"Surgebat
Macnevisius
Et mox jactabat ultro,
Pugnabo tua gratia
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 school-fellow
in the manner of our old friend
Bell's Life, let those young
persons whose stomachs are
not strong, or who think a
good set- to with the weapons
which God has given us all
an uncivilized, unchristian,
or ungentlemanly affair, just
skip this chapter at once,
for it won't be to their taste.
It was not at all usual in
those days for two School-house
boys to have a fight. Of course
there were exceptions, when
some cross-grained, hard-headed
fellow came up who would never
be happy unless he was quarrelling
with his nearest neighbours,
or when there was some class-dispute,
between the fifth form and
the fags, for instance, which
required blood-letting; and
a champion was picked out on
each side tacitly, who settled
the matter by a good hearty
mill. But, for the most part,
the constant use of those surest
keepers of the peace, the boxing-
gloves, kept the School-house
boys from fighting one another.
Two or three nights in every
week the gloves were brought
out, either in the hall or
fifth-form room; and every
boy who was ever likely to
fight at all knew all his neighbours'
prowess perfectly well, and
could tell to a nicety what
chance he would have in a stand-up
fight with any other boy in
the house. But, of course,
no such experience could be
gotten as regarded boys in
other houses; and as most of
the other houses were more
or less jealous of the School-house,
collisions were frequent.
After all, what would life
be without fighting, I should
like to know? From the cradle
to the grave, fighting, rightly
understood, is the business,
the real highest, honestest
business of every son of man.
Every one who is worth his
salt has his enemies, who must
be beaten, be they evil thoughts
and habits in himself, or spiritual
wickednesses in high places,
or Russians, or Border-ruffians,
or Bill, Tom, or Harry, who
will not let him live his life
in quiet till he has thrashed
them.
It is no good for quakers,
or any other body of men, to
uplift their voices against
fighting. Human nature is too
strong for them, and they don't
follow their own precepts.
Every soul of them is doing
his own piece of fighting,
somehow and somewhere. The
world might be a better world
without fighting, for anything
I know, but it wouldn't be
our world; and therefore I
am dead against crying peace
when there is no peace, and
isn't meant to be. I am as
sorry as any man to see folk
fighting the wrong people and
the wrong things, but I'd a
deal sooner see them doing
that than that they should
have no fight in them. 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 school-fellows
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 school-day, and four
or five of the School-house
boys (amongst whom are Arthur,
Tom, and East) are preparing
third lesson together. They
have finished the regulation
forty lines, and are for the
most part getting very tired,
notwithstanding the exquisite
pathos of Helen's lamentation.
And now several long four-syllabled
words come together, and the
boy with the dictionary strikes
work.
"I am not going to look
out any more words," says
he; "we've done the quantity.
Ten to one we shan't get so
far. Let's go out into the
close."
"Come along, boys," cries
East, always ready to leave "the
grind," as he called it; "our
old coach is laid up, you know,
and we shall have one of the
new masters, who's sure to
go slow and let us down easy."
So an adjournment to the close
was carried nem. con., little
Arthur not daring to uplift
his voice; but, being deeply
interested in what they were
reading, stayed quietly behind,
and learnt on for his own pleasure.
As East had said, the regular
master of the form was unwell,
and they were to be heard by
one of the new masters - quite
a young man, who had only just
left the university. Certainly
it would be hard lines if,
by dawdling as much as possible
in coming in and taking their
places, entering into long-winded
explanations of what was the
usual course of the regular
master of the form, and others
of the stock contrivances of
boys for wasting time in school,
they could not spin out the
lesson so that he should not
work them through more than
the forty lines. As to which
quantity there was a perpetual
fight going on between the
master and his form - the latter
insisting, and enforcing by
passive resistance, that it
was the prescribed quantity
of Homer for a shell lesson;
the former, that there was
no fixed quantity, but that
they must always be ready to
go on to fifty or sixty lines
if there were time within the
hour. However, notwithstanding
all their efforts, the new
master got on horribly quick.
He seemed to have the bad taste
to be really interested in
the lesson, and to be trying
to work them up into something
like appreciation of it, giving
them good, spirited English
words, instead of the wretched
bald stuff into which they
rendered poor old Homer, and
construing over each piece
himself to them, after each
boy, to show them how it should
be done.
Now the clock strikes the
three-quarters; there is only
a quarter of an hour more,
but the forty lines are all
but done. So the boys, one
after another, who are called
up, stick more and more, and
make balder and ever more bald
work of it. 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—
[greek text deleted]
He looks up
at Arthur, "Why,
bless us," thinks he, "what
can be the matter with the
young un? He's never going
to get floored. He's sure to
have learnt to the end." Next
moment he is reassured by the
spirited tone in which Arthur
begins construing, and betakes
himself to drawing dogs' heads
in his notebook, while the
master, evidently enjoying
the change, turns his back
on the middle bench and stands
before Arthur, beating a sort
of time with his hand and foot,
and saying; "Yes, yes," "Very
well," as Arthur goes
on.
But as he nears the fatal
two lines, Tom catches that
falter, and again looks up.
He sees that there is something
the matter; Arthur can hardly
get on at all. What can it
be?
Suddenly at this point Arthur
breaks down altogether, and
fairly bursts out crying, and
dashes the cuff of his jacket
across his eyes, blushing up
to the roots of his hair, and
feeling as if he should like
to go down suddenly through
the floor. The whole form are
taken aback; most of them stare
stupidly at him, while those
who are gifted with presence
of mind find their places and
look steadily at their books,
in hopes of not catching the
master's eye and getting called
up in Arthur's place.
The master
looks puzzled for a moment,
and then seeing,
as the fact is, that the boy
is really affected to tears
by the most touching thing
in Homer, perhaps in all profane
poetry put together, steps
up to him and lays his hand
kindly on his shoulder, saying, "Never
mind, my little man, you've
construed very well. Stop a
minute; there's no hurry."
Now, as luck would have it,
there sat next above Tom on
that day, in the middle bench
of the form, a big boy, by
name Williams, generally supposed
to be the cock of the shell,
therefore of all the school
below the fifths. The small
boys, who are great speculators
on the prowess of their elders,
used to hold forth to one another
about Williams's great strength,
and to discuss whether East
or Brown would take a licking
from him. He was called Slogger
Williams, from the force with
which it was supposed he could
hit. In the main, he was a
rough, goodnatured fellow enough,
but very much alive to his
own dignity. He reckoned himself
the king of the form, and kept
up his position with the strong
hand, especially in the matter
of forcing boys not to construe
more than the legitimate forty
lines. He had already grunted
and grumbled to himself when
Arthur went on reading beyond
the forty lines; but now that
he had broken down just in
the middle of all the long
words, the Slogger's wrath
was fairly roused.
"Sneaking little brute," muttered
he, regardless of prudence
- "clapping on the water-works
just in the hardest place;
see if I don't punch his head
after fourth lesson."
"Whose?" said
Tom, to whom the remark seemed
to
be addressed.
"Why, that little sneak,
Arthur's," replied Williams.
"No, you shan't," said
Tom.
"Hullo!" exclaimed
Williams, looking at Tom with
great surprise for a moment,
and then giving him a sudden
dig in the ribs with his elbow,
which sent Tom's books flying
on to the floor, and called
the attention of the master,
who turned suddenly round,
and seeing the state of things,
said, -
"Williams,
go down three places, and
then go on."
The Slogger
found his legs very slowly,
and proceeded
to go below Tom and two other
boys with great disgust; and
then, turning round and facing
the master, said, "I haven't
learnt any more, sir; our lesson
is only forty lines."
"Is that so?" said
the master, appealing generally
to the top bench. No answer.
"Who is the head boy
of the form?" said he,
waxing wroth.
"Arthur, sir," answered
three or four boys, indicating
our friend.
"Oh,
your name's Arthur. Well,
now, what is the length
of your regular lesson?"
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
he struck the arm which held
Arthur's arm so sharply that
the Slogger dropped it with
a start, and turned the full
current of his wrath on Tom.
"Will
you fight?"
"Yes,
of course."
"Huzza!
There's going to be a fight
between Slogger
Williams and Tom Brown!"
The news ran like wildfire
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 shirtsleeves 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 the turf,
and is ready for all that may
come; and here is the Slogger
too, all stripped, and thirsting
for the fray.
It doesn't
look a fair match at first
glance: Williams is
nearly two inches taller, and
probably a long year older
than his opponent, and he is
very strongly made about the
arms and shoulders - "peels
well," as the little knot
of big fifth-form boys, the
amateurs, say, who stand outside
the ring of little boys, looking
complacently on, but taking
no active part in the proceedings.
But down below he is not so
good by any means - no spring
from the loins, and feeblish,
not to say shipwrecky, about
the knees. Tom, on the contrary,
though not half so strong in
the arms, is good all over,
straight, hard, and springy,
from neck to ankle, better
perhaps in his legs than anywhere.
Besides, you can see by the
clear white of his eye, and
fresh, bright look of his skin,
that he is in tip-top training,
able to do all he knows; while
the Slogger looks rather sodden,
as if he didn't take much exercise
and ate too much tuck. The
time-keeper is chosen, a large
ring made, and the two stand
up opposite one another for
a moment, giving us time just
to make our little observations.
"If Tom'll only condescend
to fight with his head and
heels," as East mutters
to Martin, "we shall do."
But seemingly
he won't, for there he goes
in, making play
with both hands. Hard all is
the word; the two stand to
one another like men; rally
follows rally in quick succession,
each fighting as if he thought
to finish the whole thing out
of hand. "Can't last at
this rate," say the knowing
ones, while the partisans of
each make the air ring with
their shouts and counter-shouts
of encouragement, approval,
and defiance.
"Take it easy, take it
easy; keep away; let him come
after you," implores East,
as he wipes Tom's face after
the first round with a wet
sponge, while he sits back
on Martin's knee, supported
by the Madman's long arms which
tremble a little from excitement.
"Time's up," calls
the time-keeper.
"There he goes again,
hang it all!" growls East,
as his man is at it again,
as hard as ever. 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 cautiously, getting
away from and parrying the
Slogger's lunging hits, instead
of trying to counter, and leading
his enemy a dance all round
the ring after him. "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 his 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 sponge
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 neutralized, for he daren't
lunge out freely for fear of
exposing his sides. It is too
interesting by this time for
much shouting, and the whole
ring is very quiet.
"All right, Tommy," whispers
East; "hold on's the horse
that's to win. We've got the
last. Keep your head, old boy."
But where is Arthur all this
time? Words cannot paint the
poor little fellow's distress.
He couldn't muster courage
to come up to the ring, but
wandered up and down from the
great fives court to the corner
of the chapel rails, now trying
to make up his mind to throw
himself between them, and try
to stop them; then thinking
of running in and telling his
friend Mary, who, he knew,
would instantly report to the
Doctor. The stories he had
heard of men being killed in
prize-fights rose up horribly
before him.
Once only,
when the shouts of "Well done, Brown!" "Huzza
for the School-house!" rose
higher than ever, he ventured
up to the ring, thinking the
victory was won. Catching sight
of Tom's face in the state
I have described, all fear
of consequences vanishing out
of his mind; he rushed straight
off to the matron's room, beseeching
her to get the fight stopped,
or he should die.
But it's time
for us to get back to the
close. What is
this fierce tumult and confusion?
The ring is broken, and high
and angry words are being bandied
about. "It's all fair" - "It
isn't" - "No hugging!" The
fight is stopped. The combatants,
however, sit there quietly,
tended by their seconds, while
their adherents wrangle in
the middle. East can't help
shouting challenges to two
or three of the other side,
though he never leaves Tom
for a moment, and plies the
sponges as fast as ever.
The fact is, that at the end
of the last round, Tom, seeing
a good opening, had closed
with his opponent, and after
a moment's struggle, had thrown
him heavily, by help of the
fall he had learnt from his
village rival in the Vale of
White Horse. Williams hadn't
the ghost of a chance with
Tom at wrestling; and the conviction
broke at once on the Slogger
faction that if this were allowed
their man must be licked. There
was a strong feeling in the
School against catching hold
and throwing, though it was
generally ruled all fair within
limits; so the ring was broken
and the fight stopped.
The School-house
are overruled - the fight
is on again, but
there is to be no throwing;
and East, in high wrath, threatens
to take his man away after
next round (which he don't
mean to do, by the way), when
suddenly young Brooke comes
through the small gate at the
end of the chapel. The School-house
faction rush to him. "Oh,
hurrah! now we shall get fair
play."
"Please,
Brooke, come up. They won't
let Tom Brown
throw him."
"Throw whom?" says
Brooke, coming up to the ring. "Oh!
Williams, I see. Nonsense!
Of course he may throw him,
if he catches him fairly above
the waist."
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 stanch
upholder of the School-house,
can't help stopping to look
on for a bit, and see Tom Brown,
their pet craftsman, fight
a round.
It is grim earnest now, and
no mistake. Both boys feel
this, and summon every power
of head, hand, and eye to their
aid. A piece of luck on either
side, a foot slipping, a blow
getting well home, or another
fall, may decide it. Tom works
slowly round for an opening;
he has all the legs, and can
choose his own time. The Slogger
waits for the attack, and hopes
to finish it by some heavy
right-handed blow. As they
quarter slowly over the ground,
the evening sun comes out from
behind a cloud and falls full
on Williams's face. Tom darts
in; the heavy right hand is
delivered, but only grazes
his head. A short rally at
close quarters, and they close;
in another moment the Slogger
is thrown again heavily for
the third time.
"I'll give you three
or two on the little one in
half-crowns," said Groove
to Rattle.
"No, thank 'ee," answers
the other, diving his hands
farther into his coat-tails.
Just at this stage of the
proceedings, the door of the
turret which leads to the Doctor's
library suddenly opens, and
he steps into the close, and
makes straight for the ring,
in which Brown and the Slogger
are both seated on their seconds'
knees for the last time.
"The Doctor! the Doctor!" shouts
some small boy who catches
sight of him, and the ring
melts away in a few seconds,
the small boys tearing off,
Tom collaring his jacket and
waistcoat, and slipping through
the little gate by the chapel,
and round the corner to Harrowell's
with his backers, as lively
as need be; Williams and his
backers making off not quite
so fast across the close; Groove,
Rattle, and the other bigger
fellows trying to combine dignity
and prudence in a comical manner,
and walking off fast enough,
they hope, not to be recognized,
and not fast enough to look
like running away.
Young Brooke alone remains
on the ground by the time the
Doctor gets there, and touches
his hat, not without a slight
inward qualm.
"Hah!
Brooke. I am surprised to
see you here. Don't you
know that I expect the sixth
to stop fighting?"
Brooke felt much more uncomfortable
than he had expected, but he
was rather a favourite with
the Doctor for his openness
and plainness of speech, so
blurted out, as he walked by
the Doctor's side, who had
already turned back, -
"Yes,
sir, generally. But I thought
you wished us
to exercise a discretion in
the matter too - not to interfere
too soon."
"But they have been fighting
this half-hour and more," said
the Doctor.
"Yes,
sir; but neither was hurt.
And they're the sort
of boys who'll be all the better
friends now, which they wouldn't
have been if they had been
stopped, any earlier - before
it was so equal."
"Who was fighting with
Brown?" said the Doctor.
"Williams,
sir, of Thompson's. He is
bigger than Brown, and
had the best of it at first,
but not when you came up, sir.
There's a good deal of jealousy
between our house and Thompson's,
and there would have been more
fights if this hadn't been
let go on, or if either of
them had had much the worst
of it."
"Well but, Brooke," said
the Doctor, "doesn't this
look a little as if you exercised
your discretion by only stopping
a fight when the School-house
boy is getting the worst of
it?"
Brooke, it must be confessed,
felt rather gravelled.
"Now remember," added
the Doctor, as he stopped at
the turret- door, "this
fight is not to go on; you'll
see to that. And I expect you
to stop all fights in future
at once."
"Very well, sir," said
young Brooke, touching his
hat, and not sorry to see the
turret-door close behind the
Doctor's back.
Meantime Tom and the stanchest
of his adherents had reached
Harrowell's, and Sally was
bustling about to get them
a late tea, while Stumps had
been sent off to Tew, the butcher,
to get a piece of raw beef
for Tom's eye, which was to
be healed off- hand, so that
he might show well in the morning.
He was not a bit the worse,
except a slight difficulty
in his vision, a singing in
his ears, and a sprained thumb,
which he kept in a cold-water
bandage, while he drank lots
of tea, and listened to the
babel of voices talking and
speculating of nothing but
the fight, and how Williams
would have given in after another
fall (which he didn't in the
least believe), and how on
earth the Doctor could have
got to know of it - such bad
luck! He couldn't help thinking
to himself that he was glad
he hadn't won; he liked it
better as it was, and felt
very friendly to the Slogger.
And then poor little Arthur
crept in and sat down quietly
near him, and kept looking
at him and the raw beef with
such plaintive looks that Tom
at last burst out laughing.
"Don't make such eyes,
young un," said he; "there's
nothing the matter."
"Oh,
but, Tom, are you much hurt?
I can't bear thinking
it was all for me."
"Not
a bit of it; don't flatter
yourself. We were sure
to have had it out sooner or
later."
"Well,
but you won't go on, will
you? You'll promise
me you won't go on?"
"Can't
tell about that - all depends
on the houses.
We're in the hands of our countrymen,
you know. Must fight for the
School-house flag, if so be."
However, the lovers of the
science were doomed to disappointment
this time. Directly after locking-up,
one of the night-fags knocked
at Tom's door.
"Brown,
young Brooke wants you in
the sixth-form
room."
Up went Tom to the summons,
and found the magnates sitting
at their supper.
"Well, Brown," said
young Brooke, nodding to him
, "how do you feel?"
"Oh,
very well, thank you, only
I've sprained my
thumb, I think."
"Sure
to do that in a fight. Well,
you hadn't the
worst of it, I could see. Where
did you learn that throw?"
"Down
in the country when I was
a boy."
"Hullo!
why, what are you now? Well,
never mind,
you're a plucky fellow. Sit
down and have some supper."
Tom obeyed, by no means loath.
And the fifth-form boy next
filled him a tumbler of bottled
beer, and he ate and drank,
listening to the pleasant talk,
and wondering how soon he should
be in the fifth, and one of
that much-envied society.
As he got
up to leave, Brooke said, "You
must shake hands to- morrow
morning; I
shall come and see that done
after first lesson."
And so he
did. And Tom and the Slogger
shook hands with
great satisfaction and mutual
respect. And for the next year
or two, whenever fights were
being talked of, the small
boys who had been present shook
their heads wisely, saying, "Ah!
but you should just have seen
the fight between Slogger Williams
and Tom Brown!"
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
everyday school life was in
my time, and not a kid-glove
and go-to- meeting-coat picture,
and partly because of the cant
and twaddle that's talked of
boxing and fighting with fists
nowadays. Even Thackeray has
given in to it; and only a
few weeks ago there was some
rampant stuff in the Times
on the subject, in an article
on field sports.
Boys will quarrel, and when
they quarrel will sometimes
fight. Fighting with fists
is the natural and English
way for English boys to settle
their quarrels. What substitute
for it is there, or ever was
there, amongst any nation under
the sun? What would you like
to see take its place?
Learn to box, then, as you
learn to play cricket and football.
Not one of you will be the
worse, but very much the better,
for learning to box well. Should
you never have to use it in
earnest, there's no exercise
in the world so good for the
temper and for the muscles
of the back and legs.
As to fighting,
keep out of it if you can,
by all means.
When the time comes, if it
ever should, that you have
to say "Yes" or "No" to
a challenge to fight, say "No" if
you can - only take care you
make it clear to yourselves
why you say "No." It's
a proof of the highest courage,
if done from true Christian
motives. It's quite right and
justifiable, if done from a
simple aversion to physical
pain and danger. But don't
say "No" because
you fear a licking, and say
or think it's because you fear
God, for that's neither Christian
nor honest. And if you do fight,
fight it out; and don't give
in while you can stand and
see.
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