"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 few 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 shoebasket
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 a 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 blanket!" "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 prepostor,
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 prepostor
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
farther, 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 though," 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 prepostor
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 on
the old hall tables,
or painted upon the
big-side cupboard (if
hall tables and big-side
cupboards 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 home 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 prepostors 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 (ay, and
men too for the matter
of that), to a man
whom 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 boy's 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 companions
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 farther, 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 prepostor who called "Fag," racing
to the 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 prepostor 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 continual
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,
copy-books, 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," exclaimed
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
could 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 to 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 to-day.
But not a sign of them
appears, so now will
be the hard work for
the 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 one
or two 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
ear-shot, 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 steam
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 had 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 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 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 recognized 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 clambering 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 paused
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 them 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's
galleys. Round him
stood three or four
children; the candles
burnt brightly on a
large table at the
farther 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
eyes 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
master's 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 great-coats
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
half-way 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," shouted
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 school-boys 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 half-way
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,
though 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 hostler
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.
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