think much of you yet -I wish I could; though you do go talking and 
lecturing up and down the country to crowded audiences, and are busy with all 
sorts of philanthropic intellectualism, and circulating libraries and museums, 
and Heaven only knows what besides; and try to make us think, through 
newspaper reports, that you are, even as we, of the working classes. But, 
bless your hearts, we "ain't so green," though lots of us of all sorts toady 
you enough certainly, and try to make you think so.
I'll tell you what to do now: instead of all this trumpeting and fuss, which 
is only the old Parliamentary-majority dodge over again -just you go, each of 
you (you've plenty of time for it, if you'll only give up t'other line), and 
quietly make three or four friends, real friends, among us. You'll find a 
little trouble in getting at the right sort, because such birds don't come 
lightly to your lure -but found they may be. Take, say, two out of the 
professions, lawyer, parson, doctor, which you will; one out of trade, and 
three or four out of the working classes, tailors, engineers, carpenters, 
engravers, -there's plenty of choice. Let them be men of your own ages, mind, 
and ask them to your homes; introduce them to your wives and sisters, and get 
introduced to theirs: give them good dinners, and talk to them about what is 
really at the bottom of your hearts, and box, and run, and row with them, when 
you have a chance. Do all this honestly as man to man, and by the time you 
come to ride old John, you'll be able to do something more than sit on his 
back, and may feel his mouth with some stronger bridle than a red-tape one.
Ah, if you only would! But you have got too far out of the right rut, I fear. 
Too much over-civilisation, and the deceitfulness of riches. It is easier for 
a camel to go through the eye of a needle. More's the pity. I never came 
across but two of you who could value a man wholly and solely for what was in 
him, who thought themselves verily and indeed of the same flesh and blood as 
John Jones the attorney's clerk, and Bill Smith the costermonger, and could 
act as if they thought so.



Chapter 3: Sundry Wars and Alliances


Poor old Benjy! The "rheumatiz" has much to answer for all through English 
countrysides, but it never played a scurvier trick than in laying thee by the 
heels, when thou wast yet in a green old age. The enemy, which had long been 
carrying on a sort of border warfare, and trying his strength against Benjy's 
on the battlefield of his hands and legs, now mustering all his forces began 
laying siege to the citadel, and overrunning the whole country. Benjy was 
seized in the back and loins; and though he made strong and brave fight, it 
was soon clear enough that all which could be beaten of poor old Benjy would 
have to give in before long.
It was as much as he could do now, with the help of his big stick and frequent 
stops, to hobble down to the canal with Master Tom, and bait his hook for him, 
and sit and watch his angling, telling him quaint old country stories; and 
when Tom had no sport, and detecting a rat some hundred yards or so off along 
the bank, would rush off with Toby the turnspit-terrier, his other faithful 
companion, in bootless pursuit, he might have tumbled in and been drowned 
twenty times over before Benjy could have got near him.
Cheery and unmindful of himself as Benjy was, this loss of locomotive power 
bothered him greatly. He had got a new object in his old age, and was just 
beginning to think himself useful again in the world. He feared much too lest 
Master Tom should fall back again into the hands of Charity and the women. So 
he tried everything he could think of to get set up. He even went an 
expedition to the dwelling of one of those queer mortals, who, say what we 
will, and reason how we will, do cure simple people of diseases of one kind or 
another without the aid of physic, and so get to themselves the reputation of 
using charms, and inspire for themselves and their dwellings great respect, 
not to say fear, amongst a simple folk such as the dwellers in the Vale of 
White Horse. Where this power, or whatever else it may be, descends upon the 
shoulders of a man whose ways are not straight, he becomes a nuisance to the 
neighbourhood, a receiver of stolen goods, giver of love-potions, and deceiver 
of silly women; the avowed enemy of law and order, of justices of the peace, 
headboroughs, and gamekeepers. Such a man in fact as was recently caught 
tripping, and deservedly dealt with by the Leeds justices, for seducing a girl 
who had come to him to get back a faithless lover, and has been convicted of 
bigamy since then. Sometimes, however, they are of quite a different stamp, 
men who pretend to nothing, and are with difficulty persuaded to exercise 
their occult arts in the simplest cases.
of this latter sort was old Farmer Ives, as he was called, the "wise man" to 
whom Benjy resorted, taking Tom with him as usual, in the early spring of the 
year next after the feast described in the last chapter. Why he was called 
farmer I cannot say, unless it be that he was the owner of a cow, a pig or 
two, and some poultry, which he maintained on about an acre of land enclosed 
from the middle of a wild common, on which probably his father had squatted 
before lords of manors looked as keenly after their rights as they do now. 
Here he had lived no one knew how long, a solitary man. It was often rumoured 
that he was to be turned out, and his cottage pulled down, but somehow it 
never came to pass, and his pigs and cow went grazing on the common, and his 
geese hissed at the passing children, and at the heels of the horse of my 
lord's steward, who often rode by with a covetous eye on the enclosure, still 
unmolested. His dwelling was some miles from our village; so Benjy, who was 
half ashamed of his errand, and wholly unable to walk there, had to exercise 
much ingenuity to get the means of transporting himself and Tom thither 
without exciting suspicion. However, one fine May morning, he managed to 
borrow the old blind pony of our friend the publican, and Tom persuaded Madam 
Brown to give him a holiday to spend with old Benjy, and to lend them the 
Squire's light cart, stored with bread and cold meat and a bottle of ale. And 
so the two in high glee started behind old Dobbin, and jogged along the 
deep-rutted plashy roads, which had not been mended after their winter's wear, 
towards the dwelling of the wizard. About noon they passed the gate which 
opened on to the large common, and old Dobbin toiled slowly up the hill, while 
Benjy pointed out a little deep dingle on the left, out of which welled a tiny 
stream. As they crept up the hill the tops of a few birch-trees came in sight, 
and blue smoke curling up through their delicate light boughs; and then the 
little white thatched home and patch of enclosed ground of Farmer Ives, lying 
cradled in the dingle with the gay gorse common rising behind and on both 
sides, while in front, after traversing a gentle slope, the eye might travel 
for miles and miles over the rich vale. They now left the main road and struck 
into a green track over the common marked lightly with wheel and horse-shoe, 
which led down into the dingle and stopped at the rough gate of Farmer Ives. 
Here they found the farmer, an iron-grey old man, with a bushy eyebrow and 
strong aquiline nose, busied in one of his vocations. He was a horse and cow 
doctor, and was tending a sick beast which had been sent up to be cured. Benjy 
hailed him as an old friend, and he returned the greeting cordially enough, 
looking however hard for a moment both at Benjy and Tom, to see whether there 
was more in their visit than appeared at first sight. It was a work of some 
difficulty and danger for Benjy to reach the ground, which however he managed 
to do without mishap; and then he devoted himself to unharnessing Dobbin, and 
turning him out for a graze ("a run" one could not say of that virtuous steed) 
on the common. This done, he extricated the cold provisions from the cart, and 
they entered the farmer's wicket; and he, shutting up the knife with which he 
was taking maggots out of the cow's back and sides, accompanied them towards 
the cottage. A big old lurcher got up slowly from the door-stone, stretching 
first one hind leg and then the other, and taking Tom's caresses and the 
presence of Toby, who kept however at a respectful distance, with equal 
indifference.
"Us be cum to pay 'ee a visit. I've a been long minded to do't for old sake's 
sake, only I vinds I dwon't get about now as I'd used to't. I be so plaguy bad 
wi' th' rhumatiz in my back." Benjy paused in hopes of drawing the farmer at 
once on the subject of his ailments without further direct application.
"Ah, I see as you bean't quite so lissom as you was," replied the farmer with 
a grim smile, as he lifted the latch of his door; "we bean't so young as we 
was, nother on us, wuss luck."
The farmer's cottage was very like those of the better class of peasantry in 
general. A snug chimney corner with two seats, and a small carpet on the 
hearth, an old flint gun and a pair of spurs over the fireplace, a dresser 
with shelves on which some bright pewter plates and crockeryware were 
arranged, an old walnut table, a few chairs and settles, some framed samplers, 
and an old print or two, and a bookcase with some dozen volumes on the walls, 
a rack with flitches of bacon, and other stores fastened to the ceiling, and 
you have the best part of the furniture. No sign of occult art is to be seen, 
unless the bundles of dried herbs hanging to the rack and in the ingle, and 
the row of labelled phials on one of the shelves, betoken it.
Tom played about with some kittens who occupied the hearth, and with a goat 
who walked demurely in at the open door, while their host and Benjy spread the 
table for dinner -and was soon engaged in conflict with the cold meat, to 
which he did much honour. The two old men's talk was of old comrades and their 
deeds, mute inglorious Miltons of the Vale, and of the doings thirty years 
back -which didn't interest him much, except when they spoke of the making of 
the canal, and then indeed he began to listen with all his ears; and learned 
to his no small wonder that his dear and wonderful canal had not been there 
always -was not in fact so old as Benjy or Farmer Ives, which caused a strange 
commotion in his small brain.
After dinner Benjy called attention to a wart which Tom had on the knuckles of 
his hand, and which the family doctor had been trying his skill on without 
success, and begged the farmer to charm it away. Farmer Ives looked at it, 
muttered something or another over it, and cut some notches in a short stick, 
which he handed to Benjy, giving him instructions for cutting it down on 
certain days, and cautioning Tom not to meddle with the wart for a fortnight. 
And then they strolled out and sat on a bench in the sun with their pipes, and 
the pigs came up and grunted sociably and let Tom scratch them; and the 
farmer, seeing how he liked animals, stood up and held his arms in the air and 
gave a call, which brought a flock of pigeons wheeling and dashing through the 
birch-trees. They settled down in clusters on the farmer's arms and shoulders, 
making love to him and scrambling over one another's backs to get to his face; 
and then he threw them all off, and they fluttered about close by, and lighted 
on him again and again when he held up his arms. All the creatures about the 
place were clean and fearless, quite unlike their relations elsewhere; and Tom 
begged to be taught how to make all the pigs and cows and poultry in our 
village tame, at which the farmer only gave one of his grim chuckles.
It wasn't till they were just ready to go, and old Dobbin was harnessed, that 
Benjy broached the subject of his rheumatism again, detailing his symptoms one 
by one. Poor old boy! He hoped the farmer could charm it away as easily as he 
could Tom's wart, and was ready with equal faith to put another notched stick 
into his other pocket, for the cure of his own ailments. The physician shook 
his head, but nevertheless produced a bottle and handed it to Benjy with 
instructions for use. "Not as't'll do 'ee much good -leastways I be afeared 
not," shading his eyes with his hand and looking up at them in the cart; 
"there's only one thing as I knows on, as'll cure old folk like you and I o' 
th' rhumatiz."
"Wot be that then, farmer?" inquired Benjy.
"Churchyard mould," said the old iron-grey man with another chuckle. And so 
they said their good-byes and went their ways home. Tom's wart was gone in a 
fortnight, but not so Benjy's rheumatism, which laid him by the heels more and 
more. And though Tom still spent many an hour with him, as he sat on a bench 
in the sunshine, or by the chimney corner when it was cold, he soon had to 
seek elsewhere for his regular companions.
Tom had been accustomed often to accompany his mother in her visits to the 
cottages, and had thereby made acquaintance with many of the village boys of 
his own age. There was Job Rudkin, son of widow Rudkin, the most bustling 
woman in the parish. How she could ever have had such a stolid boy as Job for 
a child, must always remain a mystery. The first time Tom went to their 
cottage with his mother, Job was not indoors, but he entered soon after, and 
stood with both hands in his pockets staring at Tom. Widow Rudkin, who would 
have had to cross Madam to get at young Hopeful -a breach of good manners of 
which she was wholly incapable -began a series of pantomime signs, which only 
puzzled him, and at last, unable to contain herself longer, burst out with, 
"Job! Job! where's thy cap?"
"What! bean't 'ee on ma head, mother?" replied Job, slowly extricating one 
hand from a pocket and feeling for the article in question; which he found on 
his head sure enough, and left there, to his mother's horror and Tom's great 
delight.
Then there was poor Jacob Dodson the half-witted boy, who ambled about 
cheerfully, undertaking messages and little helpful odds and ends for every 
one, which however poor Jacob managed always hopelessly to embrangle. 
Everything came to pieces in his hands, and nothing would stop in his head. 
They nicknamed him Jacob Doodle-calf.
But above all there was Harry Winburn, the quickest and best boy in the 
parish. He might be a year older than Tom, but was very little bigger, and he 
was the Crichton of our village boys. He could wrestle and climb and run 
better than all the rest, and learned all that the schoolmaster could teach 
him faster than that worthy at all liked. He was a boy to be proud of, with 
his curly brown hair, keen grey eye, straight active figure, and little ears 
and hands and feet, "as fine as a lord's," as Charity remarked to Tom one day, 
talking as usual great nonsense. Lords' hands and ears and feet are just as 
ugly as other folks' when they are children, as any one may convince 
themselves if they like to look. Tight boots and gloves, and doing nothing 
with them, I allow make a difference by the time they are twenty.
Now that Benjy was laid on the shelf, and his young brothers were still under 
petticoat government, Tom, in search of companions, began to cultivate the 
village boys generally more and more. Squire Brown, be it said, was a 
true-blue Tory to the backbone, and believed honestly that the powers which be 
were ordained of God, and that loyalty and steadfast obedience were men's 
first duties. Whether it were in consequence or in spite of his political 
creed, I do not mean to give an opinion, though I have one; but certain it is, 
that he held therewith divers social principles not generally supposed to be 
true-blue in colour. Foremost of these, and the one which the Squire loved to 
propound above all others, was the belief that a man is to be valued wholly 
and solely for that which he is in himself, for that which stands up in the 
four fleshly walls of him, apart from clothes, rank, fortune, and all 
externals whatsoever. Which belief I take to be a wholesome corrective of all 
political opinions, and, if held sincerely, to make all opinions equally 
harmless, whether they be blue, red, or green. As a necessary corollary to 
this belief, Squire Brown held further that it didn't matter a straw whether 
his son associated with lords' sons or ploughmen's sons, provided they were 
brave and honest. He himself had played football and gone birds'-nesting with 
the farmers whom he met at vestry and the labourers who tilled their fields, 
and so had his father and grandfather with their progenitors. So he encouraged 
Tom in his intimacy with the boys of the village, and forwarded it by all 
means in his power, and gave them the run of a close for a playground, and 
provided bats and balls and a football for their sports.
Our village was blessed amongst other things with a well-endowed school. The 
building stood by itself, apart from the master's house, on an angle of ground 
where three roads met; an old grey stone building with a steep roof and 
mullioned windows. On one of the opposite angles stood Squire Brown's stables 
and kennel with their backs to the road, over which towered a great elm-tree; 
on the third stood the village carpenter and wheelwright's large open shop, 
and his house and the schoolmaster's, with long low eaves under which the 
swallows built by scores.
The moment Tom's lessons were over, he would now get him down to this corner 
by the stables, and watch till the boys came out of school. He prevailed on 
the groom to cut notches for him in the bark of the elm, so that he could 
climb into the lower branches, and there he would sit watching the school 
door, and speculating on the possibility of turning the elm into a 
dwelling-place for himself and friends after the manner of the Swiss Family 
Robinson. But the school hours were long and Tom's patience short, so that 
soon he began to descend into the street, and go and peep in at the school 
door and the wheelwright's shop, and look out for something to while away the 
time. Now the wheelwright was a choleric man, and one fine afternoon, 
returning from a short absence, found Tom occupied with one of his pet adzes, 
the edge of which was fast vanishing under our hero's care. A speedy flight 
saved Tom from all but one sound cuff on the ears, but he resented this 
unjustifiable interruption of his first essays at carpentering, and still more 
the further proceedings of the wheelwright, who cut a switch and hung it over 
the door of his workshop, threatening to use it upon Tom if he came within 
twenty yards of his gate. So Tom, to retaliate, commenced a war upon the 
swallows who dwelt under the wheelwright's eaves, whom he harassed with sticks 
and stones, and being fleeter of foot than his enemy escaped all punishment, 
and kept him in perpetual anger. Moreover his presence about the school door 
began to incense the master, as the boys in that neighbourhood neglected their 
lessons in consequence; and more than once he issued into the porch, rod in 
hand, just as Tom beat a hasty retreat. And he and the wheelwright, laying 
their heads together, resolved to acquaint the Squire with Tom's afternoon 
occupations; but in order to do it with effect, determined to take him captive 
and lead him away to judgment fresh from his evil doings. This they would have 
found some difficulty in doing, had Tom continued the war single-handed, or 
rather single-footed, for he would have taken to the deepest part of Pebbly 
Brook to escape them; but like other active powers, he was ruined by his 
alliances. Poor Jacob Doodle-calf could not go to school with the other boys, 
and one fine afternoon, about three o'clock (the school broke up at four), Tom 
found him ambling about the street, and pressed him into a visit to the 
school-porch. Jacob, always ready to do what he was asked, consented, and the 
two stole down to the school together. Tom first reconnoitred the 
wheelwright's shop, and seeing no signs of activity, thought all safe in that 
quarter, and ordered at once an advance of all his troops upon the 
school-porch. The door of the school was ajar, and the boys seated on the 
nearest bench at once recognised and opened a correspondence with the 
invaders. Tom, waxing bold, kept putting his head into the school and making 
faces at the master when his back was turned. Poor Jacob, not in the least 
comprehending the situation, and in high glee at finding himself so near the 
school, which he had never been allowed to enter, suddenly, in a fit of 
enthusiasm, pushed by Tom, and ambling three steps into the school, stood 
there looking round him and nodding with a self-approving smile. The master, 
who was stooping over a boy's slate with his back to the door, became aware of 
something unusual, and turned quickly round. Tom rushed at Jacob, and began 
dragging him back by his smock-frock, and the master made at them, scattering 
forms and boys in his career. Even now they might have escaped, but that in 
the porch, barring retreat, appeared the crafty wheelwright, who had been 
watching all their proceedings. So they were seized, the school dismissed, and 
Tom and Jacob led away to Squire Brown as lawful prize, the boys following to 
the gate in groups, and speculating on the result.
The Squire was very angry at first, but the interview, by Tom's pleading, 
ended in a compromise. Tom was not to go near the school till three o'clock, 
and only then if he had done his own lessons well, in which case he was to be 
the bearer of a note to the master from Squire Brown, and the master agreed in 
such case to release ten or twelve of the best boys an hour before the time of 
breaking up, to go off and play in the close. The wheelwright's adzes and 
swallows were to be for ever respected, and that hero and the master withdrew 
to the servants' hall to drink the Squire's health, well satisfied with their 
day's work.
The second act of Tom's life may now be said to have begun. The war of 
independence had been over for some time: none of the women now, not even his 
mother's maid, dared offer to help him in dressing or washing. Between 
ourselves, he had often at first to run to Benjy in an unfinished state of 
toilet; Charity and the rest of them seemed to take delight in putting 
impossible buttons and ties in the middle of his back; but he would have gone 
without nether integuments altogether, sooner than have had recourse to female 
valeting. He had a room to himself, and his father gave him sixpence a-week 
pocket-money. All this he had achieved by Benjy's advice and assistance. But 
now he had conquered another step in life, the step which all real boys so 
long to make; he had got amongst his equals in age and strength, and could 
measure himself with other boys; he lived with those whose pursuits and wishes 
and ways were the same in kind as his own.
The little governess who had lately been installed in the house found her work 
grow wondrously easy, for Tom slaved at his lessons in order to make sure of 
his note to the schoolmaster. So there were very few days in the week in which 
Tom and the village boys were not playing in their close by three o'clock. 
Prisoner's-base, rounders, high-cock-a-lorum, cricket, football, he was soon 
initiated into the delights of them all; and though most of the boys were 
older than himself, he managed to hold his own very well. He was naturally 
active and strong, and quick of eye and hand, and had the advantage of light 
shoes and well-fitting dress, so that in a short time he could run and jump 
and climb with any of them.
They generally finished their regular games half an hour or so before 
tea-time, and then began trials of skill and strength in many ways. Some of 
them would catch the Shetland pony who was turned out in the field, and get 
two or three together on his back, and the little rogue, enjoying the fun, 
would gallop off for fifty yards and then turn round, or stop short and shoot 
them on to the turf, and then graze quietly on till he felt another load; 
others played at peg-top or marbles, while a few of the bigger ones stood up 
for a bout at wrestling. Tom at first only looked on at this pastime, but it 
had peculiar attractions for him, and he could not long keep out of it. Elbow 
and collar wrestling as practised in the western counties was, next to 
back-swording, the way to fame for the youth of the Vale; and all the boys 
knew the rules of it, and were more or less expert. But Job Rudkin and Harry 
Winburn were the stars, the former stiff and sturdy, with legs like small 
towers, the latter pliant as india-rubber, and quick as lightning. Day after 
day they stood foot to foot, and offered first one hand and then the other, 
and grappled and closed and swayed and strained, till a well-aimed crook of 
the heel or thrust of the loin took effect, and a fair back-fall ended the 
matter. And Tom watched with all his eyes, and first challenged one of the 
less scientific, and threw him; and so one by one wrestled his way up to the 
leaders.
Then indeed for months he had a poor time of it; it was not long indeed before 
he could manage to keep his legs against Job, for that hero was slow of 
offence, and gained his victories chiefly by allowing others to throw 
themselves against his immovable legs and loins. But Harry Winburn was 
undeniably his master; from the first clutch of hands when they stood up, down 
to the last trip which sent him on to his back on the turf, he felt that Harry 
knew more and could do more than he. Luckily Harry's bright unconsciousness, 
and Tom's natural good temper, kept them from ever quarrelling; and so Tom 
worked on and on, and trod more and more nearly on Harry's heels, and at last 
mastered all the dodges and falls except one. This one was Harry's own 
particular invention and pet; he scarcely ever used it except when hard 
pressed, but then out it came, and as sure as it did, over went poor Tom. He 
thought about that fall at his meals, in his walks, when he lay awake in bed, 
in his dreams, but all to no purpose; until Harry one day in his open way 
suggested to him how he thought it should be met, and in a week from that time 
the boys were equal, save only the slight difference of strength in Harry's 
favour, which some extra ten months of age gave. Tom had often afterwards 
reason to be thankful for that early drilling, and above all for having 
mastered Harry Winburn's fall.
Besides their home games, on Saturdays the boys would wander all over the 
neighbourhood; sometimes to the downs, or up to the camp, where they cut their 
initials out in the springy turf, and watched the hawks soaring, and the 
"peert" bird, as Harry Winburn called the grey plover, gorgeous in his wedding 
feathers; and so home, racing down the Manger with many a roll among the 
thistles, or through Uffington-wood to watch the fox-cubs playing in the green 
rides; sometimes to Rosy Brook, to cut long whispering reeds which grew there, 
to make pan-pipes of; sometimes to Moor Mills, where was a piece of old forest 
land, with short browsed turf and tufted brambly thickets stretching under the 
oaks, amongst which rumour declared that a raven, last of his race, still 
lingered; or to the sand-hills, in vain quest of rabbits; and birds'-nesting 
in the season anywhere and everywhere.
The few neighbours of the Squire's own rank every now and then would shrug 
their shoulders, as they drove or rode by a party of boys with Tom in the 
middle, carrying along bulrushes or whispering reeds, or great bundles of 
cowslip and meadow-sweet, or young starlings or magpies, or other spoil of 
wood, brook, or meadow: and Lawyer Red-tape might mutter to Squire 
Straight-back at the Board, that no good would come of the young Browns, if 
they were let run wild with all the dirty village boys, whom the best farmers' 
sons even would not play with. And the Squire might reply with a shake of his 
head, that his sons only mixed with their equals, and never went into the 
village without the governess or a footman. But luckily Squire Brown was full 
as stiff-backed as his neighbours, and so went on his own way; and Tom and his 
younger brothers, as they grew up, went on playing with the village boys 
without the idea of equality or inequality (except in wrestling, running, and 
climbing) ever entering their heads, as it doesn't till it's put there by Jack 
Nastys or fine ladies' maids.
I don't mean to say it would be the case in all villages, but it certainly was 
so in this one; the village boys were full as manly and honest, and certainly 
purer, than those in a higher rank; and Tom got more harm from his equals in 
his first fortnight at a private school, where he went when he was nine years 
old, than he had from his village friends from the day he left Charity's 
apron-strings.
Great was the grief amongst the village schoolboys, when Tom drove off with 
the Squire one August morning to meet the coach on his way to school. Each of 
them had given him some little present of the best that he had, and his small 
private box was full of peg-tops, white marbles (called "alley-taws" in the 
Vale), screws, birds' eggs, whip-cord, jews'-harps, and other miscellaneous 
boys' wealth. Poor Jacob Doodle-calf, in floods of tears, had pressed upon him 
with spluttering earnestness his lame pet hedgehog (he had always some poor 
broken-down beast or bird by him); but this Tom had been obliged to refuse by 
the Squire's order. He had given them all a great tea under the big elm in 
their playground, for which Madam Brown had supplied the biggest cake ever 
seen in our village; and Tom was really as sorry to leave them as they to lose 
him, but his sorrow was not unmixed with the pride and excitement of making a 
new step in life.
And this feeling carried him through his first parting with his mother better 
than could have been expected. Their love was as fair and whole as human love 
can be, perfect self-sacrifice on the one side meeting a young and true heart 
on the other. It is not within the scope of my book however to speak of family 
relations, or I should have much to say on the subject of English mothers 
-aye, and of English fathers, and sisters, and brothers too.
Neither have I room to speak of our private schools: what I have to say is 
about public-schools, those much abused and much belauded institutions 
peculiar to England. So we must hurry through Master Tom's year at a private 
school as fast as we can.
It was a fair average specimen, kept by a gentleman, with another gentleman as 
second master; but it was little enough of the real work they did -merely 
coming in to school when lessons were prepared and all ready to be heard. The 
whole discipline of the school out of lesson hours was in the hands of the two 
ushers, one of whom was always with the boys in their playground, in the 
school, at meals, in fact at all times and everywhere, till they were fairly 
in bed at night.
Now the theory of private schools is (or was) constant supervision out of 
school; therein differing fundamentally from that of public-schools.
It may be right or wrong, but if right, this supervision surely ought to be 
the especial work of the headmaster, the responsible person. The object of all 
schools is not to ram Latin and Greek into boys, but to make them good English 
boys, good future citizens; and by far the most important part of that work 
must be done, or not done, out of school hours. To leave it therefore in the 
hands of inferior men is just giving up the highest and hardest part of the 
work of education. Were I a private schoolmaster I should say, let who will 
hear the boys their lessons, but let me live with them when they are at play 
and rest.
The two ushers at Tom's first school were not gentlemen, and very poorly 
educated, and were only driving their poor trade of usher to get such living 
as they could out of it. They were not bad men, but had little heart for their 
work, and of course were bent on making it as easy as possible. One of the 
methods by which they endeavoured to accomplish this, was by encouraging 
tale-bearing, which had become a frightfully common vice in the school in 
consequence, and had sapped all the foundations of school morality. Another 
was, by favouring grossly the biggest boys, who alone could have given them 
much trouble, whereby those young gentlemen became most abominable tyrants, 
oppressing the little boys in all the small mean ways which prevail in private 
schools.
Poor little Tom was made dreadfully unhappy in his first week, by a 
catastrophe which happened to his first letter home. With huge labour he had, 
on the very evening of his arrival, managed to fill two sides of a sheet of 
letter-paper with assurances of his love for dear mamma, his happiness at 
school, and his resolve to do all she would wish. This missive, with the help 
of the boy who sat at the desk next him, also a new arrival, he managed to 
fold successfully; but this done, they were sadly put to it for means of 
sealing. Envelopes were then unknown, they had no wax, and dared not disturb 
the stillness of the evening schoolroom by getting up and going to ask the 
usher for some. At length Tom's friend, being of an ingenious turn of mind, 
suggested sealing with ink, and the letter was accordingly stuck down with a 
blob of ink, and duly handed by Tom on his way to bed to the housekeeper to be 
posted. It was not till four days afterwards that the good dame sent for him, 
and produced the precious letter and some wax, saying, "Oh, Master Brown, I 
forgot to tell you before, but your letter isn't sealed." Poor Tom took the 
wax in silence and sealed his letter, with a huge lump rising in his throat 
during the process, and then ran away to a quiet corner of the playground, and 
burst into an agony of tears. The idea of his mother waiting day after day for 
the letter he had promised her at once, and perhaps thinking him forgetful of 
her, when he had done all in his power to make good his promise, was as bitter 
a grief as any which he had to undergo for many a long year. His wrath then 
was proportionately violent when he was aware of two boys, who stopped close 
by him, and one of whom, a fat gaby of a fellow, pointed at him and called him 
"Young mammy-sick." Whereupon Tom arose, and giving vent thus to his grief and 
shame and rage, smote his derider on the nose, and made it bleed, which sent 
that young worthy howling to the usher, who reported Tom for violent and 
unprovoked assault and battery. Hitting in the face was a felony punishable 
with flogging, other hitting only a misdemeanour -a distinction not altogether 
clear in principle. Tom however escaped the penalty by pleading primum tempus; 
and having written a second letter to his mother enclosing some 
forget-me-nots, which he picked on their first half-holiday walk, felt quite 
happy again, and began to enjoy vastly a good deal of his new life.
These half-holiday walks were the great events of the week. The whole fifty 
boys started after dinner with one of the ushers for Hazeldown, which was 
distant some mile or so from the school. Hazeldown measured some three miles 
round, and in the neighbourhood were several woods full of all manner of birds 
and butterflies. The usher walked slowly round the down with such boys as 
liked to accompany him; the rest scattered in all directions, being only bound 
to appear again when the usher had completed his round, and accompany him 
home. They were forbidden however to go anywhere except on the down and into 
the woods, the village being especially prohibited, where huge bulls'-eyes and 
unctuous toffy might be procured in exchange for coin of the realm.
Various were the amusements to which the boys then betook themselves. At the 
entrance of the down there was a steep hillock, like the barrows of Tom's own 
downs. This mound was the weekly scene of terrific combats, at a game called 
by the queer name of "mud-patties." The boys who played divided into sides 
under different leaders, and one side occupied the mound. Then, all parties 
having provided themselves with many sods of turf, cut with their 
bread-and-cheese knives, the side which remained at the bottom proceeded to 
assault the mound, advancing up on all sides under cover of a heavy fire of 
turfs, and then struggling for victory with the occupants, which was theirs as 
soon as they could, even for a moment, clear the summit, when they in turn 
became the besieged. It was a good rough dirty game, and of great use in 
counteracting the sneaking tendencies of the school. Then others of the boys 
spread over the down, looking for the holes of humble-bees and mice, which 
they dug up without mercy, often (I regret to say) killing and skinning the 
unlucky mice, and (I do not regret to say) getting well stung by the 
humble-bees. Others went after butterflies and birds' eggs in their seasons; 
and Tom found on Hazeldown for the first time the beautiful little blue 
butterfly, with golden spots on his wings, which he had never seen on his own 
downs, and dug out his first sand-martin's nest. This latter achievement 
resulted in a flogging, for the sand-martins built in a high bank close to the 
village, consequently out of bounds; but one of the bolder spirits of the 
school, who never could be happy unless he was doing something to which risk 
was attached, easily persuaded Tom to break bounds and visit the martins' 
bank. From whence it being only a step to the toffy shop, what could be more 
simple than to go on there and fill their pockets; or what more certain than 
that on their return, a distribution of treasure having been made, the usher 
should shortly detect the forbidden smells of bulls'-eyes and, a search 
ensuing, discover the state of the breeches-pockets of Tom and his ally?
This ally of Tom's was indeed a desperate hero in the sight of the boys, and 
feared as one who dealt in magic, or something approaching thereto. Which 
reputation came to him in this wise. The boys went to bed at eight, and of 
course consequently lay awake in the dark for an hour or two, telling 
ghost-stories by turns. One night, when it came to his turn, and he had dried 
up their souls by his story, he suddenly declared that he would make a fiery 
hand appear on the door; and to the astonishment and terror of the boys in his 
room, a hand, or something like it, in pale light, did then and there appear. 
The fame of this exploit having spread to the other rooms, and being 
discredited there, the young necromancer declared that the same wonder would 
appear in all the rooms in turn, which it accordingly did; and the whole 
circumstances having been privately reported to one of the ushers as usual, 
that functionary, after listening about at the doors of the rooms, by a sudden 
descent caught the performer in his night-shirt, with a box of phosphorus in 
his guilty hand. Lucifer-matches and all the present facilities for getting 
acquainted with fire were then unknown; the very name of phosphorus had 
something diabolic in it to the boy-mind; so Tom's ally, at the cost of a 
sound flogging, earned what many older folk covet much, -the most decided fear 
of most of his companions.
He was a remarkable boy, and by no means a bad one. Tom stuck to him till he 
left, and got into many scrapes by so doing. But he was the great opponent of 
the tale-bearing habits of the school, and the open enemy of the ushers, and 
so worthy of all support.
Tom imbibed a fair amount of Latin and Greek at the school; but somehow on the 
whole it didn't suit him, or he it, and in the holidays he was constantly 
working the Squire to send him at once to a public-school. Great was his joy 
then, when, in the middle of his third half-year, in October 183-, a fever 
broke out in the village, and the master having himself slightly sickened of 
it, the whole of the boys were sent off at a day's notice to their respective 
homes.
The Squire was not quite so pleased as Master Tom to see that young 
gentleman's brown merry face appear at home, some two months before the proper 
time, for Christmas holidays; and so, after putting on his thinking cap, he 
retired to his study and wrote several letters, the result of which was that 
one morning at the breakfast-table, about a fortnight after Tom's return, he 
addressed his wife with -"My dear, I have arranged that Tom shall go to Rugby 
at once, for the last six weeks of this half-year, instead of wasting them in 
riding and loitering about home. It is very kind of the Doctor to allow it. 
Will you see that his things are all ready by Friday, when I shall take him up 
to town, and send him down the next day by himself?"
Mrs. Brown was prepared for the announcement, and merely suggested a doubt 
whether Tom were yet old enough to travel by himself. However, finding both 
father and son against her on this point, she gave in, like a wise woman, and 
proceeded to prepare Tom's kit for his launch into a public-school.



Chapter 4: The Stage Coach

Let the steam-pot hiss till it's hot,
Give me the speed of the Tantivy trot.


"Now, sir, time to get up, if you please. Tally-ho coach for Leicester'll be 
round in half an hour, and don't wait for nobody." So spake the Boots of the 
Peacock Inn, Islington, at half-past two o'clock on the morning of a day in 
the early part of November 183-, giving Tom at the same time a shake by the 
shoulder, and then putting down a candle and carrying off his shoes to clean.
Tom and his father had arrived in town from Berkshire the day before, and 
finding, on inquiry, that the Birmingham coaches which ran from the city did 
not pass through Rugby, but deposited their passengers at Dunchurch, a village 
three miles distant on the main road, where said passengers had to wait for 
the Oxford and Leicester coach in the evening, or take a post-chaise, had 
resolved that Tom should travel down by the Tally-ho, which diverged from the 
main road and passed through Rugby itself. And as the Tally-ho was an early 
coach, they had driven out to the Peacock to be on the road.
Tom had never been in London, and would have liked to have stopped at the 
Belle Savage, where they had been put down by the Star, just at dusk, that he 
might have gone roving about those endless, mysterious, gas-lit streets, 
which, with their glare and hum and moving crowds, excited him so that he 
couldn't talk even. But as soon as he found that the Peacock arrangement would 
get him to Rugby by twelve o'clock in the day, whereas otherwise he wouldn't 
be there till the evening, all other plans melted away; his one absorbing aim 
being to become a public-school boy as fast as possible, and six hours sooner 
or later seeming to him of the most alarming importance.
Tom and his father had alighted at the Peacock at about seven in the evening; 
and having heard with unfeigned joy the paternal order at the bar of steaks 
and oyster sauce for supper in half an hour, and seen his father seated cosily 
by the bright fire in the coffee-room, with the paper in his hand, Tom had run 
out to see about him, had wondered at all the vehicles passing and repassing, 
and had fraternised with the Boots and ostler, from whom he ascertained that 
the Tally-ho was a tip-top goer, ten miles an hour including stoppages, and so 
punctual that all the road set their clocks by her.
Then being summoned to supper, he had regaled himself in one of the bright 
little boxes of the Peacock coffee-room, on the beef-steak and unlimited 
oyster sauce and brown stout (tasted then for the first time -a day to be 
marked for ever by Tom with a white stone); had at first attended to the 
excellent advice which his father was bestowing on him from over his glass of 
steaming brandy-and-water, and then began nodding, from the united effects of 
the stout, the fire, and the lecture; till the Squire, observing Tom's state, 
and remembering that it was nearly nine o'clock, and that the Tally-ho left at 
three, sent the little fellow off to the chambermaid, with a shake of the hand 
(Tom having stipulated in the morning before starting that kissing should now 
cease between them) and a few parting words.
"And now, Tom, my boy," said the Squire, "remember you are going, at your own 
earnest request, to be chucked into this great school, like a young bear, with 
all your troubles before you -earlier than we should have sent you perhaps. If 
schools are what they were in my time, you'll see a great many cruel 
blackguard things done, and hear a deal of foul bad talk. But never fear. You 
tell the truth, keep a brave and kind heart, and never listen to or say 
anything you wouldn't have your mother and sister hear, and you'll never feel 
ashamed to come home, or we to see you."
The allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather choky, and he would have liked 
to have hugged his father well, if it hadn't been for the recent stipulation.
As it was, he only squeezed his father's hand, and looked bravely up and said, 
"I'll try, father."
"I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe?"
"Yes," said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure.
"And your keys?" said the Squire.
"All right," said Tom, diving into the other pocket.
"Well then, good-night. God bless you! I'll tell Boots to call you, and be up 
to see you off."
Tom was carried off by the chambermaid in a brown study, from which he was 
roused in a clean little attic, by that buxom person calling him a little 
darling, and kissing him as she left the room; which indignity he was too much 
surprised to resent. And still thinking of his father's last words, and the 
look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and prayed that, come what 
might, he might never bring shame or sorrow on the dear folk at home.
Indeed, the Squire's last words deserved to have their effect, for they had 
been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London he had 
pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting advice; something that 
the boy could keep in his head ready for use. By way of assisting meditation, 
he had even gone the length of taking out his flint and steel and tinder, and 
hammering away for a quarter of an hour till he had manufactured a light for a 
long Trichinopoli cheroot, which he silently puffed; to the no small wonder of 
Coachee, who was an old friend, and an institution on the Bath road, and who 
always expected a talk on the prospects and doings, agricultural and social, 
of the whole county when he carried the Squire.
To condense the Squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows: "I won't tell 
him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he don't do that for his 
mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go into the sort of 
temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that. Never do for an old fellow 
to go into such things with a boy. He won't understand me. Do him more harm 
than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he's sent to 
school to make himself a good scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for 
that -at any rate not for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek 
particles, or the digamma, no more does his mother. What is he sent to school 
for? Well, partly because he wanted so to go. If he'll only turn out a brave, 
helpful, truth-telling Englishman, and a gentleman, and a Christian, that's 
all I want," thought the Squire; and upon this view of the case he framed his 
last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited to his purpose.
For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the summons of 
Boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At ten minutes to 
three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings, carrying his hat-box, 
coat, and comforter in his hand; and there he found his father nursing a 
bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and a hard biscuit on the table.
"Now then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink this; there's nothing like 
starting warm, old fellow."
Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked himself 
into his shoes and his greatcoat, well warmed through; a Petersham coat with 
velvet collar, made tight after the abominable fashion of those days. And just 
as he is swallowing his last mouthful, winding his comforter round his throat, 
and tucking the ends into the breast of his coat, the horn sounds, Boots looks 
in and says, "Tally-ho, sir;" and they hear the ring and the rattle of the 
four fast trotters and the town-made drag, as it dashes up to the Peacock.
"Anything for us, Bob?" says the burly guard, dropping down from behind, and 
slapping himself across the chest.
"Young genl'm'n, Rugby; three parcels, Leicester; hamper o' game, Rugby," 
answers Ostler.
"Tell young gent to look alive," says Guard, opening the hind-boot and 
shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamps. "Here, shove the 
portmanteau up a-top -I'll fasten him presently. Now then, sir, jump up behind."
"Good-bye, father -my love at home." A last shake of the hand. Up goes Tom, 
the guard catching his hat-box and holding on with one hand, while with the 
other he claps the horn to his mouth. Toot, toot, toot! the ostlers let go 
their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and away goes the Tally-ho 
into the darkness, forty-five seconds from the time they pulled up; Ostler, 
Boots, and the Squire stand looking after them under the Peacock lamp.
"Sharp work," says the Squire, and goes in again to his bed, the coach being 
well out of sight and hearing.
Tom stands up on the coach and looks back at his father's figure as long as he 
can see it, and then the guard having disposed of his luggage comes to an 
anchor, and finishes his buttonings and other preparations for facing the 
three hours before dawn; no joke for those who minded cold, on a fast coach in 
November, in the reign of his late Majesty.
I sometimes think that you boys of this generation are a deal tenderer fellows 
than we used to be. At any rate, you're much more comfortable travellers, for 
I see every one of you with his rug or plaid, and other dodges for preserving 
the caloric, and most of you going in those fuzzy, dusty, padded first-class 
carriages. It was another affair altogether, a dark ride on the top of the 
Tally-ho, I can tell you, in a tight Petersham coat, and your feet dangling 
six inches from the floor. Then you knew what cold was, and what it was to be 
without legs, for not a bit of feeling had you in them after the first 
half-hour. But it had its pleasures, the old dark ride. First there was the 
consciousness of silent endurance, so dear to every Englishman -of standing 
out against something, and not giving in. Then there was the music of the 
rattling harness, and the ring of the horses' feet on the hard road, and the 
glare of the two bright lamps through the steaming hoar-frost over the 
leaders' ears into the darkness; and the cheery toot of the guard's horn, to 
warn some drowsy pikeman or the ostler at the next change; and the looking 
forward to daylight, and last but not least, the delight of returning 
sensation in your toes.
Then the break of dawn and the sunrise, where can they be ever seen in 
perfection but from a coach roof? You want motion and change and music to see 
them in their glory; not the music of singing-men and singing-women, but good 
silent music, which sets itself in your own head, the accompaniment of work 
and getting over the ground.
The Tally-ho is past St. Alban's, and Tom is enjoying the ride though 
half-frozen. The guard, who is alone with him on the back of the coach, is 
silent, but has muffled Tom's feet up in straw, and put the end of an oat-sack 
over his knees. The darkness has driven him inwards, and he has gone over his 
little past life, and thought of all his doings and promises, and of his 
mother and sister, and his father's last words; and has made fifty good 
resolutions, and means to bear himself like a brave Brown as he is, though a 
young one. Then he has been forward into the mysterious boy-future, 
speculating as to what sort of place Rugby is, and what they do there, and 
calling up all the stories of public-schools which he has heard from big boys 
in the holidays. He is chock full of hope and life, notwithstanding the cold, 
and kicks his heels against the backboard, and would like to sing, only he 
doesn't know how his friend the silent guard might take it.
And now the dawn breaks at the end of the fourth stage, and the coach pulls up 
at a little roadside inn with huge stables behind. There is a bright fire 
gleaming through the red curtains of the bar-window, and the door is open. The 
coachman catches his whip into a double thong, and throws it to the ostler; 
the steam of the horses rises straight up into the air. He has put them along 
over the last two miles, and is two minutes before his time; he rolls down 
from the box and into the inn. The guard rolls off behind. "Now, sir," says he 
to Tom, "you just jump down, and I'll give you a drop of something to keep the 
cold out."
Tom finds a difficulty in jumping, or indeed in finding the top of the wheel 
with his feet, which may be in the next world for all he feels; so the guard 
picks him off the coach-top and sets him on his legs, and they stump off into 
the bar, and join the coachman and the other outside passengers.
Here a fresh-looking barmaid serves them each with a glass of early purl as 
they stand before the fire, coachman and guard exchanging business remarks. 
The purl warms the cockles of Tom's heart and makes him cough.
"Rare tackle that, sir, of a cold morning," says the coachman, smiling. 
"Time's up." They are out again and up; Coachee the last, gathering the reins 
into his hands and talking to Jem the ostler about the mare's shoulder, and 
then swinging himself up on to the box -the horses dashing off in a canter 
before he falls into his seat. Toot-toot-tootle-too goes the horn, and away 
they are again, five-and-thirty miles on their road (nearly halfway to Rugby, 
thinks Tom), and the prospect of breakfast at the end of the stage.
And now they begin to see, and the early life of the countryside comes out; a 
market cart or two, men in smock-frocks going to their work pipe in mouth, a 
whiff of which is no bad smell this bright morning. The sun gets up and the 
mist shines like silver gauze. They pass the hounds jogging along to a distant 
meet at the heels of the huntsman's hack, whose face is about the colour of 
the tails of his old pink, as he exchanges greetings with coachman and guard. 
Now they pull up at a lodge, and take on board a well muffled-up sportsman, 
with his gun-case and carpet-bag. An early up-coach meets them, and the 
coachmen gather up their horses, and pass one another with the accustomed lift 
of the elbow, each team doing eleven miles an hour, with a mile to spare 
behind if necessary. And here comes breakfast.
"Twenty minutes here, gentlemen," says the coachman, as they pull up at 
half-past seven at the inn-door.
Have we not endured nobly this morning, and is not this a worthy reward for 
much endurance? There is the low dark wainscoted room hung with sporting 
prints; the hat-stand -with a whip or two standing up in it belonging to 
bagmen, who are still snug in bed -by the door; the blazing fire, with the 
quaint old glass over the mantelpiece, in which is stuck a large card with the 
list of the meets for the week of the county hounds. The table covered with 
the whitest of cloths and of china, and bearing a pigeon-pie, ham, round of 
cold boiled beef cut from a mammoth ox, and the great loaf of household bread 
on a wooden trencher. And here comes in the stout head waiter, puffing under a 
tray of hot viands; kidneys and a steak, transparent rashers and poached eggs, 
buttered toast and muffins, coffee and tea, all smoking hot. The table can 
never hold it all; the cold meats are removed to the sideboard, they were only 
put on for show, and to give us an appetite. And now fall on, gentlemen all. 
It is a well-known sporting house, and the breakfasts are famous. Two or three 
men in pink, on their way to the meet, drop in, and are very jovial and 
sharp-set, as indeed we all are.
"Tea or coffee, sir?" says head waiter, coming round to Tom.
"Coffee, please," says Tom with his mouth full of muffin and kidney; coffee is 
a treat to him, tea is not.
Our coachman, I perceive, who breakfasts with us, is a cold-beef man. He also 
eschews hot potations, and addicts himself to a tankard of ale, which is 
brought him by the barmaid. Sportsman looks on approvingly, and orders a ditto 
for himself.
Tom has eaten kidney and pigeon-pie, and imbibed coffee, till his little skin 
is as tight as a drum; and then has the further pleasure of paying head waiter 
out of his own purse, in a dignified manner, and walks out before the inn-door 
to see the horses put to. This is done leisurely and in a highly finished 
manner by the ostlers, as if they enjoyed the not being hurried. Coachman 
comes out with his way-bill, and puffing a fat cigar which the sportsman has 
given him. Guard emerges from the tap, where he prefers breakfasting, licking 
round a tough-looking doubtful cheroot, which you might tie round your finger, 
and three whiffs of which would knock any one else out of time.
The pinks stand about the inn-door lighting cigars and waiting to see us 
start, while their hacks are led up and down the market-place on which the inn 
looks. They all know our sportsman, and we feel a reflected credit when we see 
him chatting and laughing with them.
"Now, sir, please," says the coachman; all the rest of the passengers are up, 
the guard is locking the hind-boot.
"A good run to you," says the sportsman to the pinks, and is by the coachman's 
side in no time.
"Let 'em go, Dick!" The ostlers fly back, drawing off the cloths from their 
glossy loins, and away we go through the market-place and down the High 
Street, looking in at the first-floor windows, and seeing several worthy 
burgesses shaving thereat, while all the shopboys who are cleaning the 
windows, and housemaids who are doing the steps, stop and look pleased as we 
rattle past, as if we were a part of their legitimate morning's amusement. We 
clear the town, and are well out between the hedgerows again as the town clock 
strikes eight.
The sun shines almost warmly, and breakfast has oiled all springs and loosened 
all tongues. Tom is encouraged by a remark or two of the guard's between the 
puffs of his oily cheroot, and besides is getting tired of not talking. He is 
too full of his destination to talk about anything else, and so asks the guard 
if he knows Rugby.
"Goes through it every day of my life. Twenty minutes afore twelve down, ten 
o'clock up."
"What sort of a place is it, please?" says Tom.
Guard looks at him with a comical expression. "Werry out-o'-the-way place, 
sir; no paving to streets, nor no lighting. 'Mazin' big horse and cattle fair 
in autumn -lasts a week -just over now. Takes town a week to get clean after 
it. Fairish hunting country. But slow place, sir, slow place: off the main 
road you see -only three coaches a-day, and one on 'em a two-oss wan, more 
like a hearse nor a coach -Regulator -comes from Oxford. Young genl'm'n at 
school calls him Pig and Whistle, and goes up to college by him (six miles an 
hour) when they goes to enter. Belong to school, sir?"
"Yes," says Tom, not unwilling for a moment that the guard should think him an 
old boy. But then having some qualms as to the truth of the assertion, and 
seeing that if he were to assume the character of an old boy he couldn't go on 
asking the questions he wanted, added -"that is to say, I'm on my way there. 
I'm a new boy."
The guard looked as if he knew this quite as well as Tom.
"You're werry late, sir," says the guard; "only six weeks today to the end of 
the half." Tom assented. "We takes up fine loads this day six weeks, and 
Monday and Tuesday arter. Hopes we shall have the pleasure of carrying you 
back."
Tom said he hoped they would; but he thought within himself that his fate 
would probably be the Pig and Whistle.
"It pays uncommon cert'nly," continues the guard. "Werry free with their cash 
is the young genl'm'n. But, Lor' bless you, we gets into such rows all 'long 
the road, what wi' their pea-shooters, and long whips, and hollering, and 
upsetting every one as comes by; I'd a sight sooner carry one or two on 'em, 
sir, as I may be a carryin' of you now, than a coach-load."
"What do they do with the pea-shooters?" inquires Tom.
"Do wi' em! why, peppers every one's faces as we comes near, 'cept the young 
gals, and breaks windows wi' them too, some on 'em shoots so hard. Now 'twas 
just here last June, as we was a-driving up the first-day boys, they was 
mendin' a quarter-mile of road, and there was a lot of Irish chaps, reg'lar 
roughs, a-breaking stones. As we came up, `Now, boys,' says young gent on the 
box, (smart young fellow and despret reckless), `here's fun! let the Pats have 
it about the ears.' `God's sake, sir!' says Bob (that's my mate the coachman), 
`don't go for to shoot at 'em, they'll knock us off the coach.' `Damme, 
Coachee,' says young my lord, `you ain't afraid; hoora, boys! let 'em have 
it.' `Hoora!' sings out the others, and fill their mouths chock full of peas 
to last the whole line. Bob seeing as 'twas to come, knocks his hat over his 
eyes, hollers to his 'osses, and shakes 'em up, and away we goes up to the 
line on 'em, twenty miles an hour. The Pats begin to hoora too, thinking it 
was a runaway, and first lot on 'em stands grinnin' and wavin' their old hats 
as we comes abreast on 'em; and then you'd ha' laughed to see how took aback 
and choking savage they looked when they gets the peas a-stinging all over 
'em. But bless you, the laugh weren't all of our side, sir, by a long way. We 
was going so fast, and they was so took aback, that they didn't take what was 
up till we was halfway up the line. Then 'twas look out all surely. They howls 
all down the line fit to frighten you, some on 'em runs arter us and tries to 
clamber up behind, only we hits 'em over the fingers and pulls their hands 
off; one as had had it very sharp act'ly runs right at the leaders, as though 
he'd ketch 'em by the heads, only luck'ly for him he misses his tip, and comes 
over a heap o' stones first. The rest picks up stones, and gives it us right 
away till we gets out of shot, the young gents holding out werry manful with 
the pea-shooters and such stones as lodged on us, and a pretty many there was 
too. Then Bob picks hisself up again, and looks at young gent on box werry 
solemn. Bob'd had a rum un in the ribs, which'd like to ha' knocked him off 
the box, or made him drop the reins. Young gent on box picks hisself up, and 
so does we all, and looks round to count damage. Box's head cut open and his 
hat gone; 'nother young gent's hat gone; mine knocked in at the side, and not 
one on us as wasn't black and blue somewheres or another, most on 'em all 
over. Two-pound-ten to pay for damage to paint, which they subscribed for 
there and then, and give Bob and me a extra half-sovereign each; but I 
wouldn't go down that line again not for twenty half-sovereigns." And the 
guard shook his head slowly, and got up and blew a clear brisk toot, toot.
"What fun!" said Tom, who could scarcely contain his pride at this exploit of 
his future schoolfellows. He longed already for the end of the half that he 
might join them.
"'Tain't such good fun though, sir, for the folk as meets the coach, nor for 
we who has to go back with it next day. Them Irishers last summer had all got 
stones ready for us, and was all but letting drive, and we'd got two reverend 
gents aboard too. We pulled up at the beginning of the line, and pacified 
them, and we're never going to carry no more pea-shooters, unless they 
promises not to fire where there's a line of Irish chaps a stone-breaking." 
The guard stopped and pulled away at his cheroot, regarding Tom benignantly 
the while.
"Oh, don't stop! tell us something more about the pea-shooting."
"Well, there'd like to have been a pretty piece of work over it at Bicester, a 
while back. We was six mile from the town, when we meets an old square-headed 
grey-haired yeoman chap, a jogging along quite quiet. He looks up at the 
coach, and just then a pea hits him on the nose, and some catches his cob 
behind and makes him dance up on his hind legs. I see'd the old boy's face 
flush and look plaguy awkward, and I thought we was in for somethin' nasty.
"He turns his cob's head, and rides quietly after us just out of shot. How 
that ere cob did step! we never shook him off not a dozen yards in the six 
miles. At first the young gents was werry lively on him; but afore we got in, 
seeing how steady the old chap come on, they was quite quiet, and laid their 
heads together what they should do. Some was for fighting, some for axing his 
pardon. He rides into the town close after us, comes up when we stops, and 
says the two as shot at him must come before a magistrate; and a great crowd 
comes round, and we couldn't get the 'osses to. But the young uns they all 
stand by one another, and says all or none must go, and as how they'd fight it 
out, and have to be carried. Just as 'twas gettin' serious, and the old boy 
and the mob was going to pull 'em off the coach, one little fellow jumps up 
and says, `Here -I'll stay -I'm only going three miles further. My father's 
name's Davis, he's known about here, and I'll go before the magistrate with 
this gentleman.' `What! be thee parson Davis' son?' says the old boy. `Yes,' 
says the young un. `Well, I be mortal sorry to meet thee in such company, but 
for thy father's sake and thine (for thee bi'st a brave young chap) I'll say 
no more about it.' Didn't the boys cheer him, and the mob cheered the young 
chap -and then one of the biggest gets down, and begs his pardon werry 
gentlemanly for all the rest, saying as they all had been plaguy vexed from 
the first, but didn't like to ax his pardon till then, 'cause they felt they 
hadn't ought to shirk the consequences of their joke. And then they all got 
down, and shook hands with the old boy, and asked him to all parts of the 
country, to their homes, and we drives off twenty minutes behind time, with 
cheering and hollering as if we was county members. But, Lor' bless you, sir," 
says the guard, smacking his hand down on his knee and looking full into Tom's 
face, "ten minutes after they was all as bad as ever."
Tom showed such undisguised and open-mouthed interest in his narrations that 
the old guard rubbed up his memory, and launched out into a graphic history of 
all the performances of the boys on the roads for the last twenty years. Off 
the road he couldn't go, the exploit must have been connected with horses or 
vehicles to hang in the old fellow's head. Tom tried him off his own ground 
once or twice, but found he knew nothing beyond, and so let him have his head, 
and the rest of the road bowled easily away; for old Blow-hard (as the boys 
called him) was a dry old file, with much kindness and humour, and a capital 
spinner of a yarn when he had broken the neck of his day's work and got plenty 
of ale under his belt.
What struck Tom's youthful imagination most was the desperate and lawless 
character of most of the stories. Was the guard hoaxing him? He couldn't help 
hoping that they were true. It's very odd how almost all English boys love 
danger; you can get ten to join a game, or climb a tree, or swim a stream, 
when there's a chance of breaking their limbs or getting drowned, for one 
who'll stay on level ground, or in his depth, or play quoits or bowls.
The guard had just finished an account of a desperate fight which had happened 
at one of the fairs between the drovers and the farmers with their whips, and 
the boys with cricket-bats and wickets, which arose out of a playful but 
objectionable practice of the boys of going round to the public-houses, and 
taking the lynch-pins out of the wheels of the gigs, and was moralising upon 
the way in which the Doctor, "a terrible stern man he'd heard tell," had come 
down upon several of the performers, "sending three on 'em off next morning, 
each in a po-shay with a parish constable," when they turned a corner and 
neared the milestone, the third from Rugby. By the stone two boys stood, their 
jackets buttoned tight, waiting for the coach.
"Look here, sir," says the guard, after giving a sharp toot-toot, "there's two 
on 'em, out-and-out runners they be. They comes out about twice or three times 
a week, and spirts a mile alongside of us."
And as they came up, sure enough, away went the two boys along the footpath, 
keeping up with the horses; the first a light clean-made fellow going on 
springs, the other stout and round-shouldered, labouring in his pace, but 
going as dogged as a bull-terrier.
Old Blow-hard looked on admiringly. "See how beautiful that there un holds 
hisself together, and goes from his hips, sir," said he; "he's a 'mazin' fine 
runner. Now many coachmen as drives a first-rate team'd put it on, and try and 
pass 'em. But Bob, sir, bless you, he's tender-hearted; he'd sooner pull in a 
bit if he see'd 'em gettin' beat. I do b'lieve too as that there un'd sooner 
break his heart than let us go by him afore next milestone."
At the second milestone the boys pulled up short, and waved their hats to the 
guard, who had his watch out and shouted "4.56", thereby indicating that the 
mile had been done in four seconds under the five minutes. They passed several 
more parties of boys, all of them objects of the deepest interest to Tom, and 
came in sight of the town at ten minutes before twelve. Tom fetched a long 
breath, and thought he had never spent a pleasanter day. Before he went to bed 
he had quite settled that it must be the greatest day he should ever spend, 
and didn't alter his opinion for many a long year, if he has yet.



Chapter 5: Rugby and Football

 -Foot and eye opposed
In dubious strife.
SCOTT.


"And so here's Rugby, sir, at last, and you'll be in plenty of time for dinner 
at the School-house, as I tell'd you," said the old guard, pulling his horn 
out of its case, and tootle-tooing away; while the coachman shook up his 
horses, and carried them along the side of the school close, round Dead-man's 
corner, past the school gates, and down the High Street to the Spread Eagle; 
the wheelers in a spanking trot, and leaders cantering, in a style which would 
not have disgraced "Cherry Bob," "ramping, stamping, tearing, swearing Billy 
Harwood," or any other of the old coaching heroes.
Tom's heart beat quick as he passed the great school field or close, with its 
noble elms, in which several games at football were going on, and tried to 
take in at once the long line of grey buildings, beginning with the chapel, 
and ending with the School-house, the residence of the headmaster, where the 
great flag was lazily waving from the highest round tower. And he began 
already to be proud of being a Rugby boy, as he passed the school gates, with 
the oriel window above, and saw the boys standing there, looking as if the 
town belonged to them, and nodding in a familiar manner to the coachman, as if 
any one of them would be quite equal to getting on the box and working the 
team down street as well as he.
One of the young heroes, however, ran out from the rest, and scrambled up 
behind; where, having righted himself, and nodded to the guard, with "How do, 
Jem?" he turned short round to Tom, and, after looking him over for a minute, 
began - 
"I say, you fellow, is your name Brown?"
"Yes," said Tom, in considerable astonishment, glad however to have lighted on 
someone already who seemed to know him.
"Ah, I thought so: you know my old aunt, Miss East, she lives somewhere down 
your way in Berkshire. She wrote to me that you were coming today, and asked 
me to give you a lift."
Tom was somewhat inclined to resent the patronising air of his new friend, a 
boy of just about his own height and age, but gifted with the most 
transcendent coolness and assurance, which Tom felt to be aggravating and hard 
to bear, but couldn't for the life of him help admiring and envying 
-especially when young my lord begins hectoring two or three long loafing 
fellows, half porter, half stableman, with a strong touch of the blackguard, 
and in the end arranges with one of them, nicknamed Cooey, to carry Tom's 
luggage up to the School-house for sixpence.
"And hark 'ee, Cooey, it must be up in ten minutes, or no more jobs from me. 
Come along, Brown." And away swaggers the young potentate, with his hands in 
his pockets, and Tom at his side.
"All right, sir," says Cooey, touching his hat, with a leer and a wink at his 
comrades.
"Hullo, tho'," says East, pulling up, and taking another look at Tom, "this'll 
never do -haven't you got a hat? -we never wear caps here. Only the louts wear 
caps. Bless you, if you were to go into the quadrangle with that thing on, I 
-don't know what'd happen." The very idea was quite beyond young Master East, 
and he looked unutterable things.
Tom thought his cap a very knowing affair, but confessed that he had a hat in 
his hat-box; which was accordingly at once extracted from the hind-boot, and 
Tom equipped in his go-to-meeting roof, as his new friend called it. But this 
didn't quite suit his fastidious taste in another minute, being too shiny; so, 
as they walk up the town, they dive into Nixon's the hatter's, and Tom is 
arrayed, to his utter astonishment, and without paying for it, in a regulation 
cat-skin at seven-and-sixpence; Nixon undertaking to send the best hat up to 
the matron's room, School-house, in half an hour.
"You can send in a note for a tile on Monday, and make it all right, you 
know," said Mentor; "we're allowed two seven-and-sixers a half, besides what 
we bring from home."
Tom by this time began to be conscious of his new social position and 
dignities, and to luxuriate in the realised ambition of being a public-school 
boy at last, with a vested right of spoiling two seven-and-sixers in half a 
year.
"You see," said his friend, as they strolled up towards the school gates, in 
explanation of his conduct, "a great deal depends on how a fellow cuts up at 
first. If he's got nothing odd about him, and answers straightforward, and 
holds his head up, he gets on. Now you'll do very well as to rig, all but that 
cap. You see I'm doing the handsome thing by you, because my father knows 
yours; besides, I want to please the old lady. She gave me half-a-sov this 
half, and perhaps'll double it next, if I keep in her good books."
There's nothing for candour like a lower-school boy, and East was a genuine 
specimen. Frank, hearty, and good-natured, well satisfied with himself and his 
position, and chock full of life and spirits, and all the Rugby prejudices and 
traditions which he had been able to get together, in the long course of one 
half year, during which he had been at the School-house.
And Tom, notwithstanding his bumptiousness, felt friends with him at once, and 
began sucking in all his ways and prejudices, as fast as he could understand 
them.
East was great in the character of cicerone; he carried Tom through the great 
gates, where were only two or three boys. These satisfied themselves with the 
stock questions, "You fellow, what's your name? Where do you come from? How 
old are you? Where do you board? and what form are you in?" and so they passed 
on through the quadrangle and a small courtyard, upon which looked down a lot 
of little windows, belonging, as his guide informed him, to some of the 
School-house studies, into the matron's room, where East introduced Tom to 
that dignitary; made him give up the key of his trunk, that the matron might 
unpack his linen, and told the story of the hat, and of his own presence of 
mind: upon the relation whereof, the matron laughingly scolded him, for the 
coolest new boy in the house; and East, indignant at the accusation of 
newness, marched Tom off into the quadrangle, and began showing him the 
schools, and examining him as to his literary attainments; the result of which 
was a prophecy that they would be in the same form, and could do their lessons 
together.
"And now come in and see my study; we shall have just time before dinner; and 
afterwards, before calling-over, we'll do the close."
Tom followed his guide through the School-house hall, which opens into the 
quadrangle. It is a great room thirty feet long and eighteen high, or 
thereabouts, with two great tables running the whole length, and two large 
fireplaces at the side, with blazing fires in them, at one of which some dozen 
boys were standing and lounging, some of whom shouted to East to stop; but he 
shot through with his convoy, and landed him in the long dark passages, with a 
large fire at the end of each, upon which the studies opened. Into one of 
these, in the bottom passage, East bolted with our hero, slamming and bolting 
the door behind them, in case of pursuit from the hall, and Tom was for the 
first time in a Rugby boy's citadel.
He hadn't been prepared for separate studies, and was not a little astonished 
and delighted with the palace in question.
It wasn't very large certainly, being about six feet long by four broad. It 
couldn't be called light, as there were bars and a grating to the window, 
which little precautions were necessary in the studies on the ground-floor 
looking out into the close, to prevent the exit of small boys after 
locking-up, and the entrance of contraband articles. But it was uncommonly 
comfortable to look at, Tom thought. The space under the window at the further 
end was occupied by a square table covered with a reasonably clean and whole 
red-and-blue check table-cloth; a hard-seated sofa covered with red stuff 
occupied one side, running up to the end, and making a seat for one, or by 
sitting close for two, at the table; and a good stout wooden chair afforded a 
seat to another boy, so that three could sit and work together. The walls were 
wainscoted halfway up, the wainscot being covered with green baize, the 
remainder with a bright-patterned paper, on which hung three of four prints, 
of dogs' heads, Grimaldi winning the Aylesbury steeplechase, Amy Robsart, the 
reigning Waverley beauty of the day, and Tom Crib in a posture of defence, 
which did no great credit to the science of that hero, if truly represented. 
Over the door were a row of hat-pegs, and on each side bookcases with 
cupboards at the bottom; shelves and cupboards being filled indiscriminately 
with schoolbooks, a cup or two, a mouse-trap and brass candlesticks, leather 
straps, a fustian bag, and some curious looking articles, which puzzled Tom 
not a little, until his friend explained that they were climbing irons, and 
showed their use. A cricket-bat and small fishing-rod stood up in one corner.
This was the residence of East and another boy in the same form, and had more 
interest for Tom than Windsor Castle, or any other residence in the British 
Isles. For was he not about to become the joint owner of a similar home, the 
first place which he could call his own? One's own -what a charm there is in 
the words! How long it takes boy and man to find out their worth! how fast 
most of us hold on to them! faster and more jealously, the nearer we are to 
the general home, into which we can take nothing, but must go naked as we came 
into the world. When shall we learn that he who multiplieth possessions 
multiplieth troubles, and that the one single use of things which we call our 
own is that they may be his who hath need of them?
"And shall I have a study like this too?" said Tom.
"Yes, of course, you'll be chummed with some fellow on Monday, and you can sit 
here till then."
"What nice places!"
"They're well enough," answered East patronisingly, "only uncommon cold at 
night sometimes. Gower, that's my chum, and I make a fire with paper on the 
floor after supper generally, only that makes it so smoky."
"But there's a big fire out in the passage," said Tom.
"Precious little good we get of that tho'," said East; "Jones the praepostor 
has the study at the fire end, and he has rigged up an iron rod and green 
baize curtains across the passage, which he draws at night, and sits there 
with his door open, so he gets all the fire, and hears if we come out of our 
studies after eight, or make a noise. However, he's taken to sitting in the 
fifth-form room lately, so we do get a bit of fire now sometimes; only keep a 
sharp lookout that he don't catch you behind his curtain when he comes down, 
that's all."
A quarter-past one now struck, and the bell began tolling for dinner, so they 
went into the hall and took their places, Tom at the very bottom of the second 
table next to the praepostor, who sat at the end to keep order there, and East 
a few places higher. And now Tom for the first time saw his future 
schoolfellows in a body. In they came, some hot and ruddy from football or 
long walks, some pale and chilly from hard reading in their studies, some from 
loitering over the fire at the pastrycook's, dainty mortals, bringing with 
them pickles and sauce-bottles to help them with their dinners. And a great 
big bearded man, whom Tom took for a master, began calling over the names, 
while the great joints were being rapidly carved on a third table in the 
corner by the old verger and the housekeeper. Tom's turn came last, and 
meanwhile he was all eyes, looking first with awe at the great man who sat 
close to him, and was helped first, and who read a hard-looking book all the 
time he was eating; and when he got up and walked off to the fire, at the 
small boys round him, some of whom were reading, and the rest talking in 
whispers to one another, or stealing one another's bread, or shooting pellets, 
or digging their forks through the tablecloth. However, notwithstanding his 
curiosity, he managed to make a capital dinner by the time the big man called 
"Stand up" and said grace.
As soon as dinner was over, and Tom had been questioned by such of his 
neighbours as were curious as to his birth, parentage, education, and other 
like matters, East, who evidently enjoyed his new dignity of patron and 
mentor, proposed having a look at the close, which Tom, athirst for knowledge, 
gladly assented to, and they went out through the quadrangle and past the big 
fives' court, into the great playground.
"That's the chapel you see," said East, "and there just behind it is the place 
for fights; you see it's 'most out of the way of the masters, who all live on 
the other side and don't come by here after first lesson or callings-over. 
That's when the fights come off. And all this part where we are is the little 
side-ground, right up to the trees, and on the other side of the trees is the 
big side-ground, where the great matches are played. And there's the island in 
the furthest corner; you'll know that well enough next half, when there's 
island fagging. I say, it's horrid cold, let's have a run across," and away 
went East, Tom close behind him. East was evidently putting his best foot 
foremost, and Tom, who was mighty proud of his running, and not a little 
anxious to show his friend that although a new boy he was no milksop, laid 
himself down to work in his very best style. Right across the close they went, 
each doing all he knew, and there wasn't a yard between them when they pulled 
up at the island moat.
"I say," said East, as soon as he got his wind, looking with much increased 
respect at Tom, "you ain't a bad scud, not by no means. Well, I'm as warm as a 
toast now."
"But why do you wear white trousers in November?" said Tom. He had been struck 
by this peculiarity in the costume of almost all the School-house boys.
"Why, bless us, don't you know? -No, I forgot. Why today's the School-house 
match. Our house plays the whole of the School at football. And we all wear 
white trousers to show 'em we don't care for hacks. You're in luck to come 
today. You just will see a match; and Brooke's going to let me play in 
quarters. That's more than he'll do for any other lower-school boy, except 
James, and he's fourteen."
"Who's Brooke?"
"Why, that big fellow who called over at dinner, to be sure. He's cock of the 
School, and head of the School-house side, and the best kick and charger in 
Rugby."
"Oh, but do show me where they play. And tell me about it. I love football so, 
and I've played all my life. Won't Brooke let me play?"
"Not he," said East with some indignation; "why, you don't know the rules, 
you'll be a month learning them. And then it's no joke playing-up in a match, 
I can tell you. Quite another thing from your private school games. Why, 
there's been two collar-bones broken this half, and a dozen fellows lamed. And 
last year a fellow had his leg broken."
Tom listened with the profoundest respect to this chapter of accidents, and 
followed East across the level ground till they came to a sort of gigantic 
gallows of two poles eighteen feet high, fixed upright in the ground some 
fourteen feet apart, with a cross-bar running from one to the other at the 
height of ten feet or thereabouts.
"This is one of the goals," said East, "and you see the other, across there, 
right opposite, under the Doctor's wall. Well, the match is for the best of 
three goals; whichever side kicks two goals wins, and it won't do, you see, 
just to kick the ball through these posts, it must go over the cross-bar; any 
height'll do, so long as it's between the posts. You'll have to stay in goal 
to touch the ball when it rolls behind the posts, because if the other side 
touch it they have a try at goal. Then we fellows in quarters, we play just 
about in front of goal here, and have to turn the ball and kick it back, 
before the big fellows on the other side can follow it up. And in front of us 
all the big fellows play, and that's where the scrummages are mostly."
Tom's respect increased as he struggled to make out his friend's 
technicalities, and the other set to work to explain the mysteries of "off 
your side," "drop-kicks," "punts," "places," and the other intricacies of the 
great science of football.
"But how do you keep the ball between the goals?" said he: "I can't see why it 
mightn't go right down to the chapel."
"Why, that's out of play," answered East. "You see this gravel walk running 
down all along this side of the playing-ground, and the line of elms opposite 
on the other? Well, they're the bounds. As soon as the ball gets past them, 
it's in touch, and out of play. And then whoever first touches it, has to 
knock it straight out amongst the players-up, who make two lines with a space 
between them, every fellow going on his own side. Ain't there just fine 
scrummages then! and the three trees you see there which come out into the 
play, that's a tremendous place when the ball hangs there, for you get thrown 
against the trees, and that's worse than any hack."
Tom wondered within himself as they strolled back again towards the fives' 
court, whether the matches were really such break-neck affairs as East 
represented, and whether, if they were, he should ever get to like them and 
play-up well.
He hadn't long to wonder however, for next minute East cried out, "Hurra! 
here's the punt-about -come along and try your hand at a kick." The punt-about 
is the practice ball, which is just brought out and kicked about anyhow from 
one boy to another before callings-over and dinner, and at other odd times. 
They joined the boys who had brought it out, all small School-house fellows, 
friends of East, and Tom had the pleasure of trying his skill, and performed 
very creditably, after first driving his foot three inches into the ground, 
and then nearly kicking his leg into the air, in vigorous efforts to 
accomplish a drop-kick after the manner of East.
Presently more boys and bigger came out, and boys from other houses on their 
way to calling-over, and more balls were sent for. The crowd thickened as 
three o'clock approached; and when the hour struck, one hundred and fifty boys 
were hard at work. Then the balls were held, the master of the week came down 
in cap and gown to calling-over, and the whole school of three hundred boys 
swept into the big school to answer to their names.
"I may come in, mayn't I?" said Tom, catching East by the arm and longing to 
feel himself one of them.
"Yes, come along, nobody'll say anything. You won't be so eager to get into 
calling-over after a month," replied his friend; and they marched into the big 
school together, and up to the further end, where that illustrious form, the 
lower-fourth, which had the honour of East's patronage for the time being, 
stood.
The master mounted into the high desk by the door, and one of the praepostors 
of the week stood by him on the steps, the other three marching up and down 
the middle of the school with their canes, calling out "Silence, silence!" The 
sixth form stood close by the door on the left, some thirty in number, mostly 
great big grown men, as Tom thought, surveying them from a distance with awe. 
The fifth form behind them, twice their number and not quite so big. These on 
the left, and on the right the lower fifth, shell, and all the junior forms in 
order, while up the middle marched the three praepostors.
Then the praepostor who stands by the master calls out the names, beginning 
with the sixth form, and as he calls, each boy answers "here" to his name, and 
walks out. Some of the sixth stop at the door to turn the whole string of boys 
into the close; it is a great match day, and every boy in the school, will-he 
nill-he, must be there. The rest of the sixth go forwards into the close, to 
see that no one escapes by any of the side gates.
Today however being the School-house match, none of the School-house 
praepostors stay by the door to watch for truants of their side; there is 
carte blanche to the School-house fags to go where they like; "They trust to 
our honour," as East proudly informs Tom: "they know very well that no 
School-house boy would cut the match. If he did, we'd very soon cut him, I can 
tell you."
The master of the week being short-sighted, and the praepostors of the week 
small and not well up to their work, the lower-school boys employ the ten 
minutes which elapse before their names are called, in pelting one another 
vigorously with acorns, which fly about in all directions. The small 
praepostors dash in every now and then, and generally chastise some quiet, 
timid boy who is equally afraid of acorns and canes, while the principal 
performers get dexterously out of the way; and so calling-over rolls on 
somehow, much like the big world, punishments lighting on wrong shoulders, and 
matters going generally in a queer, cross-grained way, but the end coming 
somehow, which is after all the great point. And now the master of the week 
has finished, and locked up the big school; and the praepostors of the week 
come out, sweeping the last remnant of the school fags, who had been loafing 
about the corners by the fives' court, in hopes of a chance of bolting, before 
them into the close.
"Hold the punt-about!" "To the goals!" are the cries, and all stray balls are 
impounded by the authorities; and the whole mass of boys moves up towards the 
two goals, dividing as they go into three bodies. That little band on the 
left, consisting of from fifteen to twenty boys, Tom amongst them, who are 
making for the goal under the School-house wall, are the School-house boys who 
are not to play-up, and have to stay in goal. The larger body moving to the 
island goal, are the School-boys in a like predicament. The great mass in the 
middle are the players-up, both sides mingled together; they are hanging their 
jackets, and all who mean real work, their hats, waistcoats, neck-handkerchief 
s, and braces, on the railings round the small trees; and there they go by 
twos and threes up to their respective grounds. There is none of the colour 
and tastiness of get-up, you will perceive, which lends such a life to the 
present game at Rugby, making the dullest and worst-fought match a pretty 
sight. Now each house has its own uniform of cap and jersey, of some lively 
colour; but at the time we are speaking of, plush caps have not yet come in, 
or uniforms of any sort, except the School-house white trousers, which are 
abominably cold today; let us get to work, bare-headed and girded with our 
plain leather straps -but we mean business, gentlemen.
And now that the two sides have fairly sundered, and each occupies its own 
ground, and we get a good look at them, what absurdity is this? You don't mean 
to say that those fifty or sixty boys in white trousers, many of them quite 
small, are going to play that huge mass opposite? Indeed I do, gentlemen; 
they're going to try at any rate, and won't make such a bad fight of it 
either, mark my word; for hasn't old Brooke won the toss, with his lucky 
halfpenny, and got choice of goals, and kick-off? The new ball you may see lie 
there quite by itself, in the middle, pointing towards the School or island 
goal; in another minute it will be well on its way there. Use that minute in 
remarking how the School-house side is drilled. You will see, in the first 
place, that the sixth-form boy, who has the charge of goal, has spread his 
force (the goalkeepers) so as to occupy the whole space behind the goalposts, 
at distances of about five yards apart; a safe and well-kept goal is the 
foundation of all good play. Old Brooke is talking to the captain of quarters; 
and now he moves away; see how that youngster spreads his men (the light 
brigade) carefully over the ground, halfway between their own goal and the 
body of their own players-up (the heavy brigade). These again play in several 
bodies; there is young Brooke and the bulldogs -mark them well -they are "the 
fighting brigade," the "die-hards," larking about at leapfrog to keep 
themselves warm, and playing tricks on one another. And on each side of old 
Brooke, who is now standing in the middle of the ground and just going to kick 
off, you see a separate wing of players-up, each with a boy of acknowledged 
prowess to look to -here Warner, and there Hedge; but over all is old Brooke, 
absolute as he of Russia, but wisely and bravely ruling over willing and 
worshipping subjects, a true football king. His face is earnest and careful as 
he glances a last time over his array, but full of pluck and hope, the sort of 
look I hope to see in my general when I go out to fight.
The School side is not organised in the same way. The goalkeepers are all in 
lumps, anyhow and nohow; you can't distinguish between the players-up and the 
boys in quarters, and there is divided leadership; but with such odds in 
strength and weight, it must take more than that to hinder them from winning; 
and so their leaders seem to think, for they let the players-up manage 
themselves.
But now look, there is a slight move forward of the School-house wings; old 
Brooke takes half a dozen quick steps, and away goes the ball spinning towards 
the School goal; seventy yards before it touches ground, and at no point above 
twelve or fifteen feet high, a model kick-off; and the School-house cheer and 
rush on; the ball is returned, and they meet it and drive it back amongst the 
masses of the School already in motion. Then the two sides close, and you can 
see nothing for minutes but a swaying crowd of boys, at one point violently 
agitated. That is where the ball is, and there are the keen players to be met, 
and the glory and the hard knocks to be got: you hear the dull thud of the 
ball, and the shouts of "Off your side," "Down with him," "Put him over," 
"Bravo." This is what we call a scrummage, gentlemen, and the first scrummage 
in a School-house match was no joke in the consulship of Plancus.
But see! it has broken, the ball is driven out on the School-house side, and a 
rush of the School carries it past the School-house players-up. "Look out in 
quarters," Brooke's and twenty other voices ring out; no need to call tho', 
the School-house captain of quarters has caught it on the bound, dodges the 
foremost School-boys, who are heading the rush, and sends it back with a good 
drop-kick well into the enemies' country. And then follows rush upon rush, and 
scrummage upon scrummage, the ball now driven through into the School-house 
quarters, and now into the School goal; for the School-house have not lost the 
advantage which the kick-off and a slight wind gave them at the outset, and 
are slightly "penning" their adversaries. You say, you don't see much in it 
all, nothing but a struggling mass of boys, and a leather ball, which seems to 
excite them all to great fury, as a red rag does a bull. My dear sir, a battle 
would look much the same to you, except that the boys would be men, and the 
balls iron; but a battle would be worth your looking at for all that, and so 
is a football match. You can't be expected to appreciate the delicate strokes 
of play, the turns by which a game is lost and won -it takes an old player to 
do that -but the broad philosophy of football you can understand if you will. 
Come along with me a little nearer, and let us consider it together.
The ball has just fallen again where the two sides are thickest, and they 
close rapidly around it in a scrummage; it must be driven through now by force 
or skill, till it flies out on one side or the other. Look how differently the 
boys face it. Here comes two of the bulldogs, bursting through the outsiders; 
in they go, straight to the heart of the scrummage, bent on driving that ball 
out on the opposite side. That is what they mean to do. My sons, my sons! you 
are too hot; you have gone past the ball, and must struggle now right through 
the scrummage, and get round and back again to your own side, before you can 
be of any further use. Here comes young Brooke; he goes in as straight as you, 
but keeps his head, and backs and bends, holding himself still behind the 
ball, and driving it furiously when he gets the chance. Take a leaf out of his 
book, you young chargers. Here come Speedicut, and Flashman the School-house 
bully, with shouts and great action. Won't you two come up to young Brooke 
after locking-up by the School-house fire with "Old fellow, wasn't that just a 
splendid scrummage by the three trees!" But he knows you, and so do we. You 
don't really want to drive that ball through that scrummage, chancing all hurt 
for the glory of the School-house, but to make us think that's what you want 
-a vastly different thing, and fellows of your kidney will never go through 
more than the skirts of a scrummage, where it's all push and no kicking. We 
respect boys who keep out of it, and don't sham going in; but you -we had 
rather not say what we think of you.
Then the boys who are bending and watching on the outside, mark them -they are 
most useful players, the dodgers; who seize on the ball the moment it rolls 
out from amongst the chargers, and away with it across to the opposite goal; 
they seldom go into the scrummage, but must have more coolness than the 
chargers: as endless as are boys' characters, so are their ways of facing or 
not meeting a scrummage at football.
Three-quarters of an hour are gone; first winds are failing, and weight and 
numbers beginning to tell. Yard by yard the School-house have been driven 
back, contesting every inch of ground. The bulldogs are the colour of mother 
earth from shoulder to ankle, except young Brooke, who has a marvellous knack 
of keeping his legs. The School-house are being penned in their turn, and now 
the ball is behind their goal, under the Doctor's wall. The Doctor and some of 
his family are there looking on, and seem as anxious as any boy for the 
success of the School-house. We get a minute's breathing time before old 
Brooke kicks out, and he gives the word to play strongly for touch, by the 
three trees. Away goes the ball, and the bulldogs after it, and in another 
minute there is a shout of "In touch," "Our ball." Now's your time, old 
Brooke, while your men are still fresh. He stands with the ball in his hand, 
while the two sides form in deep lines opposite one another: he must strike it 
straight out between them. The lines are thickest close to him, but young 
Brooke and two or three of his men are shifting up further, where the opposite 
line is weak. Old Brooke strikes it out straight and strong, and it falls 
opposite his brother. Hurra! that rush has taken it right through the School 
line, and away past the three trees, far into their quarters, and young Brooke 
and the bulldogs are close upon it. The School leaders rush back shouting 
"Look out in goal," and strain every nerve to catch him, but they are after 
the fleetest foot in Rugby. There they go straight for the School goalposts, 
quarters scattering before them. One after another the bulldogs go down, but 
young Brooke holds on. "He is down." No! a long stagger, but the danger is 
past; that was the shock of Crew, the most dangerous of dodgers. And now he is 
close to the School goal, the ball not three yards before him. There is a 
hurried rush of the School fags to the spot, but no one throws himself on the 
ball, the only chance, and young Brooke has touched it right under the School 
goalposts.
The School leaders come up furious, and administer toco to the wretched fags 
nearest at hand; they may well be angry, for it is all Lombard Street to a 
china-orange that the School-house kick a goal with the ball touched in such a 
good place. Old Brooke of course will kick it out, but who shall catch and 
place it? Call Crab Jones. Here he comes, sauntering along with a straw in his 
mouth, the queerest, coolest fish in Rugby: if he were tumbled into the moon 
this minute, he would just pick himself up without taking his hands out of his 
pockets or turning a hair. But it is a moment when the boldest charger's heart 
beats quick. Old Brooke stands with the ball under his arm motioning the 
School back; he will not kick out till they are all in goal, behind the posts; 
they are all edging forwards, inch by inch, to get nearer for the rush at Crab 
Jones, who stands there in front of old Brooke to catch the ball. If they can 
reach and destroy him before he catches, the danger is over, and with one and 
the same rush they will carry it right away to the School-house goal. Fond 
hope, it is kicked out and caught beautifully. Crab strikes his heel into the 
ground, to mark the spot where the ball was caught, beyond which the School 
line may not advance; but there they stand five deep, ready to rush the moment 
the ball touches the ground. Take plenty of room! don't give the rush a chance 
of reaching you! place it true and steady! Trust Crab Jones -he has made a 
small hole with his heel for the ball to lie on, by which he is resting on one 
knee, with his eye on old Brooke. "Now!" Crab places the ball at the word, old 
Brooke kicks, and it rises slowly and truly as the School rush forward.
Then a moment's pause, while both sides look up at the spinning ball. There it 
flies straight between the two posts, some five feet above the cross-bar, an 
unquestioned goal; and a shout of real genuine joy rings out from the 
School-house players-up, and a faint echo of it comes over the close from the 
goalkeepers under the Doctor's wall. A goal in the first hour -such a thing 
hasn't been done in the School-house match this five years.
"Over!" is the cry: the two sides change goals, and the School-house 
goalkeepers come threading their way across through the masses of the School; 
the most openly triumphant of them, amongst whom is Tom, a School-house boy of 
two hours' standing, getting their ears boxed in the transit. Tom indeed is 
excited beyond measure, and it is all the sixth-form boy, kindest and safest 
of goalkeepers, has been able to do to keep him from rushing out whenever the 
ball has been near their goal. So he holds him by his side, and instructs him 
in the science of touching.
At this moment Griffith, the itinerant vendor of oranges from Hill Morton, 
enters the close with his heavy baskets; there is a rush of small boys upon 
the little pale-faced man, the two sides mingling together subdued by the 
great Goddess Thirst, like the English and French by the streams in the 
Pyrenees. The leaders are past oranges and apples, but some of them visit 
their coats, and apply innocent-looking ginger-beer bottles to their mouths. 
It is no ginger-beer though, I fear, and will do you no good. One short mad 
rush, and then a stitch in the side, and no more honest play; that's what 
comes of those bottles.
But now Griffith's baskets are empty, the ball is placed again midway, and the 
School are going to kick off. Their leaders have sent their lumber into goal, 
and rated the rest soundly, and one hundred and twenty picked players-up are 
there, bent on retrieving the game. They are to keep the ball in front of the 
School-house goal, and then to drive it in by sheer strength and weight. They 
mean heavy play and no mistake, and so old Brooke sees; and places Crab Jones 
in quarters just before the goal, with four or five picked players, who are to 
keep the ball away to the sides, where a try at goal, if obtained, will be 
less dangerous than in front. He himself, and Warner and Hedge, who have saved 
themselves till now, will lead the chargers.
"Are you ready?" -"Yes." And away comes the ball kicked high in the air, to 
give the School time to rush on and catch it as it falls. And here they are 
amongst us. Meet them like Englishmen, you School-house boys, and charge them 
home. Now is the time to show what mettle is in you -and there shall be a warm 
seat by the hall fire, and honour, and lots of bottled-beer tonight, for him 
who does his duty in the next half-hour. And they are well met. Again and 
again the cloud of their players-up gathers before our goal, and comes 
threatening on, and Warner or Hedge, with young Brooke and the relics of the 
bulldogs, break through and carry the ball back; and old Brooke ranges the 
field like Job's war-horse; the thickest scrummage parts asunder before his 
rush, like the waves before a clipper's bows; his cheery voice rings over the 
field, and his eye is everywhere. And if these miss the ball, and it rolls 
dangerously in front of our goal, Crab Jones and his men have seized it and 
sent it away towards the sides with the unerring drop-kick. This is worth 
living for; the whole sum of schoolboy existence gathered up into one 
straining, struggling half-hour, a half-hour worth a year of common life.
The quarter to five has struck, and the play slackens for a minute before 
goal; but there is Crew, the artful dodger, driving the ball in behind our 
goal, on the island side, where our quarters are weakest. Is there no one to 
meet him? Yes! look at little East! the ball is just at equal distances 
between the two, and they rush together, the young man of seventeen and the 
boy of twelve, and kick it at the same moment. Crew passes on without a 
stagger; East is hurled forward by the shock, and plunges on his shoulder, as 
if he would bury himself in the ground; but the ball rises straight into the 
air, and falls behind Crew's back, while the bravos of the School-house attest 
the pluckiest charge of all that hard-fought day. Warner picks East up lame 
and half stunned, and he hobbles back into goal, conscious of having played 
the man.
And now the last minutes are come, and the School gather for their last rush, 
every boy of the hundred and twenty who has a run left in him. Reckless of the 
defence of their own goal, on they come across the level big-side ground, the 
ball well down amongst them, straight for our goal, like the column of the Old 
Guard up the slope at Waterloo. All former charges have been child's play to 
this. Warner and Hedge have met them, but still on they come. The bulldogs 
rush in for the last time; they are hurled over or carried back, striving 
hand, foot, and eyelids. Old Brooke comes sweeping round the skirts of the 
play, and turning short round picks out the very heart of the scrummage, and 
plunges in. It wavers for a moment -he has the ball! No, it has passed him, 
and his voice rings out clear over the advancing tide, "Look out in goal." 
Crab Jones catches it for a moment; but before he can kick, the rush is upon 
him and passes over him; and he picks himself up behind them with his straw in 
his mouth, a little dirtier, but as cool as ever.
The ball rolls slowly in behind the School-house goal, not three yards in 
front of a dozen of the biggest School players-up.
There stand the School-house praepostor, safest of goalkeepers, and Tom Brown 
by his side, who has learned his trade by this time. Now is your time, Tom. 
The blood of all the Browns is up, and the two rush in together, and throw 
themselves on the ball, under the very feet of the advancing column; the 
praepostor on his hands and knees arching his back, and Tom all along on his 
face. Over them topple the leaders of the rush, shooting over the back of the 
praepostor, but falling flat on Tom, and knocking all the wind out of his 
small carcase. "Our ball," says the praepostor, rising with his prize; "but 
get up there, there's a little fellow under you." They are hauled and roll off 
him, and Tom is discovered a motionless body.
Old Brooke picks him up. "Stand back, give him air," he says; and then feeling 
his limbs, adds, "No bones broken. How do you feel, young un?"
"Hah-hah," gasps Tom as his wind comes back, "pretty well, thank you -all 
right."
"Who is he?" says Brooke. "Oh, it's Brown, he's a new boy; I know him," says 
East, coming up.
"Well, he is a plucky youngster, and will make a player," says Brooke.
And five o'clock strikes. "No side" is called, and the first day of the 
School-house match is over.



Chapter 6: After the Match

--Some food we had. -SHAKESPEARE.


As the boys scattered away from the ground, and East leaning on Tom's arm, and 
limping along, was beginning to consider what luxury they should go and buy 
for tea to celebrate that glorious victory, the two Brookes came striding by. 
Old Brooke caught sight of East, and stopped; put his hand kindly on his 
shoulder and said, "Bravo, youngster, you played famously; not much the 
matter, I hope?"
"No, nothing at all," said East, "only a little twist from that charge."
"Well, mind and get all right for next Saturday;" and the leader passed on, 
leaving East better for those few words than all the opodeldoc in England 
would have made him, and Tom ready to give one of his ears for as much notice. 
Ah! light words of those whom we love and honour, what a power ye are, and how 
carelessly wielded by those who can use you! Surely for these things also God 
will ask an account.
"Tea's directly after locking-up, you see," said East, hobbling along as fast 
as he could, "so you come along down to Sally Harrowell's; that's our 
School-house tuck shop -she bakes such stunning murphies, we'll have a 
penn'orth each for tea; come along or they'll all be gone."
Tom's new purse and money burnt in his pocket; he wondered, as they toddled 
through the quadrangle and along the street, whether East would be insulted if 
he suggested further extravagance, as he had not sufficient faith in a 
pennyworth of potatoes. At last he blurted out - 
"I say, East, can't we get something else besides potatoes? I've got lots of 
money, you know."
"Bless us, yes, I forgot," said East, "you've only just come. You see all my 
tin's been gone this twelve weeks, it hardly ever lasts beyond the first 
fortnight; and our allowances were all stopped this morning for broken 
windows, so I haven't got a penny. I've got a tick at Sally's, of course; but 
then I hate running it high, you see, towards the end of the half, 'cause one 
has to shell out for it all directly one comes back, and that's a bore."
Tom didn't understand much of this talk, but seized on the fact that East had 
no money and was denying himself some little pet luxury in consequence. "Well, 
what shall I buy?" said he; "I'm uncommon hungry."
"I say," said East, stopping to look at him and rest his leg, "you're a trump, 
Brown. I'll do the same by you next half. Let's have a pound of sausages then, 
that's the best grub for tea I know of."
"Very well," said Tom, as pleased as possible; "where do they sell them?"
"Oh, over here, just opposite;" and they crossed the street and walked into 
the cleanest little front room of a small house, half parlour, half shop, and 
bought a pound of most particular sausages; East talking pleasantly to Mrs. 
Porter while she put them in paper, and Tom doing the paying part.
From Porter's they adjourned to Sally Harrowell's, where they found a lot of 
School-house boys waiting for the roast potatoes, and relating their own 
exploits in the day's match at the top of their voices. The street opened at 
once into Sally's kitchen, a low brick-floored room, with large recess for 
fire, and chimney-corner seats. Poor little Sally, the most good natured and 
much enduring of womankind, was bustling about with a napkin in her hand, from 
her own oven to those of the neighbours' cottages, up the yard at the back of 
her house. Stumps, her husband, a short, easy-going shoemaker, with a beery, 
humorous eye and ponderous calves who lived mostly on his wife's earnings, 
stood in a corner of the room, exchanging shots of the roughest description of 
repartee with every boy in turn. "Stumps, you lout, you've had too much beer 
again today." -"'Twasn't of your paying for, then." -"Stumps's calves are 
running down into his ankles, they want to get to grass." -"Better be doing 
that, than gone altogether like yours," etc., etc.. Very poor stuff it was, 
but it served to make time pass, and every now and then Sally arrived in the 
middle with a smoking tin of potatoes, which was cleared off in a few seconds, 
each boy as he seized his lot, running off to the house with "Put me down 
twopenn'orth, Sally;" "Put down three penn'orth between me and Davis," etc. 
How she ever kept the accounts so straight as she did, in her head and on her 
slate, was a perfect wonder.
East and Tom got served at last, and started back for the School-house just as 
the locking-up bell began to ring; East on the way recounting the life and 
adventures of Stumps, who was a character. Amongst his other small avocations, 
he was the hind carrier of a sedan-chair, the last of its race, in which the 
Rugby ladies still went out to tea, and in which, when he was fairly harnessed 
and carrying a load, it was the delight of small and mischievous boys to 
follow him and whip his calves. This was too much for the temper even of 
Stumps, and he would pursue his tormentors in a vindictive and apoplectic 
manner when released, but was easily pacified by twopence to buy beer with.
The lower-school boys of the School-house, some fifteen in number, had tea in 
the lower-fifth school, and were presided over by the old verger or 
head-porter. Each boy had a quarter of a loaf of bread and pat of butter, and 
as much tea as he pleased, and there was scarcely one who didn't add to this 
some further luxury, such as baked potatoes, a herring, sprats, or something 
of the sort; but few, at this period of the half-year, could live up to a 
pound of Porter's sausages, and East was in great magnificence upon the 
strength of theirs. He had produced a toasting-fork from his study, and set 
Tom to toast the sausages, while he mounted guard over their butter and 
potatoes; "'Cause," as he explained, "you're a new boy, and they'll play you 
some trick and get our butter, but you can toast just as well as I." So Tom, 
in the midst of three or four more urchins similarly employed, toasted his 
face and the sausages at the same time before the huge fire, till the latter 
cracked; when East from his watch-tower shouted that they were done, and then 
the feast proceeded, and the festive cups of tea were filled and emptied, and 
Tom imparted the sausages in small bits to many neighbours, and thought he had 
never tasted such good potatoes or seen such jolly boys. They on their parts 
waived all ceremony, and pegged away at the sausages and potatoes, and 
remembering Tom's performance in goal, voted East's new crony a brick. After 
tea, and while the things were being cleared away, they gathered round the 
fire, and the talk on the match still went on; and those who had them to show, 
pulled up their trousers and showed the hacks they had received in the good 
cause.
They were soon however all turned out of the school, and East conducted Tom up 
to his bedroom, that he might get on clean things and wash himself before 
singing.
"What's singing?" said Tom, taking his head out of his basin, where he had 
been plunging it in cold water.
"Well, you are jolly green," answered his friend from a neighbouring basin. 
"Why, the last six Saturdays of every half, we sing of course; and this is the 
first of them. No first lesson to do, you know, and lie in bed tomorrow 
morning."
"But who sings?"
"Why everybody, of course; you'll see soon enough. We begin directly after 
supper, and sing till bed-time. It ain't such good fun now tho' as in the 
summer half, 'cause then we sing in the little fives' court, under the 
library, you know. We take out tables, and the big boys sit round, and drink 
beer; double allowance on Saturday nights; and we cut about the quadrangle 
between the songs, and it looks like a lot of robbers in a cave. And the louts 
come and pound at the great gates, and we pound back again, and shout at them. 
But this half we only sing in the hall. Come along down to my study."
Their principal employment in the study was to clear out East's table, 
removing the drawers and ornaments and tablecloth, for he lived in the bottom 
passage, and his table was in requisition for the singing.
Supper came in due course at seven o'clock, consisting of bread and cheese and 
beer, which was all saved for the singing; and directly afterwards the fags 
went to work to prepare the hall. The School-house hall, as has been said, is 
a great long high room, with two large fires on one side, and two large 
iron-bound tables, one running down the middle, and the other along the wall 
opposite the fire-places. Around the upper fire the fags placed the tables in 
the form of a horse-shoe, and upon them the jugs with the Saturday night's 
allowance of beer. Then the big boys began to drop in and take their seats, 
bringing with them bottled beer and song-books; for although they all knew the 
songs by heart, it was the thing to have an old manuscript book descended from 
some departed hero, in which they were all carefully written out.
The sixth-form boys had not yet appeared, so to fill up the gap, an 
interesting and time-honoured ceremony was gone through. Each new boy was 
placed on the table in turn, and made to sing a solo, under the penalty of 
drinking a large mug of salt and water if he resisted or broke down. However, 
the new boys all sing like nightingales tonight, and the salt water is not in 
requisition; Tom, as his part, performing the old west-country song of "The 
Leather Bottel" with considerable applause. And at the half-hour down come the 
sixth- and fifth-form boys, and take their places at the tables, which are 
filled up by the next biggest boys, the rest, for whom there is no room at 
table, standing round outside.
The glasses and mugs are filled, and then the fugleman strikes up the old sea 
song - 

"A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
And a wind that follows fast," etc.,

which is the invariable first song in the School-house, and all the seventy 
voices join in, not mindful of harmony, but bent on noise, which they attain 
decidedly, but the general effect isn't bad. And then follow "The British 
Grenadiers," "Billy Taylor," "The Siege of Seringapatam," "Three Jolly 
Postboys," and other vociferous songs in rapid succession, including "The 
Chesapeake and Shannon," a song lately introduced in honour of old Brooke; and 
when they come to the words - 

"Brave Broke he waved his sword, crying, Now my lads, aboard,
And we'll stop their playing Yankee-doodle-dandy-oh!"

you expect the roof to come down. The sixth and fifth know that "brave Broke" 
of the Shannon was no sort of relation to our old Brooke. The fourth form are 
uncertain in their belief, but for the most part hold that old Brooke was a 
midshipman then, on board his uncle's ship. And the lower-school never doubt 
for a moment that it was our old Brooke who led the boarders, in what capacity 
they care not a straw. During the pauses the bottled-beer corks fly rapidly, 
and the talk is fast and merry, and the big boys, at least all of them who 
have a fellow-feeling for dry throats, hand their mugs over their shoulders to 
be emptied by the small ones who stand round behind.
Then Warner, the head of the house, gets up and wants to speak, but he can't, 
for every boy knows what's coming, and the big boys who sit at the table pound 
them and cheer; and the small boys who stand behind pound one another, and 
cheer, and rush about the hall cheering. Then silence being made, Warner 
reminds them of the old School-house custom of drinking the healths, on the 
first night of singing, of those who are going to leave at the end of the 
half. "He sees that they know what he is going to say already -(loud cheers) 
-and so won't keep them, but only ask them to treat the toast as it deserves. 
It is, the head of the eleven, the head of big-side football, their leader on 
this glorious day -Pater Brooke!"
And away goes the pounding and cheering again, becoming deafening when old 
Brooke gets on his legs: till, a table having broken down, and a gallon or so 
of beer been upset, and all throats getting dry, silence ensues, and the hero 
speaks, leaning his hands on the table, and bending a little forwards. No 
action, no tricks of oratory, plain, strong, and straight, like his play.
"Gentlemen of the School-house! I am very proud of the way in which you have 
received my name, and I wish I could say all I should like in return. But I 
know I shan't. However, I'll do the best I can to say what seems to me ought 
to be said by a fellow who's just going to leave, and who has spent a good 
slice of his life here. Eight years it is, and eight such years as I can never 
hope to have again. So now I hope you'll all listen to me -(loud cries of 
`that we will') -for I'm going to talk seriously. You're bound to listen to 
me, for what's the use of calling me `pater,' and all that, if you won't mind 
what I say? And I'm going to talk seriously, because I feel so. It's a jolly 
time too, getting to the end of the half, and a goal kicked by us first day 
-(tremendous applause) -after one of the hardest and fiercest day's play I can 
remember in eight years -(frantic shoutings). The School played splendidly, 
too, I will say, and kept it up to the last. That last charge of theirs would 
have carried away a house. I never thought to see anything again of old Crab 
there, except little pieces, when I saw him tumbled over by it -(laughter and 
shouting, and great slapping on the back of Jones by the boys nearest him). 
Well, but we beat 'em -(cheers). Aye, but why did we beat 'em? answer me that 
-(shouts of `your play'). Nonsense. 'Twasn't the wind and kick-off either, 
that wouldn't do it. 'Twasn't because we've half a dozen of the best players 
in the school, as we have. I wouldn't change Warner, and Hedge, and Crab, and 
the young 'un, for any six on their side -(violent cheers). But half a dozen 
fellows can't keep it up for two hours against two hundred. Why is it then? 
I'll tell you what I think. It's because we've more reliance on one another, 
more of a house feeling, more fellowship than the School can have. Each of us 
knows and can depend on his next-hand man better -that's why we beat 'em 
today. We've union, they've division -there's the secret -(cheers). But how's 
this to be kept up? How's it to be improved? That's the question. For I take 
it we're all in earnest about beating the School, whatever else we care about. 
I know I'd sooner win two School-house matches running than get the Balliol 
scholarship any day -(frantic cheers).
"Now I'm as proud of the house as any one. I believe it's the best house in 
the school, out-and-out -(cheers). But it's a long way from what I want to see 
it. First, there's a deal of bullying going on. I know it well. I don't pry 
about and interfere; that only makes it more underhand, and encourages the 
small boys to come to us with their fingers in their eyes telling tales, and 
so we should be worse off than ever. It's very little kindness for the sixth 
to meddle generally -you youngsters mind that. You'll be all the better 
football players for learning to stand it, and to take your own parts, and 
fight it through. But depend on it, there's nothing breaks up a house like 
bullying. Bullies are cowards, and one coward makes many; so good-bye to the 
School-house match if bullying gets ahead here -(loud applause from the small 
boys, who look meaningly at Flashman and other boys at the tables). Then 
there's fuddling about in the public-house, and drinking bad spirits, and 
punch, and such rot-gut stuff. That won't make good drop-kicks or chargers of 
you, take my word for it. You get plenty of good beer here, and that's enough 
for you; and drinking isn't fine or manly, whatever some of you may think of it.
"One other thing I must have a word about. A lot of you think and say, for 
I've heard you, `There's this new Doctor hasn't been here so long as some of 
us, and he's changing all the old customs. Rugby, and the School-house 
especially, are going to the dogs. Stand up for the good old ways, and down 
with the Doctor!' Now I'm as fond of old Rugby customs and ways as any of you, 
and I've been here longer than any of you, and I'll give you a word of advice 
in time, for I shouldn't like to see any of you getting sacked. `Down with the 
Doctor' is easier said than done. You'll find him pretty tight on his perch, I 
take it, and an awkwardish customer to handle in that line. Besides now, what 
customs has he put down? There was the good old custom of taking the 
lynch-pins out of the farmers' and bagmen's gigs at the fairs, and a cowardly 
blackguard custom it was. We all know what came of it, and no wonder the 
Doctor objected to it. But, come now, any of you, name a custom that he has 
put down."
"The hounds," calls out a fifth-form boy, clad in a green cutaway with brass 
buttons and cord trousers, the leader of the sporting interest, and reputed a 
great rider and keen hand generally.
"Well, we had six or seven mangey harriers and beagles belonging to the house, 
I'll allow, and had had them for years, and that the Doctor put them down. But 
what good ever came of them? Only rows with all the keepers for ten miles 
round; and big-side Hare and Hounds is better fun ten times over. What else?"
No answer.
"Well, I won't go on. Think it over for yourselves: you'll find, I believe, 
that he don't meddle with any one that's worth keeping. And mind now, I say 
again, look out for squalls, if you will go your own way, and that way ain't 
the Doctor's, for it'll lead to grief. You all know that I'm not the fellow to 
back a master through thick and thin. If I saw him stopping football, or 
cricket, or bathing, or sparring, I'd be as ready as any fellow to stand up 
about it. But he don't -he encourages them; didn't you see him out today for 
half-an-hour watching us? -(loud cheers for the Doctor) -and he's a strong 
true man, and a wise one too, and a public-school man too -(cheers). And so 
let's stick to him, and talk no more rot, and drink his health as the head of 
the house -(loud cheers). And now I've done blowing up, and very glad I am to 
have done. But it's a solemn thing to be thinking of leaving a place which one 
has lived in and loved for eight years; and if one can say a word for the good 
of the old house at such a time, why it should be said, whether bitter or 
sweet. If I hadn't been proud of the house and you -aye, no one knows how 
proud -I shouldn't be blowing you up. And now let's get to singing. But before 
I sit down I must give you a toast to be drunk with three-times-three and all 
the honours. It's a toast which I hope every one of us, wherever he may go 
hereafter, will never fail to drink when he thinks of the brave bright days of 
his boyhood. It's a toast which should bind us all together, and to those 
who've gone before, and who'll come after us here. It is the dear old 
School-house -the best house of the best school in England!"
My dear boys, old and young, you who have belonged, or do belong, to other 
schools and other houses, don't begin throwing my poor little book about the 
room, and abusing me and it, and vowing you'll read no more when you get to 
this point. I allow you've provocation for it. But, come now -would you, any 
of you, give a fig for a fellow who didn't believe in, and stand up for, his 
own house and his own school? You know you wouldn't. Then don't object to my 
cracking up the old School-house, Rugby. Haven't I a right to do it, when I'm 
taking all the trouble of writing this true history for all of your benefits? 
If you ain't satisfied, go and write the history of your own houses in your 
own times, and say all you know for your own schools and houses, provided it's 
true, and I'll read it without abusing you.
The last few words hit the audience in their weakest place; they had been not 
altogether enthusiastic at several parts of old Brooke's speech; but "the best 
house of the best school in England" was too much for them all, and carried 
even the sporting and drinking interests off their legs into rapturous 
applause, and (it is to be hoped) resolutions to lead a new life, and remember 
old Brooke's words; which however they didn't altogether do, as will appear 
hereafter.
But it required all old Brooke's popularity to carry down parts of his speech, 
especially that relating to the Doctor. For there are no such bigoted holders 
by established forms and customs, be they never so foolish or meaningless, as 
English schoolboys, at least as the schoolboy of our generation. We magnified 
into heroes every boy who had left, and looked upon him with awe and 
reverence, when he revisited the place a year or so afterwards on his way to 
or from Oxford or Cambridge; and happy was the boy who remembered him, and 
sure of an audience as he expounded what he used to do and say, though it were 
sad enough stuff to make angels, not to say headmasters, weep.
We looked upon every trumpery little custom and habit which had obtained in 
the school, as though it had been a law of the Medes and Persians, and 
regarded the infringement or variation of it as a sort of sacrilege. And the 
Doctor, than whom no man or boy had a stronger liking for old school customs 
which were good and sensible, had, as has already been hinted, come into most 
decided collision with several which were neither the one nor the other. And 
as old Brooke had said, when he came into collision with boys or customs, 
there was nothing for them but to give in or take themselves off; because what 
he said had to be done, and no mistake about it. And this was beginning to be 
pretty clearly understood; the boys felt that there was a strong man over 
them, who would have things his own way; and hadn't yet learned that he was a 
wise and loving man also. His personal character and influence had not had 
time to make itself felt, except by a very few of the bigger boys with whom he 
came more directly in contact, and he was looked upon with great fear and 
dislike by the great majority even of his own house. For he had found school, 
and School-house, in a state of monstrous licence and misrule, and was still 
employed in the necessary but unpopular work of setting up order with a strong 
hand.
However, as has been said, old Brooke triumphed, and the boys cheered him, and 
then the Doctor. And then more songs came, and the healths of the other boys 
about to leave, who each made a speech, one flowery, another maudlin, a third 
prosy, and so on, which are not necessary to be here recorded.
Half-past nine struck in the middle of the performance of "Auld Lang Syne," a 
most obstreperous proceeding; during which there was an immense amount of 
standing with one foot on the table, knocking mugs together and shaking hands, 
without which accompaniments it seems impossible for the youth of Britain to 
take part in that famous old song. The under-porter of the School-house 
entered during the performance, bearing five or six long wooden candlesticks, 
with lighted dips in them, which he proceeded to stick into their holes in 
such part of the great tables as he could get at; and then stood outside the 
ring till the end of the song, when he was hailed with shouts.
"Bill, you old muff, the half-hour hasn't struck."
"Here, Bill, drink some cocktail," "Sing us a song, old boy," "Don't you wish 
you may get the table?" Bill drank the proffered cocktail not unwillingly, and 
putting down the empty glass remonstrated, "Now, gentlemen, there's only ten 
minutes to prayers, and we must get the hall straight."
Shouts of "No, no," and a violent effort to strike up "Billy Taylor" for the 
third time. Bill looked appealingly to old Brooke, who got up and stopped the 
noise. "Now then, lend a hand, you youngsters, and get the tables back, clear 
away the jugs and glasses. Bill's right. Open the windows, Warner." The boy 
addressed, who sat by the long ropes, proceeded to pull up the great windows, 
and let in a clear fresh rush of night air, which made the candles flicker and 
gutter, and the fires roar. The circle broke up, each collaring his own jug, 
glass, and song-book; Bill pounced on the big table, and began to rattle it 
away to its place outside the buttery-door. The lower-passage boys carried off 
their small tables aided by their friends, while above all, standing on the 
great hall-table, a knot of untiring sons of harmony made night doleful by a 
prolonged performance of "God Save the King." His Majesty King William IV then 
reigned over us, a monarch deservedly popular amongst the boys addicted to 
melody, to whom he was chiefly known from the beginning of that excellent, if 
slightly vulgar, song in which they much delighted - 

"Come, neighbours all, both great and small,
Perform your duties here.
And loudly sing `Live Billy our King,'
For bating the tax upon beer."

Others of the more learned in songs also celebrated his praises in a sort of 
ballad, which I take to have been written by some Irish loyalist. I have 
forgotten all but the chorus, which ran - 

"God save our good King William, be his name for ever blest,
He's the father of all his people, and the guardian of all the rest."

In troth we were loyal subjects in those days, in a rough way. I trust that 
our successors make as much of her present Majesty, and, having regard to the 
greater refinement of the times, have adopted or written other songs equally 
hearty, but more civilised, in her honour.
Then the quarter to ten struck, and the prayer-bell rang. The sixth- and 
fifth-form boys ranged themselves in their school order along the wall, on 
either side of the great fires, the middle fifth and upper-school boys round 
the long table in the middle of the hall, and the lower-school boys round the 
upper part of the second long table, which ran down the side of the hall 
furthest from the fires. Here Tom found himself at the bottom of all, in a 
state of mind and body not at all fit for prayers, as he thought; and so tried 
hard to make himself serious, but couldn't, for the life of him, do anything 
but repeat in his head the choruses of some of the songs, and stare at all the 
boys opposite, wondering at the brilliancy of their waistcoats, and 
speculating what sort of fellows they were. The steps of the headporter are 
heard on the stairs, and a light gleams at the door. "Hush," from the 
fifth-form boys who stand there, and then in strides the Doctor, cap on head, 
book in one hand, and gathering up his gown in the other. He walks up the 
middle, and takes his post by Warner, who begins calling over the names. The 
Doctor takes no notice of anything, but quietly turns over his book and finds 
the place, and then stands, cap in hand and finger in book, looking straight 
before his nose. He knows better than any one when to look, and when to see 
nothing; tonight is singing night, and there's been lots of noise and no harm 
done; nothing but beer drunk, and nobody the worse for it; though some of them 
do look hot and excited. So the Doctor sees nothing, but fascinates Tom in a 
horrible manner as he stands there, and reads out the Psalm in that deep, 
ringing, searching voice of his. Prayers are over, and Tom still stares 
open-mouthed after the Doctor's retiring figure, when he feels a pull at his 
sleeve, and turning round sees East.
"I say, were you ever tossed in a blanket?"
"No," said Tom; "why?"
"'Cause there'll be tossing tonight most likely, before the sixth come up to 
bed. So if you funk, you just come along and hide, or else they'll catch you 
and toss you."
"Were you ever tossed? Does it hurt?" inquired Tom.
"Oh yes, bless you, a dozen times," said East, as he hobbled along by Tom's 
side upstairs. "It don't hurt unless you fall on the floor. But most fellows 
don't like it."
They stopped at the fireplace in the top passage, where were a crowd of small 
boys whispering together, and evidently unwilling to go up into the bedrooms. 
In a minute, however, a study door opened and a sixth-form boy came out, and 
off they all scuttled up the stairs, and then noiselessly dispersed to their 
different rooms. Tom's heart beat rather quick as he and East reached their 
room, but he had made up his mind. "I shan't hide, East," said he.
"Very well, old fellow," replied East, evidently pleased; "no more shall I 
-they'll be here for us directly."
The room was a great big one with a dozen beds in it, but not a boy that Tom 
could see, except East and himself. East pulled off his coat and waistcoat, 
and then sat on the bottom of his bed, whistling, and pulling off his boots; 
Tom followed his example.
A noise and steps are heard in the passage, the door opens, and in rush four 
of five great fifth-form boys, headed by Flashman in his glory.
Tom and East slept in the furthest corner of the room, and were not seen at 
first.
"Gone to ground, eh?" roared Flashman; "push 'em out then, boys! look under 
the beds:" and he pulled up the little white curtain of the one nearest him. 
"Who-o-op," he roared, pulling away at the leg of a small boy, who held on 
tight to the leg of the bed, and sung out lustily for mercy.
"Here, lend a hand, one of you, and help me pull out this young howling brute. 
Hold your tongue, sir, or I'll kill you."
"Oh, please, Flashman, please, Walker, don't toss me! I'll fag for you, I'll 
do anything, only don't toss me."
"You be hanged," said Flashman, lugging the wretched boy along, "'twon't hurt 
you, -you! Come along, boys, here he is."
"I say, Flashey," sung out another of the big boys, "drop that; you heard what 
old Pater Brooke said tonight. I'll be hanged if we'll toss any one against 
their will -no more bullying. Let him go, I say."
Flashman, with an oath and a kick, released his prey, who rushed headlong 
under his bed again, for fear they should change their minds, and crept along 
underneath the other beds, till he got under that of the sixth-form boy, which 
he knew they daren't disturb.
"There's plenty of youngsters don't care about it," said Walker. "Here, here's 
Scud East -you'll be tossed, won't you, young un?" Scud was East's nickname, 
or Black, as we called it, gained by his fleetness of foot.
"Yes," said East, "if you like, only mind my foot."
"And here's another who didn't hide. Hullo! new boy, what's your name, sir?"
"Brown."
"Well, Whitey Brown, you don't mind being tossed?"
"No," said Tom, setting his teeth.
"Come along then, boys," sung out Walker, and away they all went, carrying 
along Tom and East, to the intense relief of four or five other small boys, 
who crept out from under the beds and behind them.
"What a trump Scud is," said one. "They won't come back here now."
"And that new boy too, he must be a good plucked one."
"Ah, wait till he's been tossed on to the floor; see how he'll like it then!"
Meantime the procession went down the passage to No.7, the largest room, and 
the scene of tossing, in the middle of which was a great open space. Here they 
joined other parties of the bigger boys, each with a captive or two, some 
willing to be tossed, some sullen, and some frightened to death. At Walker's 
suggestion all who were afraid were let off, in honour of Pater Brooke's speech.
Then a dozen big boys seized hold of a blanket dragged from one of the beds. 
"In with Scud! quick, there's no time to lose." East was chucked into the 
blanket. "Once, twice, thrice, and away!" up he went like a shuttlecock, but 
not quite up to the ceiling.
"Now, boys, with a will," cried Walker, "once, twice, thrice, and away!" This 
time he went clean up, and kept himself from touching the ceiling with his 
hand, and so again a third time, when he was turned out, and up went another 
boy. And then came Tom's turn. He lay quite still, by East's advice, and 
didn't dislike the "once, twice, thrice"; but the "away" wasn't so pleasant. 
They were in good wind now, and sent him slap up to the ceiling first time, 
against which his knees came rather sharply. But the moment's pause before 
descending was the rub, the feeling of utter helplessness, and of leaving his 
whole inside behind him sticking to the ceiling. Tom was very near shouting to 
be set down, when he found himself back in the blanket, but thought of East, 
and didn't; and so took his three tosses without a kick or a cry, and was 
called a young trump for his pains.
He and East, having earned it, stood now looking on. No catastrophe happened, 
as all the captives were cool hands, and didn't struggle. This didn't suit 
Flashman. What your real bully likes in tossing is when the boys kick and 
struggle, or hold on to one side of the blanket, and so get pitched bodily on 
to the floor; it's no fun to him when no one is hurt or frightened.
"Let's toss two of them together, Walker," suggested he.
"What a cursed bully you are, Flashey!" rejoined the other. "Up with another 
one."
And so no two boys were tossed together, the peculiar hardship of which is 
that it's too much for human nature to lie still then and share troubles; and 
so the wretched pair of small boys struggle in the air which shall fall a-top 
in the descent, to the no small risk of both falling out of the blanket, and 
the huge delight of brutes like Flashman.
But now there's a cry that the praepostor of the room is coming; so the 
tossing stops, and all scatter to their different rooms; and Tom is left to 
turn in, with the first day's experience of a public-school to meditate upon.



Chapter 7: Settling to the Collar

Says Giles, "'Tis mortal hard to go;
But if so be's I must,
I means to follow arter he
As goes hisself the fust." -Ballad.


Everybody, I suppose, knows the dreamy delicious state in which one lies, half 
asleep, half awake, while consciousness begins to return after a sound night's 
rest in a new place which we are glad to be in, following upon a day of 
unwonted excitement and exertion. There are fewer pleasanter pieces of life. 
The worst of it is that they last such a short time; for, nurse them as you 
will, by lying perfectly passive in mind and body, you can't make more than 
five minutes or so of them. After which time, the stupid, obtrusive, wakeful 
entity which we call "I," as impatient as he is stiff-necked, spite of our 
teeth will force himself back again, and take possession of us down to our 
very toes.
It was in this state that Master Tom lay at half-past seven on the morning 
following the day of his arrival, and from his clean little white bed watched 
the movements of Bogle (the generic name by which the successive shoeblacks of 
the School-house were known), as he marched round from bed to bed collecting 
the dirty shoes and boots, and depositing clean ones in their places.
There he lay, half doubtful as to where exactly in the universe he was, but 
conscious that he had made a step in life which he had been anxious to make. 
It was only just light as he looked lazily out of the wide windows, and saw 
the tops of the great elms, and the rooks circling about, and cawing 
remonstrances to the lazy ones of their commonwealth, before starting in a 
body for the neighbouring ploughed fields. The noise of the room-door closing 
behind Bogle, as he made his exit with the shoe-basket under his arm, roused 
him thoroughly, and he sat up in bed and looked round the room. What in the 
world could be the matter with his shoulders and loins? He felt as if he had 
been severely beaten all down his back, the natural results of his performance 
at his first match. He drew up his knees and rested his chin on them, and went 
over all the events of yesterday, rejoicing in his new life, what he had seen 
of it, and all that was to come.
Presently one or two of the other boys roused themselves, and began to sit up 
and talk to one another in low tones. Then East, after a roll or two, came to 
an anchor also, and, nodding to Tom, began examining his ankle.
"What a pull," said he, "that it's lie-in-bed, for I shall be as lame as a 
tree, I think."
It was Sunday morning, and Sunday lectures had not yet been established, so 
that nothing but breakfast intervened between bed and eleven o'clock chapel -a 
gap by no means easy to fill up; in fact, though received with the correct 
amount of grumbling, the first lecture instituted by the Doctor shortly 
afterwards was a great boon to the School. It was lie-in-bed, and no one was 
in a hurry to get up, especially in rooms where the sixth-form boy was a 
good-tempered fellow, as was the case in Tom's room, and allowed the small 
boys to talk and laugh and do pretty much what they pleased, so long as they 
didn't disturb him. His bed was a bigger one than the rest, standing in the 
corner by the fireplace, with washing-stand and large basin by the side, where 
he lay in state with his white curtains tucked in so as to form a 
retiring-place: an awful subject of contemplation to Tom, who slept nearly 
opposite, and watched the great man rouse himself and take a book from under 
his pillow and begin reading, leaning his head on his hand, and turning his 
back to the room. Soon, however, a noise of striving urchins arose, and 
muttered encouragements from the neighbouring boys, of "Go it, Tadpole!" "Now, 
young Green," "Haul away his blankets," "Slipper him on the hands." Young 
Green and little Hall, commonly called Tadpole from his great black head and 
thin legs, slept side by side far away by the door, and were for ever playing 
one another tricks, which usually ended, as on this morning, in open and 
violent collision; and now, unmindful of all order and authority, there they 
were, each hauling away at the other's bedclothes with one hand, and with the 
other, armed with a slipper, belabouring whatever portion of the body of his 
adversary came within reach.
"Hold that noise, up in the corner," called out the praepostor, sitting up and 
looking round his curtains; and the Tadpole and young Green sank down into 
their disordered beds; and then, looking at his watch, added, "Hullo, past 
eight! whose turn for hot water?"
(Where the praepostor was particular in his ablutions, the fags in his room 
had to descend in turn to the kitchen, and beg or steal hot water for him; and 
often the custom extended further, and two boys went down every morning to get 
a supply for the whole room.)
"East's and Tadpole's," answered the senior fag, who kept the rota.
"I can't go," said East, "I'm dead lame."
"Well, be quick, some of you, that's all," said the great man, as he turned 
out of bed, and putting on his slippers, went out into the great passage which 
runs the whole length of the bedrooms to get his Sunday habiliments out of his 
portmanteau.
"Let me go for you," said Tom to East, "I should like it."
"Well, thank 'ee, that's a good fellow. Just pull on your trousers, and take 
your jug and mine. Tadpole will show you the way."
And so Tom and the Tadpole, in nightshirts and trousers, started off 
downstairs, and through "Thos's hole," as the little buttery where candles and 
beer and bread and cheese were served out at night was called, across the 
School-house court, down a long passage and into the kitchen; where, after 
some parley with the stalwart handsome cook, who declared that she had filled 
a dozen jugs already, they got their hot water, and returned with all speed 
and great caution. As it was, they narrowly escaped capture by some privateers 
from the fifth-form rooms, who were on the lookout for the hot-water convoys, 
and pursued them up to the very door of their room, making them spill half 
their load in the passage. "Better than going down again, tho'," as Tadpole 
remarked, "as we should have had to do if those beggars had caught us."
By the time that the calling-over bell rang, Tom and his new comrades were all 
down, dressed in their best clothes, and he had the satisfaction of answering 
"here" to his name for the first time, the praepostor of the week having put 
it in at the bottom of his list. And then came breakfast, and a saunter about 
the close and town with East, whose lameness only became severe when any 
fagging had to be done. And so they whiled away the time until morning chapel.
It was a fine November morning, and the close soon became alive with boys of 
all ages, who sauntered about on the grass or walked round the gravel-walk in 
parties of two or three. East still doing the cicerone pointed out all the 
remarkable characters to Tom as they passed: Osbert, who could throw a 
cricket-ball from the Little-side ground over the rook trees to the Doctor's 
wall; Gray, who had got the Balliol scholarship, and, what East evidently 
thought of much more importance, a half-holiday for the School by his success; 
Thorne, who had run ten miles in two minutes over the hour; Black, who had 
held his own against the cock of the town in the last row with the louts; and 
many more heroes, who then and there walked about and were worshipped, all 
trace of whom has long since vanished from the scene of their fame; and the 
fourth-form boy, who reads their names rudely cut out on the old hall tables, 
or painted up on the big-side cupboard (if hall tables and big-side cupboard 
still exist), wonders what manner of boys they were. It will be the same with 
you who wonder, my sons, whatever your prowess may be, in cricket, or 
scholarship, or football. Two or three years, more or less, and then the 
steadily advancing blessed wave will pass over your names as it has passed 
over ours. Nevertheless, play your games and do your work manfully -see only 
that that be done, and let the remembrance of it take care of itself.
The chapel-bell began to ring at a quarter to eleven, and Tom got in early and 
took his place in the lowest row, and watched all the other boys come in and 
take their places, filling row after row; and tried to construe the Greek text 
which was inscribed over the door with the slightest possible success, and 
wondered which of the masters, who walked down the chapel and took their seats 
in the exalted boxes at the end, would be his lord. And then came the closing 
of the doors, and the Doctor in his robes, and the service, which however 
didn't impress him much, for his feeling of wonder and curiosity was too 
strong. And the boy on one side of him was scratching his name on the oak 
panelling in front, and he couldn't help watching to see what the name was, 
and whether it was well scratched; and the boy on the other side went to sleep 
and kept falling against him; and, on the whole, though many boys even in that 
part of the School were serious and attentive, the general atmosphere was by 
no means devotional; and when he got out into the close again, he didn't feel 
at all comfortable, or as if he had been to church.
But at afternoon chapel it was quite another thing. He had spent the time 
after dinner in writing to his mother, and so was in a better frame of mind, 
and his first curiosity was over, and he could attend more to the service. As 
the hymn after the prayers was being sung and the chapel was getting a little 
dark, he was beginning to feel that he had been really worshipping. And then 
came that great event in his, as in every Rugby boy's life of that day, the 
first sermon from the Doctor.
More worthy pens than mine have described that scene. The oak pulpit standing 
out by itself above the School seats. The tall gallant form, the kindling eye, 
the voice, now soft as the low notes of a flute, now clear and stirring as the 
call of the light infantry bugle, of him who stood there Sunday after Sunday, 
witnessing and pleading for his Lord, the King of righteousness and love and 
glory, with whose spirit he was filled, and in whose power he spoke. The long 
lines of young faces rising tier above tier down the whole length of the 
chapel, from the little boy's who had just left his mother to the young man's 
who was going out next week into the great world rejoicing in his strength. It 
was a great and solemn sight, and never more so than at this time of year, 
when the only lights in the chapel were in the pulpit and at the seats of the 
praepostors of the week, and the soft twilight stole over the rest of the 
chapel, deepening into darkness in the high gallery behind the organ.
But what was it after all which seized and held these three hundred boys, 
dragging them out of themselves, willing or unwilling, for twenty minutes on 
Sunday afternoons? True, there always were boys scattered up and down the 
School, who, in heart and head, were worthy to hear and able to carry away the 
deepest and wisest words there spoken. But these were a minority always, 
generally a very small one, often so small a one as to be countable on the 
fingers of your hand. What was it that moved and held us, the rest of the 
three hundred reckless childish boys, who feared the Doctor with all our 
hearts, and very little besides in heaven or earth; who thought more of our 
sets in the School than of the Church of Christ, and put the traditions of 
Rugby and the public opinion of boys in our daily life above the laws of God? 
We couldn't enter into half that we heard; we hadn't the knowledge of our own 
hearts or the knowledge of one another, and little enough of the faith, hope, 
and love needed to that end. But we listened, as all boys in their better 
moods will listen (aye, and man too for the matter of that) to a man who we 
felt to be with all his heart and soul and strength striving against whatever 
was mean and unmanly and unrighteous in our little world. It was not the cold 
clear voice of one giving advice and warning from serene heights to those who 
were struggling and sinning below, but the warm living voice of one who was 
fighting for us and by our sides, and calling on us to help him and ourselves 
and one another. And so, wearily and little by little, but surely and steadily 
on the whole, was brought home to the young boy, for the first time, the 
meaning of his life: that it was no fool's or sluggard's paradise into which 
he had wandered by chance, but a battlefield ordained from of old, where there 
are no spectators, but the youngest must take his side, and the stakes are 
life and death. And he who roused this consciousness in them showed them at 
the same time, by every word he spoke in the pulpit, and by his whole daily 
life, how that battle was to be fought; and stood there before them their 
fellow-soldier and the captain of their band. The true sort of captain too for 
a boys' army, one who had no misgivings and gave no uncertain word of command, 
and, let who would yield or make truce, would fight the fight out (so every 
boy felt) to the last gasp and the last drop of blood. Other sides of his 
character might take hold of and influence boys here and there, but it was 
this thoroughness and undaunted courage which more than anything else won his 
way to the hearts of the great mass of those on whom he left his mark, and 
made them believe first in him, and then in his Master.
It was this quality above all others which moved such boys as our hero, who 
had nothing whatever remarkable about him except excess of boyishness; by 
which I mean animal life in its fullest measure, good nature and honest 
impulses, hatred of injustice and meanness, and thoughtlessness enough to sink 
a three-decker. And so during the next two years, in which it was more than 
doubtful whether he would get good or evil from the School, and before any 
steady purpose or principle grew up in him, whatever his week's sins and 
shortcomings might have been, he hardly ever left the chapel on Sunday 
evenings without a serious resolve to stand by and follow the Doctor, and a 
feeling that it was only cowardice (the incarnation of all other sins in such 
a boy's mind) which hindered him from doing so with all his heart.
The next day Tom was duly placed in the third form, and began his lessons in a 
corner of the big School. He found the work very easy, as he had been well 
grounded and knew his grammar by heart, and as he had no intimate companion to 
make him idle (East and his other School-house friends being in the 
lower-fourth, the form above him), soon gained golden opinions from his 
master, who said he was placed too low, and should be put out at the end of 
the half-year. So all went well with him in school, and he wrote the most 
flourishing letters home to his mother, full of his own success and the 
unspeakable delights of a public-school.
In the house, too, all went well. The end of the half-year was drawing near, 
which kept everybody in a good humour, and the house was ruled well and 
strongly by Warner and Brooke. True, the general system was rough and hard, 
and there was bullying in nooks and corners, bad signs for the future; but it 
never got further, or dared show itself openly, stalking about the passages 
and hall and bedrooms, and making the life of the small boys a continual fear.
Tom as a new boy was of right excused fagging for the first month, but in his 
enthusiasm for his new life this privilege hardly pleased him; and East and 
others of his young friends discovering this, kindly allowed him to indulge 
his fancy, and take their turns at night fagging and cleaning studies. These 
were the principal duties of the fags in the house. From supper until nine 
o'clock, three fags taken in order stood in the passages, and answered any 
praepostor who called Fag, racing to his door, the last comer having to do the 
work. This consisted generally of going to the buttery for beer and bread and 
cheese (for the great men did not sup with the rest, but had each his own 
allowance in his study or the fifth-form room), cleaning candlesticks and 
putting in new candles, toasting cheese, bottling beer, and carrying messages 
about the house; and Tom, in the first blush of his hero-worship, felt it a 
high privilege to receive orders from, and be the bearer of the supper of old 
Brooke. And besides this night-work, each praepostor had three or four fags 
specially allotted to him, of whom he was supposed to be the guide, 
philosopher, and friend, and who in return for these good offices had to clean 
out his study every morning by turns, directly after first lesson and before 
he returned from breakfast. And the pleasure of seeing the great men's 
studies, and looking at their pictures, and peeping into their books, made Tom 
a ready substitute for any boy who was too lazy to do his own work. And so he 
soon gained the character of a good-natured willing fellow, who was ready to 
do a turn for any one.
In all the games, too, he joined with all his heart, and soon became well 
versed in all the mysteries of football, by continued practice at the 
School-house Little-side, which played daily.
The only incident worth recording here, however, was his first run at 
Hare-and-hounds. On the last Tuesday but one of the half-year, he was passing 
through the hall after dinner, when he was hailed with shouts from Tadpole and 
several other fags seated at one of the long tables, the chorus of which was, 
"Come and help us tear up scent."
Tom approached the table in obedience to the mysterious summons, always ready 
to help, and found the party engaged in tearing up old newspapers, copybooks, 
and magazines into small pieces, with which they were filling four large 
canvas bags.
"It's the turn of our house to find scent for Big-side Hare-and-hounds," 
explained Tadpole; "tear away, there's no time to lose before calling-over."
"I think it's a great shame," said another small boy, "to have such a hard run 
for the last day."
"Which run is it?" said Tadpole.
"Oh, the Barby run I hear," answered the other, "nine miles at least, and hard 
ground; no chance of getting in at the finish, unless you're a first-rate scud."
"Well, I'm going to have a try," said Tadpole; "it's the last run of the half, 
and if a fellow gets in at the end, Big-side stands ale and bread and cheese, 
and a bowl of punch; and the Cock's such a famous place for ale."
"I should like to try too," said Tom.
"Well then, leave your waistcoat behind, and listen at the door after 
calling-over, and you'll hear where the meet is."
After calling-over, sure enough, there were two boys at the door, calling out 
"Big-side Hare-and-hounds meet at White Hall;" and Tom having girded himself 
with leather strap, and left all superfluous clothing behind, set off for 
White Hall, an old gable-ended house some quarter of a mile from the town, 
with East, whom he had persuaded to join, notwithstanding his prophecy that 
they would never get in, as it was the hardest run of the year.
At the meet they found some forty or fifty boys, and Tom felt sure, from 
having seen many of them run at football, that he and East were more likely to 
get in than they.
After a few minutes' waiting, two well-known runners, chosen for the hares, 
buckled on the four bags filled with scent, compared their watches with those 
of young Brooke and Thorne, and started off at a long slinging trot across the 
fields in the direction of Barby.
Then the hounds clustered round Thorne, who explained shortly, "They're to 
have six minutes' law. We run into the Cock, and every one who comes in within 
a quarter of an hour of the hares'll be counted, if he has been round Barby 
church." Then came a minute's pause or so, and then the watches are pocketed, 
and the pack is led through the gateway into the field which the hares had 
first crossed. Here they break into a trot, scattering over the field to find 
the first traces of the scent which the hares throw out as they go along. The 
old hounds make straight for the likely points, and in a minute a cry of 
"forward" comes from one of them, and the whole pack quickening their pace 
make for the spot, while the boy who hit the scent first, and the two or three 
nearest to him, are over the first fence, and making play along the hedgerow 
in the long grass-field beyond. The rest of the pack rush at the gap already 
made and scramble through, jostling one another. "Forward" again, before they 
are half through; the pace quickens into a sharp run, the tail hounds all 
straining to get up with the lucky leaders. They are gallant hares, and the 
scent lies thick right across another meadow and into a ploughed field, where 
the pace begins to tell; then over a good wattle with a ditch on the other 
side, and down a large pasture studded with old thorns, which slopes down to 
the first brook; the great Leicestershire sheep charge away across the field 
as the pack comes racing down the slope. The brook is a small one, and the 
scent lies right ahead up the opposite slope, and as thick as ever; not a turn 
or a check to favour the tail hounds, who strain on, now trailing in a long 
line, many a youngster beginning to drag his legs heavily and feel his heart 
beat like a hammer, and the bad plucked ones thinking that after all it isn't 
worth while to keep it up.
Tom, East, and the Tadpole had a good start, and are well up for such young 
hands, and after rising the slope and crossing the next field, find themselves 
up with the leading hounds who have overrun the scent and are trying back; 
they have come a mile and a half in about eleven minutes, a pace which shows 
that it is the last day. About twenty-five of the original starters only show 
here, the rest having already given in; the leaders are busy making casts into 
the fields on the left and right, and the others get their second winds.
Then comes the cry of "forward" again, from young Brooke, from the extreme 
left, and the pack settles down to work again steadily and doggedly, the whole 
keeping pretty well together. The scent though still good is not so thick; 
there is no need of that, for in this part of the run every one knows the line 
which must be taken, and so there are no casts to be made, but good downright 
running and fencing to be done. All who are now up mean coming in, and they 
come to the foot of Barby Hill without losing more than two or three more of 
the pack. This last straight two miles and a half is always a vantage ground 
for the hounds, and the hares know it well; they are generally viewed on the 
side of Barby Hill, and all eyes are on the lookout for them today. But not a 
sign of them appears, so now will be the hard work for hounds, and there is 
nothing for it but to cast about for the scent, for it is now the hares' turn, 
and they may baffle the pack dreadfully in the next two miles.
Ill fares it now with our youngsters that they are School-house boys, and so 
follow young Brooke, for he takes the wide casts round to the left, conscious 
of his own powers, and loving the hard work. For if you would consider for a 
moment, you small boys, you would remember that the Cock, where the run ends, 
and the good ale will be going, lies far out to the right on the Dunchurch 
road, so that every cast you take to the left is so much extra work. And at 
this stage of the run, when the evening is closing in already, no one remarks 
whether you run a little cunning or not, so you should stick to those crafty 
hounds who keep edging away to the right, and not follow a prodigal like young 
Brooke, whose legs are twice as long as yours and of cast-iron, wholly 
indifferent to two or three miles more or less. However, they struggle after 
him, sobbing and plunging along, Tom and East pretty close, and Tadpole, whose 
big head begins to pull him down, some thirty yards behind.
Now comes a brook, with stiff clay banks, from which they can hardly drag 
their legs, and they hear faint cries for help from the wretched Tadpole, who 
has fairly stuck fast. But they have too little run left in themselves to pull 
up for their own brothers. Three fields more, and another check, and then 
"forward" called away to the extreme right.
The two boys' souls die within them, they can never do it. Young Brooke thinks 
so too, and says kindly, "You'll cross a lane after next field, keep down it, 
and you'll hit the Dunchurch road below the Cock," and then steams away for 
the run in, in which he's sure to be first, as if he were just starting. They 
struggle on across the next field, the "forwards" getting fainter and fainter, 
and then ceasing. The whole hunt is out of earshot, and all hope of coming in 
is over.
"Hang it all," broke out East, as soon as he had got wind enough, pulling off 
his hat and mopping at his face, all spattered with dirt and lined with sweat, 
from which went up a thick stream into the still cold air. "I told you how it 
would be. What a thick I was to come. Here we are, dead beat, and yet I know 
we're close to the run in, if we knew the country."
"Well," said Tom, mopping away, and gulping down his disappointment, "it can't 
be helped. We did our best anyhow. Hadn't we better find this lane, and go 
down it as young Brooke told us?"
"I suppose so -nothing else for it," grunted East. "If ever I go out last day 
again," growl -growl -growl.
So they tried back slowly and sorrowfully, and found the lane, and went 
limping down it, plashing in the cold puddly ruts, and beginning to feel how 
the run had taken it out of them. The evening closed in fast, and clouded 
over, dark, cold, and dreary.
"I say, it must be locking-up, I should think," remarked East, breaking the 
silence, "it's so dark."
"What if we're late?" said Tom.
"No tea, and sent up to the Doctor," answered East.
The thought didn't add to their cheerfulness. Presently a faint halloo was 
heard from an adjoining field. They answered it and stopped, hoping for some 
competent rustic to guide them, when over a gate some twenty yards ahead, 
crawled the wretched Tadpole, in a state of collapse; he had lost a shoe in 
the brook, and been groping after it up to his elbows in the stiff wet clay, 
and a more miserable creature in the shape of boy seldom has been seen.
The sight of him, notwithstanding, cheered them, for he was some degrees more 
wretched than they. They also cheered him, as he was now no longer under the 
dread of passing his night alone in the fields. And so in better heart, the 
three plashed painfully down the never-ending lane. At last it widened, just 
as utter darkness set in, and they came out on to a turnpike-road, and there 
paused bewildered, for they had lost all bearings, and knew not whether to 
turn to the right or left.
Luckily for them they had not to decide, for lumbering along the road, with 
one lamp lighted, and two spavined horses in the shafts, came a heavy coach, 
which after a moment's suspense they recognised as the Oxford coach, the 
redoubtable Pig and Whistle.
It lumbered slowly up, and the boys mustering their last run, caught it as it 
passed, and began scrambling up behind, in which exploit East missed his 
footing and fell flat on his nose along the road. Then the others hailed the 
old scarecrow of a coachman, who pulled up and agreed to take them in for a 
shilling; so there they sat on the back seat, drubbing with their heels, and 
their teeth chattering with cold, and jogged into Rugby some forty minutes 
after locking-up.
Five minutes afterwards, three small limping shivering figures steal along 
through the Doctor's garden, and into the house by the servants' entrance (all 
the other gates have been closed long since), where the first thing they light 
upon in the passage is old Thomas, ambling along, candle in one hand and keys 
in the other.
He stops and examines their condition with a grim smile. "Ah! East, Hall, and 
Brown, late for locking-up. Must go up to the Doctor's study at once."
"Well but, Thomas, mayn't we go and wash first? You can put down the time, you 
know."
"Doctor's study d'rectly you come in -that's the orders," replied old Thomas, 
motioning towards the stairs at the end of the passage which led up into the 
Doctor's house; and the boys turned ruefully down it, not cheered by the old 
verger's muttered remark, "What a pickle they boys be in." Thomas referred to 
their faces and habiliments, but they construed it as indicating the Doctor's 
state of mind. Upon the short flight of stairs they pause to hold counsel.
"Who'll go in first?" inquires Tadpole.
"You -you're the senior," answered East.
"Catch me -look at the state I'm in," rejoined Hall, showing the arms of his 
jacket. "I must get behind you two."
"Well, but look at me," said East, indicating the mass of clay behind which he 
was standing; "I'm worse than you, two to one; you might grow cabbages on my 
trousers."
"That's all down below, and you can keep your legs behind the sofa," said Hall.
"Here, Brown, you're the show-figure -you must lead."
"But my face is all muddy," argued Tom.
"Oh, we're all in one boat for that matter; but come on, we're only making it 
worse dawdling here."
"Well, just give us a brush then," said Tom; and they began trying to rub off 
the superfluous dirt from each other's jackets, but it was not dry enough, and 
the rubbing made it worse; so in despair they pushed through the swing door at 
the head of the stairs, and found themselves in the Doctor's hall.
"That's the library door," said East in a whisper, pushing Tom forwards. The 
sound of merry voices and laughter came from within, and his first hesitating 
knock was unanswered. But at the second, the Doctor's voice said "Come in," 
and Tom turned the handle, and he, with the others behind him, sidled into the 
room.
The Doctor looked up from his task; he was working away with a great chisel at 
the bottom of a boy's sailing boat, the lines of which he was no doubt 
fashioning on the model of one of Nicias' galleys. Round him stood three or 
four children; the candles burnt brightly on a large table at the further end, 
covered with books and papers, and a great fire threw a ruddy glow over the 
rest of the room. All looked so kindly and homely and comfortable that the 
boys took heart in a moment, and Tom advanced from behind the shelter of the 
great sofa. The Doctor nodded to the children, who went out, casting curious 
and amused glances at the three young scarecrows.
"Well, my little fellows," began the Doctor, drawing himself up, with his back 
to the fire, the chisel in one hand and his coat-tails in the other, and his 
eye twinkling as he looked them over; "what makes you so late?"
"Please, sir, we've been out Big-side Hare-and-hounds, and lost our way."
"Hah! you couldn't keep up, I suppose?"
"Well, sir," said East, stepping out, and not liking that the Doctor should 
think lightly of his running powers, "we got round Barby all right, but then -"
"Why, what a state you're in, my boy," interrupted the Doctor, as the pitiful 
condition of East's garments was fully revealed to him.
"That's the fall I got, sir, in the road," said East, looking down at himself; 
"the Old Pig came by -"
"The what?" said the Doctor.
"The Oxford coach, sir," explained Hall.
"Hah! yes, the Regulator," said the Doctor.
"And I tumbled on my face, trying to get up behind," went on East.
"You're not hurt, I hope," said the Doctor.
"Oh no, sir."
"Well now, run upstairs, all three of you, and get clean things on, and then 
tell the housekeeper to give you some tea. You're too young to try such long 
runs. Let Warner know I've seen you. Good-night."
"Good-night, sir," And away scuttled the three boys in high glee.
"What a brick, not to give us even twenty lines to learn," said the Tadpole, 
as they reached their bedroom, and in half an hour afterwards they were 
sitting by the fire in the housekeeper's room at a sumptuous tea, with cold 
meat, "twice as good a grub as we should have got in the hall," as the Tadpole 
remarked with a grin, his mouth full of buttered toast. All their grievances 
were forgotten, and they were resolving to go out the first Big-side next 
half, and thinking Hare-and-hounds the most delightful of games.
A day or two afterwards the great passage outside the bedrooms was cleared of 
the boxes and portmanteaus, which went down to be packed by the matron, and 
great games of chariot-racing, and cock-fighting, and bolstering went on in 
the vacant space, the sure sign of a closing half-year.
Then came the making up of parties for the journey home, and Tom joined a 
party who were to hire a coach, and post with four horses to Oxford.
Then the last Saturday, on which the Doctor came round to each form to give 
out the prizes, and hear the masters' last reports of how they and their 
charges had been conducting themselves; and Tom, to his huge delight, was 
praised, and got his remove into the lower-fourth, in which all his 
School-house friends were.
On the next Tuesday morning, at four o'clock, hot coffee was going on in the 
housekeeper's and matron's rooms; boys wrapped in greatcoats and mufflers were 
swallowing hasty mouthfuls, rushing about, tumbling over luggage, and asking 
questions all at once of the matron; outside the School gates were drawn up 
several chaises and the four-horse coach which Tom's party had chartered, the 
postboys in their best jackets and breeches, and a cornopean-player, hired for 
the occasion, blowing away "A southerly wind and a cloudy sky," waking all 
peaceful inhabitants halfway down the High Street.
Every minute the bustle and hubbub increased, porters staggered about with 
boxes and bags, the cornopean played louder. Old Thomas sat in his den with a 
great yellow bag by his side, out of which he was paying journey-money to each 
boy, comparing by the light of a solitary dip the dirty crabbed little list in 
his own handwriting with the Doctor's list and the amount of his cash; his 
head was on one side, his mouth screwed up, and his spectacles dim from early 
toil. He had prudently locked the door, and carried on his operations solely 
through the window, or he would have been driven wild and lost all his money.
"Thomas, do be quick, we shall never catch the Highflyer at Dunchurch."
"That's your money, all right, Green."
"Hullo, Thomas, the Doctor said I was to have two-pound-ten; you've only given 
me two pound." -I fear that Master Green is not confining himself strictly to 
truth. -Thomas turns his head more on one side than ever, and spells away at 
the dirty list. Green is forced away from the window.
"Here, Thomas, never mind him, mine's thirty shillings." "And mine too," "and 
mine," shouted others.
One way or another, the party to which Tom belonged all got packed and paid, 
and sallied out to the gates, the cornopean playing frantically "Drops of 
Brandy," in allusion, probably, to the slight potations in which the musician 
and postboys had been already indulging. All luggage was carefully stowed away 
inside the coach and in the front and hind boots, so that not a hat-box was 
visible outside. Five or six small boys with pea-shooters, and the 
cornopean-player, got up behind; in front the big boys, mostly smoking, not 
for pleasure, but because they are now gentlemen at large -and this is the 
most correct public method of notifying the fact.
"Robinson's coach will be down the road in a minute, it has gone up to Bird's 
to pick up -we'll wait till they're close, and make a race of it," says the 
leader. "Now, boys, half a sovereign apiece if you beat 'em into Dunchurch by 
one hundred yards."
"All right, sir," shout the grinning postboys.
Down comes Robinson's coach in a minute or two, with a rival cornopean, and 
away go the two vehicles, horses galloping, boys cheering, horns playing loud. 
There is a special providence over schoolboys as well as sailors, or they must 
have upset twenty times in the first five miles; sometimes actually abreast of 
one another, and the boys on the roofs exchanging volleys of peas, now nearly 
running over a post-chaise which had started before them, now halfway up a 
bank, now with a wheel-and-a-half over a yawning ditch; and all this in a dark 
morning, with nothing but their own lamps to guide them. However, it's all 
over at last, and they have run over nothing but an old pig in Southam Street; 
the last peas are distributed in the Corn Market at Oxford, where they arrive 
between eleven and twelve, and sit down to a sumptuous breakfast at the Angel, 
which they are made to pay for accordingly. Here the party breaks up, all 
going now different ways; and Tom orders out a chaise and pair as grand as a 
lord, tho' he has scarcely five shillings left in his pocket, and more than 
twenty miles to get home.
"Where to, sir?"
"Red Lion, Farringdon," says Tom, giving ostler a shilling.
"All right, sir. Red Lion, Jem," to the postboy, and Tom rattles away towards 
home. At Farringdon, being known to the innkeeper, he gets that worthy to pay 
for the Oxford horses and forward him in another chaise at once; and so the 
gorgeous young gentleman arrives at the paternal mansion, and Squire Brown 
looks rather blue at having to pay two-pound-ten-shillings for the posting 
expenses from Oxford. But the boy's intense joy at getting home, and the 
wonderful health he is in, and the good character he brings, and the brave 
stories he tells of Rugby, its doings and delights, soon mollify the Squire, 
and three happier people didn't sit down to dinner that day in England (it is 
the boy's first dinner at six o'clock at home, great promotion already) than 
the Squire and his wife and Tom Brown, at the end of his first half-year at 
Rugby.



Chapter 8: The War of Independence

"They are slaves who will not choose
Hatred, scoffing and abuse,
Rather than in silence shrink
From the truth they needs must think:
They are slaves who dare not be
In the right with two or three."
LOWELL, Stanzas on Freedom.


The lower-fourth form, in which Tom found himself at the beginning of the next 
half-year, was the largest form in the Lower school, and numbered upwards of 
forty boys. Young gentlemen of all ages, from nine to fifteen, were to be 
found there, who expended such part of their energies as was devoted to Latin 
and Greek upon a book of Livy, the Bucolics of Virgil, and the Hecuba of 
Euripides, which were ground out in small daily portions. The driving of this 
unlucky lower-fourth must have been grievous work to the unfortunate master, 
for it was the most unhappily constituted of any in the school. Here stuck the 
great stupid boys, who for the life of them could never master the accidence; 
the objects alternately of mirth and terror to the youngsters, who were daily 
taking them up and laughing at them in lesson, and getting kicked by them for 
so doing in play-hours. There were no less than three unhappy fellows in tail 
coats, with incipient down on their chins, whom the Doctor and the master of 
the form were always endeavouring to hoist into the Upper-school, but whose 
parsing and construing resisted the most well-meant shoves. Then came the mass 
of the form, boys of eleven and twelve, the most mischievous and reckless age 
of British youth, of whom East and Tom Brown were fair specimens. As full of 
tricks as monkeys, and of excuses as Irish women, making fun of their master, 
one another, and their lessons, Argus himself would have been puzzled to keep 
an eye on them; and as for making them steady or serious for half an hour 
together, it was simply hopeless. The remainder of the form consisted of young 
prodigies of nine and ten, who were going up the school at the rate of a form 
a half-year, all boys' hands and wits being against them in their progress. It 
would have been one man's work to see that the precocious youngsters had fair 
play; and as the master had a good deal besides to do, they hadn't, and were 
for ever being shoved down three or four places, their verses stolen, their 
books inked, their jackets whitened, and their lives otherwise made a burden 
to them.
The lower-fourth, and all the forms below it, were heard in the great School, 
and were not trusted to prepare their lessons before coming in, but were 
whipped into School three-quarters of an hour before the lessons began by 
their respective masters, and there, scattered about on the benches, with 
dictionary and grammar, hammered out their twenty lines of Virgil or Euripides 
in the midst of Babel. The masters of the lower-school walked up and down the 
great School together during this three-quarters of an hour, or sat in their 
desks reading or looking over copies, and keeping such order as was possible. 
But the lower-fourth was just now an overgrown form, too large for any one man 
to attend to properly, and consequently the elysium or ideal form of the young 
scapegraces who formed the staple of it.
Tom, as has been said, had come up from the third with a good character, but 
the temptations of the lower-fourth soon proved too strong for him, and he 
rapidly fell away, and became as unmanageable as the rest. For some weeks 
indeed he succeeded in maintaining the appearance of steadiness, and was 
looked upon favourably by his new master, whose eyes were first opened by the 
following little incident.
Besides the desk which the master himself occupied, there was another large 
unoccupied desk in the corner of the great School, which was untenanted. To 
rush and seize upon this desk, which was ascended by three steps, and held 
four boys, was the great object of ambition of the lower-fourthers; and the 
contentions for the occupation of it bred such disorder that at last the 
master forbade its use altogether. This of course was a challenge to the more 
adventurous spirits to occupy it, and as it was capacious enough for two boys 
to lie hid there completely, it was seldom that it remained empty, 
notwithstanding the veto. Small holes were cut in the front, through which the 
occupants watched the masters as they walked up and down, and as lesson time 
approached, one boy at a time stole out and down the steps, as the masters' 
backs were turned, and mingled with the general crowd on the forms below. Tom 
and East had successfully occupied the desk some half-dozen times, and were 
grown so reckless that they were in the habit of playing small games with 
fives'-balls inside, when the masters were at the other end of the big School. 
One day, as ill-luck would have it, the game became more exciting than usual, 
and the ball slipped through East's fingers, and rolled slowly down the steps 
and out into the middle of the School, just as the masters turned in their 
walk and faced round upon the desk. The young delinquents watched their master 
through the lookout holes march slowly down the School straight upon their 
retreat, while all the boys in the neighbourhood of course stopped their work 
to look on: and not only were they ignominiously drawn out, and caned over the 
hand then and there, but their characters for steadiness were gone from that 
time. However, as they only shared the fate of some three-fourths of the rest 
of the form, this did not weigh heavily upon them.
In fact, the only occasions on which they cared about the matter were the 
monthly examinations, when the Doctor came round to examine their form, for 
one long awful hour, in the work which they had done in the preceding month. 
The second monthly examination came round soon after Tom's fall, and it was 
with anything but lively anticipations that he and the other lower-fourth boys 
came in to prayers on the morning of the examination-day.
Prayers and calling-over seemed twice as short as usual, and before they could 
get construes of a tithe of the hard passages marked in the margin of their 
books, they were all seated round, and the Doctor was standing in the middle, 
talking in whispers to the master. Tom couldn't hear a word which passed, and 
never lifted his eyes from his book; but he knew by a sort of magnetic 
instinct that the Doctor's under-lip was coming out, and his eye beginning to 
burn, and his gown getting gathered up more and more tightly in his left hand. 
The suspense was agonising, and Tom knew that he was sure on such occasions to 
make an example of the School-house boys. "If he would only begin," thought 
Tom, "I shouldn't mind."
At last the whispering ceased, and the name which was called was not Brown. He 
looked up for a moment, but the Doctor's face was too awful; Tom wouldn't have 
met his eye for all he was worth, and buried himself in his book again.
The boy who was called up first was a clever merry School-house boy, one of 
their set: he was some connection of the Doctor's, and a great favourite, and 
ran in and out of his house as he liked, and so was selected for the first 
victim.
"Triste lupus stabulis," began the luckless youngster, and stammered through 
some eight or ten lines.
"There, that will do," said the Doctor, "now construe."
On common occasions the boy could have construed the passage well enough 
probably, but now his head was gone.
"Triste lupus, the sorrowful wolf," he began.
A shudder ran through the whole form, and the Doctor's wrath fairly boiled 
over; he made three steps up to the construer, and gave him a good box on the 
ear. The blow was not a hard one, but the boy was so taken by surprise that he 
started back; the form caught the back of his knees, and over he went on to 
the floor behind. There was a dead silence over the whole School; never before 
and never again while Tom was at school did the Doctor strike a boy in lesson. 
The provocation must have been great. However, the victim had saved his form 
for that occasion, for the Doctor turned to the top bench, and put on the best 
boys for the rest of the hour; and though at the end of the lesson he gave 
them all such a rating as they did not forget, this terrible field-day passed 
over without any severe visitations in the shape of punishments or floggings. 
Forty young scapegraces expressed their thanks to the "sorrowful wolf" in 
their different ways before second lesson.
But a character for steadiness once gone is not easily recovered, as Tom 
found, and for years afterwards he went up the School without it, and the 
masters' hands were against him, and his against them. And he regarded them, 
as a matter of course, as his natural enemies.
Matters were not so comfortable either in the house as they had been, for old 
Brooke left at Christmas, and one or two others of the sixth-form boys at the 
following Easter. Their rule had been rough, but strong and just in the main, 
and a higher standard was beginning to be set up; in fact, there had been a 
short foretaste of the good time which followed some years later. Just now, 
however, all threatened to return into darkness and chaos again. For the new 
praepostors were either small young boys, whose cleverness had carried them up 
to the top of the School, while in strength of body and character they were 
not yet fit for a share in the government; or else big fellows of the wrong 
sort, boys whose friendships and tastes had a downward tendency, who had not 
caught the meaning of their position and work, and felt none of its 
responsibilities. So under this no-government the School-house began to see 
bad times. The big fifth-form boys, who were a sporting and drinking set, soon 
began to usurp power, and to fag the little boys as if they were praepostors, 
and to bully and oppress any who showed signs of resistance. The bigger sort 
of sixth-form boys just described soon made common cause with the fifth, while 
the smaller sort, hampered by their colleagues' desertion to the enemy, could 
not make head against them. So the fags were without their lawful masters and 
protectors, and ridden over rough-shod by a set of boys whom they were not 
bound to obey, and whose only right over them stood in their bodily powers; 
and, as old Brooke had prophesied, the house by degrees broke up into small 
sets and parties, and lost the strong feeling of fellowship which he set so 
much store by, and with it much of the prowess in games, and the lead in all 
school matters, which he had done so much to keep up.
In no place in the world has individual character more weight than at a 
public-school. Remember this, I beseech you, all you boys who are getting into 
the upper forms. Now is the time in all your lives probably when you may have 
more wide influence for good or evil on the society you live in than you ever 
can have again. Quit yourselves like men then; speak up, and strike out if 
necessary for whatsoever is true, and manly, and lovely, and of good report; 
never try to be popular, but only to do your duty and help others to do 
theirs, and you may leave the tone of feeling in the school higher than you 
found it, and so be doing good which no living soul can measure to generations 
of your countrymen yet unborn. For boys follow one another in herds like 
sheep, for good or evil; they hate thinking, and have rarely any settled 
principles. Every school indeed has its own traditionary standard of right and 
wrong, which cannot be transgressed with impunity, marking certain things as 
low and blackguard, and certain others as lawful and right. This standard is 
ever varying, though it changes only slowly, and little by little, and, 
subject only to such standard, it is the leading boys for the time being who 
give the tone to all the rest, and make the school either a noble institution 
for the training of Christian Englishmen, or a place where a young boy will 
get more evil than he would if he were turned out to make his way in London 
streets, or anything between these two extremes.
The change for the worse in the School-house, however, didn't press very 
heavily on our youngsters for some time; they were in a good bedroom, where 
slept the only praepostor left who was able to keep thorough order, and their 
study was in his passage; so, though they were fagged more or less, and 
occasionally kicked or cuffed by the bullies, they were on the whole well off; 
and the fresh brave school-life, so full of games, adventures, and good 
fellowship, so ready at forgetting, so capacious at enjoying, so bright at 
forecasting, out-weighed a thousandfold their troubles with the master of 
their form, and the occasional ill-usage of the big boys in the house. It 
wasn't till some year or so after the events recorded above that the 
praepostor of their room and passage left. None of the other sixth-form boys 
would move into their passage, and, to the disgust and indignation of Tom and 
East, one morning after breakfast they were seized upon by Flashman, and made 
to carry down his books and furniture into the unoccupied study which he had 
taken. From this time they began to feel the weight of the tyranny of Flashman 
and his friends, and, now that trouble had come home to their own doors, began 
to look out for sympathisers and partners amongst the rest of the fags; and 
meetings of the oppressed began to be held, and murmurs to arise, and plots to 
be laid as to how they should free themselves and be avenged on their enemies.
While matters were in this state, East and Tom were one evening sitting in 
their study. They had done their work for first lesson, and Tom was in a brown 
study, brooding like a young William Tell upon the wrongs of fags in general, 
and his own in particular.
"I say, Scud," said he at last, rousing himself to snuff the candle, "what 
right have the fifth-form boys to fag us as they do?"
"No more right than you have to fag them," answered East, without looking up 
from an early number of Pickwick, which was just coming out, and which he was 
luxuriously devouring, stretched on his back on the sofa.
Tom relapsed into his brown study, and East went on reading and chuckling. The 
contrast of the boys' faces would have given infinite amusement to a 
looker-on, the one so solemn and big with mighty purpose, the other radiant 
and bubbling over with fun.
"Do you know, old fellow, I've been thinking it over a good deal," began Tom 
again.
"Oh yes, I know, fagging you're thinking of. Hang it all, but listen here, Tom 
-here's fun. Mr. Winkle's horse -"
"And I've made up my mind," broke in Tom, "that I won't fag except for the 
sixth."
"Quite right too, my boy," cried East, putting his finger in the place and 
looking up; "but a pretty peck of troubles you'll get into if you're going to 
play that game. However, I'm all for a strike myself if we can get others to 
join -it's getting too bad."
"Can't we get some sixth-form fellow to take it up?" asked Tom.
"Well, perhaps we might; Morgan would interfere, I think. Only," added East, 
after a moment's pause, "you see we should have to tell him about it, and 
that's against School principles. Don't you remember what old Brooke said 
about learning to take our own parts?"
"Ah, I wish old Brooke were back again -it was all right in his time."
"Why yes, you see then the strongest and best fellows were in the sixth, and 
the fifth-form fellows were afraid of them, and they kept good order; but now 
our sixth-form fellows are too small, and the fifth don't care for them, and 
do what they like in the house."
"And so we get a double set of masters," cried Tom indignantly; "the lawful 
ones, who are responsible to the Doctor at any rate, and the unlawful -the 
tyrants, who are responsible to nobody."
"Down with the tyrants!" cried East; "I'm all for law and order, and hurra for 
a revolution."
"I shouldn't mind if it were only for young Brooke now," said Tom, "he's such 
a good-hearted gentlemanly fellow, and ought to be in the sixth -I'd do 
anything for him. But that blackguard Flashman, who never speaks to one 
without a kick or an oath -"
"The cowardly brute," broke in East, "how I hate him! And he knows it too, he 
knows that you and I think him a coward. What a bore that he's got a study in 
this passage! Don't you hear them now at supper in his den? Brandy punch 
going, I'll bet. I wish the Doctor would come out and catch him. We must 
change our study as soon as we can."
"Change or no change, I'll never fag for him again," said Tom, thumping the 
table.
"Fa-a-a-ag!" sounded along the passage from Flashman's study. The two boys 
looked at one another in silence. It had struck nine, so the regular 
night-fags had left duty, and they were the nearest to the supper-party. East 
sat up, and began to look comical, as he always did under difficulties.
"Fa-a-a-ag!" again. No answer.
"Here, Brown! East! you cursed young skulks," roared out Flashman, coming to 
his open door, "I know you're in -no shirking."
Tom stole to their door, and drew the bolts as noiselessly as he could; East 
blew out the candle. "Barricade the first," whispered he. "Now, Tom, mind, no 
surrender."
"Trust me for that," said Tom between his teeth.
In another minute they heard the supper-party turn out and come down the 
passage to their door. They held their breaths, and heard whispering, of which 
they only made out Flashman's words, "I know the young brutes are in."
Then came summonses to open, which being unanswered, the assault commenced: 
luckily the door was a good strong oak one, and resisted the united weight of 
Flashman's party. A pause followed, and they heard a besieger remark, "They're 
in safe enough -don't you see how the door holds at top and bottom? so the 
bolts must be drawn. We should have forced the lock long ago." East gave Tom a 
nudge to call attention to this scientific remark.
Then came attacks on particular panels, one of which at last gave way to the 
repeated kicks, but it broke inwards, and the broken piece got jammed across, 
the door being lined with green baize, and couldn't easily be removed from 
outside; and the besieged, scorning further concealment, strengthened their 
defences by pressing the end of their sofa against the door. So after one or 
two more ineffectual efforts, Flashman and Co. retired, vowing vengeance in no 
mild terms.
The first danger over, it only remained for the besieged to effect a safe 
retreat, as it was now near bed-time. They listened intently and heard the 
supper-party resettle themselves, and then gently drew back first one bolt and 
then the other. Presently the convivial noises began again steadily. "Now 
then, stand by for a run," said East, throwing the door wide open and rushing 
into the passage, closely followed by Tom. They were too quick to be caught, 
but Flashman was on the lookout, and sent an empty pickle-jar whizzing after 
them, which narrowly missed Tom's head, and broke into twenty pieces at the 
end of the passage. "He wouldn't mind killing one if he wasn't caught," said 
East, as they turned the corner.
There was no pursuit, so the two turned into the Hall, where they found a knot 
of small boys round the fire. Their story was told -the war of independence 
had broken out -who would join the revolutionary forces? Several others 
present bound themselves not to fag for the fifth form at once. One or two 
only edged off and left the rebels. What else could they do? "I've a good mind 
to go to the Doctor straight," said Tom.
"That'll never do -don't you remember the levy of the School last half?" put 
in another.
In fact that solemn assembly, a levy of the School, had been held, at which 
the captain of the School had got up, and, after premising that several 
instances had occurred of matters having been reported to the masters, that 
this was against public morality and School tradition, that a levy of the 
sixth had been held on the subject, and they had resolved that the practice 
must be stopped at once, had given out that any boy in whatever form who 
should thenceforth appeal to a master without having first gone to some 
praepostor and laid the case before him, should be thrashed publicly and sent 
to Coventry.
"Well, then, let's try the sixth. Try Morgan," suggested another. "No use." 
"Blabbing won't do," was the general feeling.
"I'll give you fellows a piece of advice," said a voice from the end of the 
Hall. They all turned round with a start, and the speaker got up from a bench 
on which he had been lying unobserved, and gave himself a shake; he was a big 
loose-made fellow, with huge limbs which had grown too far through his jacket 
and trousers. "Don't you go to anybody at all, you just stand out; say you 
won't fag -they'll soon get tired of licking you. I've tried it on years ago 
with their forerunners."
"No! did you? tell us how it was," cried a chorus of voices, as they clustered 
round him.
"Well, just as it is with you. The fifth form would fag us, and I and some 
more struck, and we beat 'em. The good fellows left off directly, and the 
bullies who kept on soon got afraid."
"Was Flashman here then?"
"Yes! and a dirty little snivelling sneaking fellow he was too. He never dared 
join us, and used to toady the bullies by offering to fag for them, and 
peaching against the rest of us."
"Why wasn't he cut then?" said East.
"Oh, toadies never get cut, they're too useful. Besides he has no end of great 
hampers from home, with wine and game in them, so he toadied and fed himself 
into favour."
The quarter-to-ten bell now rang, and the small boys went off upstairs, still 
consulting together, and praising their new counsellor, who stretched himself 
out on the bench before the Hall fire again. There he lay, a very queer 
specimen of boyhood, by name Diggs, and familiarly called "the Mucker." He was 
young for his size, and a very clever fellow, nearly at the top of the fifth. 
His friends at home, having regard I suppose to his age, and not to his size 
and place in the school, hadn't put him into tails; and even his jackets were 
always too small, and he had a talent for destroying clothes, and making 
himself look shabby. He wasn't on terms with Flashman's set, who sneered at 
his dress and ways behind his back, which he knew, and revenged himself by 
asking Flashman the most disagreeable questions, and treating him familiarly 
whenever a crowd of boys were round them. Neither was he intimate with any of 
the other bigger boys, who were warned off by his oddnesses, for he was a very 
queer fellow; besides, amongst other failings, he had that of impecuniosity in 
a remarkable degree. He brought as much money as other boys to school, but got 
rid of it in no time, no one knew how. And then, being also reckless, borrowed 
from any one, and when his debts accumulated and creditors pressed, would have 
an auction in the Hall of everything he possessed in the world, selling even 
his schoolbooks, candlestick, and study table. For weeks after one of these 
auctions, having rendered his study uninhabitable, he would live about in the 
fifth-form room and Hall, doing his verses on old letter-backs and odd scraps 
of paper, and learning his lessons no one knew how. He never meddled with any 
little boy, and was popular with them, though they all looked on him with a 
sort of compassion, and called him "poor Diggs," not being able to resist 
appearances, or to disregard wholly even the sneers of their enemy Flashman. 
However, he seemed equally indifferent to the sneers of big boys and the pity 
of small ones, and lived his own queer life with much apparent enjoyment to 
himself. It is necessary to introduce Diggs thus particularly, as he not only 
did Tom and East good service in their present warfare, as is about to be 
told, but soon afterwards, when he got into the sixth, chose them for his 
fags, and excused them from study-fagging, thereby earning unto himself 
eternal gratitude from them, and all who are interested in their history.
And seldom had small boys more need of a friend, for the morning after the 
siege the storm burst upon the rebels in all its violence. Flashman laid wait, 
and caught Tom before second lesson, and receiving a point blank "No" when 
told to fetch his hat, seized him and twisted his arm, and went through the 
other methods of torture in use: "He couldn't make me cry tho'," as Tom said 
triumphantly to the rest of the rebels, "and I kicked his shins well I know." 
And soon it crept out that a lot of the fags were in league, and Flashman 
excited his associates to join him in bringing the young vagabonds to their 
senses; and the house was filled with constant chasings, and sieges, and 
lickings of all sorts; and in return, the bullies' beds were pulled to pieces 
and drenched with water, and their names written up on the walls with every 
insulting epithet which the fag invention could furnish. The war in short 
raged fiercely; but soon, as Diggs had told them, all the better fellows in 
the fifth gave up trying to fag them, and public feeling began to set against 
Flashman and his two or three intimates, and they were obliged to keep their 
doings more secret, but being thorough bad fellows, missed no opportunity of 
torturing in private. Flashman was an adept in all ways, but above all in the 
power of saying cutting and cruel things, and could often bring tears to the 
eyes of boys in this way, which all the thrashings in the world wouldn't have 
wrung from them.
And as his operations were being cut short in other directions, he now devoted 
himself chiefly to Tom and East, who lived at his own door, and would force 
himself into their study whenever he found a chance, and sit there, sometimes 
alone, sometimes with a companion, interrupting all their work, and exulting 
in the evident pain which every now and then he could see he was inflicting on 
one or the other.
The storm had cleared the air for the rest of the house, and a better state of 
things now began than there had been since old Brooke had left: but an angry 
dark spot of thunder-cloud still hung over the end of the passage, where 
Flashman's study and that of East and Tom lay.
He felt that they had been the first rebels, and that the rebellion had been 
to a great extent successful; but what above all stirred the hatred and 
bitterness of his heart against them was that, in the frequent collisions 
which there had been of late, they had openly called him coward and sneak -the 
taunts were too true to be forgiven. While he was in the act of thrashing 
them, they would roar out instances of his funking at football, or shirking 
some encounter with a lout of half his own size. These things were all well 
enough known in the house, but to have his disgrace shouted out by small boys, 
to feel that they despised him, to be unable to silence them by any amount of 
torture, and to see the open laugh and sneer of his own associates (who were 
looking on, and took no trouble to hide their scorn from him, though they 
neither interfered with his bullying or lived a bit the less intimately with 
him), made him beside himself. Come what might, he would make those boys' 
lives miserable. So the strife settled down into a personal affair between 
Flashman and our youngsters; a war to the knife to be fought out in the little 
cockpit at the end of the bottom passage.
Flashman, be it said, was about seventeen years old, and big and strong of his 
age. He played well at all games where pluck wasn't much wanted, and managed 
generally to keep up appearances where it was; and having a bluff offhand 
manner, which passed for heartiness, and considerable powers of being pleasant 
when he liked, went down with the school in general for a good fellow enough. 
Even in the School-house, by dint of his command of money, the constant supply 
of good things which he kept up, and his adroit toadyism, he had managed to 
make himself not only tolerated but rather popular amongst his own 
contemporaries; although young Brooke scarcely spoke to him, and one or two 
others of the right sort showed their opinions of him whenever a chance 
offered. But the wrong sort happened to be in the ascendant just now, and so 
Flashman was a formidable enemy for small boys. This soon became plain enough. 
Flashman left no slander unspoken, and no deed undone, which could in any way 
hurt his victims, or isolate them from the rest of the house. One by one most 
of the other rebels fell away from them, while Flashman's cause prospered, and 
several other fifth-form boys began to look black at them and ill-treat them 
as they passed about the house. By keeping out of bounds, or at all events out 
of the house and quadrangle, all day, and carefully barring themselves in at 
night, East and Tom managed to hold on without feeling very miserable; but it 
was as much as they could do. Greatly were they drawn then towards old Diggs, 
who, in an uncouth way, began to take a good deal of notice of them, and once 
or twice came to their study when Flashman was there, who immediately decamped 
in consequence. The boys thought that Diggs must have been watching.
When therefore, about this time, an auction was one night announced to take 
place in the Hall, at which, amongst the superfluities of other boys, all 
Diggs's Penates for the time being were going to the hammer, East and Tom laid 
their heads together, and resolved to devote their ready cash (some four 
shillings sterling) to redeem such articles as that sum would cover. 
Accordingly they duly attended to bid, and Tom became the owner of two lots of 
Diggs's things -lot 1, price one-and-threepence, consisting (as the auctioneer 
remarked) of a "valuable assortment of old metals," in the shape of a 
mousetrap, a cheese-toaster without a handle, and a saucepan; lot 2, of a 
villainous dirty tablecloth and green-baize curtain; while East, for 
one-and-sixpence, purchased a leather paper-case, with a lock but no key, once 
handsome, but now much the worse for wear. But they had still the point to 
settle of how to get Diggs to take the things without hurting his feelings. 
This they solved by leaving them in his study, which was never locked, when he 
was out. Diggs, who had attended the auction, remembered who had bought the 
lots, and came to their study soon after, and sat silent for some time, 
cracking his great red finger-joints. Then he laid hold of their verses, and 
began looking over and altering them, and at last got up, and turning his back 
to them, said, "You're uncommon good-hearted little beggars, you two -I value 
that paper-case, my sister gave it me last holidays -I won't forget;" and so 
tumbled out into the passage, leaving them somewhat embarrassed, but not sorry 
that he knew what they had done.
The next morning was Saturday, the day on which the allowances of one shilling 
a week were paid, an important event to spendthrift youngsters; and great was 
the disgust amongst the small fry to hear that all the allowances had been 
impounded for the Derby lottery. That great event in the English year, the 
Derby, was celebrated at Rugby in those days by many lotteries. It was not an 
improving custom, I own, gentle reader, and led to making books and betting 
and other objectionable results; but when our great Houses of Palaver think it 
right to stop the nation's business on that day, and many of them bet heavily 
themselves, can you blame us boys for following the example of our betters? 
-at any rate, we did follow it. First there was the great School lottery, 
where the first prize was six or seven pounds; then each house had one or more 
separate lotteries. These were all nominally voluntary, no boy being compelled 
to put in his shilling who didn't choose to do so: but besides Flashman, there 
were three or four other fast sporting young gentlemen in the School-house, 
who considered subscription a matter of duty and necessity, and so, to make 
their duty come easy to the small boys, quietly secured the allowances in a 
lump when given out for distribution, and kept them. It was no use grumbling 
-so many fewer tartlets and apples were eaten and fives'-balls bought on that 
Saturday; and after locking-up, when the money would otherwise have been 
spent, consolation was carried to many a small boy by the sound of the night 
fags shouting along the passages, "Gentlemen sportsmen of the School-house, 
the lottery's going to be drawn in the Hall." It was pleasant to be called a 
gentleman sportsman -also to have a chance of drawing a favourite horse.
The Hall was full of boys, and at the head of one of the long tables stood the 
sporting interest, with a hat before them, in which were the tickets folded 
up. One of them then began calling out the list of the house; each boy as his 
name was called drew a ticket from the hat and opened it; and most of the 
bigger boys, after drawing, left the Hall directly to go back to their studies 
or the fifth-form room. The sporting interest had all drawn blanks, and they 
were sulky accordingly; neither of the favourites had yet been drawn, and it 
had come down to the upper fourth. So now, as each small boy came up and drew 
his ticket, it was seized and opened by Flashman, or some other of the 
standers-by. But no great favourite is drawn until it comes to the Tadpole's 
turn, and he shuffles up and draws, and tries to make off, but is caught, and 
his ticket is opened like the rest.
"Here you are! Wanderer! the third favourite," shouts the opener.
"I say, just give me my ticket, please," remonstrates Tadpole.
"Hullo, don't be in a hurry," breaks in Flashman; "what'll you sell Wanderer 
for now?"
"I don't want to sell," rejoins Tadpole.
"Oh, don't you! Now listen, you young fool -you don't know anything about it; 
the horse is no use to you. He won't win, but I want him as a hedge. Now I'll 
give you half a crown for him." Tadpole holds out, but between threats and 
cajoleries at length sells half for one shilling and sixpence, about a fifth 
of its fair market value; however, he is glad to realise anything, and as he 
wisely remarks, "Wanderer mayn't win," and the tizzy is safe anyhow.
East presently comes up and draws a blank. Soon after comes Tom's turn; his 
ticket like the others is seized and opened. "Here you are then," shouts the 
opener, holding it up, "Harkaway! By jove, Flashey, your young friend's in 
luck."
"Give me the ticket," says Flashman with an oath, leaning across the table 
with open hand, and his face black with rage.
"Wouldn't you like it?" replies the opener, not a bad fellow at the bottom, 
and no admirer of Flashman's. "Here, Brown, catch hold," and he hands the 
ticket to Tom, who pockets it; whereupon Flashman makes for the door at once, 
that Tom and the ticket may not escape, and there keeps watch until the 
drawing is over and all the boys are gone, except the sporting set of five or 
six, who stay to compare books, make bets, and so on, Tom, who doesn't choose 
to move while Flashman is at the door, and East, who stays by his friend, 
anticipating trouble.
The sporting set now gathered round Tom. Public opinion wouldn't allow them 
actually to rob him of his ticket, but any humbug or intimidation by which he 
could be driven to sell the whole or part at an undervalue was lawful.
"Now, young Brown, come, what'll you sell me Harkaway for? I hear he isn't 
going to start. I'll give you five shillings for him," begins the boy who had 
opened the ticket. Tom, remembering his good deed, and moreover in his forlorn 
state wishing to make a friend, is about to accept the offer, when another 
cries out, "I'll give you seven shillings." Tom hesitated, and looked from one 
to the other.
"No, no!" said Flashman, pushing in, "leave me to deal with him; we'll draw 
lots for it afterwards. Now, sir, you know me -you'll sell Harkaway to us for 
five shillings, or you'll repent it."
"I won't sell a bit of him," answered Tom shortly.
"You hear that now!" said Flashman, turning to the others. "He's the coxiest 
young blackguard in the house -I always told you so. We're to have all the 
trouble and risk of getting up the lotteries for the benefit of such fellows 
as he."
Flashman forgets to explain what risk they ran, but he speaks to willing ears. 
Gambling makes boys selfish and cruel as well as men.
"That's true -we always draw blanks," cries one. "Now, sir, you shall sell at 
any rate."
"I won't," said Tom, flushing up to his hair, and lumping them all in his mind 
with his sworn enemy.
"Very well then, let's roast him," cried Flashman, and catches hold of Tom by 
the collar; one or two boys hesitate, but the rest join in. East seizes Tom's 
arm and tries to pull him away, but is knocked back by one of the boys, and 
Tom is dragged along struggling. His shoulders are pushed against the 
mantelpiece, and he is held by main force before the fire, Flashman drawing 
his trousers tight by way of extra torture. Poor East, in more pain even than 
Tom, suddenly thinks of Diggs, and darts off to find him. "Will you sell now 
for ten shillings?" says one boy who is relenting.
Tom only answers by groans and struggles.
"I say, Flashey, he has had enough," says the same boy, dropping the arm he 
holds.
"No, no, another turn'll do it," answers Flashman. But poor Tom is done 
already, turns deadly pale, and his head falls forward on his breast, just as 
Diggs in frantic excitement rushes into the Hall with East at his heels.
"You cowardly brutes!" is all he can say, as he catches Tom from them and 
supports him to the Hall table. "Good God! he's dying. Here, get some cold 
water -run for the housekeeper."
Flashman and one or two others slink away; the rest, ashamed and sorry, bend 
over Tom or run for water, while East darts off for the housekeeper. Water 
comes, and they throw it on his hands and face, and he begins to come to. 
"Mother!" -the words came feebly and slowly -"it's very cold tonight." Poor 
old Diggs is blubbering like a child. "Where am I?" goes on Tom, opening his 
eyes. "Ah! I remember now," and he shut his eyes again and groaned.
"I say," is whispered, "we can't do any good, and the housekeeper will be here 
in a minute;" and all but one steal away; he stays with Diggs, silent and 
sorrowful, and fans Tom's face.
The housekeeper comes in with strong salts, and Tom soon recovers enough to 
sit up. There is a smell of burning; she examines his clothes, and looks up 
inquiringly. The boys are all silent.
"How did he come so?" No answer.
"There's been some bad work here," she adds, looking very serious, "and I 
shall speak to the Doctor about it," Still no answer.
"Hadn't we better carry him to the sickroom?" suggests Diggs.
"Oh, I can walk now," says Tom; and, supported by East and the housekeeper, 
goes to the sickroom. The boy who held his ground is soon amongst the rest, 
who are all in fear of their lives. "Did he peach?" "Does she know about it?"
"Not a word -he's a staunch little fellow." And pausing a moment he adds, "I'm 
sick of this work; what brutes we've been."
Meantime Tom is stretched on the sofa in the housekeeper's room, with East by 
his side, while she gets wine and water and other restoratives.
"Are you much hurt, dear old boy?" whispers East.
"Only the back of my legs," answers Tom. They are indeed badly scorched, and 
part of his trousers burnt through. But soon he is in bed, with cold bandages. 
At first he feels broken, and thinks of writing home and getting taken away; 
and the verse of a hymn he had learned years ago sings through his head, and 
he goes to sleep murmuring - 

Where the wicked cease from troubling,
And the weary are at rest.

But after a sound night's rest, the old boy-spirit comes back again. East 
comes in reporting that the whole house is with him, and he forgets 
everything, except their old resolve never to be beaten by that bully Flashman.
Not a word could the housekeeper extract from either of them; and though the 
Doctor knew all that she knew that morning, he never knew any more.
I trust and believe that such scenes are not possible now at school, and that 
lotteries and betting-books have gone out; but I am writing of schools as they 
were in our time, and must give the evil with the good.



Chapter 9: A Chapter of Accidents

Wherein I [speak] of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of hair-breadth 'scapes. -SHAKESPEARE.


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

As I and my companions
Were setting of a snare,
The gamekeeper was watching us;
For him we did not care:
For we can wrestle and fight, my boys,
And jump out anywhere.
For 'tis my delight of a likely night,
In the season of the year.

The chorus was taken up by the other boys with shouts of laughter, and the 
keeper turned away with a grunt, but evidently bent on mischief. The boys 
thought no more of the matter.
But now came on the may-fly season; the soft hazy summer weather lay sleepily 
along the rich meadows by Avon side, and the green and grey flies flickered 
with their graceful lazy up-and-down flight over the reeds and the water and 
the meadows, in myriads upon myriads. The may-flies must surely be the 
lotus-eaters of the ephemerae: the happiest, laziest, carelessest fly that 
dances and dreams out his few hours of sunshiny life by English rivers.
Every pitiful little coarse fish in the Avon was on the alert for the flies, 
and gorging his wretched carcase with hundreds daily, the gluttonous rogues! 
and every lover of the gentle craft was out to avenge the poor may-flies.
So one fine Thursday afternoon, Tom having borrowed East's new rod, started by 
himself to the river. He fished for some time with small success, not a fish 
would rise at him; but as he prowled along the bank he was presently aware of 
mighty ones feeding in a pool on the opposite side, under the shade of a huge 
willow-tree. The stream was deep here, but some fifty yards below was a 
shallow, for which he made off hot-foot; and forgetting landlords, keepers, 
solemn prohibitions of the Doctor, and everything else, pulled up his 
trousers, plunged across, and in three minutes was creeping along on all fours 
towards the clump of willows.
It isn't often that great chub, or any other coarse fish, are in earnest about 
anything, but just then they were thoroughly bent on feeding, and in half an 
hour Master Tom had deposited three thumping fellows at the foot of the giant 
willow. As he was baiting for a fourth pounder, and just going to throw in 
again, he became aware of a man coming up the bank not one hundred yards off. 
Another look told him that it was the under-keeper. Could he reach the shallow 
before him? No, not carrying his rod. Nothing for it but the tree, so Tom laid 
his bones to it, shinning up as fast as he could, and dragging up his rod 
after him. He had just time to reach and crouch along upon a huge branch some 
ten feet up, which stretched out over the river, when the keeper arrived at 
the clump. Tom's heart beat fast as he came under the tree; two steps more and 
he would have passed, when, as ill-luck would have it, the gleam on the scales 
of the dead fish caught his eye, and he made a dead point at the foot of the 
tree. He picked up the fish one by one; his eye and touch told him that they 
had been alive and feeding within the hour. Tom crouched lower along the 
branch, and heard the keeper beating the clump. "If I could only get the rod 
hidden," thought he, and began gently shifting it to get it alongside him; 
"willow-trees don't throw out straight hickory shoots twelve feet long, with 
no leaves, worse luck." Alas! the keeper catches the rustle, and then a sight 
of the rod, and then of Tom's hand and arm.
"Oh, be up ther', be 'ee?" says he, running under the tree. "Now you come down 
this minute."
"Tree'd at last," thinks Tom, making no answer, and keeping as close as 
possible, but working away at the rod, which he takes to pieces: "I'm in for 
it, unless I can starve him out." And then he begins to meditate getting along 
the branch for a plunge, and scramble to the other side; but the small 
branches are so thick, and the opposite bank so difficult, that the keeper 
will have lots of time to get round by the ford before he can get out, so he 
gives that up. And now he hears the keeper beginning to scramble up the trunk. 
That will never do; so he scrambles himself back to where his branch joins the 
trunk, and stands with lifted rod.
"Hullo, Velveteens, mind your fingers if you come any higher."
The keeper stops and looks up, and then with a grin says, "Oh! be you, be it, 
young measter? Well, here's luck. Now I tells 'ee to come down at once, and 
't'll be best for 'ee."
"Thank 'ee, Velveteens, I'm very comfortable," said Tom, shortening the rod in 
his hand, and preparing for battle.
"Werry well, please yourself," says the keeper, descending however to the 
ground again, and taking his seat on the bank; "I bean't in no hurry, so you 
med tek yer time. I'll larn 'ee to gee honest folk names afore I've done with 
'ee."
"My luck as usual," thinks Tom; "what a fool I was to give him a black. If I'd 
called him `keeper' now I might get off. The return match is all his way."
The keeper quietly proceeded to take out his pipe, fill, and light it, keeping 
an eye on Tom, who now sat disconsolately across the branch, looking at keeper 
-a pitiful sight for men and fishes. The more he thought of it the less he 
liked it. "It must be getting near second calling-over," thinks he. Keeper 
smokes on stolidly. "If he takes me up, I shall be flogged safe enough. I 
can't sit here all night. Wonder if he'll rise at silver."
"I say, keeper," said he meekly, "let me go for two bob?"
"Not for twenty neither," grunts his persecutor.
And so they sat on till long past second calling-over, and the sun came 
slanting in through the willow branches, and telling of locking-up near at hand.
"I'm coming down, keeper," said Tom at last with a sigh, fairly tired out. 
"Now what are you going to do?"
"Walk 'ee up to School, and give 'ee over to the Doctor; them's my orders," 
says Velveteens, knocking the ashes out of his fourth pipe, and standing up 
and shaking himself.
"Very good," said Tom; "but hands off you know. I'll go with you quietly, so 
no collaring or that sort of thing."
Keeper looked at him a minute -"Werry good," said he at last; and so Tom 
descended, and wended his way drearily by the side of the keeper up to the 
School-house, where they arrived just at locking-up. As they passed the School 
gates, the Tadpole and several others, who were standing there, caught the 
state of things, and rushed out, crying "Rescue!"; but Tom shook his head, so 
they only followed to the Doctor's gate, and went back sorely puzzled.
How changed and stern the Doctor seemed from the last time that Tom was up 
there, as the keeper told the story, not omitting to state how Tom had called 
him blackguard names. "Indeed, sir," broke in the culprit, "it was only 
Velveteens." The Doctor only asked one question.
"You know the rule about the banks, Brown?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then wait for me tomorrow, after first lesson."
"I thought so," muttered Tom.
"And about the rod, sir?" went on the keeper; "Master's told we as we might 
have all the rods -"
"Oh, please sir," broke in Tom, "the rod isn't mine." The Doctor looked 
puzzled, but the keeper, who was a good-hearted fellow, and melted at Tom's 
evident distress, gave up his claim. Tom was flogged next morning, and a few 
days afterwards met Velveteens, and presented him with half a crown for giving 
up the rod claim, and they became sworn friends; and I regret to say that Tom 
had many more fish from under the willow that may-fly season, and was never 
caught again by Velveteens.
It wasn't three weeks before Tom, and now East by his side, were again in the 
awful presence. This time, however, the Doctor was not so terrible. A few days 
before, they had been fagged at fives to fetch the balls that went off the 
court. While standing watching the game, they saw five or six nearly new balls 
hit on to the top of the School. "I say, Tom," said East, when they were 
dismissed, "couldn't we get those balls somehow?"
"Let's try, anyhow."
So they reconnoitred the walls carefully, borrowed a coal hammer from old 
Stumps, bought some big nails, and after one or two attempts, scaled the 
Schools, and possessed themselves of huge quantities of fives'-balls. The 
place pleased them so much that they spent all their spare time there, 
scratching and cutting their names on the top of every tower; and at last, 
having exhausted all other places, finished up with inscribing H.EAST, T.BROWN 
on the minute-hand of the great clock. In the doing of which, they held the 
minute-hand, and disturbed the clock's economy. So next morning, when masters 
and boys came trooping down to prayers, and entered the quadrangle, the 
injured minute-hand was indicating three minutes to the hour. They all pulled 
up, and took their time. When the hour struck, doors were closed, and half the 
school late. Thomas being set to make inquiry, discovers their names on the 
minute-hand, and reports accordingly; and they are sent for, a knot of their 
friends making derisive and pantomimic allusions to what their fate will be as 
they walk off.
But the Doctor, after hearing their story, doesn't make much of it, and only 
gives them thirty lines of Homer to learn by heart, and a lecture on the 
likelihood of such exploits ending in broken bones.
Alas, almost the next day was one of the great fairs in the town; and as 
several rows and other disagreeable accidents had of late taken place on these 
occasions, the Doctor gives out, after prayers in the morning, that no boy is 
to go down into the town. Wherefore East and Tom, for no earthly pleasure 
except that of doing what they are told not to do, start away after second 
lesson, and making a short circuit through the fields, strike a back lane 
which leads into the town, go down it, and run plump upon one of the masters 
as they emerge into the High Street. The master in question, though a very 
clever, is not a righteous man: he has already caught several of his own 
pupils, and gives them lines to learn, while he sends East and Tom, who are 
not his pupils, up to the Doctor; who, on learning that they had been at 
prayers in the morning, flogs them soundly.
The flogging did them no good at the time, for the injustice of their captor 
was rankling in their minds; but it was just the end of the half, and on the 
next evening but one Thomas knocks at their door, and says the Doctor wants to 
see them. They look at one another in silent dismay. What can it be now? Which 
of their countless wrong-doings can he have heard of officially? However, it's 
no use delaying, so up they go to the study. There they find the Doctor, not 
angry, but very grave. "He has sent for them to speak very seriously before 
they go home. They have each been flogged several times in the half-year for 
direct and wilful breaches of rules. This cannot go on. They are doing no good 
to themselves or others, and now they are getting up in the School, and have 
influence. They seem to think that rules are made capriciously, and for the 
pleasure of the masters; but this is not so, they are made for the good of the 
whole School, and must and shall be obeyed. Those who thoughtlessly or 
wilfully break them will not be allowed to stay at the School. He should be 
sorry if they had to leave, as the School might do them both much good, and 
wishes them to think very seriously in the holidays over what he has said. 
Good-night."
And so the two hurry off horribly scared. The idea of having to leave has 
never crossed their minds, and is quite unbearable.
As they go out, they meet at the door old Holmes, a sturdy cheery praepostor 
of another house, who goes in to the Doctor; and they hear his genial hearty 
greeting of the newcomer, so different to their own reception, as the door 
closes, and return to their study with heavy hearts, and tremendous resolves 
to break no more rules.
Five minutes afterwards the master of their form, a late arrival and a model 
young master, knocks at the Doctor's study-door. "Come in!" and as he enters 
the Doctor goes on to Holmes -"you see, I do not know anything of the case 
officially, and if I take any notice of it at all, I must publicly expel the 
boy. I don't wish to do that, for I think there is some good in him. There's 
nothing for it but a good sound thrashing." He paused to shake hands with the 
master, which Holmes does also, and then prepares to leave.
"I understand. Good-night, sir."
"Good-night, Holmes. And remember," added the Doctor, emphasising the words, 
"a good sound thrashing before the whole house."
The door closed on Holmes, and the Doctor, in answer to the puzzled look of 
his lieutenant, explained shortly. "A gross case of bullying. Wharton, the 
head of the house, is a very good fellow, but slight and weak, and severe 
physical pain is the only way to deal with such a case; so I have asked Holmes 
to take it up. He is very careful and trustworthy, and has plenty of strength. 
I wish all the sixth had as much. We must have it here, if we are to keep 
order at all."
Now I don't want any wiseacres to read this book; but if they should, of 
course they will prick up their long ears, and howl, or rather bray, at the 
above story. Very good, I don't object; but what I have to add for you boys is 
this, that Holmes called a levy of his house after breakfast next morning, 
made them a speech on the case of bullying in question, and then gave the 
bully a "good sound thrashing"; and that years afterwards, that boy sought out 
Holmes, and thanked him, saying it had been the kindest act which had ever 
been done upon him, and the turning-point in his character; and a very good 
fellow he became, and a credit to his School.
After some other talk between them, the Doctor said, "I want to speak to you 
about two boys in your form, East and Brown. I have just been speaking to 
them. What do you think of them?"
"Well, they are not hard workers, and very thoughtless and full of spirits 
-but I can't help liking them. I think they are sound good fellows at the 
bottom."
"I'm glad of it. I think so too. But they make me very uneasy. They are taking 
the lead a good deal amongst the fags in my house, for they are very active 
bold fellows. I should be sorry to lose them, but I shan't let them stay if I 
don't see them gaining character and manliness. In another year they may do 
great harm to all the younger boys."
"Oh, I hope you won't send them away," pleaded their master.
"Not if I can help it. But now I never feel sure, after any half-holiday, that 
I shan't have to flog one of them next morning for some foolish, thoughtless 
scrape. I quite dread seeing either of them."
They were both silent for a minute. Presently the Doctor began again - 
"They don't feel that they have any duty or work to do in the School, and how 
is one to make them feel it?"
"I think if either of them had some little boy to take care of, it would 
steady them. Brown is the most reckless of the two, I should say; East 
wouldn't get into so many scrapes without him."
"Well," said the Doctor, with something like a sigh, "I'll think of it." And 
they went on to talk of other subjects.



PART 2




"I [hold] it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things."
TENNYSON.



Chapter 10: How the Tide Turned

Once to every man and nation, comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side:
*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *
Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside,
Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified.
LOWELL.

The turning-point in our hero's school career had now come, and the manner of 
it was as follows. On the evening of the first day of the next half-year, Tom, 
East, and another School-house boy, who had just been dropped at the Spread 
Eagle by the old Regulator, rushed into the matron's room in high spirits, 
such as all real boys are in when they first get back, however fond they may 
be of home.
"Well, Mrs. Wixie," shouted one, seizing on the methodical, active little 
dark-eyed woman, who was busy stowing away the linen of the boys who had 
already arrived into their several pigeon-holes, "here we are again, you see, 
as jolly as ever. Let us help you put the things away."
"And, Mary," cried another (she was called indifferently by either name), 
"who's come back? Has the Doctor made old Jones leave? How many new boys are 
there?"
"Am I and East to have Gray's study? You know you promised to get it for us if 
you could," shouted Tom.
"And am I to sleep in No.4?" roared East.
"How's old Sam, and Bogle, and Sally?"
"Bless the boys!" cries Mary, at last getting in a word, "why, you'll shake me 
to death. There, now do go away up to the housekeeper's room and get your 
suppers; you know I haven't time to talk -you'll find plenty more in the 
house. Now, Master East, do let those things alone -you're mixing up three new 
boys' things." And she rushed at East, who escaped round the open trunks 
holding up a prize.
"Hullo, look here, Tommy," shouted he, "here's fun!" and he brandished above 
his head some pretty little night-caps, beautifully made and marked, the work 
of loving fingers in some distant country home. The kind mother and sisters, 
who sewed that delicate stitching with aching hearts, little thought of the 
trouble they might be bringing on that young head for which they were meant. 
The little matron was wiser, and snatched the caps from East before he could 
look at the name on them.
"Now, Master East, I shall be very angry if you don't go," said she; "there's 
some capital cold beef and pickles upstairs, and I won't have you old boys in 
my room first night."
"Hurrah for the pickles! Come along, Tommy; come along, Smith. We shall find 
out who the young Count is, I'll be bound: I hope he'll sleep in my room. 
Mary's always vicious first week."
As the boys turned to leave the room, the matron touched Tom's arm, and said, 
"Master Brown, please stop a minute, I want to speak to you."
"Very well, Mary. I'll come in a minute, East; don't finish the pickles -"
"Oh, Master Brown," went on the little matron when the rest had gone, "you're 
to have Gray's study, Mrs. Arnold says. And she wants you to take in this 
young gentleman. He's a new boy, and thirteen years old, tho' he don't look 
it. He's very delicate, and has never been from home before. And I told Mrs. 
Arnold I thought you'd be kind to him, and see that they don't bully him at 
first. He's put into your form, and I've given him the bed next to yours in 
No.4; so East can't sleep there this half."
Tom was rather put about by this speech. He had got the double study which he 
coveted, but here were conditions attached which greatly moderated his joy. He 
looked across the room, and in the far corner of the sofa was aware of a 
slight pale boy, with large blue eyes and light fair hair, who seemed ready to 
shrink through the floor. He saw at a glance that the little stranger was just 
the boy whose first half-year at a public-school would be misery to himself if 
he were let alone, or constant anxiety to any one who meant to see him through 
his troubles. Tom was too honest to take in the youngster and then let him 
shift for himself; and if he took him as his chum instead of East, where were 
all his pet plans of having a bottled-beer cellar under his window, and making 
night-lines and slings, and plotting expeditions to Brownsover Mills and 
Caldecott's Spinney? East and he had made up their minds to get this study, 
and then every night from locking-up till ten they would be together to talk 
about fishing, drink bottled-beer, read Marryat's novels, and sort birds' 
eggs. And this new boy would most likely never go out of the close, and would 
be afraid of wet feet, and always getting laughed at, and called Molly, or 
Jenny, or some derogatory feminine nickname.
The matron watched him for a moment, and saw what was passing in his mind, and 
so, like a wise negotiator, threw in an appeal to his warm heart. "Poor little 
fellow," said she in almost a whisper, "his father's dead, and he's got no 
brothers. And his mama, such a kind sweet lady, almost broke her heart at 
leaving him this morning; and she said one of his sisters was like to die of 
decline, and so -"
"Well, well," burst in Tom, with something like a sigh at the effort, "I 
suppose I must give up East. Come along, young 'un. What's your name? We'll go 
and have some supper, and then I'll show you our study."
"His name's George Arthur," said the matron, walking up to him with Tom, who 
grasped his little delicate hand as the proper preliminary to making a chum of 
him, and felt as if he could have blown him away. "I've had his books and 
things put into the study, which his mama has had new papered, and the sofa 
covered, and new green-baize curtains over the door" (the diplomatic matron 
threw this in to show that the new boy was contributing largely to the 
partnership comforts). "And Mrs. Arnold told me to say," she added, "that she 
should like you both to come up to tea with her. You know the way, Master 
Brown, and the things are just gone up, I know."
Here was an announcement for Master Tom! He was to go up to tea the first 
night, just as if he were a sixth- or fifth-form boy, and of importance in the 
School world, instead of the most reckless young scapegrace amongst the fags. 
He felt himself lifted on to a higher moral and social platform at once. 
Nevertheless, he couldn't give up without a sigh the idea of the jolly supper 
in the housekeeper's room with East and the rest, and a rush round to all the 
studies of his friends afterwards, to pour out the deeds and wonders of the 
holidays, to plot fifty plans for the coming half-year, and to gather news of 
who had left, and what new boys had come, who had got who's study, and where 
the new praepostors slept. However, Tom consoled himself with thinking that he 
couldn't have done all this with the new boy at his heels, and so marched off 
along the passages to the Doctor's private house with his young charge in tow, 
in monstrous good humour with himself and all the world.
It is needless, and would be impertinent, to tell how the two young boys were 
received in that drawing-room. The lady who presided there is still living, 
and has carried with her to her peaceful home in the North the respect and 
love of all those who ever felt and shared that gentle and high-bred 
hospitality. Aye, many is the brave heart now doing its work and bearing its 
load in country curacies, London chambers, under the Indian sun, and in 
Australian towns and clearings, which looks back with fond and grateful memory 
to that School-house drawing-room, and dates much of its highest and best 
training to the lessons learnt there.
Besides Mrs. Arnold and one or two of the elder children, there were one of 
the younger masters, young Brooke, who was now in the sixth and had succeeded 
to his brother's position and influence, and another sixth-form boy there, 
talking together before the fire. The master and young Brooke, now a great 
strapping fellow six feet high, eighteen years old, and powerful as a 
coalheaver, nodded kindly to Tom to his intense glory, and then went on 
talking; the other did not notice them. The hostess, after a few kind words, 
which led the boys at once and insensibly to feel at their ease and to begin 
talking to one another, left them with her own children while she finished a 
letter. The young ones got on fast and well, Tom holding forth about a 
prodigious pony he had been riding out hunting, and hearing stories of the 
winter glories of the lakes, when tea came in, and immediately after the 
Doctor himself.
How frank, and kind, and manly was his greeting to the party by the fire; it 
did Tom's heart good to see him and young Brooke shake hands, and look one 
another in the face; and he didn't fail to remark that Brooke was nearly as 
tall and quite as broad as the Doctor. And his cup was full, when in another 
moment his master turned to him with another warm shake of the hand, and, 
seemingly oblivious of all the late scrapes which he had been getting into, 
said, "Ah, Brown, you here! I hope you left your father and all well at home."
"Yes, sir, quite well."
"And this is the little fellow who is to share your study. Well, he doesn't 
look as we should like to see him. He wants some Rugby air and cricket. And 
you must take him some good long walks, to Bilton Grange, and Caldecott's 
Spinney, and show him what little pretty country we have about here."
Tom wondered if the Doctor knew that his visits to Bilton Grange were for the 
purpose of taking rooks' nests (a proceeding strongly discountenanced by the 
owner thereof), and those to Caldecott's Spinney were prompted chiefly by the 
conveniences for setting night-lines. What didn't the Doctor know? And what a 
noble use he always made of it. He almost resolved to abjure rook-pies and 
night-lines for ever. The tea went merrily off, the Doctor now talking of 
holiday doings, and then of the prospects of the half-year, what chance there 
was for the Balliol scholarship, whether the eleven would be a good one. 
Everybody was at their ease, and everybody felt that he, young as he might be, 
was of some use in the little School world, and had a work to do there.
Soon after tea the Doctor went off to his study, and the young boys a few 
minutes afterwards took their leave, and went out of the private door which 
led from the Doctor's house into the middle passage.
At the fire, at the further end of the passage, was a crowd of boys in loud 
talk and laughter. There was a sudden pause when the door opened, and then a 
great shout of greeting, as Tom was recognised marching down the passage.
"Hullo, Brown, where do you come from?"
"Oh, I've been to tea with the Doctor," says Tom with great dignity.
"My eye," cried East. "Oh! so that's why Mary called you back, and you didn't 
come to supper. You lost something -that beef and pickles was no end good."
"I say, young fellow," cried Hall, detecting Arthur and catching him by the 
collar, "what's your name? Where do you come from? How old are you?"
Tom saw Arthur shrink back and look scared as all the group turned to him, but 
thought it best to let him answer, just standing by his side to support in 
case of need.
"Arthur, sir. I come from Devonshire."
"Don't call me `sir,' you young muff. How old are you?"
"Thirteen."
"Can you sing?"
The poor boy was trembling and hesitating. Tom struck in -"You be hanged, 
Tadpole. He'll have to sing, whether he can or not, Saturday twelve weeks, and 
that's long enough off yet."
"Do you know him at home, Brown?"
"No, but he's my chum in Gray's old study, and it's near prayer time, and I 
haven't had a look at it yet. Come along, Arthur."
Away went the two, Tom longing to get his charge safe under cover, where he 
might advise him on his deportment.
"What a queer chum for Tom Brown," was the comment at the fire; and it must be 
confessed so thought Tom himself, as he lighted his candle, and surveyed the 
new green-baize curtains, and the carpet and sofa, with much satisfaction.
"I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is to make us so cosy. But look here 
now, you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you, and don't be 
afraid. If you're afraid, you'll get bullied. And don't say you can sing; and 
don't you ever talk about home, or your mother and sisters."
Poor little Arthur looked ready to cry.
"But please," said he, "mayn't I talk about -about home to you?"
"Oh, yes, I like it. But don't talk to boys you don't know, or they'll call 
you homesick, or mama's darling, or some such stuff. What a jolly desk! is 
that yours? And what stunning binding! why your schoolbooks look like novels."
And Tom was soon deep in Arthur's goods and chattels, all new and good enough 
for a fifth-form boy, and hardly thought of his friends outside till the 
prayer-bell rung.
I have already described the School-house prayers; they were the same on the 
first night as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused by the absence of 
those boys who came late, and the line of new boys who stood all together at 
the further table -of all sorts and sizes, like young bears with all their 
troubles to come, as Tom's father had said to him when he was in the same 
position. He thought of it as he looked at the line, and poor little slight 
Arthur standing with them, and as he was leading him upstairs to No.4, 
directly after prayers, and showing him his bed. It was a huge airy room, with 
two large windows looking on to the School close. There were twelve beds in 
the room. The one in the furthest corner by the fireplace, occupied by the 
sixth-form boy who was responsible for the discipline of the room, and the 
rest by boys in the lower-fifth and other junior forms, all fags (for the 
fifth-form boys, as has been said, slept in rooms by themselves). Being fags, 
the eldest of them was not more than about sixteen years old, and were all 
bound to be up and in bed by ten; the sixth-form boys came to bed from ten to 
a quarter-past (at which time the old verger came round to put the candles 
out), except when they sat up to read.
Within a few minutes therefore of their entry, all the other boys who slept in 
No.4 had come up. The little fellows went quietly to their own beds, and began 
undressing and talking to one another in whispers; while the elder, amongst 
whom was Tom, sat chatting about on one another's beds, with their jackets and 
waistcoats off. Poor little Arthur was overwhelmed with the novelty of his 
position. The idea of sleeping in the room with strange boys had clearly never 
crossed his mind before, and was as painful as it was strange to him. He could 
hardly bear to take his jacket off; however, presently with an effort off it 
came, and then he paused and looked at Tom, who was sitting at the bottom of 
his bed talking and laughing.
"Please, Brown," he whispered, "may I wash my face and hands?"
"Of course, if you like," said Tom staring; "that's your washhand-stand under 
the window, second from your bed. You'll have to go down for more water in the 
morning if you use it all." And on he went with his talk, while Arthur stole 
timidly from between the beds out to his washhand-stand, and began his 
ablutions, thereby drawing for a moment on himself the attention of the room.
On went the talk and laughter. Arthur finished his washing and undressing, and 
put on his nightgown. He then looked round more nervously than ever. Two or 
three of the little boys were already in bed, sitting up with their chins on 
their knees. The light burned clear, the noise went on. It was a trying moment 
for the poor little lonely boy; however, this time he didn't ask Tom what he 
might or might not do, but dropped on his knees by his bedside, as he had done 
every day from his childhood, to open his heart to Him who heareth the cry and 
beareth the sorrows of the tender child, and the strong man in agony.
Tom was sitting at the bottom of his bed unlacing his boots, so that his back 
was towards Arthur, and he didn't see what had happened, and looked up in 
wonder at the sudden silence. Then two or three boys laughed and sneered, and 
a big brutal fellow, who was standing in the middle of the room, picked up a 
slipper, and shied it at the kneeling boy, calling him a snivelling young 
shaver. Then Tom saw the whole, and the next moment the boot he had just 
pulled flew straight at the head of the bully, who had just time to throw up 
his arm and catch it on his elbow.
"Confound you, Brown, what's that for?" roared he, stamping with pain.
"Never mind what I mean," said Tom, stepping on to the floor, every drop of 
blood in his body tingling; "if any fellow wants the other boot, he knows how 
to get it."
What would have been the result is doubtful, for at this moment the sixth-form 
boy came in, and not another word could be said. Tom and the rest rushed into 
bed and finished their unrobing there, and the old verger, as punctual as the 
clock, had put out the candle in another minute, and toddled on to the next 
room, shutting their door with his usual "Good-night, genl'm'n."
There were many boys in the room by whom that little scene was taken to heart 
before they slept. But sleep seemed to have deserted the pillow of poor Tom. 
For some time his excitement, and the flood of memories which chased one 
another through his brain kept him from thinking or resolving. His head 
throbbed, his heart leapt, and he could hardly keep himself from springing out 
of bed and rushing about the room. Then the thought of his own mother came 
across him, and the promise he had made at her knee, years ago, never to 
forget to kneel by his bedside, and give himself up to his Father, before he 
laid his head on the pillow from which it might never rise; and he lay down 
gently and cried as if his heart would break. He was only fourteen years old.
It was no light act of courage in those days, my dear boys, for a little 
fellow to say his prayers publicly, even at Rugby. A few years later, when 
Arnold's manly piety had begun to leaven the school, the tables turned; before 
he died, in the School-house at least, and I believe in the other houses, the 
rule was the other way. But poor Tom had come to school in other times. The 
first few nights after he came he did not kneel down because of the noise, but 
sat up in bed till the candle was out, and then stole out and said his 
prayers, in fear lest someone should find him out. So did many another poor 
little fellow. Then he began to think that he might just as well say his 
prayers in bed, and then that it didn't matter whether he was kneeling, or 
sitting, or lying down. And so it had come to pass with Tom, as with all who 
will not confess their Lord before men; and for the last year he had probably 
not said his prayers in earnest a dozen times.
Poor Tom! the first and bitterest feeling which was like to break his heart 
was the sense of his own cowardice. The vice of all others which he loathed 
was brought in and burned in on his own soul. He had lied to his mother, to 
his conscience, to his God. How could he bear it? And then the poor little 
weak boy, whom he had pitied and almost scorned for his weakness, had done 
that which he, braggart as he was, dared not do. The first dawn of comfort 
came to him in swearing to himself that he would stand by that boy through 
thick and thin, and cheer him, and help him, and bear his burthens, for the 
good deed done that night. Then he resolved to write home next day and tell 
his mother all, and what a coward her son had been. And then peace came to him 
as he resolved, lastly, to bear his testimony next morning. The morning would 
be harder than the night to begin with, but he felt that he could not afford 
to let one chance slip. Several times he faltered, for the devil showed him 
first all his old friends calling him "Saint" and "Square-toes," and a dozen 
hard names, and whispered to him that his motives would be misunderstood, and 
he would only be left alone with the new boy; whereas it was his duty to keep 
all means of influence, that he might do good to the largest number. And then 
came the more subtle temptation, "Shall I not be showing myself braver than 
others by doing this? Have I any right to begin it now? Ought I not rather to 
pray in my own study, letting other boys know that I do so, and trying to lead 
them to it, while in public at least I should go on as I have done?" However, 
his good angel was too strong that night, and he turned on his side and slept, 
tired of trying to reason, but resolved to follow the impulse which had been 
so strong, and in which he had found peace.
Next morning he was up and washed and dressed, all but his jacket and 
waistcoat, just as the ten minutes' bell began to ring, and then in the face 
of the whole room knelt down to pray. Not five words could he say -the bell 
mocked him; he was listening for every whisper in the room -what were they all 
thinking of him? He was ashamed to go on kneeling, ashamed to rise from his 
knees. At last, as it were from his inmost heart, a still small voice seemed 
to breathe forth the words of the publican, "God be merciful to me a sinner!" 
He repeated them over and over, clinging to them as for his life, and rose 
from his knees comforted and humbled, and ready to face the whole world. It 
was not needed: two other boys besides Arthur had already followed his 
example, and he went down to the great School with a glimmering of another 
lesson in his heart -the lesson that he who has conquered his own coward 
spirit has conquered the whole outward world; and that other one which the old 
prophet learnt in the cave in Mount Horeb, when he hid his face, and the still 
small voice asked, "What doest thou here, Elijah?" that however we may fancy 
ourselves alone on the side of good, the King and Lord of men is nowhere 
without His witnesses; for in every society, however seemingly corrupt and 
Godless, there are those who have not bowed the knee to Baal.
He found too how greatly he had exaggerated the effect to be produced by his 
act. For a few nights there was a sneer or a laugh when he knelt down, but 
this passed off soon, and one by one all the other boys but three or four 
followed the lead. I fear that this was in some measure owing to the fact that 
Tom could probably have thrashed any boy in the room except the praepostor; at 
any rate, everybody knew that he would try upon very slight provocation, and 
didn't choose to run the risk of a hard fight because Tom Brown had taken a 
fancy to say his prayers. Some of the small boys of No.4 communicated the new 
state of things to their chums, and in several other rooms the poor little 
fellows tried it on; in one instance or so, where the praepostor heard of it 
and interfered very decidedly, with partial success; but in the rest, after a 
short struggle, the confessors were bullied or laughed down, and the old state 
of things went on for some time longer. Before either Tom Brown or Arthur left 
the School-house, there was no room in which it had not become the regular 
custom. I trust it is so still, and that the old heathen state of things has 
gone out for ever.



Chapter 11: The New Boy

"And Heaven's rich instincts in him grew,
As effortless as woodland nooks
Send violets up and paint them blue." -LOWELL.


I do not mean to recount all the little troubles and annoyances which thronged 
upon Tom at the beginning of this half-year, in his new character of 
bear-leader to a gentle little boy straight from home. He seemed to himself to 
have become a new boy again, without any of the long-suffering and meekness 
indispensable for supporting that character with moderate success. From 
morning till night he had the feeling of responsibility on his mind, and even 
if he left Arthur in their study or in the close for an hour was never at ease 
till he had him in sight again. He waited for him at the doors of the school 
after every lesson and every calling-over; watched that no tricks were played 
him, and none but the regulation questions asked; kept his eye on his plate at 
dinner and breakfast to see that no unfair depredations were made upon his 
viands; in short, as East remarked, cackled after him like a hen with one chick.
Arthur took a long time thawing too, which made it all the harder work; was 
sadly timid; scarcely ever spoke unless Tom spoke to him first, and, worst of 
all, would agree with him in everything, the hardest thing in the world for a 
Brown to bear. He got quite angry sometimes, as they sat together of a night 
in their study, at this provoking habit of agreement, and was on the point of 
breaking out a dozen times with a lecture upon the propriety of a fellow 
having a will of his own and speaking out; but managed to restrain himself by 
the thought that it might only frighten Arthur, and the remembrance of the 
lesson he had learnt from him on his first night at No.4. Then he would 
resolve to sit still, and not say a word till Arthur began; but he was always 
beat at that game, and had presently to begin talking in despair, fearing lest 
Arthur might think he was vexed at something if he didn't, and dog tired of 
sitting tongue-tied.
It was hard work! But Tom had taken it up, and meant to stick to it, and go 
through with it so as to satisfy himself; in which resolution he was much 
assisted by the chaffing of East and his other old friends, who began to call 
him "dry-nurse," and otherwise to break their small wit on him. But when they 
took other ground, as they did every now and then, Tom was sorely puzzled.
"Tell you what, Tommy," East would say, "you'll spoil young Hopeful with too 
much coddling. Why can't you let him go about by himself and find his own 
level? He'll never be worth a button if you go on keeping him under your 
skirts."
"Well, but he ain't fit to fight his own way yet; I'm trying to get him to it 
every day -but he's very odd. Poor little beggar! I can't make him out a bit. 
He ain't a bit like anything I've ever seen or heard of -he seems all over 
nerves; anything you say seems to hurt him like a cut or a blow."
"That sort of boy's no use here," said East, "he'll only spoil. Now I'll tell 
you what you do, Tommy. Go and get a nice large band-box made, and put him in 
with plenty of cotton-wool, and a pap-bottle, labelled `With care -this side 
up,' and send him back to mamma."
"I think I shall make a hand of him though," said Tom, smiling, "say what you 
will. There's something about him, every now and then, which shows me he's got 
pluck somewhere in him. That's the only thing after all that'll wash, ain't 
it, old Scud? But how to get at it and bring it out?"
Tom took one hand out of his breeches-pocket and stuck it in his back hair for 
a scratch, giving his hat a tilt over his nose, his one method of invoking 
wisdom. He stared at the ground with a ludicrously puzzled look, and presently 
looked up and met East's eyes. That young gentleman slapped him on the back, 
and then put his arm round his shoulder, as they strolled through the 
quadrangle together. "Tom," said he, "blest if you ain't the best old fellow 
ever was -I do like to see you go into a thing. Hang it, I wish I could take 
things as you do -but I never can get higher than a joke. Everything's a joke. 
If I was going to be flogged next minute, I should be in a blue funk, but I 
couldn't help laughing at it for the life of me."
"Brown and East, you go and fag for Jones on the great fives'-court."
"Hullo, tho', that's past a joke," broke out East, springing at the young 
gentleman who addressed them, and catching him by the collar. "Here, Tommy, 
catch hold of him t'other side before he can holla."
The youth was seized, and dragged struggling out of the quadrangle into the 
School-house Hall. He was one of the miserable little pretty white-handed 
curly-headed boys, petted and pampered by some of the big fellows, who wrote 
their verses for them, taught them to drink and use bad language, and did all 
they could to spoil them for everything in this world and the next. One of the 
avocations in which these young gentlemen took particular delight was in going 
about and getting fags for their protectors, when those heroes were playing 
any game. They carried about pencil and paper with them, putting down the 
names of all the boys they sent, always sending five times as many as were 
wanted, and getting all those thrashed who didn't go. The present youth 
belonged to a house which was very jealous of the School-house, and always 
picked out School-house fags when he could find them. However, this time he'd 
got the wrong sow by the ear. His captors slammed the great door of the Hall, 
and East put his back against it, while Tom gave the prisoner a shake-up, took 
away his list, and stood him up on the floor, while he proceeded leisurely to 
examine that document.
"Let me out, let me go!" screamed the boy in a furious passion. "I'll go and 
tell Jones this minute, and he'll give you both the -- thrashing you ever had."
"Pretty little dear," said East, patting the top of his hat; "hark how he 
swears, Tom. Nicely brought-up young man, ain't he, I don't think."
"Let me alone, -- you!" roared the boy, foaming with rage and kicking at East, 
who quietly tripped him up, and deposited him on the floor in a place of safety.
"Gently, young fellow," said he; "'tain't improving for little whippersnappers 
like you to be indulging in blasphemy; so you stop that, or you'll get 
something you won't like."
"I'll have you both licked when I get out, that I will," rejoined the boy, 
beginning to snivel.
"Two can play at that game, mind you," said Tom, who had finished his 
examination of the list. "Now you just listen here. We've just come across the 
fives'-court, and Jones has four fags there already, two more than he wants. 
If he'd wanted us to change, he'd have stopped us himself. And here, you 
little blackguard, you've got seven names down on your list besides ours, and 
five of them School-house." Tom walked up to him and jerked him on to his 
legs; he was by this time whining like a whipped puppy.
"Now just listen to me. We ain't going to fag for Jones. If you tell him 
you've sent us, we'll each of us give you such a thrashing as you'll 
remember." And Tom tore up the list and threw the pieces into the fire.
"And mind you, too," said East, "don't let me catch you again sneaking about 
the School-house, and picking up our fags. You haven't got the sort of hide to 
take a sound licking kindly;" and he opened the door and sent the young 
gentleman flying into the quadrangle, with a parting kick.
"Nice boy, Tommy," said East, shoving his hands in his pockets and strolling 
to the fire.
"Worst sort we breed," responded Tom, following his example. "Thank goodness, 
no big fellow ever took to petting me."
"You'd never have been like that," said East. "I should like to have him put 
in a museum. Christian young gentleman, nineteenth century, highly educated. 
Stir him up with the long pole, Jack, and hear him swear like a drunken 
sailor. He'd make a respectable public open its eyes, I think."
"Think he'll tell Jones?" said Tom.
"No," said East. "Don't care if he does."
"Nor I," said Tom. And they went back to talk about Arthur.
The young gentleman had brains enough not to tell Jones, reasoning that East 
and Brown, who were noted as some of the toughest fags in the school, wouldn't 
care three straws for any licking Jones might give them, and would be likely 
to keep their words as to passing it on with interest.
After the above conversation, East came a good deal to their study, and took 
notice of Arthur; and soon allowed to Tom that he was a thorough little 
gentleman, and would get over his shyness all in good time; which much 
comforted our hero. He felt every day, too, the value of having an object in 
his life, something that drew him out of himself; and it being the dull time 
of the year, and no games going about for which he much cared, was happier 
than he had ever yet been at school, which was saying a great deal.
The time which Tom allowed himself away from his charge was from locking-up 
till supper-time. During this hour or hour and a half he used to take his 
fling, going round to the studies of all his acquaintance, sparring or 
gossiping in the hall, now jumping the old iron-bound tables, or carving a bit 
of his name on them, then joining in some chorus of merry voices; in fact, 
blowing off his steam, as we should now call it.
This process was so congenial to his temper, and Arthur showed himself so 
pleased at the arrangement, that it was several weeks before Tom was ever in 
their study before supper. One evening, however, he rushed in to look for an 
old chisel, or some corks, or other article essential to his pursuit for the 
time being, and while rummaging about in the cupboards, looked up for a 
moment, and was caught at once by the figure of poor little Arthur. The boy 
was sitting with his elbows on the table, and his head leaning on his hands, 
and before him an open book, on which his tears were falling fast. Tom shut 
the door at once, and sat down on the sofa by Arthur, putting his arm round 
his neck.
"Why, young 'un! what's the matter?" said he kindly; "you ain't unhappy, are 
you?"
"Oh no, Brown," said the little boy, looking up with the great tears in his 
eyes, "you are so kind to me, I'm very happy."
"Why don't you call me Tom? lots of boys do that I don't like half so much as 
you. What are you reading, then? Hang it, you must come about with me, and not 
mope yourself," and Tom cast down his eyes on the book and saw it was the 
Bible. He was silent for a minute, and thought to himself, "Lesson Number 2, 
Tom Brown;" and then said gently - 
"I'm very glad to see this, Arthur, and ashamed that I don't read the Bible 
more myself. Do you read it every night before supper while I'm out?"
"Yes."
"Well, I wish you'd wait till afterwards, and then we'd read together. But, 
Arthur, why does it make you cry?"
"Oh, it isn't that I'm unhappy. But at home, while my father was alive, we 
always read the lessons after tea; and I love to read them over now, and try 
to remember what he said about them. I can't remember all, and I think I 
scarcely understand a great deal of what I do remember. But it all comes back 
to me so fresh that I can't help crying sometimes to think I shall never read 
them again with him."
Arthur had never spoken of his home before, and Tom hadn't encouraged him to 
do so, as his blundering schoolboy reasoning made him think that Arthur would 
be softened and less manly for thinking of home. But now he was fairly 
interested, and forgot all about chisels and bottled beer; while with very 
little encouragement Arthur launched into his home history, and the 
prayer-bell put them both out sadly when it rang to call them to the Hall.
From this time Arthur constantly spoke of his home, and above all, of his 
father, who had been dead about a year, and whose memory Tom soon got to love 
and reverence almost as much as his own son did.
Arthur's father had been the clergyman of a parish in the Midland Counties, 
which had risen into a large town during the war, and upon which the hard 
years which followed had fallen with a fearful weight. The trade had been half 
ruined: and then came the old sad story, of masters reducing their 
establishments, men turned off and wandering about, hungry and wan in body, 
and fierce in soul, from the thought of wives and children starving at home, 
and the last sticks of furniture going to the pawn-shop. Children taken from 
school, and lounging about the dirty streets and courts, too listless almost 
to play, and squalid in rags and misery. And then the fearful struggle between 
the employers and men; lowerings of wages, strikes, and the long course of 
oft-repeated crime, ending every now and then with a riot, a fire, and the 
county yeomanry. There is no need here to dwell upon such tales; the 
Englishman into whose soul they have not sunk deep is not worthy the name: you 
English boys for whom this book is meant (God bless your bright faces and kind 
hearts!) will learn it all soon enough.
Into such a parish and state of society, Arthur's father had been thrown at 
the age of twenty-five, a young married parson, full of faith, hope, and love. 
He had battled with it like a man, and had lots of fine Utopian ideas about 
the perfectibility of mankind, glorious humanity, and suchlike knocked out of 
his head; and a real wholesome Christian love for the poor struggling, sinning 
men, of whom he felt himself one, and with and for whom he spent fortune and 
strength and life, driven into his heart. He had battled like a man, and 
gotten a man's reward. No silver teapots or salvers, with flowery 
inscriptions, setting forth his virtues and the appreciation of a genteel 
parish; no fat living or stall, for which he never looked, and didn't care; no 
sighs and praises of comfortable dowagers and well got-up young women, who 
worked him slippers, sugared his tea, and adored him as "a devoted man"; but a 
manly respect, wrung from the unwilling souls of men who fancied his order 
their natural enemies; the fear and hatred of every one who was false or 
unjust in the district, were he master or man; and the blessed sight of women 
and children daily becoming more human and more homely, a comfort to 
themselves and to their husbands and fathers.
These things of course took time, and had to be fought for with toil and sweat 
of brain and heart, and with the life-blood poured out. All that, Arthur had 
laid his account to give, and took as a matter of course; neither pitying 
himself, or looking on himself as a martyr, when he felt the wear and tear 
making him feel old before his time, and the stifling air of fever dens 
telling on his health. His wife seconded him in everything. She had been 
rather fond of society, and much admired and run after before her marriage; 
and the London world to which she had belonged pitied poor Fanny Evelyn when 
she married the young clergyman, and went to settle in that smoky hole Turley, 
a very nest of Chartism and Atheism, in a part of the county which all the 
decent families had had to leave for years. However, somehow or other she 
didn't seem to care. If her husband's living had been amongst green fields and 
near pleasant neighbours, she would have liked it better, that she never 
pretended to deny. But there they were: the air wasn't bad after all; the 
people were very good sort of people, civil to you if you were civil to them, 
after the first brush; and they didn't expect to work miracles, and convert 
them all off-hand into model Christians. So he and she went quietly among the 
folk, talking to and treating them just as they would have done people of 
their own rank. They didn't feel that they were doing anything out of the 
common way, and so were perfectly natural, and had none of that condescension 
or consciousness of manner which so outrages the independent poor. And thus 
they gradually won respect and confidence; and after sixteen years he was 
looked up to by the whole neighbourhood as the just man, the man to whom 
masters and men could go in their strikes, and all in their quarrels and 
difficulties, and by whom the right and true word would be said without fear 
or favour. And the women had come round to take her advice, and go to her as a 
friend in all their troubles; while the children all worshipped the very 
ground she trod on.
They had three children, two daughters and a son, little George, who came 
between his sisters. He had been a very delicate boy from his childhood; they 
thought he had a tendency to consumption, and so he had been kept at home and 
taught by his father, who had made a companion of him, and from whom he had 
gained good scholarship, and a knowledge of and interest in many subjects 
which boys in general never come across till they are many years older.
Just as he reached his thirteenth year, and his father had settled that he was 
strong enough to go to school, and, after much debating with himself, had 
resolved to send him there, a desperate typhus-fever broke out in the town: 
most of the other clergy, and almost all the doctors, ran away; the work fell 
with tenfold weight on those who stood to their work. Arthur and his wife both 
caught the fever, of which he died in a few days, and she recovered, having 
been able to nurse him to the end, and store up his last words. He was 
sensible to the last, and calm and happy, leaving his wife and children with 
fearless trust for a few years in the hands of the Lord and Friend who had 
lived and died for him, and for whom he, to the best of his power, had lived 
and died. His widow's mourning was deep and gentle; she was more affected by 
the request of the Committee of a Freethinking club, established in the town 
by some of the factory hands (which he had striven against with might and 
main, and nearly suppressed), that some of their number might be allowed to 
help bear the coffin, than by anything else. Two of them were chosen, who, 
with six other labouring men, his own fellow-workmen and friends, bore him to 
his grave -a man who had fought the Lord's fight even unto the death. The 
shops were closed and the factories shut that day in the parish, yet no master 
stopped the day's wages; but for many a year afterwards the towns-folk felt 
the want of that brave, hopeful, loving parson, and his wife, who had lived to 
teach them mutual forbearance and helpfulness, and had almost at last given 
them a glimpse of what this old world would be, if people would live for God 
and each other, instead of for themselves.
What has all this to do with our story? Well, my dear boys, let a fellow go on 
his own way, or you won't get anything out of him worth having. I must show 
you what sort of a man it was who had begotten and trained little Arthur, or 
else you won't believe in him, which I am resolved you shall do; and you won't 
see how he, the timid weak boy, had points in him from which the bravest and 
strongest recoiled, and made his presence and example felt from the first on 
all sides, unconsciously to himself, and without the least attempt at 
proselytising. The spirit of his father was in him, and the Friend to whom his 
father had left him did not neglect the trust.
After supper that night, and almost nightly for years afterwards, Tom and 
Arthur, and by degrees East occasionally, and sometimes one, sometimes 
another, of their friends, read a chapter of the Bible together, and talked it 
over afterwards. Tom was at first utterly astonished, and almost shocked, at 
the sort of way in which Arthur read the book, and talked about the men and 
women whose lives were there told. The first night they happened to fall on 
the chapters about the famine in Egypt, and Arthur began talking about Joseph 
as if he were a living statesman; just as he might have talked about Lord Grey 
and the Reform Bill; only that they were much more living realities to him. 
The book was to him, Tom saw, the most vivid and delightful history of real 
people, who might do right or wrong, just like any one who was walking about 
in Rugby -the Doctor, or the master, or the sixth-form boys. But the 
astonishment soon passed off, the scales seemed to drop from his eyes, and the 
book became at once and for ever to him the great human and divine book, and 
the men and women, whom he had looked upon as something quite different from 
himself, became his friends and counsellors.
For our purposes, however, the history of one night's reading will be 
sufficient, which must be told here, now we are on the subject, though it 
didn't happen till a year afterwards, and long after the events recorded in 
the next chapter of our story.
Arthur, Tom, and East were together one night, and read the story of Naaman 
coming to Elisha to be cured of his leprosy. When the chapter was finished, 
Tom shut his Bible with a slap.
"I can't stand that fellow Naaman," said he, "after what he'd seen and felt, 
going back and bowing himself down in the house of Rimmon, because his 
effeminate scoundrel of a master did it. I wonder Elisha took the trouble to 
heal him. How he must have despised him."
"Yes, there you go off as usual, with a shell on your head," struck in East, 
who always took the opposite side to Tom; half from love of argument, half 
from conviction. "How do you know he didn't think better of it? how do you 
know his master was a scoundrel? His letter don't look like it, and the book 
don't say so."
"I don't care," rejoined Tom; "why did Naaman talk about bowing down then if 
he didn't mean to do it? He wasn't likely to get more in earnest when he got 
back to Court, and away from the Prophet."
"Well, but, Tom," said Arthur, "look what Elisha says to him, `Go in peace.' 
He wouldn't have said that if Naaman had been in the wrong."
"I don't see that that means more than saying, `You're not the man I took you 
for.' "

"No, no, that won't do at all," said East; "read the words fairly, and take 
men as you find them. I like Naaman, and think he was a very fine fellow."
"I don't," said Tom positively.
"Well, I think East is right," said Arthur; "I can't see but what it's right 
to do the best you can, though it mayn't be the best absolutely. Every man 
isn't born to be a martyr."
"Of course, of course," said East; "but he's on one of his pet hobbies. How 
often have I told you, Tom, that you must drive a nail where it'll go."
"And how often have I told you," rejoined Tom, "that it'll always go where you 
want, if you only stick to it and hit hard enough. I hate half-measures and 
compromises."
"Yes, he's a whole-hog man, is Tom. Must have the whole animal, hair and 
teeth, claws and tail," laughed East. "Sooner have no bread any day, than half 
the loaf."
"I don't know," said Arthur, "it's rather puzzling; but ain't most right 
things got by proper compromises, I mean where the principle isn't given up?"
"That's just the point," said Tom; "I don't object to a compromise, where you 
don't give up your principle."
"Not you," said East laughingly. "I know him of old, Arthur, and you'll find 
him out some day. There isn't such a reasonable fellow in the world, to hear 
him talk. He never wants anything but what's right and fair; only when you 
come to settle what's right and fair, it's everything that he wants, and 
nothing that you want. And that's his idea of a compromise. Give me the Brown 
compromise when I'm on his side."
"Now, Harry," said Tom, "no more chaff -I'm serious. Look here -this is what 
makes my blood tingle;" and he turned over the pages of his Bible and read, 
"Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego answered and said to the king, `O 
Nebuchadnezzar, we are not careful to answer thee in this matter. If it be so, 
our God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the burning fiery furnace, 
and He will deliver us out of thine hand, O king. But if not, be it known unto 
thee, O king, that we will not serve thy gods, nor worship the golden image 
which thou hast set up.' " He read the last verse twice, emphasising the nots, 
and dwelling on them as if they gave him actual pleasure, and were hard to 
part with.
They were silent a minute, and then Arthur said, "Yes, that's a glorious 
story, but it don't prove your point, Tom, I think. There are times when there 
is only one way, and that the highest, and then the men are found to stand in 
the breach."
"There's always a highest way, and it's always the right one," said Tom. "How 
many times has the Doctor told us that in his sermons in the last year, I 
should like to know?"
"Well, you ain't going to convince us, -is he, Arthur? No Brown compromise 
tonight," said East, looking at his watch. "But it's past eight, and we must 
go to first lesson. What a bore!"
So they took down their books and fell to work; but Arthur didn't forget, and 
thought long and often over the conversation.



Chapter 12: Arthur Makes a Friend

"Let Nature be your teacher:
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things.
We murder to dissect - 
Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves,
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives." -WORDSWORTH.


About six weeks after the beginning of the half, as Tom and Arthur were 
sitting one night before supper beginning their verses, Arthur suddenly 
stopped, and looked up, and said, "Tom, do you know anything of Martin?"
"Yes," said Tom, taking his hand out of his back hair, and delighted to throw 
his Gradus ad Parnassum on to the sofa; "I know him pretty well. He's a very 
good fellow, but as mad as a hatter. He's called Madman, you know. And never 
was such a fellow for getting all sorts of rum things about him. He tamed two 
snakes last half, and used to carry them about in his pocket, and I'll be 
bound he's got some hedgehogs and rats in his cupboard now, and no one knows 
what besides."
"I should like very much to know him," said Arthur; "he was next to me in the 
form today, and he'd lost his book and looked over mine, and he seemed so kind 
and gentle that I liked him very much."
"Ah, poor old Madman, he's always losing his books," said Tom, "and getting 
called up and floored because he hasn't got them."
"I like him all the better," said Arthur.
"Well, he's great fun, I can tell you," said Tom, throwing himself back on the 
sofa and chuckling at the remembrance. "We had such a game with him one day 
last half. He had been kicking up horrid stinks for some time in his study, 
till I suppose some fellow told Mary, and she told the Doctor. Anyhow, one day 
a little before dinner, when he came down from the library, the Doctor, 
instead of going home, came striding into the Hall. East and I and five or six 
other fellows were at the fire, and preciously we stared, for he don't come in 
like that once a year, unless it's a wet day and there's a fight in the Hall. 
`East,' says he, `just come and show me Martin's study.' `Oh, here's a game,' 
whispered the rest of us, and we all cut upstairs after the Doctor, East 
leading. As we got into the New Row, which was hardly wide enough to hold the 
Doctor and his gown, click, click, click, we heard in the old Madman's den. 
Then that stopped all of a sudden, and the bolts went to like fun: the Madman 
knew East's step, and thought there was going to be a siege.
" `It's the Doctor, Martin. He's here and wants to see you,' sings out East.
"Then the bolts went back slowly, and the door opened, and there was the old 
Madman standing, looking precious scared; his jacket off, his shirt-sleeves up 
to his elbows, and his long skinny arms all covered with anchors and arrows 
and letters, tattooed in with gunpowder like a sailor-boy's, and a stink fit 
to knock you down, coming out. 'Twas all the Doctor could do to stand his 
ground, and East and I, who were looking in under his arms, held our noses 
tight. The old magpie was standing on the window-sill, all his feathers 
drooping, and looking disgusted and half-poisoned.
" `What can you be about, Martin?' says the Doctor; `you really mustn't go on 
in this way -you're a nuisance to the whole passage.'
" `Please, Sir, I was only mixing up this powder, there isn't any harm in it;' 
and the Madman seized nervously on his pestle-and-mortar, to show the Doctor 
the harmlessness of his pursuits, and went off pounding: click, click, click; 
he hadn't given six clicks before, puff! up went the whole into a great blaze, 
away went the pestle-and-mortar across the study, and back we tumbled into the 
passage. The magpie fluttered down into the court, swearing, and the Madman 
danced out, howling, with his fingers in his mouth. The Doctor caught hold of 
him, and called to us to fetch some water. `There, you silly fellow,' said he, 
quite pleased though to find he wasn't much hurt, `you see you don't know the 
least what you are doing with all these things; and now, mind, you must give 
up practising chemistry by yourself.' Then he took hold of his arm and looked 
at it, and I saw he had to bite his lip, and his eyes twinkled; but he said, 
quite grave, `Here, you see, you've been making all these foolish marks on 
yourself, which you can never get out, and you'll be very sorry for it in a 
year or two: now come down to the housekeeper's room, and let us see if you 
are hurt.' And away went the two, and we all stayed and had a regular turn-out 
of the den, till Martin came back with his hand bandaged and turned us out. 
However, I'll go and see what he's after, and tell him to come in after 
prayers to supper." And away went Tom to find the boy in question, who dwelt 
in a little study by himself, in New Row.
The aforesaid Martin, whom Arthur had taken such a fancy for, was one of those 
unfortunates, who were at that time of day (and are I fear still) quite out of 
their places at a public-school. If we knew how to use our boys, Martin would 
have been seized upon and educated as a natural philosopher. He had a passion 
for birds, beasts, and insects, and knew more of them and their habits than 
any one in Rugby; except perhaps the Doctor, who knew everything. He was also 
an experimental chemist on a small scale, and had made unto himself an 
electric machine, from which it was his greatest pleasure and glory to 
administer small shocks to any small boys who were rash enough to venture into 
his study. And this was by no means an adventure free from excitement; for, 
besides the probability of a snake dropping on to your head or twining 
lovingly up your leg, or a rat getting into your breeches-pocket in search of 
food, there was the animal and chemical odour to be faced, which always hung 
about the den, and the chance of being blown up in some of the many 
experiments which Martin was always trying, with the most wondrous results in 
the shape of explosions and smells that mortal boy ever heard of. Of course, 
poor Martin, in consequence of his pursuits, had become an Ishmaelite in the 
house. In the first place, he half-poisoned all his neighbours, and they in 
turn were always on the lookout to pounce upon any of his numerous livestock, 
and drive him frantic by enticing his pet old magpie out of his window into a 
neighbouring study, and making the disreputable old bird drunk on toast soaked 
in beer and sugar. Then Martin, for his sins, inhabited a study looking into a 
small court some ten feet across, the window of which was completely commanded 
by those of the studies opposite in the sickroom row, these latter being at a 
slightly higher elevation. East, and another boy of an equally tormenting and 
ingenious turn of mind, now lived exactly opposite, and had expended huge 
pains and time in the preparation of instruments of annoyance for the behoof 
of Martin and his live colony. One morning an old basket made its appearance, 
suspended by a short cord outside Martin's window, in which were deposited an 
amateur nest containing four young hungry jackdaws, the pride and glory of 
Martin's life for the time being, and which he was currently asserted to have 
hatched upon his own person. Early in the morning and late at night he was to 
be seen half out of window, administering to the varied wants of his callow 
brood. After deep cogitation, East and his chum had spliced a knife on to the 
end of a fishing-rod; and having watched Martin out, had, after half an hour's 
severe sawing, cut the string by which the basket was suspended, and tumbled 
it on to the pavement below, with hideous remonstrance from the occupants. 
Poor Martin, returning from his short absence, collected the fragments and 
replaced his brood (except one whose neck had been broken in the descent) in 
their old location, suspending them this time by string and wire twisted 
together, defiant of any sharp instrument which his persecutors could command. 
But, like the Russian engineers at Sebastopol, East and his chum had an answer 
for every move of the adversary; and the next day had mounted a gun in the 
shape of a pea-shooter upon the ledge of their window, trained so as to bear 
exactly upon the spot which Martin had to occupy while tending his nurslings. 
The moment he began to feed they began to shoot; in vain did the enemy himself 
invest in a pea-shooter, and endeavour to answer the fire while he fed the 
young birds with his other hand; his attention was divided, and his shots flew 
wild, while every one of theirs told on his face and hands, and drove him into 
howlings and imprecations. He had been driven to ensconce the nest in a corner 
of his already too well-filled den.
His door was barricaded by a set of ingenious bolts of his own invention, for 
the sieges were frequent by the neighbours when any unusually ambrosial odour 
spread itself from the den to the neighbouring studies. The door panels were 
in a normal state of smash, but the frame of the door resisted all besiegers, 
and behind it the owner carried on his various pursuits; much in the same 
state of mind, I should fancy, as a border-farmer lived in, in the days of the 
old moss-troopers, when his hold might be summoned or his cattle carried off 
at any minute of night or day.
"Open, Martin, old boy -it's only I, only Tom Brown."
"Oh, very well, stop a moment." One bolt went back. "You're sure East isn't 
there?"
"No, no, hang it, open." Tom gave a kick, the other bolt creaked, and he 
entered the den.
Den indeed it was, about five feet six inches long by five wide, and seven 
feet high. About six tattered schoolbooks, and a few chemical books, 
Taxidermy, Stanley on Birds, and an odd volume of Bewick, the latter in much 
better preservation, occupied the top shelves. The other shelves, where they 
had not been cut away and used by the owner for other purposes, were fitted up 
for the abiding-places of birds, beasts, and reptiles. There was no attempt at 
carpet or curtain. The table was entirely occupied by the great work of 
Martin, the electric machine, which was covered carefully with the remains of 
his tablecloth. The jackdaw cage occupied one wall, and the other was adorned 
by a small hatchet, a pair of climbing irons, and his tin candle-box, in which 
he was for the time being endeavouring to raise a hopeful young family of 
field-mice. As nothing should be let to lie useless, it was well that the 
candle-box was thus occupied, for candles Martin never had. A pound was issued 
to him weekly as to the other boys, but as candles were available capital, and 
easily exchangeable for bird's-eggs or young birds, Martin's pound invariably 
found its way in a few hours to Howlett's the bird-fancier's, in the Bilton 
Road, who would give a hawk's or nightingale's egg or young linnet in 
exchange. Martin's ingenuity was therefore for ever on the rack to supply 
himself with a light; just now he had hit upon a grand invention, and the den 
was lighted by a flaring cotton-wick issuing from a ginger-beer bottle full of 
some doleful composition. When light altogether failed him, Martin would loaf 
about by the fires in the passages or hall, after the manner of Diggs, and try 
to do his verses or learn his lines by the firelight.
"Well, old boy, you haven't got any sweeter in the den this half. How that 
stuff in the bottle stinks. Never mind, I ain't going to stop, but you come up 
after prayers to our study; you know young Arthur, we've got Gray's study. 
We'll have a good supper and talk about bird's-nesting."
Martin was evidently highly pleased at the invitation, and promised to be up 
without fail.
As soon as prayers were over, and the sixth-and fifth-form boys had withdrawn 
to the aristocratic seclusion of their own room, and the rest, or democracy, 
had sat down to their supper in the Hall, Tom and Arthur, having secured their 
allowances of bread and cheese, started on their feet to catch the eye of the 
praepostor of the week, who remained in charge during supper, walking up and 
down the Hall. He happened to be an easy-going fellow, so they got a pleasant 
nod to their "Please may I go out?" and away they scrambled to prepare for 
Martin a sumptuous banquet. This Tom had insisted on, for he was in great 
delight on the occasion; the reason of which delight must be expounded. The 
fact was that this was the first attempt at a friendship of his own which 
Arthur had made, and Tom hailed it as a grand step. The ease with which he 
himself became hail-fellow-well-met with anybody, and blundered into and out 
of twenty friendships a half-year, made him sometimes sorry and sometimes 
angry at Arthur's reserve and loneliness. True, Arthur was always pleasant, 
and even jolly, with any boys who came with Tom to their study; but Tom felt 
that it was only through him, as it were, that his chum associated with 
others, and that but for him Arthur would have been dwelling in a wilderness. 
This increased his consciousness of responsibility; and though he hadn't 
reasoned it out and made it clear to himself, yet somehow he knew that this 
responsibility, this trust which he had taken on him without thinking about 
it, head-over-heels in fact, was the centre and turning-point of his 
school-life, that which was to make or mar him; his appointed work and trial 
for the time being. And Tom was becoming a new boy, though with frequent 
tumbles in the dirt and perpetual hard battle with himself, and was daily 
growing in manfulness and thoughtfulness, as every high-couraged and 
well-principled boy must, when he finds himself for the first time consciously 
at grips with self and the devil. Already he could turn almost without a sigh 
from the school gates, from which had just scampered off East and three or 
four others of his own particular set, bound for some jolly lark not quite 
according to law, and involving probably a row with louts, keepers, or 
farm-labourers, the skipping dinner or calling-over, some of Phoebe Jennings' 
beer, and a very possible flogging at the end of all as a relish. He had quite 
got over the stage in which he would grumble to himself, "Well, hang it, it's 
very hard of the Doctor to have saddled me with Arthur. Why couldn't he have 
chummed him with Fogey, or Thomkin, or any of the fellows who never do 
anything but walk round the close, and finish their copies the first day 
they're set?" But although all this was past, he often longed, and felt that 
he was right in longing, for more time for the legitimate pastimes of cricket, 
fives, bathing, and fishing within bounds, in which Arthur could not yet be 
his companion; and he felt that when the young 'un (as he now generally called 
him) had found a pursuit and some other friend for himself, he should be able 
to give more time to the education of his own body with a clear conscience.
And now what he so wished for had come to pass; he almost hailed it as a 
special providence (as indeed it was, but not for the reasons he gave for it 
-what providences are?) that Arthur should have singled out Martin of all 
fellows for a friend. "The old Madman is the very fellow," thought he; "he 
will take him scrambling over half the country after birds' eggs and flowers, 
make him run and swim and climb like an Indian, and not teach him a word of 
anything bad, or keep him from his lessons. What luck!" And so, with more than 
his usual heartiness, he dived into his cupboard and hauled out an old 
knuckle-bone of ham, and two or three bottles of beer, together with the 
solemn pewter only used on state occasions; while Arthur, equally elated at 
the easy accomplishment of his first act of volition in the joint 
establishment, produced from his side a bottle of pickles and a pot of jam, 
and cleared the table. In a minute or two the noise of the boys coming up from 
supper was heard, and Martin knocked and was admitted, bearing his bread and 
cheese, and the three fell to with hearty good will upon the viands, talking 
faster than they eat, 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 tomorrow, 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 or a hawk's 
egg."
"You just come down to my study then, and I'll show you five sorts," said 
Martin.
"Aye, the old Madman has got the best collection in the house, out-and-out," 
said Tom; and then Martin, warming with unaccustomed good cheer and the chance 
of a convert, launched out into a proposed birds'-nesting campaign, betraying 
all manner of important secrets; a golden-crested wren's nest near Butlin's 
Mound, a moorhen who was sitting on fourteen 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 úl00 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 úl00, 
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.
"Ah, you greedy vagabonds," said East, with his mouth full, "I knew there was 
something going on when I saw you cut off out of Hall so quick with your 
suppers. What a stunning tap, Tom! you are a wunner for bottling the swipes."
"I've had practice enough for the sixth in my time, and it's hard if I haven't 
picked up a wrinkle or two for my own benefit."
"Well, old Madman, and how goes the birds'-nesting campaign? How's Howlett? I 
expect the young rooks'll be out in another fortnight, and then my turn comes."
"There'll be no young rooks fit for pies for a month yet: shows how much you 
know about it," rejoined Martin, who, though very good friends with East, 
regarded him with considerable suspicion for his propensity to practical jokes.
"Scud knows nothing and cares for nothing but grub and mischief," said Tom; 
"but young rook pie, specially when you've had to climb for them, is very 
pretty eating. However, I say, Scud, we're all going after a hawk's nest 
tomorrow, 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 
generally had one for themselves and one for a friend in my time. The only 
objection to the traditionary method of doing your vulgus was the risk that 
the successions might have become confused, and so that you and another 
follower of tradition should show up the same identical vulgus some fine 
morning, in which case, when it happened, considerable grief was the result 
-but when did such risk hinder boys or men from short cuts and pleasant paths?
Now, in the study that night, Tom was the upholder of the traditionary method 
of vulgus doing. He carefully produced two large vulgus-books, and began 
diving into them, and picking out a line here, and an ending there (tags as 
they were vulgarly called), till he had gotten all that he thought he could 
make fit. He then proceeded to patch his tags together with the help of his 
Gradus, producing an incongruous and feeble result of eight elegiac lines, the 
minimum quantity for his form, and finishing up with two highly moral lines 
extra, making ten in all, which he cribbed entire from one of his books, 
beginning "O genus humanum," and which he himself must have used a dozen times 
before, whenever an unfortunate or wicked hero, of whatever nation or language 
under the sun, was the subject. Indeed, he began to have great doubts whether 
the master wouldn't remember them, and so only threw them in as extra lines, 
because in any case they would call off attention from the other tags, and if 
detected, being extra lines, he wouldn't be sent back to do two more in their 
place, while if they passed muster again he would get marks for them.
The second method, pursued by Martin, may be called the dogged, or prosaic 
method. He, no more than Tom, took any pleasure in the task, but having no old 
vulgus-books of his own or any one's else, could not follow the traditionary 
method, for which too, as Tom remarked, he hadn't the genius. Martin then 
proceeded to write down eight lines in English, of the most matter-of-fact 
kind, the first that came into his head; and to convert these, line by line, 
by main force of Gradus and dictionary, into Latin that would scan. This was 
all he cared for, to produce eight lines with no false quantities or concords: 
whether the words were apt, or what the sense was, mattered nothing; and, as 
the article was all new, not a line beyond the minimum did the followers of 
the dogged method ever produce.
The third, or artistic method was Arthur's. He considered first what point in 
the character or event which was the subject could most neatly be brought out 
within the limits of a vulgus, trying always to get his idea into the eight 
lines, but not binding himself to ten or even twelve lines if he couldn't do 
this. He then set to work, as much as possible without Gradus or other help, 
to clothe his idea in appropriate Latin or Greek, and would not be satisfied 
till he had polished it well up with the aptest and most poetic words and 
phrases he could get at.
A fourth method indeed was in use in the school, but of too simple a kind to 
require description. 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 dreamt of the glorious perils of 
tree-climbing, and that he had found a roc's egg in the island as big as 
Sinbad's and clouded like a tit-lark's, in blowing which Martin and he had 
nearly been drowned in the yolk.



Chapter 13: The Bird-Fanciers

"I have found out a gift for my fair,
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
But let me the plunder forbear,
She would say 'twas a barbarous deed." -ROWE.

"And now, my lad, take them five shilling,
And on my advice in future think:
So Billy pouched them all so willing,
And got that night disguised in drink." -MS. BALLAD.


The next morning at first lesson Tom was turned back in his lines, and so had 
to wait till the second round, while Martin and Arthur said theirs all right 
and got out of school at once. When Tom got out and ran down to breakfast at 
Harrowell's they were missing, and Stumps informed him that they had swallowed 
down their breakfasts and gone off together -where, he couldn't say. Tom 
hurried over his own breakfast, and went first to Martin's study and then to 
his own, but no signs of the missing boys were to be found. He felt half angry 
and jealous of Martin -where could they be gone?
He learnt second lesson with East and the rest in no very good temper, and 
then went out into the quadrangle. About ten minutes before school, Martin and 
Arthur arrived in the quadrangle breathless; and, catching sight of him, 
Arthur rushed up, all excitement, and with a bright glow on his face.
"Oh, Tom, look here!" cried he, holding out three moorhen's eggs; "we've been 
down the Barby Road to the pool Martin told us of last night, and just see 
what we've got."
Tom wouldn't be pleased, and only looked out for something to find fault with.
"Why, young 'un," said he, "what have you been after? You don't mean to say 
you've been wading?"
The tone of reproach made poor little Arthur shrink up in a moment and look 
piteous, and Tom with a shrug of his shoulders turned his anger on Martin.
"Well, I didn't think, Madman, that you'd have been such a muff as to let him 
be getting wet through at this time of day. You might have done the wading 
yourself."
"So I did, of course; only he would come in too, to see the nest. We left six 
eggs in; they'll be hatched in a day or two."
"Hang the eggs!" said Tom, "a fellow can't turn his back for a moment but all 
his work's undone. He'll be laid up for a week for this precious lark, I'll be 
bound."
"Indeed, Tom, now," pleaded Arthur, "my feet ain't wet, for Martin made me 
take off my shoes and stockings and trousers."
"But they are wet, and dirty too -can't I see?" answered Tom; "and you'll be 
called up and floored when the master sees what a state you're in. You haven't 
looked at second lesson you know." Oh, Tom, you old humbug! you to be 
upbraiding any one with not learning their lessons. If you hadn't been floored 
yourself now at first lesson, do you mean to say you wouldn't have been with 
them? And you've taken away all poor little Arthur's joy and pride in his 
first birds' eggs, and he goes and puts them down in the study, and takes down 
his books with a sigh, thinking he has done something horribly wrong, whereas 
he has learnt on in advance much more than will be done at second lesson.
But the old Madman hasn't, and gets called up and makes some frightful shots, 
losing about ten places, and all but getting floored. This somewhat appeases 
Tom's wrath, and by the end of the lesson he has regained his temper; and 
afterwards, in their study, he begins to get right again, as he watches 
Arthur's intense joy at seeing Martin blowing the eggs and glueing them 
carefully on to bits of cardboard, and notes the anxious loving looks which 
the little fellow casts sidelong at him. And then he thinks, "What an 
ill-tempered beast I am! Here's just what I was wishing for last night come 
about, and I'm spoiling it all," and in another five minutes has swallowed the 
last mouthful of his bile, and is repaid by seeing his little sensitive plant 
expand again and sun itself in his smiles.
After dinner the Madman is busy with the preparations for their expedition, 
fitting new straps on to his climbing-irons, filling large pill-boxes with 
cotton-wool, and sharpening East's small axe. They carry all their munitions 
into calling-over, and directly afterwards, having dodged such 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.
"Fir!" shouted Tom, "why, don't you mean to say, young 'un, you don't know a 
beech when you see one?"
Poor little Arthur looked terribly ashamed, and East exploded in laughter 
which made the wood ring.
"I've hardly ever seen any trees," faltered Arthur.
"What a shame to hoax him, Scud," cried Martin. "Never mind, Arthur, you shall 
know more about trees than he does in a week or two."
"And isn't that the kestrel's nest then?" asked Arthur.
"That! why that's a piece of mistletoe. There's the nest, that lump of small 
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. "Now, Scud, you lazy rascal, stick 
yourself against the tree."
"I dare say! and have you standing on my shoulders with the irons on: what do 
you think my skin's made of?" However, up he got and leant against the tree, 
putting his head down and clasping it with his arms as far as he could. "Now 
then, Madman," said Tom, "you next."
"No, I'm lighter than you, you go next." So Tom got on East's shoulders and 
grasped the tree above, and then Martin scrambled up on 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 moment's rest, up 
went Martin, hand over hand, watched by Arthur with fearful eagerness.
"Isn't it very dangerous?" said he.
"Not a bit," answered Tom; "you can't hurt if you only get good hand-hold. Try 
every branch with a good pull before you trust it, and then up you go."
Martin was now amongst the small branches close to the nest, and away dashed 
the old bird and soared up above the trees watching the intruder.
"All right -four eggs!" shouted he.
"Take 'em all!" shouted East; "that'll be one apiece."
"No, no! leave one, and then she won't care," said Tom.
We boys had an idea that birds couldn't count, and were quite content as long 
as you left one egg. I hope it is so.
Martin carefully put one egg into each of his boxes and the third into his 
mouth, the only other place of safety, and came down like a lamplighter. All 
went well till he was within ten feet of the ground, when, as the trunk 
enlarged, his hold got less and less firm, and at last down he came with a 
run, tumbling on to his back on the turf, spluttering and spitting out the 
remains of the great egg, which had broken by the jar of his fall.
"Ugh, ugh! something to drink -ugh! it was addled," spluttered he, while the 
wood rang again with the merry laughter of East and Tom.
Then they examined the prizes, gathered up their things, and went off to the 
brook, where Martin swallowed huge draughts of water to get rid of the taste; 
and they visited the sedge-bird's nest, and from thence struck across the 
country in high glee, beating the hedges and brakes as they went along; and 
Arthur at last, to his intense delight, was allowed to climb a small hedgerow 
oak for a magpie's nest with Tom, who kept all round him like a mother, and 
showed him where to hold and how to throw his weight; and though he was in a 
great fright didn't show it, and was applauded by all for his lissomness.
They crossed a road soon afterwards, and there close to them lay a heap of 
charming pebbles.
"Look here," shouted East, "here's luck! I've been longing for some good 
honest pecking this half-hour. Let's fill the bags, and have no more of this 
foozling bird's-nesting."
No one objected, so each boy filled the fustian bag he carried full of stones: 
they crossed into the next field, Tom and East taking one side of the hedges 
and the other two the other side. Noise enough they made certainly, but it was 
too early in the season for the young birds, and the old birds were too strong 
on the wing for our young marksmen, and flew out of shot after the first 
discharge. But it was great fun, rushing along the hedgerows and discharging 
stone after stone at blackbirds and chaffinches, though no result in the shape 
of slaughtered birds was obtained; and Arthur soon entered into it, and rushed 
to head back the birds, and shouted, and threw, and tumbled into ditches and 
over and through hedges, as wildly as the Madman himself.
Presently the party, in full cry after an old blackbird (who was evidently 
used to the thing and enjoyed the fun, for he would wait till they came close 
to him and then fly on for forty yards or so, and with an impudent flicker of 
his tail dart into the depths of the quickset), came beating down a high 
double hedge, two on each side.
"There he is again," "Head him," "Let drive," "I had him there," "Take care 
where you're throwing, Madman," the shouts might have been heard a quarter of 
a mile off. They were heard some two hundred yards off by a farmer and two of 
his shepherds, who were doctoring sheep in a fold in the next field.
Now the farmer in question rented a house and yard situate at the end of the 
field in which the young bird-fanciers had arrived, which house and yard he 
didn't occupy or keep any one else in. Nevertheless, like a brainless and 
unreasoning Briton, he persisted in maintaining on the premises a large stock 
of cocks, hens, and other poultry. Of course, all sorts of depredators visited 
the place from time to time: foxes and gypsies 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 
barn in question for felonious purposes, and on one occasion had conquered and 
slain a duck there, and borne away the carcase triumphantly, hidden in their 
handkerchiefs. However, they were sickened of the practice by the trouble and 
anxiety which the wretched duck's body caused them. They carried it to Sally 
Harrowell's in hopes of a good supper, but she after examining it made a long 
face and refused to dress or have anything to do with it. Then they took it 
into their study, and began plucking it themselves; but what to do with the 
feathers, where to hide them?
"Good gracious, Tom, what a lot of feathers a duck has," groaned East, holding 
a bag full in his hand, and looking disconsolately at the carcase not yet half 
plucked.
"And I do think he's getting high too, already," said Tom, smelling at him 
cautiously, "so we must finish him up soon."
"Yes, all very well, but how are we to cook him? I'm sure I ain't going to try 
it on in the hall or passages; we can't afford to be roasting ducks about, our 
character's too bad."
"I wish we were rid of the brute," said Tom, throwing him on the table in 
disgust. And after a day or two more it became clear that got rid of he must 
be; so they packed him and sealed him up in brown paper, and put him in the 
cupboard of an unoccupied study, where he was found in the holidays by the 
matron, a 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 had in his hand at her, and then rushes to turn her into the hedge 
again. He succeeds, and then they are all at it for dear life, up and down the 
hedge in full cry, the "Come back, come back" getting shriller and fainter 
every minute.
Meantime the farmer and his men steal over the hurdles and creep down the 
hedge towards the scene of action. They are almost within a stone's throw of 
Martin, who is pressing the unlucky chase hard, when Tom catches sight of them 
and sings out, "Louts, ware louts, your side! Madman, look ahead!" and then 
catching hold of Arthur, hurries him away across the field towards Rugby as 
hard as they can tear. Had he been by himself he would have stayed to see it 
out with the others, but now his heart sinks and all his pluck goes. The idea 
of being led up to the Doctor with Arthur for bagging fowls, quite unmans and 
takes half the run out of him.
However, no boys are more able to take care of themselves than East and 
Martin; they dodge the pursuers, slip through a gap, and come pelting after 
Tom and Arthur, whom they catch up in no time; the farmer and his men are 
making good running about a field behind. Tom wishes to himself that they had 
made off in any other direction, but now they are all in for it together and 
must see it out. "You won't leave the young 'un, will you?" says he, as they 
haul poor little Arthur, already losing wind from the fright, through the next 
hedge. "Not we," is the answer from both. The next hedge is a stiff one; the 
pursuers gain horribly on them, and they only just pull Arthur through with 
two great rents in his trousers as the foremost shepherd comes up on the other 
side. As they start into the next field they are aware of two figures walking 
down the footpath in the middle of it, and recognise Holmes and Diggs taking a 
constitutional. Those good-natured fellows immediately shout "On." "Let's go 
to them and surrender," pants Tom. -Agreed. -And in another minute the four 
boys, to the great astonishment of those worthies, rush breathless up to 
Holmes and Diggs, who pull up to see what is the matter, and then the whole is 
explained by the appearance of the farmer and his men, who unite their forces 
and bear down on the knot of boys.
There is no time 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.
"Hello 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 today, 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. Thee catch hold o' t'other, Willum, and come along wi 'un."
"Farmer Thompson," said Holmes, warning off Willum and the prong with his 
stick, while Diggs faced the other shepherd, cracking his fingers like pistol 
shots, "now listen to reason -the boys haven't been after your fowls, that's 
plain."
"Tells 'ee I seed 'em. Who be you, I should like to know?"
"Never you mind, Farmer," answered Holmes. "And now I'll just tell you what it 
is -you ought to be ashamed of yourself for leaving all that poultry about 
with no one to watch it so near the School. You deserve to have it all stolen. 
So if you choose to come up to the Doctor with them, I shall go with you and 
tell him what I think of it."
The farmer began to take Holmes for a master; besides, he wanted to get back 
to his flock. Corporal punishment was out of the question, the odds were too 
great; so he began to hint at paying for the damage. Arthur jumped at this, 
offering to pay anything, and the farmer immediately valued the guinea-hen at 
half a sovereign.
"Half a sovereign!" cried East, now released from the farmer's grip; "well, 
that is a good one! the 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. Don't you go near Thompson's barn again, do you hear?"
Profuse promises from all, especially East.
"Mind, I don't ask questions," went on Mentor, "but I rather think some of you 
have been there before this after his chickens. Now, knocking over other 
people's chickens, and running off with them, is stealing. It's a nasty word, 
but that's the plain English of it. If the chickens were dead and lying in a 
shop you wouldn't take them, I know that, any more than you would apples out 
of Griffith's basket; but there's no real difference between chickens running 
about and apples on a tree, and the same articles in a shop. I wish our morals 
were sounder in such matters. There's nothing so mischievous as these school 
distinctions, which jumble up right and wrong and justify things in us for 
which poor boys would be sent to prison." And good old Holmes delivered his 
soul on the walk home of many wise sayings, and, as the song says - 

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

which same sermon sank into them all, more or less, and very penitent they 
were for several hours. But truth compels me to admit that East, at any rate, 
forgot it all in a week, but remembered the insult which had been put upon him 
by Farmer Thompson, and with the Tadpole and other hare-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.



Chapter 14: The Fight

"Surgebat Macnevisius
Et mox jactabat ultro,
Pugnabo tua gratiÉ
Feroci hoc Mactwoltro." -Etonian.


There is a certain sort of fellow, we who are used to studying boys all know 
him well enough, of whom you can predicate with almost positive certainty, 
after he has been a month at school, that he is sure to have a fight, and with 
almost equal certainty that he will have but one. Tom Brown was one of these; 
and as it is our well-weighed intention to give a full, true, and correct 
account of Tom's only single combat with a schoolfellow 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 
uncivilised, unchristian, or ungentlemanly affair, just skip this chapter at 
once, for it won't be to their taste.
It was not at all usual in those days for two School-house boys to have a 
fight. Of course there were exceptions, when some cross-grained hard-headed 
fellow came up who would never be happy unless he was quarrelling with his 
nearest neighbours, or when there was some class dispute, between the fifth 
form and the fags, for instance, which required blood-letting; and a champion 
was picked out on each side tacitly, who settled the matter by a good hearty 
mill. But for the most part, the constant use of those surest keepers of the 
peace, the boxing-gloves, kept the School-house boys from fighting one 
another. Two or three nights in every week the gloves were brought out, either 
in the Hall or fifth-form room; and every boy who was ever likely to fight at 
all knew all his neighbours' prowess perfectly well, and could tell to a 
nicety what chance he would have in a stand-up fight with any other boy in the 
house. But of course no such experience could be gotten as regarded boys in 
other houses; and as most of the other houses were more or less jealous of the 
School-house, collisions were frequent.
After all, what would life be without fighting, I should like to know? From 
the cradle to the grave, fighting, rightly understood, is the business, the 
real, highest, honestest business of every son of man. Every one who is worth 
his salt has his enemies, who must be beaten, be they evil thoughts and habits 
in himself, or spiritual wickedness in high places, or Russians, or 
Border-ruffians, or Bill, Tom, or Harry, who will not let him live his life in 
quiet till he has thrashed them.
It is no good for Quakers, or any other body of men, to uplift their voices 
against fighting. Human nature is too strong for them, and they don't follow 
their own precepts. Every soul of them is doing his own piece of fighting, 
somehow and somewhere. The world might be a better world without fighting for 
anything I know, but it wouldn't be our world; and therefore I am dead against 
crying peace when there is no peace, and isn't meant to be. I'm as sorry as 
any man to see folk fighting the wrong people and the wrong things, but I'd a 
deal sooner see them doing that than that they should have no fight in them. 
So having recorded, and being about to record, my hero's fights of all sorts, 
with all sorts of enemies, I shall now proceed to give an account of his 
passage-at-arms with the only one of his schoolfellows whom he ever had to 
encounter in this manner.
It was drawing towards the close of Arthur's first half-year, and the May 
evenings were lengthening out. Locking-up was not till eight o'clock, and 
everybody was beginning to talk about what he would do in the holidays. The 
shell, in which form all our dramatis 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 schoolday, 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'm 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 even more bald 
work of it. The poor young master is pretty near beat by this time, and feels 
ready to knock his head against the wall, or his fingers against somebody 
else's head. So he gives up altogether the lower and middle parts of the form, 
and looks round in despair at the boys on the top bench, to see if there is 
one out of whom he can strike a spark or two, and who will be too chivalrous 
to murder the most beautiful utterances of the most beautiful woman of the old 
world. His eye rests on Arthur, and he calls him up to finish construing 
Helen's speech. Whereupon all the other boys draw long breaths, and begin to 
stare about and take it easy. They are all safe; Arthur is the head of the 
form and sure to be able to construe, and that will tide on safely till the 
hour strikes.
Arthur proceeds to read out the passage in Greek before construing it, as the 
custom is. Tom, who isn't paying much attention, is suddenly caught by the 
falter in his voice as he reads the two lines - 
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 again and 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, good-natured fellow enough, but very much alive to his own 
dignity. He reckoned himself the king of the form, and kept up his position 
with 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 
waterworks just in the hardest place; see if I don't punch his head after 
fourth lesson."
"Whose?" said Tom, to whom the remark seemed to be addressed.
"Why, that little sneak Arthur's," replied Williams.
"No, you shan't," said Tom.
"Hullo!" exclaimed Williams, looking at Tom with great surprise for a moment, 
and then giving him a sudden dig in the ribs with his elbow, which sent Tom's 
books flying on 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?"
Arthur hesitated a moment, and then said, "We call it only forty lines, sir."
"How do you mean, you call it?"
"Well, sir, Mr. Graham says we ain't to stop there when there's time to 
construe more."
"I understand," said the master. "Williams, go down three more places, and 
write me out the lesson in Greek and English. And now, Arthur, finish 
construing."
"Oh! would I be in Arthur's shoes after fourth lesson?" said the little boys 
to one another; but Arthur finished Helen's speech without any further 
catastrophe, and the clock struck four, which ended third lesson.
Another hour was occupied in preparing and saying fourth lesson, during which 
Williams was bottling up his wrath; and when five struck and the lessons for 
the day were over, he prepared to take summary vengeance on the innocent cause 
of his misfortune.
Tom was detained in school a few minutes after the rest, and on coming out 
into the quadrangle, the first thing he saw was a small ring of boys, 
applauding Williams, who was holding Arthur by the collar.
"There, you young sneak," said he, giving Arthur a cuff on the head with his 
other hand, "what made you say that -"
"Hullo!" said Tom, shouldering into the crowd, "you drop that, Williams; you 
shan't touch him."
"Who'll stop me?" said the Slogger, raising his hand again.
"I," said Tom; and, suiting the action to the word, struck the arm which held 
Arthur's collar so sharply that the Slogger dropped it with a start, and 
turned the full current of his wrath on Tom.
"Will you fight?"
"Yes, of course."
"Huzza, there's going to be a fight between Slogger Williams and Tom Brown."
The news ran like wild-fire about, and many boys who were on their way to tea 
at their several houses turned back, and sought the back of the chapel, where 
the fights come off.
"Just run and tell East to come and back me," said Tom to a small School-house 
boy, who was off like a rocket to Harrowell's, just stopping for a moment to 
poke his head into the School-house hall, where the lower boys were already at 
tea, and sing out, "Fight! Tom Brown and Slogger Williams."
Up start half the boys at once, leaving bread, eggs, butter, sprats, and all 
the rest, to take care of themselves. The greater part of the remainder follow 
in a minute, after swallowing their tea, carrying their food in their hands to 
consume as they go. Three or four only remain, who steal the butter of the 
more impetuous, and make to themselves an unctuous feast.
In another minute East and Martin tear through the quadrangle, carrying a 
sponge, and arrive at the scene of action just as the combatants are beginning 
to strip.
Tom felt he had got his work cut out for him, as he stripped off his jacket, 
waistcoat, and braces. East tied his handkerchief round his waist, and rolled 
up his shirt-sleeves for him: "Now, old boy, don't you open your mouth to say 
a word, or try to help yourself a bit, we'll do all that; you keep all your 
breath and strength for the Slogger." Martin, meanwhile, folded the clothes 
and put them under the chapel rails; and now Tom, with East to handle him and 
Martin to give him a knee, steps out on to 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 timekeeper 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 timekeeper.
"There he goes again, hang it all!" growls East, as his man is at it again as 
hard as ever. A very severe round follows, in which Tom gets out-and-out the 
worst of it, and is at last hit clean off his legs, and deposited on the grass 
by a right-hander from the Slogger.
Loud shouts rise from the boys of Slogger's house, and the School-house are 
silent and vicious, ready to pick quarrels anywhere.
"Two to one in half-crowns on the big 'un," says Rattle, one of the amateurs, 
a tall fellow, in thunder-and-lightning waistcoat, and puffy good-natured face.
"Done!" says Groove, another amateur of quieter look, taking out his 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 cautious, getting away from and 
parrying the Slogger's lunging hits, instead of trying to counter, and leading 
his enemy a dance all round the ring after him. "He's funking, go in, 
Williams," "Catch him up," "Finish him off," scream the small boys of the 
Slogger party.
"Just what we want," thinks East, chuckling to himself, as he sees Williams, 
excited by these shouts, and thinking the game in his own hands, blowing 
himself in his exertions to get to close quarters again, while Tom is keeping 
away with perfect ease.
They quarter over the ground again and again, Tom always on the defensive.
The Slogger pulls up at last for a moment, fairly blown.
"Now then, Tom," sings out East, dancing with delight. Tom goes in in a 
twinkling, and hits two heavy body blows, and gets away again before the 
Slogger can catch his wind; which when he does he rushes with blind fury at 
Tom, and being skilfully parried and avoided, 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 patience, and come in before his time. And so 
the fight sways on, now one and now the other getting a trifling pull.
Tom's face begins to look very one-sided -there are little queer bumps on his 
forehead, and his mouth is bleeding; but East keeps the wet sponges going so 
scientifically that he comes up looking as fresh and bright as ever. Williams 
is only slightly marked in the face, but by the nervous movement of his elbows 
you can see that Tom's body blows are telling. In fact half the vice of the 
Slogger's hitting is neutralised, 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 certain 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, hurra! now we shall get fair play."
"Please, Brooke, come up, they won't let Tom Brown throw him."
"Throw whom?" says Brooke, coming up to the ring. "Oh! Williams, I see. 
Nonsense! of course he may throw him if he catches him fairly above the waist."
Now, young Brooke, you're in the sixth, you know, and you ought to stop all 
fights. He looks hard at both boys. "Anything wrong?" says he to East, nodding 
at Tom.
"Not a bit."
"Not beat at all?"
"Bless you, no! heaps of fight in him. Ain't there, Tom?"
Tom looks at Brooke and grins.
"How's he?" nodding at Williams.
"So, so; rather done, I think, since his last fall. He won't stand above two 
more."
"Time's up!" the boys rise again and face one another. Brooke can't find it in 
his heart to stop them just yet, so the round goes on, the Slogger waiting for 
Tom, and reserving all his strength to hit him out should he come in for the 
wrestling dodge again, for he feels that that must be stopped, or his sponge 
will soon go up in the air.
And now another 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 staunch upholder of the 
School-house, can't help stopping to look on for a bit, and see Tom Brown, 
their pet craftsman, fight a round.
It is grim earnest now, and no mistake. Both boys feel this, and summon every 
power of head, hand, and eye to their aid. A piece of luck on either side, a 
foot slipping, a blow getting well home, or another fall, may decide it. Tom 
works slowly round for an opening, he has all the legs, and can choose his own 
time; the Slogger waits for the attack, and hopes to finish it by some heavy 
right-handed blow. As they quarter slowly over the ground, the evening sun 
comes out from behind a cloud and falls full on Williams's face. Tom darts in, 
the heavy right-hand is delivered, but only grazes his head. A short rally at 
close quarters, and they close; in another moment the Slogger is thrown again 
heavily for the third time.
"I'll give you three to two on the little one in half-crowns," says Groove to 
Rattle.
"No, thank 'ee," answers the other, diving his hands further into his 
coat-tails.
Just at this stage of the proceedings the door of the turret which leads to 
the Doctor's library suddenly opens, and he steps into the close, and makes 
straight for the ring, in which Brown and the Slogger are both seated on their 
seconds' knees for the last time.
"The Doctor! the Doctor!" shouts some small boy who catches sight of him, and 
the ring melts away in a few seconds, the small boys tearing off, Tom 
collaring his jacket and waistcoat and slipping through the little gate by the 
chapel, and round the corner to Harrowell's with his backers, as lively as 
need be, Williams and his backers making off not quite so fast across the 
close; Groove, Rattle, and the other bigger fellows trying to combine dignity 
and prudence in a comical manner, and walking off fast enough, they hope, not 
to be recognised, and not fast enough to look like running away.
Young Brooke alone remains on the ground by the time the Doctor gets there, 
and touches his hat, not without a slight inward qualm.
"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 staunchest of his adherents had reached Harrowell's, and 
Sally was bustling about to get them a late tea, while Stumps had been sent 
off to Tew the butcher to get a piece of raw beef for Tom's eye, which was to 
be healed off-hand so that he might show well in the morning. He was not a bit 
the worse except a slight difficulty in his vision, a singing in his ears, and 
a sprained thumb, which he kept in a cold-water bandage, while he drank lots 
of tea, and listened to the babble of voices talking and speculating of 
nothing but the fight, and how Williams would have given in after another fall 
(which he didn't in the least believe), and how on earth the Doctor could have 
got to know of it, such bad luck! He couldn't help thinking to himself that he 
was glad he hadn't won; he liked it better as it was, and felt very friendly 
to the Slogger. And then poor little Arthur crept in and sat down quietly near 
him, and kept looking at him and the raw beef with such plaintive looks that 
Tom at last burst out laughing.
"Don't make such eyes, young 'un," said he, "there's nothing the matter."
"Oh but, Tom, are you much hurt? I can't bear thinking it was all for me."
"Not a bit of it, don't flatter yourself. We were sure to have had it out 
sooner or later."
"Well, but you won't go on, will you? You'll promise me you won't go on?"
"Can't tell about that -all depends on the houses. We're in the hands of our 
countrymen, you know. Must fight for the School-house flag, if so be."
However, the lovers of the science were doomed to disappointment this time. 
Directly after locking-up, one of the night-fags knocked at Tom's door.
"Brown, young Brooke wants you in the sixth-form room."
Up went Tom to the summons, and found the magnates sitting at their supper.
"Well, Brown," said young Brooke, nodding to him, "how do you feel?"
"Oh, very well, thank you, only I've sprained my thumb, I think."
"Sure to do that in a fight. Well, you hadn't the worst of it, I could see. 
Where did you learn that throw?"
"Down in the country, when I was a boy."
"Hullo! why, what are you now? Well, never mind, you're a plucky fellow. Sit 
down and have some supper."
Tom obeyed, by no means loth. And the fifth-form boy next him filled him a 
tumbler of bottled-beer, and he ate and drank, listening to the pleasant talk, 
and wondering how soon he should be in the fifth, and one of that much envied 
society.
As he got up to leave, Brooke said, "You must shake hands tomorrow morning; I 
shall come and see that done after first lesson."
And so he did. And Tom and the Slogger shook hands with great satisfaction and 
mutual respect. And for the next year or two, whenever fights were being 
talked of, the small boys who had been present shook their heads wisely, 
saying, "Ah! but you should just have seen the fight between Slogger Williams 
and Tom Brown!"
And now, boys all, three words before we quit the subject. I have put in this 
chapter on fighting of malice prepense, partly because I want to give you a 
true picture of what every-day school life was in my time, and not a kid-glove 
and go-to-meeting-coat picture; and partly because of the cant and twaddle 
that's talked of boxing and fighting with fists 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.



Chapter 15: Fever in the School

"This our hope for all that's mortal,
And we too shall burst the bond;
Death keeps watch beside the portal,
But 'tis life that dwells beyond." -JOHN STERLING.


Two years have passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, and the 
end of the summer half-year is again drawing on. Martin has left and gone on a 
cruise in the South Pacific, in one of his uncle's ships; the old magpie, as 
disreputable as ever, his last bequest to Arthur, lives in the joint study. 
Arthur is nearly sixteen, and 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, someone 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. "Hurra! five weeks' extra 
holidays, and no fifth-form examination!"
"I hope not," said Tom; "there'll be no Marylebone match then at the end of 
the half."
Some thought one thing, some another, many didn't believe the report; but the 
next day, Tuesday, Dr. Robertson arrived, and stayed all day, and had long 
conferences with the Doctor.
On Wednesday morning, after prayers, the Doctor addressed the whole School. 
There were several cases of fever in different houses, he said, but Dr. 
Robertson, after the most careful examination, had assured him that it was not 
infectious, and that, if proper care were taken, there could be no reason for 
stopping the school work at present. The examinations were just coming on, and 
it would be very unadvisable to break-up now. However, any boys who chose to 
do so were at liberty to write home, and, if their parents wished it, to leave 
at once. He should send the whole School home if the fever spread.
The next day Arthur sickened, but there was no other case. Before the end of 
the week thirty or forty boys had gone, but the rest stayed on. There was a 
general wish to please the Doctor, and a feeling that it was cowardly to run 
away.
On the Saturday, Thompson died, in the bright afternoon, while the 
cricket-match was going on as usual on the big-side ground: the Doctor, coming 
from his death-bed, passed along the gravel-walk at the side of the close, but 
no one knew what had happened till the next day. At morning lecture it began 
to be rumoured, and by afternoon chapel was known generally; and a feeling of 
seriousness and awe at the actual presence of death among them came over the 
whole School. In all the long years of his ministry the Doctor perhaps never 
spoke words which sank deeper than some of those in that day's sermon. "When I 
came yesterday from visiting all but the very death-bed of him who has been 
taken from us, and looked around upon all the familiar objects and scenes 
within our own ground, where your common amusements were going on, with your 
common cheerfulness and activity, I felt there was nothing painful in 
witnessing that; it did not seem in any way shocking or out of tune with those 
feelings which the sight of a dying Christian must be supposed to awaken. The 
unsuitableness in point of natural feeling between scenes of mourning and 
scenes of liveliness did not at all present itself. But I did feel that if at 
that moment any of those faults had been brought before me which sometimes 
occur amongst us; had I heard that any of you had been guilty of falsehood, or 
of drunkenness, or of any other such sin; had I heard from any quarter the 
language of profaneness, or of unkindness, or of indecency; had I heard or 
seen any signs of that wretched folly which courts the laugh of fools by 
affecting not to dread evil and not to care for good, then the unsuitableness 
of any of these things with the scene I had just quitted would indeed have 
been most intensely painful. And why? Not because such things would really 
have been worse than at any other time, but because at such a moment the eyes 
are opened really to know good and evil, because we then feel what it is so to 
live as that death becomes an infinite blessing, and what it is so to live 
also, that it were good for us if we had never been born."
Tom had gone into chapel in sickening anxiety about Arthur, but he came out 
cheered and strengthened by those grand words, and walked up alone to their 
study. And when he sat down and looked round, and saw Arthur's straw-hat and 
cricket-jacket hanging on their pegs, and marked all his little neat 
arrangements, not one of which had been disturbed, the tears indeed rolled 
down his cheeks, but they were calm and blessed tears, and he repeated to 
himself, "Yes, Geordie's eyes are opened -he knows what it is so to live as 
that death becomes an infinite blessing. But do I? Oh God, can I bear to lose 
him?"
The week passed mournfully away. No more boys sickened, but Arthur was 
reported worse each day, and his mother arrived early in the week. Tom made 
many appeals to be allowed to see him, and several times tried to get up to 
the sickroom; but the housekeeper was always in the way, and at last spoke to 
the Doctor, who kindly, but peremptorily, forbade him.
Thompson was buried on the Tuesday, and the burial service, so soothing and 
grand always, but beyond all words solemn when read over a boy's grave to his 
companions, brought him much comfort, and many strange new thoughts and 
longings. He went back to his regular life, and played cricket and bathed as 
usual: it seemed to him that this was the right thing to do, and the new 
thoughts and longings became more brave and healthy for the effort. The crisis 
came on Saturday, the day week that Thompson had died; and during that long 
afternoon Tom sat in his study reading his Bible, and going every half-hour to 
the housekeeper's room, expecting each time to hear that the gentle and brave 
little spirit had gone home. But God had work for Arthur to do: the crisis 
passed -on Sunday evening he was declared out of danger; on Monday he sent a 
message to Tom that he was almost well, had changed his room, and was to be 
allowed to see him next day.
It was evening when the housekeeper summoned him to the sickroom. 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 
realised 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 moment 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 sunshine, into 
the tops of the great feathery elms, round which the rooks were circling and 
clanging, returned in flocks from their evening's foraging parties. The elms 
rustled, the sparrows in the ivy just outside the window chirped and fluttered 
about, quarrelling and making it up again; the rooks young and old talked in 
chorus, and the merry shouts of the boys, and the sweet click of the 
cricket-bats, came up cheerily from below.
"Dear George," said Tom, "I am so glad to be let up to see you at last. I've 
tried hard to come so often, but they wouldn't let me before."
"Oh, I know, Tom; Mary has told me every day about you, and how she was 
obliged to make the Doctor speak to you to keep you away. I'm very glad you 
didn't get up, for you might have caught it, and you couldn't stand being ill 
with all the matches going on. And you're in the eleven too, I hear -I'm so 
glad."
"Yes, ain't it jolly?" said Tom proudly; "I'm ninth too. I made forty at the 
last pie-match, and caught three fellows out. So I was put in above Jones and 
Tucker. Tucker's so savage, for he was head of the twenty-two."
"Well, I think you ought to be higher yet," said Arthur, who was as jealous 
for the renown of Tom in games as Tom was for his as a scholar.
"Never mind, I don't care about cricket or anything now you're getting well, 
Geordie; and I shouldn't have hurt, I know, if they'd have let me come up 
-nothing hurts me. But you'll get about now directly, won't you? You won't 
believe how clean I've kept the study. All your things are just as you left 
them; and I feed the old magpie just when you used, though I have to come in 
from Big-side for him, the old rip. He won't look pleased all I can do, and 
sticks his head first on one side and then on the other, and blinks at me 
before he'll begin to eat, till I'm half inclined to box his ears. And 
whenever East comes in, you should see him hop off to the window, dot and go 
one, though Harry wouldn't touch a feather of him now."
Arthur laughed. "Old Gravey has a good memory, he can't forget the sieges of 
poor Martin's den in old times." He paused a moment, and then went on. "You 
can't think how often I've been thinking of old Martin since I've been ill; I 
suppose one's mind gets restless, and likes to wander off to strange unknown 
places. I wonder what queer new pets the old boy has got; how he must be 
revelling in the thousand new birds, beasts, and fishes!"
Tom felt a pang of jealousy, but kicked it out in a moment. "Fancy him on a 
South-sea island, with the Cherokees or Patagonians, or some such wild 
niggers!" (Tom's ethnology and geography were faulty, but sufficient for his 
needs); "they'll make the old Madman cock medicine-man, and tattoo him all 
over. Perhaps he's cutting about now all blue, and has a squaw and a wigwam. 
He'll improve their boomerangs, and be able to throw them too, without having 
old Thomas sent after him by the Doctor to take them away."
Arthur laughed at the remembrance of the boomerang story, but then looked 
grave again, and said, "He'll convert all the Island, I know."
"Yes, if he don't blow it up first."
"Do you remember, Tom, how you and East used to laugh at him and chaff him, 
because he said he was sure the rooks all had calling-over, or prayers, or 
something of the sort, when the locking-up bell rang. Well, I declare," said 
Arthur, looking up seriously into Tom's laughing eyes, "I do think he was 
right. Since I've been lying here I've watched them every night; and do you 
know they really do come and perch all of them just about locking-up time; and 
then first there's a regular chorus of caws, and then they stop a bit, and one 
old fellow, or perhaps two or three in different trees, caw solos, and then 
off they all go again, fluttering about and cawing anyhow till they roost."
"I wonder if the old blackies do talk?" said Tom, looking up at them. "How 
they must abuse me and East, and pray for the Doctor for stopping the slinging."
"There! look, look!" cried Arthur, "don't you see the old fellow without a 
tail coming up? Martin used to call him `the clerk.' He can't steer himself. 
You never saw such fun as he is in a high wind, when he can't steer himself 
home, and gets carried right past the trees, and has to bear up again and 
again before he can perch."
The locking-up bell began to toll, and the two boys were silent and listened 
to it. The sound soon carried Tom off to the river and the woods, and he began 
to go over in his mind the many occasions on which he had heard that toll 
coming faintly down the breeze, and had to pack up his rod in a hurry and make 
a run for it, to get in before the gates were shut. He was roused with a start 
from his memories by Arthur's voice, gentle and weak from his late illness.
"Tom, will you be angry if I talk to you very seriously?"
"No, dear old boy, not I. But ain't you faint, Arthur, or ill? What can I get 
for you? Don't say anything to hurt yourself now, you are very weak; let me 
come up again."
"No, no, I shan't hurt myself: I'd sooner speak to you now, if you don't mind. 
I've asked Mary to tell the Doctor that you are with me, so you needn't go 
down to calling-over; and I mayn't have another chance, for I shall most 
likely have to go home for change of air to get well, and mayn't come back 
this half."
"Oh, do you think you must go away before the end of the half? I'm so sorry. 
It's more than five weeks yet to the holidays, and all the fifth-form 
examination and half the cricket-matches to come yet. And what shall I do all 
that time alone in our study? Why, Arthur, it will be more than twelve weeks 
before I see you again. Oh, hang it, I can't stand that. Besides, who's to 
keep me up to working at the examination books? I shall come out bottom of the 
form, as sure as eggs is eggs."
Tom was rattling on, half in joke, half in earnest, for he wanted to get 
Arthur out of his serious vein, thinking it would do him harm; but Arthur 
broke in - 
"Oh, please, Tom, stop, or you'll drive all I had to say out of my head. And 
I'm already horribly afraid I'm going to make you angry."
"Don't gammon, young 'un," rejoined Tom (the use of the old name, dear to him 
from old recollections, made Arthur start and smile, and feel quite happy); 
"you know you ain't afraid, and you've never made me angry since the first 
month we chummed together. Now I'm going to be quite sober for a quarter of an 
hour, which is more than I am once in a year, so make the most of it; heave 
ahead, and pitch into me right and left."
"Dear Tom, I ain't going to pitch into you," said Arthur piteously; "and it 
seems so cocky in me to be advising you, who've been my backbone ever since 
I've been at Rugby, and have made the school a paradise to me. Ah, I see I 
shall never do it unless I go head-over-heels at once, as you said when you 
taught me to swim. Tom, I want you to give up using vulgus-books and cribs."
Arthur sank back on to his pillow with a sigh, as if the effort had been 
great; but the worst was now over, and he looked straight at Tom, who was 
evidently taken aback. He leant his elbows on his knees and stuck his hands 
into his hair, whistled a verse of Billy Taylor, and then was quite silent for 
another minute. Not a shade crossed his face, but he was clearly puzzled. At 
last he looked up and caught Arthur's anxious look, took his hand, and said 
simply - 
"Why, young 'un?"
"Because you're the honestest boy in Rugby, and that ain't honest."
"I don't see that."
"What were you sent to Rugby for?"
"Well, I don't know exactly -nobody ever told me. I suppose because all boys 
are sent to a public-school in England."
"But what do you think yourself? What do you want to do here, and to carry 
away?"
Tom thought a minute. "I want to be 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're pretty sure to do all that you want then."
"Well, I hope so. But you've forgot one thing, what I want to leave behind me. 
I want to leave behind me," said Tom, speaking slow and looking much moved, 
"the name of a fellow who never bullied a little boy, or turned his back on a 
big one."
Arthur pressed his hand, and after a moment's silence went on: "You say, Tom, 
you want to please the Doctor. Now do you want to please him by what he thinks 
you do, or by what you really do?"
"By what I really do, of course."
"Does he think you use cribs and vulgus-books?"
Tom felt at once that his flank was turned, but he couldn't give in. "He was 
at Winchester himself," said he, "he knows all about it."
"Yes, but does he think you use them? Do you think he approves of it?"
"You young villain!" said Tom, shaking his fist at Arthur, half vexed and half 
pleased, "I never think about it. Hang it -there, perhaps he don't. Well, I 
suppose he don't."
Arthur saw that he had got his point; he knew his friend well, and was wise in 
silence as in speech. He only said, "I would sooner have the Doctor's good 
opinion of me as I really am, than any man's in the world."
After another minute, Tom began again: "Look here, young 'un, how on earth am 
I to get time to play the matches this half, if I give up cribs? We're in the 
middle of that long crabbed chorus in the Agamemnon, I can only just make head 
or tail of it with the crib. Then there's Pericles' speech coming on in 
Thucydides, and `The Birds' to get up for the examination, besides the 
Tacitus." Tom groaned at the thought of his accumulated labours. "I say, young 
'un, there's only five weeks or so left to holidays, mayn't I go on as usual 
for this half? I'll tell the Doctor about it some day, or you may."
Arthur looked out of window; the twilight had come on and all was silent. He 
repeated in a low voice, "In this thing the Lord pardon thy servant, that when 
my master goeth into the house of Rimmon to worship there, and he leaneth on 
my hand, and I bow 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. My mother brought our old medical man, 
who attended me when I was a poor sickly child; he said my constitution was 
quite changed, and that I'm fit for anything now. If it hadn't, I couldn't 
have stood three days of this illness. That's all thanks to you, and the games 
you've made me fond of."
"More thanks to old Martin," said Tom; "he's been your real friend."
"Nonsense, Tom, he never could have done for me what you have."
"Well, I don't know, I did little enough. Did they tell you -you won't mind 
hearing it now, I know -that poor Thompson died last week? The other three 
boys are getting quite 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 sickroom and found I had really got 
the fever, I was terribly frightened. I thought I should die, and I could not 
face it for a moment. I don't think it was sheer cowardice at first, but I 
thought how hard it was to be taken away from my mother and sisters, and you 
all, just as I was beginning to see my way to many things and to feel that I 
might be a man and do a man's work. To die without having fought, and worked, 
and given one's life away, was too hard to bear. I got terribly impatient, and 
accused God of injustice, and strove to justify myself; and the harder I 
strove the deeper I sank. Then the image of my dear father often came across 
me, but I turned from it. Whenever it came, a heavy numbing throb seemed to 
take hold of my heart, and say, `Dead -dead -dead.' And I cried out, `The 
living, the living shall praise Thee, O God; the dead cannot praise Thee. 
There is no work in the grave; in the night no man can work. But I can work. I 
can do great things. I will do great things. Why wilt Thou slay me?' And so I 
struggled and plunged deeper and deeper, and went down into a living black 
tomb. I was alone there, with no power to stir or think; alone with myself; 
beyond the reach of all human fellowship; beyond Christ's reach, I thought, in 
my nightmare. You, who are brave and bright and strong, can have no idea of 
that agony. Pray to God you never may. Pray as for your life."
Arthur stopped -from exhaustion Tom thought; but what between his fear lest 
Arthur should hurt himself, his awe, and longing for him to go on, he couldn't 
ask or stir to help him.
Presently he went on, but quite calm and slow. "I don't know how long I was in 
that state. For more than a day I know, for I was quite conscious, and lived 
my outer life all the time, and took my medicines, and spoke to my mother, and 
heard what they said. 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 were they, 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 
tomorrow 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 realised 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. And the mother sat on quiet and loving, 
rejoicing in their life. 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."
Arthur's mother got up and walked with him to the door, and there gave him her 
hand again, and again his eyes met that deep loving look, which was like a 
spell upon him. 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 in 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.



Chapter 16: Harry East's Dilemmas and Deliverances

"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


The 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 couldn'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."
"Oh, Tommy, Tommy!" said East, proceeding to do as he was bidden, "that it 
should ever have come to this! I knew Arthur'd be the ruin of you some day, 
and you of me. 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 into 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 poenitentiae, and not be to 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 chock-full 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 today. No, nor 
never 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 schoolfellows 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 copybooks."
"Hullo, more heresy! how fast a fellow goes down hill 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 copybooks! 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 pleasures 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.
"Now don't be an ass, Tom," said East, catching hold of him, "you know me well 
enough by this time; my bark's worse than my bite. 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 
righteousness 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 bed-time."
"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 lesson, 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 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 good-bye; 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 onto 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 burthen 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 ain'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 whom it would be 
dangerous to be intimate with; while his own hatred of everything cruel, or 
underhand, or false, and his hearty respect for what he could 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.
What a bother all this explaining is! 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 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 
kind-hearted 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. Why 
weren't you confirmed with the rest of us nearly three years ago? 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. But why didn't 
you come and talk to Arthur and me?"
"I wish to heaven I had," said East, "but I was a fool. 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. Don't stare, Tom; mind, I'm telling you all that's in my heart -as far 
as I know it -but it's all a muddle. 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! I'm such a fool about these things. 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. What a fool I am! I can't explain. 
If Arthur were only here!"
"I begin to get a glimmering of what you mean," said East.
"I say now," said Tom eagerly, "do you remember how we both hated Flashman?"
"Of course I do," said East; "I hate him still. 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 tonight. 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."
"Hurra!" 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, tho' 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 it's all owing to you, dear old boy!" 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 offhand.
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 go 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.



Chapter 17: Tom Brown's Last Match

"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."
A.H.CLOUGH. -Ambarvalia.


The 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 schooldays. 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!"

This is not mere longing, it is prophesy. 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.

*    *    *    *    *

Another two years have passed, and it is again the end of the summer half-year 
at Rugby; in fact, the School has broken up. The fifth-form examinations were 
over last week, and upon them have followed the Speeches, and the sixth-form 
examinations for exhibitions; and they too are over now. The boys have gone to 
all the winds of heaven, except the town boys and the eleven, and the few 
enthusiasts besides who have asked leave to stay in their houses to see the 
result of the cricket matches. For this year the Wellesburn return match and 
the Marylebone match are played at Rugby, to the great delight of the town and 
neighbourhood, and the sorrow of those aspiring young cricketers who have been 
reckoning for the last three months on showing off at Lord's ground.
The Doctor started for the Lakes yesterday morning, after an interview with 
the Captain of the eleven, in the presence of Thomas, at which he arranged in 
what School the cricket dinners were to be, and all other matters necessary 
for the satisfactory carrying out of the festivities; and warned them as to 
keeping all spirituous liquors out of the close, and having the gates closed 
by nine o'clock.
The Wellesburn match was played out with great success yesterday, the School 
winning by three wickets; and today the great event of the cricketing year, 
the Marylebone match, is being played. What a match it has been! The London 
eleven came down by an afternoon train yesterday, in time to see the end of 
the Wellesburn match; and as soon as it was over, their leading men and umpire 
inspected the ground, criticising it rather unmercifully. The Captain of the 
School eleven, and one or two others, who had played the Lord's match before, 
and knew old Mr. Aislebie and several of the Lord's men, accompanied them; 
while the rest of the eleven looked on from under the Three Trees with 
admiring eyes, and asked one another the names of the illustrious strangers, 
and recounted how many runs each of them had made in the late matches in 
Bell's Life. They looked such hard-bitten, wiry, whiskered fellows that their 
young adversaries felt rather desponding as to the result of the morrow's 
match. The ground was at last chosen, and two men set to work upon it to water 
and roll; and then, there being yet some half-hour of daylight, someone had 
suggested a dance on the turf. The close was half full of citizens and their 
families, and the idea was hailed with enthusiasm. The cornopean player was 
still on the ground; in five minutes the eleven and half a dozen of the 
Wellesburn and Marylebone men got partners somehow or another and a merry 
country dance was going on, to which every one flocked, and new couples joined 
in every minute, till there were a hundred of them going down the middle and 
up again -and the long line of School buildings looked gravely down on them, 
every window glowing with the last rays of the western sun, and the rooks 
clanged about in the tops of the old elms, greatly excited and resolved on 
having their country dance too, and the great flag flapped lazily in the 
gentle western breeze. Altogether it was a sight which would have made glad 
the heart of our brave old founder, Lawrence Sheriff, if he were half as good 
a fellow as I take him to have been. It was a cheerful sight to see; but what 
made it so valuable in the sight of the Captain of the School eleven was that 
he there saw his young hands shaking off their shyness and awe of the Lords' 
men, as they crossed hands and capered about on the grass together; for the 
strangers entered into it all, and threw away their cigars, and danced and 
shouted like boys; while old Mr. Aislebie stood by looking on in his white 
hat, leaning on a bat, in benevolent enjoyment. "This hop will be worth thirty 
runs to us tomorrow, and will be the making of Raggles and Johnson," thinks 
the young leader, as he revolves many things in his mind, standing by the side 
of Mr. Aislebie, whom he will not leave for a minute, for he feels that the 
character of the School for courtesy is resting on his shoulders.
But when a quarter to nine struck, and he saw old Thomas beginning to fidget 
about with the keys in his hand, he thought of the Doctor's parting monition, 
and stopped the cornopean at once, notwithstanding the loud-voiced 
remonstrances from all sides; and the crowd scattered away from the close, the 
eleven all going into the School-house, where supper and beds were provided 
for them by the Doctor's orders.
Deep had been the consultations at supper as to the order of going in, who 
should bowl the first over, whether it would be best to play steady or freely; 
and the youngest hands declared that they shouldn't be a bit nervous, and 
praised their opponents as the jolliest fellows in the world, except perhaps 
their old friends the Wellesburn men. How far a little good-nature from their 
elders will go with the right sort of boys!
The morning had dawned bright and warm, to the intense relief of many an 
anxious youngster, up betimes to mark the signs of the weather. The eleven 
went down in a body before breakfast, for a plunge in the cold bath in the 
corner of the close. The ground was in splendid order, and soon after ten 
o'clock, before spectators had arrived, all was ready, and two of the Lords' 
men took their places at the wicket; the School, with the usual liberality of 
young hands, having put their adversaries in first. Old Bailey stepped up to 
the wicket, and called play, and the match has begun.

"Oh, well bowled! well bowled, Johnson!" cries the Captain, catching up the 
ball and sending it high above the rook trees, while the third Marylebone man 
walks away from the wicket, and old Bailey gravely sets up the middle stump 
again and puts the bails on.
"How many runs?" Away scamper three boys to the scoring-table, and are back 
again in a minute amongst the rest of the eleven, who are collected together 
in a knot between wicket. "Only eighteen runs, and three wickets down!" "Huzza 
for old Rugby!" sings out Jack Raggles the long-stop, toughest and burliest of 
boys, commonly called "Swiper Jack"; and forthwith stands on his head, and 
brandishes his legs in the air in triumph, till the next boy catches hold of 
his heels and throws him over on to his back.
"Steady there, don't be such an ass, Jack," says the Captain, "we haven't got 
the best wicket yet. Ah, look out now at cover-point," adds he, as he sees a 
long-armed, bare-headed, slashing looking player coming to the wicket. "And, 
Jack, mind your hits, he steals more runs than any man in England."
And they all find that they have got their work to do now; the newcomer's 
off-hitting is tremendous, and his running like a flash of lightning. He is 
never in his ground, except when his wicket is down. Nothing in the whole game 
so trying to boys; he has stolen three byes in the first ten minutes, and Jack 
Raggles is furious, and begins throwing over savagely to the further wicket, 
until he is sternly stopped by the Captain. It is all that the young gentleman 
can do to keep his team steady, but he knows that everything depends on it, 
and faces his work bravely. The score creeps up to fifty, the boys begin to 
look blank, and the spectators, who are now mustering strong, are very silent. 
The ball flies off his bat to all parts of the field, and he gives no rest and 
no catches to any one. But cricket is full of glorious chances, and the 
goddess who presides over it loves to bring down the most skilful players. 
Johnson the young bowler is getting wild, and bowls a ball almost wide to the 
off; the batter steps out and cuts it beautifully to where cover-point is 
standing very deep, in fact almost off the ground. The ball comes skimming and 
twisting along about three feet from the ground; he rushes at it, and it 
sticks somehow or other in the fingers of his left hand, to the utter 
astonishment of himself and the whole field. Such a catch hasn't been made in 
the close for years, and the cheering is maddening. "Pretty cricket," says the 
Captain, throwing himself on the ground by the deserted wicket with a long 
breath; he feels that a crisis has passed.
I wish I had space to describe the whole match; how the Captain stumped the 
next man off a legshooter, and bowled slow lobs to old Mr. Aislebie, who came 
in for the last wicket. How the Lords' men were out by half-past twelve 
o'clock for ninety-eight runs. How the Captain of the School eleven went in 
first to give his men pluck, and scored twenty-five in beautiful style; how 
Rugby was only four behind in the first innings. What a glorious dinner they 
had in the fourth-form School, and how the cover-point hitter sang the most 
topping comic songs, and old Mr. Aislebie made the best speeches that ever 
were heard, afterwards. But I haven't space, that's the fact, and so you must 
fancy it all, and carry yourselves on to half-past seven o'clock, when the 
School are again in, with five wickets down, and only thirty-two runs to make 
to win. The Marylebone men played carelessly in their second innings, but they 
are working like horses now to save the match.
There is much healthy, hearty, happy life scattered up and down the close; but 
the group to which I beg to call your special attention is there, on the slope 
of the island, which looks towards the cricket-ground. It consists of three 
figures; two are seated on a bench, and one on the ground at their feet. The 
first, a tall, slight, and rather gaunt man, with a bushy eyebrow and a dry 
humorous smile, is evidently a clergyman. He is carelessly dressed, and looks 
rather used up, which isn't much to be wondered at, seeing that he has just 
finished six weeks of examination work; but there he basks, and spreads 
himself out in the evening sun, bent on enjoying life, though he doesn't quite 
know what to do with his arms and legs. Surely it is our friend the young 
Master, whom we have had glimpses of before, but his face has gained a great 
deal since we last came across him.
And by his side, in white flannel shirt and trousers, straw hat, the Captain's 
belt, and the untanned yellow cricket shoes which all the eleven wear, sits a 
strapping figure near six feet high, with ruddy tanned face and whiskers, 
curly brown hair, and a laughing dancing eye. He is leaning forward with his 
elbows resting on his knees, and dangling his favourite bat, with which he has 
made thirty or forty runs today, in his strong brown hands. It is Tom Brown, 
grown into a young man nineteen years old, a praepostor and Captain of the 
eleven, spending his last day as a Rugby boy, and let us hope as much wiser as 
he is bigger since we last had the pleasure of coming across him.
And at their feet on the warm dry ground, similarly dressed, sits Arthur, 
Turkish fashion, with his bat across his knees. He too is no longer a boy, 
less of a boy in fact than Tom, if one may judge from the thoughtfulness of 
his face, which is somewhat paler too than one could wish; but his figure 
though slight is well knit and active, and all his old timidity has 
disappeared, and is replaced by silent quaint fun, with which his face 
twinkles all over, as he listens to the broken talk between the other two, in 
which he joins every now and then.
All three are watching the game eagerly, and joining in the cheering which 
follows every good hit. It is pleasing to see the easy friendly footing which 
the pupils are on with their master, perfectly respectful, yet with no reserve 
and nothing forced in their intercourse. Tom has clearly abandoned the old 
theory of "natural enemies" in this case at any rate.
But it is time to listen to what they are saying, and see what we can gather 
out of it.
"I don't object to your theory," says the master, "and I allow you have made a 
fair case for yourself. But now, in such books as Aristophanes for instance, 
you've been reading a play this half with the Doctor, haven't you?"
"Yes, the Knights," answered Tom.
"Well, I'm sure you would have enjoyed the wonderful humour of it twice as 
much if you had taken more pains with your scholarship."
"Well, sir, I don't believe any boy in the form enjoyed the sets-to between 
Cleon and the Sausage-seller more than I did -eh, Arthur?" said Tom, giving 
him a stir with his foot.
"Yes, I must say he did," said Arthur. "I think, sir, you've hit upon the 
wrong book there."
"Not a bit of it," said the master. "Why, in those very passages of arms, how 
can you thoroughly appreciate them unless you are master of the weapons? and 
the weapons are the language which you, Brown, have never half worked at; and 
so, as I say, you must have lost all the delicate shades of meaning which make 
the best part of the fun."
"Oh! well played -bravo, Johnson!" shouted Arthur, dropping his bat and 
clapping furiously, and Tom joined in with a "bravo, Johnson!" which might 
have been heard at the chapel.
"Eh? what was it? I didn't see," inquired the master; "they only got one run, 
I thought?"
"No, but such a ball, three-quarters length and coming straight for his leg 
bail. Nothing but that turn of the wrist could have saved him, and he drew it 
away to leg for a safe one. Bravo, Johnson!"
"How well they are bowling though!" said Arthur; "they don't mean to be beat, 
I can see."
"There now," struck in the master, "you see that's just what I have been 
preaching this half-hour. The delicate play is the true thing. I don't 
understand cricket, so I don't enjoy those fine draws which you tell me are 
the best play, though when you or Raggles hit a ball hard away for six I am as 
delighted as any one. Don't you see the analogy?"
"Yes, sir," answered Tom, looking up roguishly, "I see; only the question 
remains whether I should have got most good by understanding Greek particles 
or cricket thoroughly. I'm such a thick, I never should have had time for both."
"I see you are an incorrigible," said the master with a chuckle, "but I refute 
you by an example. Arthur there has taken in Greek and cricket too."
"Yes, but no thanks to him; Greek came natural to him. Why, when he first came 
I remember he used to read Herodotus for pleasure as I did Don Quixote, and 
couldn't have made a false concord if he'd tried ever so hard -and then I 
looked after his cricket."
"Out! Bailey has given him out -do you see, Tom?" cries Arthur. "How foolish 
of them to run so hard."
"Well, it can't be helped, he has played very well. Whose turn is it to go in?"
"I don't know; they've got your list in the tent."
"Let's go and see," said Tom, rising; but at this moment Jack Raggles and two 
or three more come running to the island moat.
"Oh, Brown, mayn't I go in next?" shouts the Swiper.
"Whose name is next on the list?" says the Captain.
"Winter's, and then Arthur's," answers the boy who carries it; "but there are 
only twenty-six runs to get, and no time to lose. I heard Mr. Aislebie say 
that the stumps must be drawn at a quarter-past eight exactly."
"Oh, do let the Swiper go in," chorus the boys; so Tom yields against his 
better judgment.
"I dare say now I've lost the match by this nonsense," he says as he sits down 
again; "they'll be sure to get Jack's wicket in three or four minutes; 
however, you'll have the chance, sir, of seeing a hard hit or two," adds he 
smiling and turning to the master.
"Come, none of your irony, Brown," answers the master. "I'm beginning to 
understand the game scientifically. What a noble game it is too!"
"Isn't it? But it's more than a game. It's an institution," said Tom.
"Yes," said Arthur, "the birthright of British boys old and young, as habeas 
corpus and trial by jury are of British men."
"The discipline and reliance on one another which it teaches is so valuable, I 
think," went on the master, "it ought to be such an unselfish game. It merges 
the individual in the eleven; he doesn't play that he may win, but that his 
side may."
"That's very true," said Tom, "and that's why football and cricket, now one 
comes to think of it, are such much better games than fives or 
hare-and-hounds, or any others where the object is to come in first or to win 
for oneself, and not that one's side may win."
"And then the Captain of the eleven!" said the master, "what a post is his in 
our School-world! almost as hard as the Doctor's; requiring skill and 
gentleness and firmness, and I know not what other rare qualities."
"Which don't he wish he may get?" said Tom laughing; "at any rate he hasn't 
got them yet, or he wouldn't have been such a flat tonight as to let Jack 
Raggles go in out of his turn."
"Ah! the Doctor never would have done that," said Arthur, demurely. "Tom, 
you've a great deal to learn yet in the art of ruling."
"Well, I wish you'd tell the Doctor so then, and get him to let me stop till 
I'm twenty. I don't want to leave, I'm sure."
"What a sight it is," broke in the master, "the Doctor as a ruler! Perhaps 
ours is the only little corner of the British Empire which is thoroughly 
wisely and strongly ruled just now. I'm more and more thankful every day of my 
life that I came here to be under him."
"So am I, I'm sure," said Tom; "and more and more sorry that I've got to leave."
"Every place and thing one sees here reminds one of some wise act of his," 
went on the master. "This island now -you remember the time, Brown, when it 
was laid out in small gardens, and cultivated by frost-bitten fags in February 
and March?"
"Of course I do," said Tom; "didn't I hate spending two hours in the 
afternoons grubbing in the tough dirt with the stump of a fives' bat? But 
turf-cart was good fun enough."
"I dare say it was, but it was always leading to fights with the townspeople; 
and then the stealing flowers out of all the gardens in Rugby for the Easter 
show was abominable."
"Well, so it was," said Tom looking down, "but we fags couldn't help 
ourselves. But what has that to do with the Doctor's ruling?"
"A great deal, I think," said the master; "what brought island-fagging to an 
end?"
"Why, the Easter Speeches were put off till Midsummer," said Tom, "and the 
sixth had the gymnastic poles put up here."
"Well, and who changed the time of the Speeches, and put the idea of gymnastic 
poles into the heads of their worships the sixth form?" said the master.
"The Doctor I suppose," said Tom. "I never thought of that."
"Of course you didn't," said the master, "or else, fag as you were, you would 
have shouted with the whole school against putting down old customs. And 
that's the way that all the Doctor's reforms have been carried out when he has 
been left to himself -quietly and naturally, putting a good thing in the place 
of a bad, and letting the bad die out; no wavering and no hurry -the best 
thing that could be done for the time being, and patience for the rest."
"Just Tom's own way," chimed in Arthur, nudging Tom with his elbow, "driving a 
nail where it will go"; to which allusion Tom answered by a sly kick.
"Exactly so," said the master, innocent of the allusion and by-play.
Meantime Jack Raggles, with his sleeves tucked up above his great brown 
elbows, scorning pads and gloves, has presented himself at the wicket; and 
having run one for a forward drive of Johnson's, is about to receive his first 
ball. There are only twenty-four runs to make, and four wickets to go down, a 
winning match if they play decently steady. The ball is a very swift one, and 
rises fast, catching Jack on the outside of the thigh, and bounding away as if 
from india-rubber, while they run two for a leg-bye amidst great applause, and 
shouts from Jack's many admirers. The next ball is a beautifully pitched ball 
for the outer stump, which the reckless and unfeeling Jack catches hold of, 
and hits right round to leg for five, while the applause becomes deafening: 
only seventeen runs to get with four wickets -the game is all but ours!
It is over now, and Jack walks swaggering about his wicket, with the bat over 
his shoulder, while Mr. Aislebie holds a short parley with his men. Then the 
cover-point hitter, that cunning man, goes on to bowl slow twisters. Jack 
waves his hand triumphantly towards the tent, as much as to say, "See if I 
don't finish it all off now in three hits."
Alas, my son Jack! the enemy is too old for thee. The first ball of the over 
Jack steps out and meets, swiping with all his force. If he had only allowed 
for the twist! but he hasn't, and so the ball goes spinning up straight into 
the air, as if it would never come down again. Away runs Jack, shouting and 
trusting to the chapter of accidents, but the bowler runs steadily under it, 
judging every spin, and calling out "I have it," catches it, and playfully 
pitches it on to the back of the stalwart Jack, who is departing with a rueful 
countenance.
"I knew how it would be," says Tom, rising. "Come along, the game's getting 
very serious."
So they leave the island and go to the tent, and after deep consultation 
Arthur is sent in, and goes off to the wicket with a last exhortation from Tom 
to play steady and keep his bat straight. To the suggestions that Winter is 
the best bat left, Tom only replies, "Arthur is the steadiest, and Johnson 
will make the runs if the wicket is only kept up."
"I am surprised to see Arthur in the eleven," said the master, as they stood 
together in front of the dense crowd, which was now closing in round the ground.
"Well, I'm not quite sure that he ought to be in for his play," said Tom, "but 
I couldn't help putting him in. It will do him so much good, and you can't 
think what I owe him."
The master smiled. The clock strikes eight, and the whole field becomes 
fevered with excitement. Arthur, after two narrow escapes, scores one; and 
Johnson gets the ball. The bowling and fielding are superb, and Johnson's 
batting worthy the occasion. He makes here a two and there a one, managing to 
keep the ball to himself, and Arthur backs up and runs perfectly: only eleven 
runs to make now, and the crowd scarcely breathe. At last Arthur gets the ball 
again, and actually drives it forward for two, and feels prouder than when he 
got the three best prizes, at hearing Tom's shout of joy, "Well played, well 
played, young 'un!"
But the next ball is too much for a young hand, and his bails fly different 
ways. Nine runs to make, and two wickets to go down -it is too much for human 
nerves.
Before Winter can get in, the omnibus which is to take the Lords' men to the 
train pulls up at the side of the close, and Mr. Aislebie and Tom consult, and 
give out that the stumps will be drawn after the next over. And so ends the 
great match. Winter and Johnson carry out their bats, and, it being a one 
day's match, the Lords' men are declared the winners, they having scored the 
most in the first innings.
But such a defeat is a victory: so think Tom and all the School eleven, as 
they accompany their conquerors to the omnibus, and send them off with three 
ringing cheers, after Mr. Aislebie has shaken hands all round, saying to Tom, 
"I must compliment you, sir, on your eleven, and I hope we shall have you for 
a member if you come up to town."
As Tom and the rest of the eleven were turning back into the close, and 
everybody was beginning to cry out for another country dance, encouraged by 
the success of the night before, the young master, who was just leaving the 
close, stopped him, and asked him to come up to tea at half-past eight, 
adding, "I won't keep you more than half an hour, and ask Arthur to come up 
too."
"I'll come up with you directly if you'll let me," said Tom, "for I feel 
rather melancholy, and not quite up to the country dance and supper with the 
rest."
"Do by all means," said the master; "I'll wait here for you."
So Tom went off to get his boots and things from the tent, to tell Arthur of 
the invitation, and to speak to his second in command about stopping the 
dancing and shutting up the close as soon as it grew dusk. Arthur promised to 
follow as soon as he had had a dance. So Tom handed his things over to the man 
in charge of the tent, and walked quietly away to the gate where the master 
was waiting, and the two took their way together up the Hillmorton road.
Of course they found the master's house locked up, and all the servants away 
in the close, about this time no doubt footing it away on the grass with 
extreme delight to themselves, and in utter oblivion of the unfortunate 
bachelor their master, whose one enjoyment in the shape of meals was his "dish 
of tea" (as our grandmothers called it) in the evening; and the phrase was apt 
in his case, for he always poured his out into the saucer before drinking. 
Great was the good man's horror at finding himself shut out of his own house. 
Had he been alone he would have treated it as a matter of course, and would 
have strolled contentedly up and down his gravel-walk until someone came home; 
but he was hurt at the stain on his character of host, especially as the guest 
was a pupil. However, the guest seemed to think it a great joke, and 
presently, as they poked about round the house, mounted a wall from which he 
could reach a passage window: the window, as it turned out, was not bolted, so 
in another minute Tom was in the house and down at the front door, which he 
opened from inside. The master chuckled grimly at this burglarious entry, and 
insisted on leaving the hall-door and two of the front windows open, to 
frighten the truants on their return; and then the two set about foraging for 
tea, in which operation the master was much at fault, having the faintest 
possible idea of where to find anything, and being moreover wondrously 
short-sighted; but Tom by a sort of instinct knew the right cupboards in the 
kitchen and pantry, and soon managed to place on the snuggery table better 
materials for a meal than had appeared there probably during the reign of his 
tutor, who was then and there initiated, amongst other things, into the 
excellence of that mysterious condiment, a dripping cake. The cake was newly 
baked, and all rich and flaky; Tom had found it reposing in the cook's private 
cupboard, awaiting her return; and as a warning to her they finished it to the 
last crumb. The kettle sang away merrily on the hob of the snuggery, for 
notwithstanding the time of year, they lighted a fire, throwing both the 
windows wide open at the same time; the heap of books and papers were pushed 
away to the other end of the table, and the great solitary engraving of King's 
College Chapel over the mantelpiece looked less stiff than usual, as they 
settled themselves down in the twilight to the serious drinking of tea.
After some talk on the match, and other indifferent subjects, the conversation 
came naturally back to Tom's approaching departure, over which he began again 
to make his moan.
"Well, we shall all miss you quite as much as you will miss us," said the 
master. "You are the Nestor of the School now, are you not?"
"Yes, ever since East left," answered Tom.
"By the bye, have you heard from him?"
"Yes, I had a letter in February, just before he started for India to join his 
regiment."
"He will make a capital officer."
"Aye, won't he!" said Tom, brightening; "no fellow could handle boys better, 
and I suppose soldiers are very like boys. And he'll never tell them to go 
where he won't go himself. No mistake about that -a braver fellow never walked."
"His year in the sixth will have taught him a good deal that will be useful to 
him now."
"So it will," said Tom, staring into the fire. "Poor dear Harry," he went on, 
"how well I remember the day we were put out of the twenty. How he rose to the 
situation, and burnt his cigar-cases, and gave away his pistols, and pondered 
on the constitutional authority of the sixth, and his new duties to the 
Doctor, and the fifth form, and the fags. Aye, and no fellow ever acted up to 
them better, though he was always a people's man -for the fags, and against 
constituted authorities. He couldn't help that, you know. I'm sure the Doctor 
must have liked him?" said Tom, looking up inquiringly.
"The Doctor sees the good in every one, and appreciates it," said the master 
dogmatically; "but I hope East will get a good colonel. He won't do if he 
can't respect those above him. How long it took him, even here, to learn the 
lesson of obeying."
"Well, I wish I were alongside of him," said Tom. "If I can't be at Rugby I 
want to be at work in the world, and not dawdling away three years at Oxford."
"What do you mean by `at work in the world'?" said the master, pausing, with 
his lips close to his saucerful of tea, and peering at Tom over it.
"Well, I mean real work; one's profession; whatever one will have really to 
do, and make one's living by. I want to be doing some real good, feeling that 
I am not only at play in the world," answered Tom, rather puzzled to find out 
himself what he really did mean.
"You are mixing up two very different things in your head, I think, Brown," 
said the master, putting down his empty saucer, "and you ought to get clear 
about them. You talk of `working to get your living,' and `doing some real 
good in the world,' in the same breath. Now you may be getting a very good 
living in a profession, and yet doing no good at all in the world, but quite 
the contrary, at the same time. Keep the latter before you as your one object, 
and you will be right, whether you make a living or not; but if you dwell on 
the other, you'll very likely drop into mere money-making, and let the world 
take care of itself for good or evil. Don't be in a hurry about finding your 
work in the world for yourself; you are not old enough to judge for yourself 
yet, but just look about you in the place you find yourself in, and try to 
make things a little better and honester there. You'll find plenty to keep 
your hand in at Oxford, or wherever else you go. And don't be led away to 
think this part of the world important, and that unimportant. Every corner of 
the world is important. No man knows whether this part or that is most so, but 
every man may do some honest work in his own corner." And then the good man 
went on to talk wisely to Tom of the sort of work which he might take up as an 
undergraduate; and warned him of the prevalent University sins, and explained 
to him the many and great differences between University and School life; till 
the twilight changed into darkness, and they heard the truant servants 
stealing in by the back entrance.
"I wonder where Arthur can be," said Tom at last, looking at his watch; "why, 
it's nearly half-past nine already."
"Oh, he is comfortably at supper with the eleven, forgetful of his oldest 
friends," said the master. "Nothing has given me greater pleasure," he went 
on, "than your friendship for him, it has been the making of you both."
"Of me, at any rate," answered Tom; "I should never have been here now but for 
him. It was the luckiest chance in the world that sent him to Rugby, and made 
him my chum."
"Why do you talk of lucky chances?" said the master; "I don't know that there 
are any such things in the world; at any rate there was neither luck nor 
chance in that matter."
Tom looked at him inquiringly, and he went on. "Do you remember when the 
Doctor lectured you and East at the end of one half-year, when you were in the 
shell, and had been getting into all sorts of scrapes?"
"Yes, well enough," said Tom, "it was the half-year before Arthur came."
"Exactly so," answered the master. "Now I was with him a few minutes 
afterwards, and he was in great distress about you two. And, after some talk, 
we both agreed that you in particular wanted some object in the School beyond 
games and mischief, for it was quite clear that you never would make the 
regular school work your first object. And so the Doctor, at the beginning of 
the next half-year, looked out the best of the new boys, and separated you and 
East, and put the young boy into your study, in the hope that when you had 
somebody to lean on you, you would begin to stand a little steadier yourself, 
and get manliness and thoughtfulness. And I can assure you, he has watched the 
experiment ever since with great satisfaction. Ah! not one of you boys will 
ever know the anxiety you have given him, or the care with which he has 
watched over every step in your school lives."
Up to this time Tom had never wholly given in to or understood the Doctor. At 
first he had thoroughly feared him. For some years, as I have tried to show, 
he had learnt to regard him with love and respect, and to think him a very 
great and wise and good man. But, as regarded his own position in the School, 
of which he was no little proud, Tom had no idea of giving any one credit for 
it but himself; and, truth to tell, was a very self-conceited young gentleman 
on the subject. He was wont to boast that he had fought his own way fairly up 
the School, and had never made up to, or been taken up by any big fellow or 
master, and that it was now quite a different place from what it was when he 
first came. And indeed, though he didn't actually boast of it, yet in his 
secret soul he did to a great extent believe that the great reform in the 
School had been owing quite as much to himself as to any one else. Arthur, he 
acknowledged, had done him good, and taught him a good deal, so had other boys 
in different ways; but they had not had the same means of influence on the 
School in general; and as for the Doctor, why, he was a splendid master, but 
every one knew that masters could do very little out of school hours. In 
short, he felt on terms of equality with his chief, so far as the social state 
of the School was concerned, and thought that the Doctor would find it no easy 
matter to get on without him. Moreover, his School Toryism was still strong, 
and he looked still with some jealousy on the Doctor, as somewhat of a fanatic 
in the matter of change; and thought it very desirable for the School that he 
should have some wise person (such as himself) to look sharply after vested 
School-rights, and see that nothing was done to the injury of the republic 
without due protest.
It was a new light to him to find that besides teaching the sixth, and 
governing and guiding the whole School, editing classics, and writing 
histories, the great Headmaster had found time in those busy years to watch 
over the career, even of him, Tom Brown, and his particular friends -and, no 
doubt, of fifty other boys at the same time; and all this without taking the 
least credit to himself, or seeming to know, or let any one else know, that he 
ever thought particularly of any boy at all.
However, the Doctor's victory was complete from that moment over Tom Brown at 
any rate. He gave way at all points, and the enemy marched right over him, 
cavalry, infantry, and artillery, the land transport corps, and the camp 
followers. It had taken eight long years to do it, but now it was done 
thoroughly, and there wasn't a corner of him left which didn't believe in the 
Doctor. Had he returned to school again, and the Doctor begun the half-year by 
abolishing fagging, and football, and the Saturday half-holiday, or all or any 
of the most cherished school institutions, Tom would have supported him with 
the blindest faith. And so, after a half confession of his previous 
shortcomings, and sorrowful adieus to his tutor, from whom he received two 
beautifully bound volumes of the Doctor's Sermons as a parting present, he 
marched down to the School-house, a hero-worshipper, who would have satisfied 
the soul of Thomas Carlyle himself.
There he found the eleven at high jinks after supper, Jack Raggles shouting 
comic songs, and performing feats of strength; and was greeted by a chorus of 
mingled remonstrance at his desertion, and joy at his reappearance. And 
falling in with the humour of the evening, he was soon as great a boy as all 
the rest; and at ten o'clock was chaired round the quadrangle, on one of the 
hall benches borne aloft by the eleven, shouting in chorus, "For he's a jolly 
good fellow," while old Thomas, in a melting mood, and the other School-house 
servants, stood looking on.
And the next morning after breakfast he squared up all the cricketing 
accounts, went round to his tradesmen and other acquaintance, and said his 
hearty good-byes; and by twelve o'clock was in the train, and away for London, 
no longer a schoolboy, and divided in his thoughts between hero-worship, 
honest regrets over the long stage of his life which was now slipping out of 
sight behind him, and hopes and resolves for the next stage, upon which he was 
entering with all the confidence of a young traveller.



Chapter 18: Finis

"Strange friend, past, present, and to be;
Loved deeplier, darklier understood;
Behold, I dream a dream of good,
And mingle all the world with thee." -TENNYSON.


In the summer of 1842, our hero stopped once again at the well-known station; 
and, leaving his bag and fishing-rod with a porter, walked slowly and sadly up 
towards the town. It was now July. He had rushed away from Oxford the moment 
that term was over, for a fishing ramble in Scotland with two college friends, 
and had been for three weeks living on oatcake, mutton-hams, and whiskey, in 
the wildest parts of Skye. They had descended one sultry evening on the little 
inn at Kyle Rhea ferry; and while Tom and another of the party put their 
tackle together and began exploring the stream for a sea-trout for supper, the 
third strolled into the house to arrange for their entertainment. Presently he 
came out in a loose blouse and slippers, a short pipe in his mouth, and an old 
newspaper in his hand, and threw himself on the heathery scrub which met the 
shingle within easy hail of the fishermen. There he lay, the picture of 
free-and-easy, loafing, hand-to-mouth young England, "improving his mind," as 
he shouted to them, by the perusal of the fortnight-old weekly paper, soiled 
with the marks of toddy-glasses and tobacco ashes, the legacy of the last 
traveller, which he had hunted out from the kitchen of the little hostelry, 
and, being a youth of a communicative turn of mind, began imparting the 
contents to the fishermen as he went on.
"What a bother they are making about these wretched corn laws; here's three or 
four columns full of nothing but sliding scales and fixed duties. -Hang this 
tobacco, it's always going out! -Ah, here's something better -a splendid match 
between Kent and England, Brown! Kent winning by three wickets. Felix 
fifty-six runs without a chance, and not out!"
Tom, intent on a fish which had risen at him twice, answered only with a grunt.

"Anything about the Goodwood?" called out the third man.
"Rory O'More drawn. Butterfly colt amiss," shouted the student.
"Just my luck," grumbled the inquirer, jerking his flies off the water, and 
throwing again with a heavy sullen splash, and frightening Tom's fish.
"I say, can't you throw lighter over there? we ain't fishing for grampuses," 
shouted Tom across the stream.
"Hullo, Brown! here's something for you," called out the reading man next 
moment. "Why, your old master, Arnold of Rugby, is dead."
Tom's hand stopped halfway in his cast, and his line and flies went all 
tangling round and round his rod; you might have knocked him over with a 
feather. Neither of his companions took any notice of him, luckily; and with a 
violent effort he set to work mechanically to disentangle his line. He felt 
completely carried off his moral and intellectual legs, as if he had lost his 
standing-point in the invisible world. Besides which, the deep loving loyalty 
which he felt for his old leader made the shock intensely painful. It was the 
first great wrench of his life, the first gap which the angel Death had made 
in his circle, and he felt numbed, and beaten down, and spiritless. Well, 
well! I believe it was good for him and for many others in like case; who had 
to learn by that loss that the soul of man cannot stand or lean upon any human 
prop, however strong, and wise, and good; but, that He upon whom alone it can 
stand and lean will knock away all such props in His own wise and merciful 
way, until there is no ground or stay left but Himself, the Rock of Ages, upon 
Whom alone a sure foundation for every soul of man is laid.
As he wearily laboured at his line, the thought struck him, "It may be all 
false, a mere newspaper lie," and he strode up to the recumbent smoker.
"Let me look at the paper," said he.
"Nothing else in it," answered the other, handing it up to him listlessly. 
-"Hullo, Brown! what's the matter, old fellow -ain't you well?"
"Where is it?" said Tom, turning over the leaves, his hands trembling, and his 
eyes swimming, so that he could not read.
"What? What are you looking for?" said his friend, jumping up and looking over 
his shoulder.
"That -about Arnold," said Tom.
"Oh, here," said the other, putting his finger on the paragraph. Tom read it 
over and over again; there could be no mistake of identity, though the account 
was short enough.
"Thank you," said he at last, dropping the paper, "I shall go for a walk: 
don't you and Herbert wait supper for me." And away he strode, up over the 
moor at the back of the house, to be alone, and master his grief if possible.
His friend looked after him, sympathising and wondering, and, knocking the 
ashes out of his pipe, walked over to Herbert. After a short parley they 
walked together up to the house.
"I'm afraid that confounded newspaper has spoiled Brown's fun for this trip."
"How odd that he should be so fond of his old master," said Herbert. Yet they 
also were both public-school men.
The two, however, notwithstanding Tom's prohibition, waited supper for him, 
and had everything ready when he came back some half an hour afterwards. But 
he could not join in their cheerful talk, and the party was soon silent, 
notwithstanding the efforts of all three. One thing only had Tom resolved, and 
that was that he couldn't stay in Scotland any longer; he felt an irresistible 
longing to get to Rugby, and then home, and soon broke it to the others, who 
had too much tact to oppose.
So by daylight the next morning he was marching through Ross-shire, and in the 
evening hit the Caledonian Canal, took the next steamer, and travelled as fast 
as boat and railway could carry him to the Rugby station.
As he walked up to the town he felt shy and afraid of being seen, and took the 
back streets; why, he didn't know, but he followed his instinct. At the School 
gates he made a dead pause; there was not a soul in the quadrangle -all was 
lonely, and silent, and sad. So with another effort he strode through the 
quadrangle, and into the School-house offices.
He found the little matron in her room in deep mourning; shook her hand, tried 
to talk, and moved nervously about: she was evidently thinking of the same 
subject as he, but he couldn't begin talking.
"Where shall I find Thomas?" said he at last, getting desperate.
"In the servants' hall, I think, sir. But won't you take anything?" said the 
matron, looking rather disappointed.
"No, thank you," said he, and strode off again to find the old Verger, who was 
sitting in his little den as of old, puzzling over hieroglyphics.
He looked up through his spectacles as Tom seized his hand and wrung it.
"Ah! you've heard all about it, sir, I see," said he.
Tom nodded, and then sat down on the shoeboard, while the old man told his 
tale, and wiped his spectacles, and fairly flowed over with quaint, homely, 
honest sorrow.
By the time he had done Tom felt much better.
"Where is he buried, Thomas?" said he at last.
"Under the altar in the chapel, sir," answered Thomas. "You'd like to have the 
key, I dare say."
"Thank you, Thomas -yes, I should very much." And the old man fumbled among 
his bunch, and then got up, as though he would go with him; but after a few 
steps stopped short, and said, "Perhaps you'd like to go by yourself, sir?"
Tom nodded, and the bunch of keys were handed to him, with an injunction to be 
sure and lock the door after him, and bring them back before eight o'clock.
He walked quickly through the quadrangle and out into the close. The longing 
which had been upon him and driven him thus far, like the gad-fly in the Greek 
legends, giving him no rest in mind or body, seemed all of a sudden not to be 
satisfied, but to shrivel up, and pall. "Why should I go on? It's no use," he 
thought, and threw himself at full length on the turf, and looked vaguely and 
listlessly at all the well-known objects. There were a few of the town boys 
playing cricket, their wicket pitched on the best piece in the middle of the 
Big-side ground, a sin about equal to sacrilege in the eyes of a Captain of 
the eleven. He was very nearly getting up to go and send them off. "Pshaw! 
they won't remember me. They've more right there than I," he muttered. And the 
thought that his sceptre had departed, and his mark was wearing out, came home 
to him for the first time, and bitterly enough. He was lying on the very spot 
where the fights came off; where he himself had fought six years ago his first 
and last battle. He conjured up the scene till he could almost hear the shouts 
of the ring, and East's whisper in his ear; and looking across the close to 
the Doctor's private door, half expected to see it open, and the tall figure 
in cap and gown come striding under the elm trees towards him.
No, no! that sight could never be seen again. There was no flag flying on the 
round tower; the School-house windows were all shuttered up; and when the flag 
went up again, and the shutters came down, it would be to welcome a stranger. 
All that was left on earth of him whom he had honoured, was lying cold and 
still under the chapel floor. He would go in and see the place once more, and 
then leave it once for all. New men and new methods might do for other people; 
let those who would, worship the rising star, he at least would be faithful to 
the sun which had set. And so he got up, and walked to the chapel door and 
unlocked it, fancying himself the only mourner in all the broad land, and 
feeding on his own selfish sorrow.
He passed through the vestibule, and then paused for a moment to glance over 
the empty benches. His heart was still proud and high, and he walked up to the 
seat which he had last occupied as a sixth-form boy, and sat himself down 
there to collect his thoughts.
And, truth to tell, they needed collecting and setting in order not a little. 
The memories of eight years were all dancing through his brain, and carrying 
him about whither they would; while beneath them all, his heart was throbbing 
with the dull sense of a loss that could never be made up to him. The rays of 
the evening sun came solemnly through the painted windows above his head, and 
fell in gorgeous colours on the opposite wall, and the perfect stillness 
soothed his spirit by little and little. And he turned to the pulpit, and 
looked at it, and then, leaning forward with his head on his hands, groaned 
aloud. "If he could only have seen the Doctor again for one five minutes, 
-have told him all that was in his heart, what he owed to him, how he loved 
and reverenced him, and would by God's help follow his steps in life and 
death, -he could have borne it all without a murmur. But that he should have 
gone away for ever without knowing it all was too much to bear." -"But am I 
sure that he does not know it all?" -the thought made him start -"May he not 
even now be near me, in this very chapel? If he be, am I sorrowing as he would 
have me sorrow -as I should wish to have sorrowed when I shall meet him again?"
He raised himself up and looked round; and after a minute rose and walked 
humbly down to the lowest bench, and sat down on the very seat which he had 
occupied on his first Sunday at Rugby. And then the old memories rushed back 
again, but softened and subdued, and soothing him as he let himself be carried 
away by them. And he looked up at the great painted window above the altar, 
and remembered how when a little boy he used to try not to look through it at 
the elm-trees and the rooks, before the painted glass came -and the 
subscription for the painted glass, and the letter he wrote home for money to 
give to it. And there, down below, was the very name of the boy who sat on his 
right hand on that first day, scratched rudely in the oak panelling.
And then came the thought of all his old school-fellows; and form after form 
of boys, nobler, and braver, and purer than he, rose up and seemed to rebuke 
him. Could he not think of them and what they had felt and were feeling, they 
who had honoured and loved from the first the man whom he had taken years to 
know and love? Could he not think of those yet dearer to him who was gone, who 
bore his name and shared his blood, and were now without a husband or a 
father? Then the grief which he began to share with others became gentle and 
holy, and he rose up once more, and walked up the steps to the altar; and 
while the tears flowed freely down his cheeks, knelt down humbly and 
hopefully, to lay down there his share of a burden which had proved itself too 
heavy for him to bear in his own strength.
Here let us leave him -where better could we leave him than at the altar 
before which he had first caught a glimpse of the glory of his birthright, and 
felt the drawing of the bond which links all living souls together in one 
brotherhood -at the grave beneath the altar of him who had opened his eyes to 
see that glory, and softened his heart till it could feel that bond?
And let us not be hard on him, if at that moment his soul is fuller of the 
tomb and him who lies there than of the altar and Him of whom it speaks. Such 
stages have to be gone through, I believe, by all young and brave souls, who 
must win their way through hero-worship, to the worship of Him Who is the King 
and Lord of heroes. For it is only through our mysterious human relationships, 
through the love and tenderness and purity of mothers, and sisters, and wives, 
through the strength and courage and wisdom of fathers, and brothers, and 
teachers, that we can come to the knowledge of Him, in Whom alone the love, 
and the tenderness, and the purity, and the strength, and the courage, and the 
wisdom of all these dwell for ever and ever in perfect fullness.