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Title: Tom Brown at Oxford

Author: Thomas Hughes

Release Date: October 9, 2008 [EBook #26851]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOM BROWN AT OXFORD ***




Produced by Robert E. Reilly




Tom Brown at Oxford

Thomas Hughes (1822-96)


Publishing history

First serialized ending in circa 1861 in MacMillan's Magazine
(mentioned by the author in his preface, and Chapter 28 contains
the author's footnote indicating that at least part of this
chapter was not written earlier than 1859)

First published in 3 volume book form 1861 by Cambridge, London
(British Library)

2nd edition published 1861 by MacMillan & Co., Cambridge & London
(British Library)

Published 1861 by Ticknor & Fields, Boston (Library of Congress)

May have been serialized by Ticknor & Fields in 1859 (parts
offered on Amazon.com by an antique bookseller)

Published 1863 by Ticknor & Fields, Boston (Library of Congress)

Published 1865 by MacMillan & Co. (British Library)

Published 1870 by Harper Bros., New York (British Library)

Published 1871 by Harper Bros., New York (Library of Congress &
British Library)

Published 1879 by unknown, New York (Library of Congress)

Published 1881 by MacMillan & Co., New York (Library of Congress)

French translation published 1881 in Paris with added name
Girardin, Jules Marie Alfred who is possibly the translator(?)
(British Library)

Published circa 1888-92 by John W. Lovell, New York (Ebook
transcriber's scanned copy)

Published 1888 by Porter & Coates, Philadelphia (Ebook
transcriber's proofreading copy)

Published 1889 by MacMillan, London & New York (Library of
Congress)

Published 1890 by Lovell, Coryell & Co., New York (Library of
Congress)

Published 1905 in two volumes with Tom Brown's School Days
(British Library)

Published 1914 by T. Nelson & Sons (British Library)

Published 1920 by S.W. Partridge & Co., London (British Library)

Published 2004 as part of a five volume set entitled Victorian
Novels of Oxbridge Life, Christopher Stray editor, Thoemmes,
Bristol (British Library)



* * * * *



Scanned Book, Title Page recto


TOM BROWN AT OXFORD
By the Author of "Tom Brown's School Days"
New Edition
With Illustrations by Sydney P. Hall

New York
John W. Lovell Company
150 Worth Street, Corner Mission Place



(Transcriber's Notes: Notice the author's name does not appear on
the title page or on the cover, and in fact it is only given as
T. Hughes at the end of his preface and nowhere else. Sydney
Hall, 1842-1922, did portraits, newspaper and magazine
illustrations, but oddly enough there are none to be found in the
Lovell produced book, though the Porter & Coates edition has one
unattributed woodcut)



Verso


Printed and Bound by
Donohue & Henneberry
Chicago



(Transcriber's Note: Donahue & Henneberry were in business
1871-99 doing book binding and printing for the cheap book trade
at various addresses in Chicago's business district known as the
Loop, mostly on Dearborn Street.)



* * * * *



Proofreading book Title Page recto



TOM BROWN AT OXFORD
By
Thomas Hughes
Author of "Tom Brown's School Days"

Philadelphia
Porter & Coates

(Transcriber's Note: the date 1888 is penciled in here on this
page by a previous owner)



(Transcriber's Note: nothing on the verso, and one unsigned
woodcut illustration opposite the recto)



* * * * *



Transcriber's Note:

A Short Summary, With Some Explanations of Concepts Presented by
Hughes, but Not Well Defined by Him, Being Apparently Well
Understood in His Day, but With Which Modern Readers May be
Unfamiliar.

This is the sequel to Hughes' more successful novel _Tom Brown's
School Days_, which told about Tom at the Rugby School from the
age of 11 to 16. Now Tom is at Oxford University for a three year
program of study, in which he attends class lectures and does
independent reading with a tutor. A student in residence at
Oxford is said to be "up" or have "come up", and one who leaves
is said to have gone "down".

The author weaves a picture of life at Oxford University in the
1840s, where he himself was at that time, at Oriel College, where
he excelled in sports rather than academics. The University is
made up of a number of separate colleges, and the students form
friendships within and develop a loyalty to their own college.
Tom's college, St. Ambrose, is fictional. The study programs
available to the students are intended to prepare them for the
legal, ecclesiastical, medical and educational professions.
Students who do poorly might be expected to enter the diplomatic
corps or the army or navy, though a son of the aristocracy might
be thrust into a minor church role. To enter into business or
manufacturing engineering or the research sciences would require
an inheritance or family connection.

Latin was still taught because the best literature available to
them was still the ancient Greek and Roman poets and
philosophers, and the legal and medical professions still used it
extensively, though the ecclesiastical and educational fields had
largely abandoned it.

Tom finds that there is a social barrier between the wealthy
students and the students that are there on the equivalent of a
modern academic scholarship, or have to work as a graduate
student tutor to earn their stipend. There were no sports
scholarships at this time, though the author hints vaguely at one
point that someday the idea could be explored.

There were no female students at this time. Tom becomes involved
with a local barmaid. The barmaid being of a different social
class than Tom, this relationship causes problems for both of
them, and it is important for the modern reader to realize that
such social distinctions were very real and inflexible in those
days. The working class referred to the educated class as their
"betters", meaning better educated and entitled to better
respect, regardless of whether it was earned or deserved.

There were no dormitories and self-serve cafeterias as with
modern colleges, instead meals were served in a dining hall by
scouts, and each student gets what are called "rooms", consisting
of a bedroom and a sitting room for study and entertaining.
"Scouts" are a kind of servant attached to one student or a small
number of students. They run errands, bring meals from the
kitchen, and take care of clothing. A bootblack called the
"boots" takes care of footwear. A charwoman called the "char"
cleaned the rooms.

If a student wished to study without interruption, he would close
the oak door to his rooms, which was called "sporting his oak",
the signal not to disturb.

The term "the eleven" refers to the cricket team, and "prize-men"
refers to students who win prizes for scholarship. "Hunting
Pinks" are red riding jackets, and "hunters" are horses
especially suited to steeplechase or fox hunting type riding.

The Boating Club and Boat Racing is the popular sport of crew
rowing or sculling, where each college appoints a crew of eight
strong scull pullers or oarsmen and one small coxswain or
steersman to pilot a long narrow boat called a skiff or shell.
The coxswain calls the strokes and is generally the coach and
commander of the crew. Unlike in a canoe, the pullers face
backwards, and the one nearest the coxswain is called the "stroke
oar", because all the other oars watch him and match his stroke.
The racing takes place on the river which runs through Oxford,
and since because of the oars the river is too narrow for normal
passing as in most other kinds of racing, the race is sometimes
with just two boats, one ahead of the other. If the prow of the
second boat touches the stern of the first boat, the second boat
is considered the winner and advances in ranking. If the first
boat rows the length of the course without being bumped, it is
considered the winner and maintains its ranking. Sometimes the
winning crewmen put their little coxswain in the boat and parade
him through the streets of the town. At the end of the season the
honor of "Head of the River" belongs to the boat that has not
been defeated and is presumably the fastest, whereas the slowest
boat, Tail End Charlie, has been defeated by all the other
colleges. For another description of boating on the Thames in the
nineteenth century, see the humorous travel-log "Three Men in a
Boat, to Say Nothing of the Dog" by Jerome K. Jerome, written in
1889, which also mentions the dangers of the lasher at the
Sandford Lock.

Students were required to wear the traditional student's gown and
mortarboard cap to classes. Professors wore floppy caps and
similar gowns with indications of their rank on the sleeves,
Doctor, Master or Batchelor. This garb dates from the Middle
Ages, but is now only seen at Graduation Day and special
university occasions, and the gown has survived in some church
choirs. A professor was also called a don, and graduate
assistants were called fellows or servitors.

The "tufts" or students from the nobility or titled families were
a privileged set, paid double fees and were not required to do
much of anything academically. Gentlemen-commoners were from the
untitled but wealthy families and also paid double fees. A few
students from poorer social classes were accepted if they had
good references. "Town and Gown" refers to the animosity between
the local permanent residents of the town and the rowdy students,
occasionally descending into actual fist fights. To be "gated"
was to be confined to college and to be "rusticated" was to be
suspended from college.

A "wine" is the nineteenth century equivalent of a student's beer
and pizza party, though it seems to have been paid for entirely
out of the pocket of the host. It is also a form of student
networking, wherein they build relationships useful for their
future business, professional or social life. German university
students joined a Kadet Korps, which was somewhat like a
combination of a modern day fraternity and Officer's Training
Corps, but no such equivalent seems to have been at Oxford.
Instead there was an academic set called the "reading men" which
buckled down to the books, and a set of "fast men" who lived the
dissipated high life of drinking, gambling, women and riding fast
horses. The fast set, though they were gentleman commoners and
not titled nobility, usually were from wealthy families, and
often ran up large bills with the local tradesmen, called "going
tick", which could go unpaid for quite a long time.

In Chapter 14 the author mentions Big Ben, but this is not the
clock tower bell in London, which at the time of writing had not
yet been rung; instead this is Benjamin Caunt, the bare-knuckle
boxer who defeated William Thompson in 75 rounds to become
Heavyweight Champion of England in 1838. The bell may possibly
have been named after him.

It should be remembered that at the time this story was written,
the dangers of tobacco smoke were mostly unknown, and cigars,
cheroots and pipes were quite commonly used, though the cigarette
had not come into use yet. Tobacco, often called weed, was only
discouraged during physical training, thus at one point in
Chapter 15 Tom recommends smoking to Hardy for an almost
therapeutic purpose.

In Chapter 17 the author imagines a flying machine, though at the
time of writing only balloons had ever carried men aloft. He
imagines it something like a carriage equipped to carry
passengers, with the most comfortable carriage type C-springs,
steam powered, and faster than the latest trains, which at that
time went 40 miles per hour, the fastest speed that anyone had
ever achieved.

The author mentions Tractarians and Germanizers. The Tractarians
were a group of Oxford dons who, in the 1840s, wrote a series of
tracts, aimed at proposing some changes to the theological system
of the Anglican Church. Germanizers proposed some changes more
along the lines of the Lutheran theology, and these controversies
occupied the Anglican theologians of the time. The author did not
expand on these subjects, nor even indicate his support or
opposition to them, as it was not necessary for the story.

At this time, as in many other times, the evangelical Christians
were in the forefront of movements to help poor and downtrodden
people, but other elements were attempting to become involved,
promoting their own methods and beliefs. Karl Marx was not known
in England, and the Russian Revolution was still in the distant
future, but a few radical left-wing idealists know as Chartists
and Swings were beginning to be heard on campus, and Tom gets
briefly involved with them, speaking up for the poor, but
realizes their destructive ideas cannot be reconciled with proper
Christian behavior, thus voicing some of the author's views on
social reforms. The author later in life got involved with a
communal living experiment.

Some words and expressions are used differently today than they
were used in the nineteenth century. For example, when Tom says
"There must always be some blackguards," he means "Regrettably
there will always be blackguards," not "We ought to have some
blackguards". Katie and Tom discuss "profane" poetry, in the
sense of being secular and not sacred or religious. Mary weighs
"8 stone", which is 112 pounds or 50 kilograms, and "famously" is
used in the sense of being well done, not in the incorrect modern
use of being well known. A "twelve-horse screw" is the propeller
of a steam launch. To "give someone a character" is to speak or
write about their moral character, either favorably or
slanderously.

The book which I scanned using Optical Character Recognition was
printed in the 1888-92 period by John W. Lovell  of 150 Worth St.
New York. Lovell has been described as a book pirate who tried to
form a monopoly in the cheap uncopyrighted book trade. The US
copyright laws were rather weak in the nineteenth century, and
Charles Dickens was particularly hurt by pirates. There was even
a book war, with rival publishers of the same book undercutting
each other on price. Proof reading was done with another copy of
the book published in 1888 by Porter & Coates of Philadelphia,
which is in poorer condition with water damage, and would not
scan well, but has fewer typesetting errors.

Nineteenth century punctuation made much more use of commas,
hyphens and semicolons, and these have been retained as much as
possible. British spellings of words such as colour, neighbour,
odour, and flavour are retained, though in some cases the
American publisher seems to have made his own corrections as he
saw fit, and some words such as "connection" have retained the
nineteenth century spelling "connexion", but where a word was
obviously spelled wrong by the typesetter, I have corrected it.
The author used a few Greek words, which do not scan, and I have
entered those manually using Symbol font for the rtf file, but
substituted normal characters for the plain txt file and
indicated [Greek text] where appropriate. The English pound
symbol cannot be expressed in ASCII, so 25 pounds is rendered as
25L. Words printed in italics for emphasis are here rendered with
_underscores_ for the ASCII file.

Robert E. Reilly, PE, BSIE, BSME
Chicago, 2008

* * * * *


INITIUM

Tom Brown at Oxford

Thomas Hughes (1822-96)



Author's Dedication

To the Rev. F. D. Maurice, in memory of fourteen years' fellow
work, and in testimony of ever increasing affection and gratitude
this volume is dedicated by

The Author.



PREFACE

Prefaces written to explain the objects and meaning of a book, or
to make any appeal, _ad miseracordiam_ or other, in its favor,
are, in my opinion, nuisances. Any book worth reading will
explain its own objects and meaning, and the more it is
criticized and turned inside out, the better for it and its
author. Of all books, too, it seems to me that novels require
prefaces least--at any rate, on their first appearance.
Notwithstanding which belief, I must ask readers for three
minutes' patience before they make trial of this book.

The natural pleasure which I felt at the unlooked for popularity
of the first part of the present story, was much lessened by the
pertinacity with which many persons, acquaintance as well as
strangers, would insist (both in public and in private) on
identifying the hero and the author. On the appearance of the
first few numbers of the present continuation in Macmillan's
Magazine, the same thing occurred, and, in fact, reached such a
pitch, as to lead me to make some changes to the story.
Sensitiveness on such a point may seem folly, but if the readers
had felt the sort of loathing and disgust which one feels at the
notion of painting a favorable likeness of oneself in a work of
fiction, they would not wonder at it. So, now that this book is
finished and Tom Brown, so far as I am concerned, is done with
for ever, I must take this, my first and last chance of saying,
that he is not I, either as boy or man--in fact, not to beat
about the bush, is a much braver, and nobler, and purer fellow
than I ever was.

When I first resolved to write the book, I tried to realize to
myself what the commonest type of English boy of the upper middle
class was, so far as my experience went; and to that type I have
throughout adhered, trying simply to give a good specimen of the
genus. I certainly have placed him in the country, and scenes
which I know best myself, for the simple reason, that I knew them
better than any others, and therefore was less likely to blunder
in writing about them.

As to the name, which has been, perhaps, the chief "cause of
offense," in this matter, the simple facts are, that I chose the
name "Brown," because it stood first in the trio of "Brown,
Jones, and Robinson," which had become a sort of synonym for the
middle classes of Great Britain. It happens that my own name and
that of Brown have no single letter in common. As to the
Christian name of "Tom," having chosen Brown, I could hardly help
taking it as the prefix. The two names have gone together in
England for two hundred years, and the joint name has not enjoyed
much of a reputation for respectability. This suited me exactly.
I wanted the _commonest_ name I could get, and did not want any
name which had the least heroic, or aristocratic, or even
respectable savor about it. Therefore I had a natural leaning to
the combination which I found ready to my hand. Moreover, I
believed "Tom" to be a more specially English name than John, the
only other as to which I felt the least doubt. Whether it be that
Thomas a Beckett was for so long the favorite English saint, or
from whatever other cause, it certainly seems to be the fact,
that the name "Thomas," is much commoner in England than in any
other country. The words, "tom-fool," "tom-boy," etc., though,
perhaps not complimentary to the "Tom's" of England, certainly
show how large a family they must have been. These reasons
decided me to keep the Christian name which had been always
associated with "Brown"; and I own that the fact that it happened
to be my own, never occurred to me as an objection, till the
mischief was done, past recall.

I have only, them, to say, that neither is the hero a portrait of
myself, nor is there any other portrait in either of the books,
except in the case of Dr. Arnold, where the true name is given.
My deep feeling of gratitude to him, and reverence for his
memory, emboldened me to risk the attempt at a portrait in his
case, so far as the character was necessary for the work. With
these remarks, I leave this volume in the hands of readers.

T. Hughes

Lincoln's Inn,

October, 1861



CONTENTS

INTRODUCTORY

I--ST. AMBROSE'S COLLEGE

II--A ROW ON THE RIVER

III--A BREAKFAST AT DRYSDALE'S

IV--THE ST. AMBROSE BOAT CLUB; ITS MINISTRY--AND THEIR BUDGET

V--HARDY, THE SERVITOR

VI--HOW DRYSDALE AND BLAKE WENT FISHING

VII--AN EXPLOSION

VIII--HARDY'S HISTORY

IX--"A BROWN BAIT"

X--SUMMER TERM

XI--MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY

XII--THE CAPTAIN'S NOTIONS

XIII--THE FIRST BUMP

XIV--A CHANGE IN THE CREW AND WHAT CAME OF IT

XV--A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS

XVI--THE STORM RAGES

XVII--NEW GROUND

XVIII--ENGLEBOURN VILLAGE

XIX--A PROMISE OF FAIRER WEATHER

XX--THE RECONCILIATION

XXI--CAPTAIN HARDY ENTERTAINED BY ST. AMBROSE

XXII--DEPARTURES EXPECTED AND UNEXPECTED

XXIII--THE ENGLEBOURN CONSTABLE

XXIV--THE SCHOOLS

XXV--COMMEMORATION

XXVI--THE LONG WALK IN CHRISTCHURCH MEADOWS

XXVII--LECTURING A LIONESS

XXVIII--THE END OF THE FRESHMEN'S YEAR

XXIX--THE LONG VACATION LETTER BAG

XXX--AMUSEMENTS AT BARTON MANOR

XXXI--BEHIND THE SCENES

XXXII--A CRISIS

XXXIII--BROWN PATRONUS

XXXIV--[Greek text] MEHDEN AGAN

XXXV--SECOND YEAR

XXXVI--THE RIVER SIDE

XXXVII--THE NIGHT WATCH

XXXVIII--MARY IN MAYFAIR

XXXIX--WHAT CAME OF THE NIGHT WATCH

XL--HUE AND CRY

XLI--THE LIEUTENANT'S SENTIMENTS AND PROBLEMS

XLII--THIRD YEAR

XLIII--AFTERNOON VISITORS

XLIV--THE INTERCEPTED LETTER BAG

XLV--MASTER'S TERM

XLVI--FROM INDIA TO ENGLE BOURN

XLVII--THE WEDDING DAY

XLVIII--THE BEGINNING OF THE END

XLIX--THE END

L--THE POSTSCRIPT



TOM BROWN AT OXFORD

By Thomas Hughes (1822-96)




CHAPTER INTRODUCTORY

In the Michaelmas term after leaving school, Tom Brown received a
summons from the authorities, and went up to matriculate at St.
Ambrose's College, Oxford, He presented himself at the college
one afternoon, and was examined by one of the tutors, who carried
him, and several other youths in like predicament, up to the
Senate House the next morning. Here they went through the usual
forms of subscribing to the articles, and otherwise testifying
their loyalty to the established order of things, without much
thought perhaps, but in very good faith nevertheless. Having
completed the ceremony, by paying his fees, our hero hurried back
home, without making any stay in Oxford. He had often passed
through it, so that the city had not the charm of novelty for
him, and he was anxious to get home; where, as he had never spent
an autumn away from school till now, for the first time in his
life he was having his fill of hunting and shooting.

He had left school in June, and did not go up to reside at Oxford
till the end of the following January. Seven good months; during
a part of which he had indeed read for four hours or so a week
with the curate of the parish, but the residue had been
exclusively devoted to cricket and field sports. Now, admirable
as these institutions are, and beneficial as is their influence
on the youth of Britain, it is possible for a youngster to get
too much of them. So it had fallen out with our hero. He was a
better horseman and shot, but the total relaxation of all the
healthy discipline of school, the regular hours and regular work
to which he had been used for so many years, had certainly thrown
him back in other ways. The whole man had not grown; so that we
must not be surprised to find him quite as boyish, now that we
fall in with him again, marching down to St. Ambrose's with a
porter wheeling his luggage after him on a truck as when we left
him at the end of his school career.

Tom was in truth beginning to feel that it was high time for him
to be getting to regular work again of some sort. A landing place
is a famous thing, but it is only enjoyable for a time by any
mortal who deserves one at all. So it was with a feeling of
unmixed pleasure that he turned in at the St. Ambrose gates, and
inquired of the porter what rooms had been allotted to him within
those venerable walls.

While the porter consulted his list, the great college sundial,
over the lodge, which had lately been renovated, caught Tom's
eye. The motto underneath, _"Pereunt et imputantur,"_ stood out,
proud of its new gilding, in the bright afternoon sun of a frosty
January day: which motto was raising sundry thoughts in his
brain, when the porter came upon the right place in his list, and
directed him to the end of his journey: No. 5 staircase, second
quadrangle, three pair back. In which new home we shall leave him
to install himself, while we endeavor to give the reader some
notion of the college itself.



CHAPTER I

ST. AMBROSE'S COLLEGE

St. Ambrose's College was a moderate-sized one. There might have
been some seventy or eighty undergraduates in residence, when our
hero appeared there as a freshman. Of these, unfortunately for
the college, there were a very large proportion of the
gentleman-commoners; enough, in fact, with the other men whom
they drew round them, and who lived pretty much as they did, to
form the largest and leading set in the college. So the college
was decidedly fast.

The chief characteristic of this set was the most reckless
extravagance of every kind. London wine merchants furnished them
with liqueurs at a guinea a bottle and wine at five guineas a
dozen; Oxford and London tailors vied with one another in
providing them with unheard-of quantities of the most gorgeous
clothing. They drove tandems in all directions, scattering their
ample allowances, which they treated as pocket money, about
roadside inns and Oxford taverns with open hand, and "going tick"
for everything which could by possibility be booked. Their cigars
cost two guineas a pound; their furniture was the best that could
be bought; pine-apples, forced fruit, and the most rare preserves
figured at their wine parties; they hunted, rode steeple-chases
by day, played billiards until the gates closed, and then were
ready for _vingt-et-une_, unlimited loo, and hot drink in their
own rooms, as long as anyone could be got to sit up and play.

The fast set then swamped, and gave the tone to the college; at
which fact no persons were more astonished and horrified than the
authorities of St. Ambrose.

That they of all bodies in the world should be fairly run away
with by a set of reckless, loose young spendthrifts, was indeed a
melancholy and unprecedented fact; for the body of fellows of St.
Ambrose was as distinguished for learning, morality and
respectability as any in the University. The foundation was not,
indeed, actually an open one. Oriel at that time alone enjoyed
this distinction; but there were a large number of open
fellowships, and the income of the college was large, and the
livings belonging to it numerous; so that the best men from other
colleges were constantly coming in. Some of these of a former
generation had been eminently successful in their management of
the college. The St. Ambrose undergraduates at one time had
carried off almost all the university prizes, and filled the
class lists, while maintaining at the same time the highest
character for manliness and gentlemanly conduct. This had lasted
long enough to establish the fame of the college, and great lords
and statesmen had sent their sons there; head-masters had
struggled to get the names of their best pupils on the books; in
short, everyone who had a son, ward, or pupil, whom he wanted to
push forward in the world--who was meant to cut a figure, and
take the lead among men, left no stone unturned to get him into
St. Ambrose's; and thought the first, and a very long step gained
when he had succeeded.

But the governing bodies of colleges are always on the change,
and, in the course of things men of other ideas came to rule at
St. Ambrose--shrewd men of the world; men of business, some of
them, with good ideas of making the most of their advantages; who
said, "Go to; why should we not make the public pay for the great
benefits we confer on them? Have we not the very best article in
the educational market to supply--almost a monopoly of it--and
shall we not get the highest price for it?" So by degrees they
altered many things in the college. In the first place, under
their auspices, gentlemen-commoners increased and multiplied; in
fact, the eldest sons of baronets, even squires, were scarcely
admitted on any other footing. As these young gentlemen paid
double fees to the college, and had great expectations of all
sorts, it could not be expected that they should be subject to
quite the same discipline as the common run of men, who would
have to make their own way in the world. So the rules as to
attendance at chapel and lectures, though nominally the same for
them as for commoners, were in practice relaxed in their favour;
and, that they might find all things suitable to persons in their
position, the kitchen and buttery were worked up to a high state
of perfection, and St. Ambrose, from having been one of the most
reasonable, had come to be about the most expensive college in
the university. These changes worked as their promoters probably
desired that they should work, and the college was full of rich
men, and commanded in the university the sort of respect which
riches bring with them. But the old reputation, though still
strong out of doors, was beginning sadly to wane within the
university precincts. Fewer and fewer of the St. Ambrose men
appeared in the class lists, or amongst the prize-men. They no
longer led the debates at the Union; the boat lost place after
place on the river; the eleven got beaten in all their matches.
The inaugurators of these changes had passed away in their turn,
and at last a reaction had commenced. The fellows recently
elected, and who were in residence at the time we write of, were
for the most part men of great attainments, all of them men who
had taken very high honors. The electors naturally enough had
chosen them as the most likely persons to restore, as tutors, the
golden days of the college; and they had been careful in the
selection to confine themselves to very quiet and studious men,
such as were likely to remain up at Oxford, passing over men of
more popular manners and active spirits, who would be sure to
flit soon into the world, and be of little more service to St.
Ambrose.

But these were not the men to get any hold on the fast set who
were now in the ascendant. It was not in the nature of things
that they should understand each other; in fact, they were
hopelessly at war, and the college was getting more and more out
of gear in consequence.

What they could do, however, they were doing; and under their
fostering care were growing up a small set, including most of the
scholars, who were likely, as far as they were concerned, to
retrieve the college character of the schools. But they were too
much like their tutors, men who did little else but read. They
neither wished for, nor were likely to gain, the slightest
influence on the fast set. The best men amongst them, too, were
diligent readers of the _Tracts for the Times_, and followers of
the able leaders of the High-church party, which was then a
growing one; and this led them also to form such friendships as
they made amongst out-college men of their own way of
thinking-with high churchmen, rather than St. Ambrose men. So
they lived very much to themselves, and scarcely interfered with
the dominant party.

Lastly, there was the boating set, which was beginning to revive
in the college, partly from the natural disgust of any body of
young Englishmen, at finding themselves distanced in an exercise
requiring strength and pluck, and partly from the fact, that the
captain for the time being was one of the best oars in the
University boat, and also a deservedly popular character. He was
now in his third year of residence, had won the pair-oar race,
and had pulled seven in the great yearly match with Cambridge,
and by constant hard work had managed to carry the St. Ambrose
boat up to the fifth place on the river. He will be introduced to
you, gentle reader, when the proper time comes; at present, we
are only concerned with a bird's-eye view of the college, that
you may feel more or less at home in it. The boating set was not
so separate or marked as the reading set, melting on one side
into, and keeping up more or less connexion with, the fast set,
and also commanding a sort of half allegiance from most of the
men who belonged to neither of the other sets. The minor
divisions, of which of course there were many, need not be
particularized, as the above general classification will be
enough for the purposes of this history.

Our hero, on leaving school, having bound himself solemnly to
write all his doings and thoughts to the friend whom he had left
behind him: distance and separation were to make no difference
whatever in their friendship. This compact had been made on one
of their last evenings at Rugby. They were sitting together in
the six-form room, Tom splicing the handle of a favourite cricket
bat, and Arthur reading a volume of Raleigh's works. The Doctor
had lately been alluding to the "History of the World," and had
excited the curiosity of the active-minded amongst his pupils
about the great navigator, statesman, soldier, author, and fine
gentleman. So Raleigh's works were seized on by various voracious
young readers, and carried out of the school library; and Arthur
was now deep in a volume of the "Miscellanies," curled up on a
corner of the sofa. Presently, Tom heard something between a
groan and a protest, and, looking up, demanded explanations; in
answer to which, Arthur, in a voice half furious and half
fearful, read out:--

"And be sure of this, thou shalt never find a friend in thy young
years whose conditions and qualities will please thee after thou
comest to more discretion and judgment; and then all thou givest
is lost, and all wherein thou shalt trust such a one will be
discovered."

"You don't mean that's Raleigh's?"

"Yes--here it is, in his first letter to his son."

"What a cold-blooded old Philistine," said Tom.

"But it can't be true, do you think?" said Arthur.

And in short, after some personal reflections on Sir Walter, they
then and there resolved that, so far as they were concerned, it
was not, could not, and should not be true, that they would
remain faithful, the same to each other; and the greatest friends
in the world, through I know not what separations, trials, and
catastrophes. And for the better insuring this result, a
correspondence, regular as the recurring months, was to be
maintained. It had already lasted through the long vacation and
up to Christmas without sensibly dragging, though Tom's letters
had been something of the shortest in November, when he had lots
of shooting, and two days a week with the hounds. Now, however,
having fairly got to Oxford, he determined to make up for all
short-comings. His first letter from college, taken in connexion
with the previous sketch of the place, will probably accomplish
the work of introduction better than any detailed account by a
third party; and it is therefore given here verbatim:--



_"St. Ambrose, Oxford,_

_"February, 184-_

"MY DEAR GEORDIE,

"According to promise, I write to tell you how I get on up here,
and what sort of a place Oxford is. Of course, I don't know much
about it yet, having only been up some weeks, but you shall have
my first impressions.

"Well, first and foremost it's an awfully idle place; at any rate
for us freshmen. Fancy now. I am in twelve lectures a week of an
hour each--Greek Testament, first book of Herodotus, second
AEneid, and first book of Euclid! There's a treat! Two hours a
day; all over by twelve, or one at latest, and no extra work at
all, in the shape of copies of verses, themes, or other
exercises.

"I think sometimes I'm back in the lower fifth; for we don't get
through more than we used to do there; and if you were to hear
the men construe, it would make your hair stand on end. Where on
earth can they have come from? Unless they blunder on purpose, as
I often think. Of course, I never look at a lecture before I go
in, I know it all nearly by heart, so it would be sheer waste of
time. I hope I shall take to reading something or other by
myself; but you know I never was much of a hand at sapping, and,
for the present, the light work suits me well enough, for there's
plenty to see and learn about in this place.

"We keep very gentlemanly hours. Chapel every morning at eight,
and evening at seven. You must attend once a day, and twice on
Sundays--at least, that's the rule of our college--and be in
gates by twelve o'clock at night. Besides which, if you're a
decently steady fellow, you ought to dine in hall perhaps four
days a week. Hall is at five o'clock. And now you have the sum
total. All the rest of your time you may just do what you like
with.

"So much for our work and hours. Now for the place. Well, it's a
grand old place, certainly; and I dare say, if a fellow goes
straight in it, and gets creditably through his three years, he
may end by loving it as much as we do the old school-house and
quadrangle at Rugby. Our college is a fair specimen: a venerable
old front of crumbling stone fronting the street, into which two
or three other colleges look also. Over the gateway is a large
room, where the college examinations go on, when there are any;
and, as you enter, you pass the porters lodge, where resides our
janitor, a bustling little man, with a pot belly, whose business
it is to put down the time at which the men come in at night, and
to keep all discommonsed tradesmen, stray dogs, and bad
characters generally, out of the college.

"The large quadrangle into which you come first, is bigger than
ours at Rugby, and a much more solemn and sleepy sort of a place,
with its gables and old mullioned windows. One side is occupied
by the hall and chapel; the principal's house takes up half
another side; and the rest is divided into staircases, on each of
which are six or eight sets of rooms, inhabited by us
undergraduates, and here and there a tutor or fellow dropped down
amongst us (in the first-floor rooms, of course), not exactly to
keep order, but to act as a sort of ballast. This quadrangle is
the show part of the college, and is generally respectable and
quiet, which is a good deal more than can be said for the inner
quadrangle, which you get at through a passage leading out of the
other. The rooms ain't half so large or good in the inner quad;
and here's where all we freshmen live, besides a lot of the older
undergraduates who don't care to change their rooms. Only one
tutor has rooms here; and I should think, if he's a reading man,
it won't be long before he clears out; for all sorts of high
jinks go on on the grass-plot, and the row on the staircases is
often as bad, and not half so respectable, as it used to be in
the middle passage in the last week of the half-year.

"My rooms are what they call garrets, right up in the roof, with
a commanding view of the college tiles and chimney pots, and of
houses at the back. No end of cats, both college Toms and
strangers, haunt the neighbourhood, and I am rapidly learning
cat-talking from them; but I'm not going to stand it--I don't
want to know cat-talk. The college Toms are protected by the
statutes, I believe; but I'm going to buy an air-gun for the
benefit of the strangers. My rooms are pleasant enough, at the
top of the kitchen staircase, and separated from all mankind by a
great, iron-clamped, outer door, my oak, which I sport when I go
out or want to be quiet; sitting room eighteen by twelve, bedroom
twelve by eight, and a little cupboard for the scout.

"Ah, Geordie, the scout is an institution! Fancy me waited upon
and valeted by a stout party in black of quiet, gentlemanly
manners, like the benevolent father in a comedy. He takes the
deepest interest in all my possessions and proceedings, and is
evidently used to good society, to judge by the amount of
crockery and glass, wines, liquors, and grocery, which he thinks
indispensable for my due establishment. He has also been good
enough to recommend to me many tradesmen who are ready to supply
these articles in any quantities; each of whom has been here
already a dozen times, cap in hand, and vowing that it is quite
immaterial when I pay-which is very kind of them; but, with the
highest respect for friend Perkins (my scout) and his obliging
friends, I shall make some enquiries before "letting in" with any
of them. He waits on me in hall, where we go in full fig of cap
and gown at five, and get very good dinners, and cheap enough. It
is rather a fine old room, with a good, arched, black oak ceiling
and high panelling, hung round with pictures of old swells,
bishops and lords chiefly, who have endowed the college in some
way, or at least have fed here in times gone by, and for whom,
_"caeterisque benefactoribus nostris,"_ we daily give thanks in a
long Latin grace, which one of the undergraduates (I think it
must be) goes and rattles out at the end of the high table, and
then comes down again from the dais to his own place. No one
feeds at the high table except the dons and the
gentlemen-commoners, who are undergraduates in velvet caps and
silk gowns. Why they wear these instead of cloth and serge I
haven't yet made out, I believe it is because they pay double
fees; but they seem uncommonly wretched up at the high table, and
I should think would sooner pay double to come to the other end
of the hall.

"The chapel is a quaint little place, about the size of the
chancel of Lutterworth Church. It just holds us all comfortably.
The attendance is regular enough, but I don't think the men care
about it a bit in general. Several I can see bring in Euclids,
and other lecture books, and the service is gone through at a
great pace. I couldn't think at first why some of the men seemed
so uncomfortable and stiff about the legs at morning service, but
I find that they are the hunting set, and come in with pea-coats
over their pinks, and trousers over their leather breeches and
top-boots; which accounts for it. There are a few others who seem
very devout, and bow a good deal, and turn towards the altar at
different parts of the service. These are of the Oxford
High-church school, I believe; but I shall soon find out more
about them. On the whole I feel less at home at present, I am
sorry to say, in the chapel, than anywhere else.

"I was very near forgetting a great institution of the college,
which is the buttery-hatch, just opposite the hall-door. Here
abides the fat old butler (all the servants at St. Ambrose's are
portly), and serves out limited bread, butter, and cheese, and
unlimited beer brewed by himself, for an hour in the morning, at
noon, and again at supper-time. Your scout always fetches you a
pint or so on each occasion in case you should want it, and if
you don't, it falls to him; but I can't say that my fellow gets
much, for I am naturally a thirsty soul, and cannot often resist
the malt myself, coming up as it does, fresh and cool, in one of
the silver tankards, of which we seem to have an endless supply.

"I spent a day or two in the first week, before I got shaken down
into my place here, in going round and seeing the other colleges,
and finding out what great men had been at each (one got a taste
for that sort of work from the Doctor, and I'd nothing else to
do). Well, I never was more interested; fancy ferreting out
Wycliffe, the Black Prince, our friend Sir Walter Raleigh, Pym,
Hampden, Laud, Ireton, Butler, and Addison, in one afternoon. I
walked about two inches taller in my trencher cap after it.
Perhaps I may be going to make dear friends with some fellow who
will change the history of England. Why shouldn't I? There must
have been freshmen once who were chums of Wycliffe of Queen's, or
Raleigh of Oriel. I mooned up and down the High-street, staring
at all the young faces in caps, and wondering which of them would
turn out great generals, or statesmen, or poets. Some of them
will, of course, for there must be a dozen at least, I should
think, in every generation of undergraduates, who will have a
good deal to say to the ruling and guiding of the British nation
before they die.

"But, after all, the river is the feature of Oxford, to my mind;
a glorious stream, not five minutes' walk from the colleges,
broad enough in most places for three boats to row abreast. I
expect I will take to boating furiously: I have been down the
river three or four times already with some other freshmen, and
it is glorious exercise; that I can see, though we bungle and cut
crabs desperately at present.

"Here's a long yarn I'm spinning for you; and I dare say after
all you'll say it tells you nothing, and you'd rather have twenty
lines about the men, and what they're thinking about and the
meaning, and the inner life of the place, and all that. Patience,
patience! I don't know anything about it myself yet, and have had
only time to look at the shell, which is a very handsome and
stately affair; you shall have the kernel, if I ever get at it,
in due time.

"And now write me a long letter directly, and tell me about the
Doctor, and who are in the Sixth, and how the house goes on, and
what sort of an eleven there'll be, and what you are doing and
thinking about. Come up here try for a scholarship; I'll take you
in and show you the lions. Remember me to old friends.--Ever your
affectionately,

T. B."



CHAPTER II

A ROW ON THE RIVER

Within a day or two of the penning of this celebrated epistle,
which created quite a sensation in the sixth-form room as it went
the round after tea, Tom realized one of the objects of his young
Oxford ambition, and succeeded in embarking on the river in a
skiff by himself, with such results as are now described. He had
already been down several times in pair-oar and four-oar boats,
with an old oar to pull stroke, and another to steer and coach
the young idea, but he was not satisfied with these essays. He
could not believe that he was such a bad oar as the old hands'
made him out to be, and thought that it must be the fault of the
other freshmen who were learning with him that the boat made so
little way and rolled so much. He had been such a proficient in
all the Rugby games, that he couldn't realize the fact of his
unreadiness in a boat. Pulling looked a simple thing enough--much
easier than tennis; and he had made a capital start at the latter
game, and been highly complimented by the marker after his first
hour in the little court. He forgot that cricket and fives are
capital training for tennis, but that rowing is a speciality, of
the rudiments of which he was wholly ignorant. And so, in full
confidence that, if he could only have a turn or two alone, he
should not only satisfy himself, but everybody else, that he was
a heaven-born oar, he refused all offers of companionship, and
started on the afternoon of a fine February day down to the boats
for his trial trip. He had watched his regular companions well
out of college, and gave them enough start to make sure that they
would be off before he himself could arrive at St. Ambrose's
dressing room at Hall's, and chuckled, as he came within sight of
the river, to see the freshmen's boat in which he generally
performed, go plunging away past the University barge, keeping
three different times with four oars, and otherwise demeaning
itself so as to become an object of mirthful admiration to all
beholders.

Tom was punted across to Hall's in a state of great content,
which increased when, in answer to his casual inquiry, the
managing man informed him that not a man of his college was about
the place. So he ordered a skiff with as much dignity and
coolness as he could command, and hastened up stairs to dress. He
appeared again, carrying his boating coat and cap. They were
quite new, so he would not wear them; nothing about him should
betray the freshman on this day if he could help it.

"Is my skiff ready?"

"All right, sir; this way, sir;" said the manager, conducting him
to a good, safe-looking craft. "Any gentleman going to steer,
sir?"

"No" said Tom, superciliously; "You may take out the rudder."

"Going quite alone, sir? Better take one of our boys--find you a
very light one. Here, Bill!"--and he turned to summons a juvenile
waterman to take charge of our hero.

"Take out the rudder, do you hear?" interrupted Tom. "I won't
have a steerer."

"Well, sir, as you please," said the manager, proceeding to
remove the degrading appendage. "The river's rather high, please
to remember, sir. You must mind the mill stream at Iffley Lock. I
suppose you can swim?"

"Yes, of course," said Tom, settling himself on his cushion.
"Now, shove her off."

The next moment he was well out in the stream, and left to his
own resources. He got his sculls out successfully enough, and,
though feeling by no means easy on his seat, proceeded to pull
very deliberately past the barges, stopping his sculls in the air
to feather accurately, in the hopes of deceiving spectators into
the belief that he was an old hand just going out for a gentle
paddle. The manager watched him for a minute, and turned to his
work with an aspiration that he might not come to grief.

But no thought of grief was on Tom's mind as he dropped gently
down, impatient for the time when he should pass the mouth of the
Cherwell, and so, having no longer critical eyes to fear, might
put out his whole strength, and give himself at least if not the
world, assurance of a waterman.

The day was a very fine one, a bright sun shining, and a nice
fresh breeze blowing across the stream, but not enough to ruffle
the water seriously. Some heavy storms up Gloucestershire way had
cleared the air, and swollen the stream at the same time; in
fact, the river was as full as it could be without overflowing
its banks--a state in which, of all others, it is the least safe
for boating experiments. Fortunately, in those days there were no
outriggers. Even the racing skiffs were comparatively safe craft,
and would now be characterized as tubs; while the real tubs (in
one of the safest of which the prudent manager had embarked our
hero) were of such build that it required considerable ingenuity
actually to upset them.

If any ordinary amount of bungling could have done it, Tom's
voyage would have terminated within a hundred yards of the
Cherwell. While he had been sitting quiet and merely paddling,
and almost letting the stream carry him down, the boat had
trimmed well enough; but now, taking a long breath, he leaned
forward, and dug his sculls into the water, pulling them through
with all his strength. The consequence of this feat was that the
handles of the sculls came into violent collision in the middle
of the boat, the knuckles of his right hand were barked, his left
scull unshipped, and the head of his skiff almost blown round by
the wind before he could restore order on board.

"Never mind; try again," thought be, after the first sensation of
disgust had passed off, and a glance at the shore showed him that
there were no witnesses. "Of course, I forgot one hand must go
over the other. It might have happened to anyone. Let me see,
which hand shall I keep uppermost; the left, that's the weakest."
And away he went again, keeping his newly-acquired fact painfully
in mind, and so avoiding further collision amidships for four or
five strokes. But, as in other sciences, the giving of undue
prominence to one fact brings others inexorably on the head of
the student to avenge his neglect of them, so it happened with
Tom in his practical study of the science of rowing that by
thinking of his hands he forgot his seat, and the necessity of
trimming properly. Whereupon the old tub began to rock fearfully,
and the next moment, he missed the water altogether with his
right scull, and subsided backwards, not without struggles, into
the bottom of the boat; while the half stroke which he had pulled
with his left hand sent her head well into the bank.

Tom picked himself up, and settled himself on his bench again, a
sadder and wiser man, as the truth began to dawn upon him that
pulling, especially sculling, does not, like reading and writing,
come by nature. However, he addressed himself manfully to his
task; savage indeed, and longing to drive a hole in the bottom of
the old tub, but as resolved as ever to get to Sandford and back
before hall time, or perish in the attempt.

He shoved himself off the bank, and warned by his last mishap,
got out into mid stream, and there, moderating his ardor, and
contenting himself with a slow and steady stroke, was progressing
satisfactorily, and beginning to recover his temper, when a loud
shout startled him; and, looking over his shoulder at the
imminent risk of an upset, he beheld the fast sailor the Dart,
close hauled on a wind, and almost aboard of him. Utterly
ignorant of what was the right thing to do, he held on his
course, and passed close under the bows of the miniature cutter,
the steersman having jammed his helm hard down, shaking her in
the wind, to prevent running over the skiff, and solacing himself
with pouring maledictions on Tom and his craft, in which the man
who had hold of the sheets, and the third, who was lounging in
the bows, heartily joined. Tom was out of ear-shot before he had
collected vituperation enough to hurl back at them, and was,
moreover, already in the difficult navigation of the Gut, where,
notwithstanding all his efforts, he again ran aground; but, with
this exception, he arrived without other mishap at Iffley, where
he lay on his sculls with much satisfaction, and shouted,
"Lock--lock!"

The lock-keeper appeared to the summons, but instead of opening
the gates seized a long boat-hook, and rushed towards our hero,
calling upon him to mind the mill-stream, and pull his right-hand
scull; notwithstanding which warning, Tom was within an ace of
drifting past the entrance to the lock, in which case assuredly
his boat, if not he, had never returned whole. However, the
lock-keeper managed to catch the stern of his skiff with the
boat-hook, and drag him back into the proper channel, and then
opened the lock-gates for him. Tom congratulated himself as he
entered the lock that there were no other boats going through
with him; but his evil star was in the ascendant, and all things,
animate and inanimate, seemed to be leagued together to humiliate
him. As the water began to fall rapidly, he lost his hold of the
chain and the tub instantly drifted across the lock, and was in
imminent danger of sticking and breaking her back, when the
lock-keeper again came to the rescue with his boat-hook and,
guessing the state of the case, did not quit him until he had
safely shoved him and his boat well out into the pool below, with
an exhortation to mind and go outside of the barge which was
coming up.

Tom started on the latter half of his outward voyage with the
sort of look which Cato must have worn when he elected the losing
side, and all the gods went over to the winning one. But his
previous struggles had not been thrown away, and he managed to
keep the right side of the barge, turn the corner without going
around, and zigzag down Kennington reach, slowly indeed, but with
much labor, but at any rate safely. Rejoicing in his feat, he
stopped at the island, and recreated himself with a glass of
beer, looking now hopefully towards Sandford, which lay within
easy distance, now upwards again along the reach which he had
just overcome, and solacing himself with the remembrance of a
dictum, which he had heard from a great authority, that it was
always easier to steer up stream than down, from which he argued
that the worst part of his trial trip was now over.

Presently he saw a skiff turn the corner at the top of the
Kennington reach, and, resolving in his mind to get to Sandford
before the new comer, paid for his beer, and betook himself again
to his tub. He got pretty well off, and, the island shutting out
his unconscious rival from his view, worked away at first under
the pleasing delusion that he was holding his own. But he was
soon undeceived, for in monstrously short time the pursuing skiff
showed around the corner and bore down on him. He never relaxed
his efforts, but could not help watching the enemy as he came up
with him hand over hand, and envying the perfect ease with which
he seemed to be pulling his long steady stroke and the precision
with which he steered, scarcely ever casting a look over his
shoulder. He was hugging the Berkshire side himself, as the other
skiff passed him, and thought he heard the sculler say something
about keeping out, and minding the small lasher; but the noise of
the waters and his own desperate efforts prevented his heeding,
or, indeed, hearing the warning plainly. In another minute,
however, he heard plainly enough most energetic shouts behind him
and, turning his head over his right shoulder, saw the man who
had just passed him backing his skiff rapidly up stream towards
him. The next moment he felt the bows of his boat whirl round,
the old tub grounded for a moment, and then, turning over on her
side, shot him out on to the planking of the steep descent into
the small lasher. He grasped at the boards, but they were too
slippery to hold, and the rush of water was too strong for him,
and rolling him over and over like a piece of driftwood, plunged
him into the pool below.

After the first moment of astonishment and fright was over, Tom
left himself to the stream, holding his breath hard, and paddling
gently with his hands, feeling sure that, if he could only hold
on, he should come to the surface sooner or later; which
accordingly happened after a somewhat lengthy submersion.

His first impulse on rising to the surface, after catching his
breath, was to strike out for the shore, but, in the act of doing
so, he caught sight of the other skiff coming stern foremost down
the decent after him, and he trod the water and drew in his
breath to watch. Down she came, as straight as an arrow, into the
tumult below; the sculler sitting upright, and holding his sculls
steadily in the water. For a moment she seemed to be going under,
but righted herself, and glided swiftly into the still water; and
then the sculler cast a hasty and anxious glance around, till his
eyes rested on our hero's half-drowned head.

"Oh, there you are!" he said, looking much relieved; "all right,
I hope. Not hurt, eh?"

"No, thankee; all right, I believe," answered Tom. "What shall I
do?"

"Swim ashore; I'll look after your boat." So Tom took the advice,
swam ashore, and there stood dripping and watching the other as
he righted the old tub which was floating quietly bottom upwards,
little the worse for the mishap, and no doubt, if boats can wish,
earnestly desiring in her wooden mind to be allowed to go quietly
to pieces then and there, sooner to be rescued than be again
entrusted to the guidance of freshmen.

The tub having been brought to the bank, the stranger started
again, and collected the sculls and bottom boards which were
floating about here and there in the pool, and also succeeded in
making salvage of Tom's coat, the pockets of which held his
watch, purse, and cigar case. These he brought to the bank, and
delivering them over, inquired whether there was anything else to
look after.

"Thank you, no; nothing but my cap. Never mind it. It's luck
enough not to have lost the coat," said Tom, holding up the
dripping garment to let the water run out of the arms and
pocket-holes, and then wringing it as well as he could. "At any
rate," thought he, "I needn't be afraid of its looking too new
any more."

The stranger put off again, and made one more round, searching
for the cap and anything else which he might have overlooked, but
without success. While he was doing so, Tom had time to look him
well over, and see what sort of a man had come to his rescue. He
hardly knew at the time the full extent of his obligation--at
least if this sort of obligation is to be reckoned not so much by
the service actually rendered, as by the risk encountered to be
able to render it. There were probably not three men in the
University who would have dared to shoot the lasher in a skiff in
its then state, for it was in those times a really dangerous
place; and Tom himself had an extraordinary escape, for, as
Miller, the St. Ambrose coxswain, remarked on hearing the story,
"No one who wasn't born to be hung could have rolled down it
without knocking his head against something hard, and going down
like lead when he got to the bottom."

He was very well satisfied with his inspection. The other man was
evidently a year or two older than himself, his figure was more
set, and he had stronger whiskers than are generally grown at
twenty. He was somewhere about five feet ten in height, very
deep-chested, and with long powerful arms and hands. There was no
denying, however, that at the first glance he was an ugly man; he
was marked with small-pox, had large features, high cheekbones,
deeply set eyes, and a very long chin; and had got the trick
which many underhung men have of compressing his upper lip.
Nevertheless, there was that in his face which hit Tom's fancy,
and made him anxious to know his rescuer better. He had an
instinct that good was to be gotten out of him. So he was very
glad when the search was ended, and the stranger came to the
bank, shipped his sculls, and jumped out with the painter of his
skiff in his hand, which he proceeded to fasten to an old stump,
while he remarked--

"I'm afraid the cap's lost."

"It doesn't matter the least. Thank you for coming to help me; it
was very kind indeed, and more than I expected. Don't they say
that one Oxford man will never save another from drowning unless
they have been introduced?"

"I don't know," replied the other; "are you sure you're not
hurt?"

"Yes, quite," said Tom, foiled in what he considered an artful
plan to get the stranger to introduce himself.

"Then we're very well out of it," said the other, looking at the
steep descent into the lasher, and the rolling tumbling rush of
the water below.

"Indeed we are," said Tom; "but how in the world did you manage
not to upset?"

"I hardly know myself--I had shipped a good deal of water, you
see. Perhaps I ought to have jumped out on the bank and come
across to you, leaving my skiff in the river, for if I had upset
I couldn't have helped you much. However, I followed my instinct,
which was to come the quickest way. I thought, too, that if I
could manage to get down in the boat I should be of more use. I
am very glad I did it," he added after a moment's pause; "I'm
really proud of having come down that place."

"So ain't I," said Tom, with a laugh, in which the other joined.

"But now you're getting chilled," and he turned from the lasher
and looked at Tom's chattering jaws.

"Oh, it's nothing. I'm used to being wet."

"But you may just as well be comfortable if you can. Here's this
rough Jersey which I use instead of a coat; pull off that wet
cotton affair, and put it on, and then we'll get to work, for we
have plenty to do."

After a little persuasion Tom did as he was bid, and got into the
great woolen garment, which was very comforting; and then the two
set about getting their skiffs back into the main stream. This
was comparatively easy as to the lighter skiff, which was soon
baled out and hauled by main force on to the bank, carried across
and launched again. The tub gave them much more trouble, for she
was quite full of water and very heavy; but after twenty minutes
or so of hard work, during which the mutual respect of the
labourers for the strength and willingness of each other was much
increased, she also lay in the main stream, leaking considerably,
but otherwise not much the worse for her adventure.

"Now what do you mean to do?" said the stranger. "I don't think
you can pull home in her. One doesn't know how much she may be
damaged. She may sink in the lock, or play any prank."

"But what am I to do with her?"

"Oh, you can leave her at Sandford and walk up, and send one of
Hall's boys after her. Or, if you like, I will tow her up behind
my skiff."

"Won't your skiff carry two?"

"Yes; if you like to come I'll take you, but you must sit very
quiet."

"Can't we go down to Sandford first and have a glass of ale? What
time is it?--the water has stopped my watch."

"A quarter past three. I have about twenty minutes to spare."

"Come along, then," said Tom; "but will you let me pull your
skiff down to Sandford? I resolved to pull to Sandford to-day,
and don't like to give it up."

"By all means, if you like," said the other, with a smile; "jump
in, and I'll walk along the bank."

"Thank you," said Tom, hurrying into the skiff, in which he
completed the remaining quarter of a mile, while the owner walked
by the side, watching him.

They met on the bank at the little inn by Sandford lock, and had
a glass of ale, over which Tom confessed that it was the first
time he had ever navigated a skiff by himself, and gave a
detailed account of his adventures, to the great amusement of his
companion. And by the time they rose to go, it was settled, at
Tom's earnest request, that he should pull the sound skiff up,
while his companion sat in the stern and coached him. The other
consented very kindly, merely stipulating that he himself should
take the sculls, if it should prove that Tom could not pull them
up in time for hall dinner. So they started, and took the tub in
tow when they came up to it. Tom got on famously under his new
tutor, who taught him to get forward, and open his knees
properly, and throw his weight on to the sculls at the beginning
of the stroke. He managed even to get into Iffley lock on the way
up without fouling the gates, and was then and there complimented
on his progress. Whereupon, as they sat, while the lock filled,
Tom poured out his thanks to his tutor for his instruction, which
had been given so judiciously that, while he was conscious of
improving at every stroke, he did not feel that the other was
asserting any superiority over him; and so, though more humble
than at the most disastrous period of his downward voyage, he was
getting into a better temper every minute.

It is a great pity that some of our instructors in more important
matters than sculling will not take a leaf out of the same book.
Of course, it is more satisfactory to one's own self-love to make
everyone who comes to one to learn, feel that he is a fool, and
we wise men; but if our object is to teach well and usefully what
we know ourselves there cannot be a worse method. No man,
however, is likely to adopt it, so long as he is conscious that
he has anything himself to learn from his pupils; and as soon as
he has arrived at the conviction that they can teach him
nothing-that it is henceforth to be all give and no take-the
sooner he throws up his office of teacher, the better it will be
for himself, his pupils, and his country, whose sons he is
misguiding.

On their way up, so intent were they on their own work that it
was not until shouts of "Hello, Brown! how did you get there?
Why, you said you were not going down today," greeted them just
above the Gut, that they were aware of the presence of the
freshmen's four-oar of St. Ambrose College, which had with some
trouble succeeded in overtaking them.

"I said I wasn't going down with _you_," shouted Tom, grinding
away harder than ever, that they might witness and wonder at his
prowess.

"Oh, I dare say! Whose skiff are you towing up? I believe you've
been upset."

Tom made no reply, and the four-oar floundered on ahead.

"Are you at St. Ambrose's?" asked his sitter, after a minute.

"Yes; that's my treadmill, that four-oar. I've been down in it
almost every day since I came up, and very poor fun it is. So I
thought to-day I would go on my own hook, and see if I couldn't
make a better hand of it. And I have too, I know, thanks to you."

The other made no remark, but a little shade came over his face.
He had no chance of making out Tom's college, as the new cap
which would have betrayed him had disappeared in the lasher. He
himself wore a glazed straw hat, which was of no college; so that
up to this time neither of them had known to what college the
other belonged.

When they landed at Hall's, Tom was at once involved in a wrangle
with the manager as to the amount of damage done to the tub;
which the latter refused to assess before he knew what had
happened to it; while our hero vigorously and with reason
maintained, that if he knew his business it could not matter what
had happened to the boat. There she was, and he must say whether
she was better or worse, or how much worse than when she started.
In the middle of which dialogue his new acquaintance, touching
his arm, said, "You can leave my jersey with your own things; I
shall get it to-morrow," and then disappeared.

Tom, when he had come to terms with his adversary, ran upstairs,
expecting to find the other, and meaning to tell his name, and
find out who it was that had played the good Samaritan by him. He
was much annoyed when he found the coast clear, and dressed in a
grumbling humour. "I wonder why he should have gone off so quick.
He might just as well have stayed and walked up with me," thought
he. "Let me see, though; didn't he say I was to leave his Jersey
in our room, with my own things? Why, perhaps he is a St. Ambrose
man himself. But then he would have told me so, surely. I don't
remember to have seen his face in chapel or hall; but then there
is such a lot of new faces, and he may not sit near me. However I
mean to find him out before long, whoever he may be." With which
resolve Tom crossed in the punt into Christ's Church meadow, and
strolled college-wards, feeling that he had had a good hard
afternoon's exercise, and was much the better for it. He might
have satisfied his curiosity at once by simply asking the manager
who it was that had arrived with him; and this occurred to him
before he got home, whereat he felt satisfied, but would not go
back then, as it was so near hall time. He would be sure to
remember it the first thing tomorrow.

As it happened, however, he had not so long to wait for the
information which he needed; for scarcely had he sat down in hall
and ordered his dinner, when he caught sight of his boating
acquaintance, who walked in habited in a gown which Tom took for
a scholar's. He took his seat at a little table in the middle of
the hall, near the bachelors' table, but quite away from the rest
of the undergraduates, at which sat four or five other men in
similar gowns. He either did not or would not notice the looks of
recognition which Tom kept firing at him until he had taken his
seat.

"Who is that man that has just come in, do you know?" said Tom to
his next neighbour, a second term man.

"Which?" said the other, looking up.

"That one over at the little table in the middle of the hall,
with the dark whiskers. There, he has just turned rather from us,
and put his arm on the table."

"Oh, his name is Hardy."

"Do you know him?"

"No; I don't think anybody does. They say he is a clever fellow,
but a very queer one."

"Why does he sit at that table!"

"He is one of our servitors; they all sit there together."

"Oh," said Tom, not much wiser for the information, but resolved
to waylay Hardy as soon as the hall was over, and highly
delighted to find that they were after all of the same college;
for he had already begun to find out, that however friendly you
may be with out-college men, you must live chiefly with those of
your own. But now his scout brought his dinner, and he fell to
with the appetite of a freshman on his ample commons.



CHAPTER III

A BREAKFAST AT DRYSDALE'S

No man in St. Ambrose College gave such breakfasts as Drysdale.
Not the great heavy spreads for thirty or forty, which came once
or twice a term, when everything was supplied out of the college
kitchen, and you had to ask leave of the Dean before you could
have it at all. In those ponderous feasts the most hum-drum of
the undergraduate kind might rival the most artistic, if he could
only pay his battle-bill, or get credit with the cook. But the
daily morning meal, when even gentlemen commoners were limited to
two hot dishes out of the kitchen, this was Drysdale's forte.
Ordinary men left the matter in the hands of scouts, and were
content with the ever-recurring buttered toasts and eggs, with a
dish of broiled ham, or something of the sort, with a marmalade
and bitter ale to finish with; but Drysdale was not an ordinary
man, as you felt in a moment when you went to breakfast with him
for the first time.

The staircase on which he lived was inhabited, except in the
garrets, by men in the fast set, and he and three others, who had
an equal aversion to solitary feeding, had established a
breakfast-club, in which, thanks to Drysdale's genius, real
scientific gastronomy was cultivated. Every morning the boy from
the Weirs arrived with freshly caught gudgeon, and now and then
an eel or trout, which the scouts on the staircase had learnt to
fry delicately in oil. Fresh watercresses came in the same
basket, and the college kitchen furnished a spitchedcocked
chicken, or grilled turkey's leg. In the season there were
plover's eggs; or, at the worst, there was a dainty omelette; and
a distant baker, famed for his light rolls and high charges, sent
in the bread--the common domestic college loaf being of course
out of the question for anyone with the slightest pretension to
taste, and fit only for the perquisite of scouts. Then there
would be a deep Yorkshire pie, or reservoir of potted game, as a
_piece, de resistance_, and three or four sorts of preserves; and
a large cool tankard of cider or ale-cup to finish up with, or
soda-water and maraschino for a change. Tea and coffee were there
indeed, but merely as a compliment to those respectable
beverages, for they were rarely touched by the breakfast eaters
of No. 3 staircase. Pleasant young gentlemen they were on No. 3
staircase; I mean the ground and first floor men who formed the
breakfast-club, for the garrets were nobodies. Three out of the
four were gentlemen-commoners, with allowances of 500L a year at
least each; and, as they treated their allowances as
pocket-money, and were all in their first year, ready money was
plenty and credit good, and they might have had potted
hippopotamus for breakfast if they had chosen to order it, which
they would most likely have done if they had thought of it.

Two out of the three were the sons of rich men who made their own
fortunes, and sent their sons to St. Ambrose's because it was
very desirable that the young gentlemen should make good
connexions. In fact, the fathers looked upon the University as a
good investment, and gloried much in hearing their sons talk
familiarly in the vacations of their dear friends Lord Harry This
and Sir George That.

Drysdale, the third of the set, was the heir of an old as well of
a rich family, and consequently, having his connexion ready made
to his hand, cared little enough with whom he associated,
provided they were pleasant fellows, and gave him good food and
wines. His whole idea at present was to enjoy himself as much as
possible; but he had good manly stuff in him at the bottom, and,
had he fallen into any but the fast set, would have made a fine
fellow, and done credit to himself and his college.

The fourth man at the breakfast-club, the Hon. Piers St. Cloud
was in his third year, and was a very well-dressed,
well-mannered, well-connected young man. His allowance was small
for the set he lived with, but he never wanted for anything. He
didn't entertain much, certainly, but when he did, everything was
in the best possible style. He was very exclusive, and knew no
man in college out of the fast set, and of these he addicted
himself chiefly to the society of the rich freshmen, for somehow
the men of his own standing seemed a little shy of him. But with
the freshmen he was always hand and glove, lived in their rooms,
and used their wines, horses, and other movable property as his
own. Being a good whist and billiard player, and not a bad
jockey, he managed in one way or another to make his young
friends pay well for the honour of his acquaintance; as, indeed,
why should they not, at least those of them who came to the
college to form eligible connexions; for had not his remote
lineal ancestor come over in the same ship with William the
Conqueror? Were not all his relations about the Court, as lords
and ladies in waiting, white sticks or black rods, and in the
innermost of all possible circles of the great world; and was
there a better coat of arms than he bore in all Burke's Peerage?

Our hero had met Drysdale at a house in the country shortly
before the beginning of his first term, and they had rather taken
to one another. Drysdale had been amongst his first callers; and,
as he came out of chapel one morning shortly after his arrival,
Drysdale's scout came up to him with an invitation to breakfast.
So he went to his own rooms, ordered his commons to be taken
across to No. 3, and followed himself a few minutes afterwards.
No one was in the rooms when he arrived, for none of the club had
finished their toilettes. Morning chapel was not meant for, or
cultivated by gentlemen-commoners; they paid double chapel fees,
in consideration of which, probably, they were not expected to
attend so often as the rest of the undergraduates; at any rate,
they didn't, and no harm came to them in consequence of their
absence. As Tom entered, a great splashing in an inner room
stopped for a moment, and Drysdale's voice shouted out that he
was in his tub, but would be with him in a minute. So Tom gave
himself up to contemplation of the rooms in which his fortunate
acquaintance dwelt; and very pleasant rooms they were. The large
room in which the breakfast-table was laid for five, was lofty
and well proportioned, and panelled with old oak, and the
furniture was handsome and solid, and in keeping with the room.

There were four deep windows, high up in the wall, with
cushioned seats under them, two looking into the large
quadrangle, and two into the inner one. Outside these windows,
Drysdale had rigged up hanging gardens, which were kept full of
flowers by the first nurseryman in Oxford, all the year round;
so that even on this February morning, the scent of gardenia and
violets pervaded the room, and strove for mastery with the smell
of stale tobacco, which hung about the curtains and sofa. There
was a large glass in an oak frame over the mantelpiece, which
was loaded with choice pipes and cigar cases and quaint
receptacles for tobacco; and by the side of the glass hung small
carved oak frames, containing lists of meets of the Heyshrop,
the Old Berkshire, and Drake's hounds, for the current week.
There was a queer assortment of well-framed paintings and
engravings on the walls; some of considerable merit, especially
some watercolor and sea-pieces and engravings from Landseer's
pictures, mingled with which hung Taglioni and Cerito, in short
petticoats and impossible attitudes; Phosphurous winning the
Derby; the Death of Grimaldi (the famous steeple-chase horse,
not poor old Joe); an American Trotting Match, and Jem Belcher
and Deaf Burke in attitudes of self-defense. Several tandem and
riding whips, mounted in heavy silver, and a double-barrelled
gun, and fishing rods, occupied one corner, and a polished
copper cask, holding about five gallons of mild ale, stood in
another. In short, there was plenty of everything except
books--the literature of the world being represented, so far as
Tom could make out in his short scrutiny, by a few well-bound
but badly used volumes of the classics, with the cribs thereto
appertaining, shoved away into a cupboard which stood half open,
and contained besides, half-emptied decanters, and large
pewters, and dog collars, and packs of cards, and all sorts of
miscellaneous articles to serve as an antidote.

Tom had scarcely finished his short survey when the door of the
bedroom opened, and Drysdale emerged in a loose jacket lined
with silk, his velvet cap on his head, and otherwise gorgeously
attired. He was a pleasant-looking fellow of middle size, with
dark hair, and a merry brown eye, with a twinkle in it, which
spoke well for his sense of humor; otherwise, his large features
were rather plain, but he had the look and manners of a
thoroughly well-bred gentleman.

His first act, after nodding to Tom, was to seize on a pewter
and resort to the cask in the corner, from whence he drew a pint
or so of the contents, having, as he said, "'a whoreson longing
for that poor creature, small beer.' We were playing Van-John in
Blake's rooms till three last night, and he gave us devilled
bones and mulled port. A fellow can't enjoy his breakfast after
that without something to cool his coppers."

Tom was as yet ignorant of what Van-John might be, so held his
peace, and took a pull at the beer which the other handed to
him; and then the scout entered, and received orders to bring up
Jack and the breakfast, and not wait for any one. In another
minute, a bouncing and scratching was heard on the stairs, and a
white bulldog rushed in, a gem in his way; for his brow was
broad and massive, his skin was as fine as a lady's, and his
tail taper and nearly as thin as a clay pipe. His general look,
and a way he had of going 'snuzzling' about the calves of
strangers, were not pleasant for nervous people. Tom, however,
was used to dogs, and soon became friends with him, which
evidently pleased his host. And then the breakfast arrived, all
smoking, and with it the two other ingenious youths, in velvet
caps and far more gorgeous apparel, so far as colors went, than
Drysdale. They were introduced to Tom, who thought them somewhat
ordinary and rather loud young gentlemen. One of them
remonstrated vigorously against the presence of that confounded
dog, and so Jack was sent to lie down in a corner, and then the
four fell to work upon the breakfast.

It was a good lesson in gastronomy, but the results are scarcely
worth repeating here. It is wonderful, though, how you feel
drawn to a man who feeds you well; and, as Tom's appetite got
less, his liking and respect for his host undoubtedly increased.

When they had nearly finished, in walked the Honorable Piers, a
tall slight man, two or three years older than the rest of them;
good looking, and very well and quietly dressed, but with the
drawing up of his nostril, and a drawing down of the corners of
his mouth, which set Tom against him at once. The cool,
supercilious half-nod, moreover, to which he treated our hero
when introduced to him, was enough to spoil his digestion, and
hurt his self-love a good deal more than he would have liked to
own.

"Here, Henry," said the Honorable Piers to the scout in
attendance, seating himself, and inspecting the half-cleared
dishes; "what is there for my breakfast?"

Henry bustled about, and handed a dish or two.

"I don't want these cold things; haven't you kept me any
gudgeon?"

"Why sir" said Henry, "there was only two dozen this morning,
and Mr. Drysdale told me to cook them all.

"To be sure I did," said Drysdale. "Just half a dozen for each
of us four: they were first-rate. If you can't get here at
half-past nine, you won't get gudgeon, I can tell you."

"Just go and get me a broil from the kitchen," said the
Honorable Piers, without deigning an answer to Drysdale.

"Very sorry, sir; kitchen's shut by now, sir," answered Henry.

"Then go to Hinton's, and order some cutlets."

"I say, Henry," shouted Drysdale to the retreating scout; "not
to my tick, mind! Put them down to Mr. St. Cloud."

Henry seemed to know very well that in that case he might save
himself the trouble of the journey, and consequently returned to
his waiting; and the Honorable Piers set to work upon his
breakfast, without showing any further ill temper certainly,
except by the stinging things which he threw every now and then
into the conversation, for the benefit of each of the others in
turn.

Tom thought he detected signs of coming hostilities between his
host and St. Cloud, for Drysdale seemed to prick up his ears and
get combative whenever the other spoke, and lost no chance in
roughing him in his replies. And, indeed, he was not far wrong;
the fact being, that during Drysdale's first term, the other had
lived on him-drinking his wine, smoking his cigars, driving his
dog-cart, and winning his money; all which Drysdale, who was the
easiest going and best tempered fellow in Oxford, had stood
without turning a hair. But St. Cloud added to these little
favors a half patronizing, half contemptuous manner, which he
used with great success towards some of the other
gentleman-commoners, who thought it a mark of high breeding, and
the correct thing, but which Drysdale, who didn't care three
straws about knowing St. Cloud, wasn't going to put up with.

However, nothing happened but a little sparring, and the
breakfast things were cleared away, and the tankards left on the
table, and the company betook themselves to cigars and easy
chairs. Jack came out of his corner to be gratified with some of
the remnants by his fond master, and then curled himself up on
the sofa along which Drysdale lounged.

"What are you going to do to-day, Drysdale?" said one of the
others. "I've ordered a leader to be sent on over the bridge, and
mean to drive my dog-cart over, and dine at Abingdon. Won't you
come?"

"Who's going besides?" asked Drysdale.

"Oh, only St. Cloud and Farley here. There's lots of room for a
fourth."

"No, thank'ee; teaming's slow work on the back seat. Besides,
I've half promised to go down in the boat."

"In the boat!" shouted the other. "Why, you don't mean to say
you're going to take to pulling?"

"Well, I don't know; I rather think I am. I'm dog-tired of
driving and doing the High Street, and playing cards and
billiards all day, and our boat is likely to be head of the
river, I think."

"By Jove! I should as soon have thought of you taking to reading,
or going to University Sermon," put in St. Cloud.

"And the boating-men, too," went on Farley; "did you ever see
such a set, St. Cloud? with their everlasting flannels and
jerseys, and hair cropped like prize-fighters?"

"I'll bet a guinea there isn't one of them has more than 200L a
year," put in Chanter, whose father could just write his name,
and was making a colossal fortune by supplying bad iron rails to
the new railway companies.

"What the devil do I care," broke in Drysdale; "I know they're a
deal more amusing than you fellows, who can't do anything that
don't cost pounds."

"Getting economical!" sneered St. Cloud.

"Well, I don't see the fun of tearing one's heart out, and
blistering one's hands, only to get abused by that little brute
Miller the coxswain," said Farley.

"Why, you won't be able to sit straight in your chair for a
month," said Chanter; "and the captain will make you dine at one,
and fetch you out of anybody's rooms, confound his impudence
whether he knows them or not, at eleven o'clock every night."

"Two cigars every day, and a pint and a half of liquid," and
Farley inserted his cod fish face into the tankard; "fancy
Drysdale on training allowance!"

Here a newcomer entered in a bachelor's gown, who was warmly
greeted by the name of Sanders by Drysdale. St. Cloud and he
exchanged the coldest possible nods; and the other two, taking
the office from their mentor, stared at him through their smoke,
and, after a minute or two's silence, and a few rude
half-whispered remarks amongst themselves, went off to play a
game of pyramids till luncheon time. Saunders took a cigar which
Drysdale offered, and began asking about his friends at home, and
what he had been doing in the vacation.

They were evidently intimate, though Tom thought that Drysdale
didn't seem quite at his ease at first, which he wondered at, as
Sanders took his fancy at once. However, eleven o'clock struck,
and Tom had to go to lecture, where we cannot follow him just
now, but must remain with Drysdale and Saunders, who chatted on
very pleasantly for some twenty minutes, till a knock came at the
door. It was not till the third summons that Drysdale shouted,
"Come in," with a shrug of his shoulders, and an impatient kick
at the sofa cushion at his feet, as though not half pleased at
the approaching visit.

Reader! Had you not ever a friend a few years older than
yourself, whose good opinions you were anxious to keep? A fellow
_teres atqua rotundus_; who could do everything better than you,
from Plato and tennis down to singing a comic song and playing
quoits? If you have had, wasn't he always in your rooms or
company whenever anything happened to show your little weak
points? Sanders, at any rate, occupied this position towards our
young friend Drysdale, and the latter, much as he liked Sander's
company, would have preferred it at any time than on an idle
morning just at the beginning of term, when the gentlemen
tradesmen, who look upon undergraduates in general, and
gentlemen-commoners in particular, as their lawful prey, are in
the habit of calling in flocks.

The new arrival was a tall florid man, with a half servile, half
impudent, manner, and a foreign accent; dressed in sumptuous
costume, with a velvet-faced coat, and a gorgeous plush
waist-coat. Under his arm he carried a large parcel, which he
proceeded to open, and placed upon a sofa the contents,
consisting of a couple of coats, and three or four waistcoats and
a pair of trousers. He saluted Sanders with a most obsequious
bow, looked nervously at Jack, who opened one eye from between
his master's legs and growled, and then, turning to Drysdale,
asked if he should have the honor of seeing him try on any of the
clothes?

"No; I can't be bored with trying them on now," said Drysdale;
"leave them where they are."

Mr. Schloss would like very much on his return to town, in a day
or two, to be able to assure his principals, that Mr. Drysdale's
orders had been executed to his satisfaction. He had also some
very beautiful new stuffs with him, which he should like to
submit to Mr. Drysdale, and without more ado began unfolding
cards of the most fabulous plushes and cloths.

Drysdale glanced first at the cards and then at Sanders, who sat
puffing his cigar, and watching Schloss's proceedings with a look
not unlike Jack's when anyone he did not approve of approached
his master.

"Confound your patterns, Schloss," said Drysdale; "I tell you I
have more things than I want already."

"The large stripe, such as these, is now very much worn in
London," went on Schloss, without heeding the rebuff, and
spreading his cards on the table.

"D-trousers," replied Drysdale; "you seem to think a fellow has
ten pair of legs."

"Monsieur is pleased to joke," smiled Schloss; "but, to be in the
mode, gentlemen must have variety."

"Well, I won't order any now, that's flat," said Drysdale.

"Monsieur will do as he pleases; but it is impossible that he
should not have some plush waists; the fabric is only just out,
and is making a sensation."

"Now look here, Schloss; will you go if I order a waist coat?"

"Monsieur is very good; he sees how tasteful these new patterns
are."

"I wouldn't, be seen at a cock-fight in one of them, there're as
gaudy as a salmon-fly," said Drysdale, feeling the stuff which
the obsequious Schloss held out. "But it seems nice stuff, too,"
he went on; "I shouldn't mind having a couple of waistcoats of it
of this pattern;" and he chucked across to Schloss a dark tartan
waistcoat which was lying near him. "Have you got the stuff in
that pattern?"

"Ah! no," said Schloss, gathering up the waistcoat; "but it shall
not hinder. I shall have at once a loom for Monsieur set up at
once in Paris."

"Set it up in Jericho if you like," said Drysdale; "and now go!"

"May I ask, Mr. Schloss," broke in Sanders, "what it will cost to
set up the loom?"

"Ah! indeed, a trifle only; some twelve, or perhaps fourteen
pounds." Sanders gave a chuckle, and puffed away at his cigar.

"By Jove," shouted Drysdale, jerking himself in a sitting
posture, and upsetting Jack, who went trotting about the room,
and snuffing at Schloss's legs; "do you mean to say, Schloss, you
were going to make me waistcoats at fourteen guineas apiece?"

"Not if Monsieur disapproves. Ah! the large hound is not friendly
to strangers; I will call again when Monsieur is more at
leisure." And Schloss gathered up his cards and beat a hasty
retreat, followed by Jack with his head on one side, and casting
an enraged look at Sanders, as he slid through the door.

"Well done, Jack, old boy!" said Sanders, patting him; "what a
funk the fellow was in. Well, you've saved your master a pony
this fine morning. Cheap dog you've got, Drysdale."

"D---- the fellow," answered Drysdale, "he leaves a bad taste in
one's mouth;" and he went to the table, took a pull at the
tankard, and then threw himself down on the sofa again, as Jack
jumped up and coiled himself round by his master's legs, keeping
one half-open eye winking at him, and giving an occasional wag
with the end of his taper tail.

Saunders got up, and began handling the new things. First he held
up a pair of bright blue trousers, with a red stripe across them,
Drysdale looking on from the sofa. "I say, Drysdale, you don't
mean to say you really ordered these thunder-and-lightening
affairs?"

"Heaven only knows," said Drysdale; "I daresay I did, I'd order a
full suit cut out of my grandmother's farthingale to get that
cursed Schloss out of my rooms sometimes."

"You'll never be able to wear them; even in Oxford the boys would
mob you. Why don't you kick him down stairs?" suggested Sanders,
putting down the trousers, and turning to Drysdale.

"Well, I've been very near it once or twice; but I don't know--my
name's Easy--besides, I don't want to give up the beast
altogether; he makes the best trousers in England."

"And these waistcoats," went on Sanders; "let me see; three light
silk waistcoats, peach-color, fawn-color, and lavender. Well, of
course, you can only wear these at your weddings. You may be
married the first time in the peach or fawn-color; and then, if
you have luck, and bury your first wife soon, it will be a
delicate compliment to take to No.2 in the lavender, that being
half-mourning; but still, you see, we're in difficulty as to one
of the three, either the peach or the fawn-color-"

Here he was interrupted by another knock, and a boy entered from
the fashionable tobacconist's in Oriel Lane, who had general
orders to let Drysdale have his fair share of anything very
special in the cigar line. He deposited a two pound box of cigars
at three guineas the pound, on the table, and withdrew in
silence.

Then came a boot-maker with a new pair of top-boots, which
Drysdale had ordered in November, and had forgotten next day. The
artist, wisely considering that his young patron must have plenty
of tops to last him through the hunting season (he himself having
supplied three previous pairs in October), had retained the
present pair for show in his window; and everyone knows that
boots wear much better for being kept sometime before use. Now,
however, as the hunting season was drawing to a close, and the
place in the window was wanted for spring stock, he judiciously
sent in the tops, merely adding half-a-sovereign or so to the
price for interest on the out lay since the order. He also kindly
left on the table a pair of large plated spurs to match the
boots.

It never rains but it pours. Sanders sat smoking his cigar in
provoking silence, while knock succeeded knock and tradesman
followed tradesman; each depositing some article ordered, or
supposed to have been ordered, or which ought in the judgment of
the depositors to have been ordered, by the luckless Drysdale:
and new hats, and ties, and gloves, and pins, jostled balsam of
Neroli, and registered shaving-soap, and fancy letter paper, and
Eau de Cologne, on every available table. A visit from two
livery-stable-keepers in succession followed, each of whom had
several new leaders which they were anxious Mr. Drysdale should
try as soon as possible. Drysdale growled and grunted, and wished
them or Sanders at the bottom of the sea; however, he consoled
himself with the thought that the worst was now passed,--there
was no other possible supplier of undergraduate wants who could
arrive.

Not so; in another minute a gentle knock came at the door. Jack
pricked up his ears and wagged his tail; Drysdale recklessly
shouted, "Come in!" the door slowly opened about eighteen inches,
and a shock head of hair entered the room, from which one lively
little gimlet eye went glancing about into every corner. The
other eye was closed, but as a perpetual wink to indicate the
unsleeping wariness of the owner, or because that hero had really
lost the power of using it in some of his numerous encounters
with men and beasts, no one, so far as I know, has ever
ascertained.

"Ah! Mr. Drysdale, sir!" began the head; and then rapidly
withdrew behind the door to avoid one of the spurs, which (being
the missile nearest at hand) Drysdale instantly discharged at it.
As the spur fell to the floor, the head reappeared in the room,
and as quickly disappeared again, in deference to the other spur,
the top boots, an ivory handled hair brush, and a translation of
Euripides, which in turn saluted each successive appearance of
said head; and the grin was broader on each reappearance.

Then Drysdale, having no other article within reach which he
could throw, burst into a loud fit of laughter, in which Sanders
and the head heartily joined, and shouted, "Come in, Joe, you old
fool! and don't stand bobbing your ugly old mug in and out there,
like a jack in the box."

So the head came in, and after it the body, and closed the door
behind it; and a queer, cross-grained, tough-looking body it was,
of about fifty years standing, or rather slouching, clothed in an
old fustian coat, corduroy breeches and gaiters, and being the
earthly tabernacle of Joe Muggles, the dog-fancier of St.
Aldate's.

"How the deuce did you get by the lodge, Joe?" inquired Drysdale.
Joe, be it known, had been forbidden the college for importing a
sack of rats into the inner quadrangle, upon the turf of which a
match at rat-killing had come off between the terriers of two
gentlemen-commoners. This little event might have passed
unnoticed, but that Drysdale had bought from Joe a dozen of the
slaughtered rats, and nailed them on the doors of the four
college tutors, three to a door; whereupon inquiry had been made,
and Joe had been outlawed.

"Oh, please Mr. Drysdale, sir, I just watched the 'ed porter,
sir, across to the buttery to get his mornin', and then I tips a
wink to the under porter (pal o' mine, sir, the under porter),
and makes a run of it right up."

"Well, you'll be quod'ed if you're caught! Now what do you want?"

"Why, you see, Mr. Drysdale, sir," said Joe, in his most
insinuating tone, "my mate hev got an old dog brock, sir, from
the Heythrop kennel, and Honble Wernham, sir of New Inn 'All,
sir, he've jist been down our yard with a fighting chap from
town, Mr. Drysdale--in the fancy, sir, he is, and hev got a
matter of three dogs down a stoppin' at Milky Bill's. And he
says, says he, Mr. Drysdale, as arra one of he's dogs'll draw the
old un three times, while arra Oxford dog'll draw un twice, and
Honble Wernham chaffs as how he'll back un for a fi' pun
note;"--and Joe stopped to caress Jack, who was fawning on him as
if he understood every word.

"Well, Joe, what then?" said Drysdale.

"So you see, Mr. Drysdale, sir," went on Joe, fondling Jack's
muzzle, "my mate says, says he, 'Jack's the dog as can draw a
brock,' says he, 'agin any Lonnun dog as ever was whelped; and
Mr. Drysdale' says he, 'ain't the man as'd see two poor chaps
bounced out of their honest name by arra town chap, and a fi' pun
note's no more to he for the matter o' that, then to Honble
Wernham his self,' says my mate."

"So I'm to lend you Jack for a match, and stand the stakes?"

"Well, Mr. Drysdale, sir, that was what my mate was a sayin'."

"You're cool heads, you and your mate," said Drysdale; "here,
take a drink, and get out, and I'll think about it." Drysdale was
now in a defiant humor, and resolved not to let Sanders think
that his presence could keep him from any act of folly to which
he was inclined.

Joe took his drink; and just then several men came in from
lecture, and drew off Drysdale's attention from Jack, who quietly
followed Joe out of the room, when that worthy disappeared.
Drysdale only laughed when he found it out, and went down to the
yard that afternoon to see the match between the London dog and
his own pet.

"How in the world are youngsters with unlimited credit, plenty of
ready money, and fast tastes, to be kept from making fools and
blackguards of themselves up here," thought Sanders, as he
strolled back to his college. And it is a question which has
exercised other heads besides his, and probably is a long way yet
from being well solved.



CHAPTER IV

THE ST. AMBROSE BOAT CLUB: ITS MINISTERY AND THEIR BUDGET.

We left our hero, a short time back, busily engaged on his dinner
commons, and resolved forthwith to make great friends with Hardy.
It never occurred to him that there could be the slightest
difficulty in carrying out this resolve. After such a passage as
they two had had together that afternoon, he felt that the usual
outworks of acquaintanceship had been cleared at a bound, and
looked upon Hardy already as an old friend to whom he could talk
out his mind as freely as he had been used to do to his old tutor
at school, or to Arthur. Moreover, as there were already several
things in his head which he was anxious to ventilate, he was all
the more pleased that chance had thrown him across a man of so
much older standing than himself, and one to whom he
instinctively felt that he could look up.

Accordingly, after grace had been said, and he saw that Hardy had
not finished his dinner, but sat down again when the fellows had
left the hall, he strolled out, meaning to wait for his victim
outside, and seize upon him then and there; so he stopped on the
steps outside the hall-door, and to pass the time, joined himself
to one or two other men with whom he had a speaking acquaintance,
who were also hanging about. While they were talking, Hardy came
out of the hall, and Tom turned and stepped forward, meaning to
speak to him. To his utter discomfiture, Hardy walked quickly
away, looking straight before him, and without showing, by look
or gesture, that he was conscious of our hero's existence, or had
ever seen him before in his life.

Tom was so taken aback that he made no effort to follow. He just
glanced at his companions to see whether they had noticed the
occurrence, and was glad to see that they had not (being deep in
the discussion of the merits of a new hunter of Simmons's, which
one of them had been riding); so he walked away by himself to
consider what it could mean. But the more he puzzled about it,
the less could he understand it. Surely, he thought, Hardy must
have seen me; and yet, if he had, why did he not recognize me? My
cap and gown can't be such a disguise as all that. And yet common
decency must have led him to ask whether I was any the worse for
my ducking, if he knew me.

He scouted the notion, which suggested itself once or twice, that
Hardy meant to cut him; and so, not being able to come to any
reasonable conclusion, suddenly bethought him that he was asked
to a wine-party; and putting his speculations aside for a moment,
with the full intention nevertheless of clearing up the mystery
as soon as possible, he betook himself to the rooms of his
entertainer.

They were fair-sized rooms in the second quadrangle, furnished
plainly but well, so far as Tom could judge, but, as they were
now laid out for the wine-party, they had lost all individual
character for the time. Everyone of us, I suppose, is fond of
studying the rooms, chambers, dens in short, of whatever sort
they may be, of our friends and acquaintances--at least, I knew
that I myself like to see what sort of a chair a man sits in,
where he puts it, what books lie or stand on the shelves nearest
his hand, what the objects are which he keeps most familiarly
before him, in that particular nook of the earth's surface in
which he is most at home, where he pulls off his coat, collar,
and boots, and gets into an old easy shooting-jacket, and his
broadest slippers. Fine houses and fine rooms have little
attraction for most men, and those who have the finest
drawing-rooms are probably the most bored by them; but the den of
the man you like, or are disposed to like, has the strongest and
strangest attraction for you. However, an Oxford undergraduate's
room, set out for a wine-party, can tell you nothing. All the
characteristics are shoved away into the background, and there is
nothing to be seen but a long mahogany set out with bottles,
glasses, and dessert. In the present instance the preparations
for festivity were pretty much what they ought to be: good sound
port and sherry, biscuits, and a plate or two of nuts and dried
fruits. The host, who sat at the head of the board, was one of
the main-stays of the College boat-club. He was treasurer of the
club, and also a kind of a boating nurse, who looked-up and
trained the young oars, and in this capacity had been in command
of the freshmen's four-oar, in which Tom had been learning his
rudiments. He was a heavy, burly man, naturally awkward in his
movements, but gifted with a steady sort of dogged enthusiasm,
and by dint of hard and constant training, had made himself into
a most useful oar, fit for any place in the middle of the boat.
In the two years of his residence, he had pulled down to Sandford
every day except Sundays, and much farther whenever he could get
anybody to accompany him. He was the most good natured man in the
world, very badly dressed, very short sighted, and called
everybody "old fellow." His name was simple Smith, generally
known as Diogenes Smith, from an eccentric habit which he had of
making an easy chair of his hip bath. Malicious acquaintance
declared that when Smith first came up, and, having paid the
valuation for the furniture in his rooms, came to inspect the
same, the tub in question had been left by chance in the
sitting-room, and that Smith, not having the faintest idea of its
proper use, had by the exercise of his natural reason come to the
conclusion that it could only be meant for a man to sit in, and
so had kept it in his sitting-room, and had taken to it as an
arm-chair. This I have reason to believe was a libel. Certain it
is, however, that in his first term he was discovered sitting
solemnly in the tub, by his fire-side, with his spectacles on,
playing the flute--the only other recreation besides boating in
which he indulged; and no amount of quizzing could get him out of
the habit. When alone, or with only one or two friends in his
room, he still occupied the tub; and declared that it was the
most perfect of seats hitherto invented, and, above all, adapted
for the recreation of a boating man, to whom cushioned seats
should be an abomination. He was naturally a very hospitable man,
and on this night was particularly anxious to make his rooms
pleasant to all comers, as it was a sort of opening for the
boating season. This wine of his was a business matter, in fact,
to which Diogenes had invited officially, as treasurer of the
boat-club, every man who had ever shown the least tendency to
pulling,--many with whom he had scarcely a nodding acquaintance.
For Miller, the coxswain, had come up at last. He had taken his
B.A. degree in the Michaelmas term, and had been very near
starting for a tour in the East. Upon turning the matter over in
his mind, however, Miller had come to the conclusion that
Palestine, and Egypt, and Greece could not run away, but that,
unless he was there to keep matters going, the St. Ambrose boat
would lose the best chance it was ever likely to have of getting
to the head of the river. So he had patriotically resolved to
reside till June, read divinity, and coach the racing crew; and
had written to Diogenes to call together the whole boating
interest of the College, that they might set to work at once in
good earnest. Tom, and the three or four other freshmen present,
were duly presented to Miller as they came in, who looked them
over as the colonel of a crack regiment might look over horses at
Horncastle-fair, with a single eye to their bone and muscle, and
how much work might be got out of them. They then gathered
towards the lower end of the long table, and surveyed the
celebrities at the upper end with much respect. Miller, the
coxswain, sat on the host's right hand,--a slight, resolute,
fiery little man, with curly black hair. He was peculiarly
qualified by nature for the task which he had set himself; and it
takes no mean qualities to keep a boat's crew well together and
in order. Perhaps he erred a little on the side of
over-strictness and severity; and he certainly would have been
more popular had his manners been a thought more courteous; but
the men who rebelled most against his tyranny grumblingly
confessed that he was a first-rate coxswain.

A very different man was the captain of the boat, who sat
opposite to Miller; altogether, a noble specimen of a very noble
type of our countrymen. Tall and strong of body; courageous and
even-tempered; tolerant of all men; sparing of speech, but ready
in action; a thoroughly well balanced, modest, quiet Englishman;
one of those who do a good stroke of the work of the country
without getting much credit for it, or even becoming aware of the
fact; for the last thing such men understand is how to blow their
own trumpets. He was perhaps too easy for the captain of St.
Ambrose boat-club; at any rate, Miller was always telling him so.
But, if he was not strict enough with others, he never spared
himself, and was as good as three men in the boat at a pinch.

But if I venture on more introductions, my readers will get
bewildered; so I must close the list, much as I should like to
make them known to "fortis Gyas fortisque Cloanthus," who sat
round the chiefs, laughing and consulting, and speculating on the
chances of the coming races. No, stay, there is one other man
they must make room for. Here he comes, rather late, in a very
glossy hat, the only man in the room not in cap and gown. He
walks up and takes his place by the side of the host as a matter
of course; a handsome, pale man, with a dark, quick eye,
conscious that he draws attention wherever he goes, and
apparently of the opinion that it is right.

"Who is that who has just come in in beaver?" said Tom, touching
the next man to him.

"Oh, don't you know? that's Blake; he's the most wonderful fellow
in Oxford," answered his neighbor.

"How do you mean?" said Tom.

"Why, he can do everything better than almost anybody, and
without any trouble at all. Miller was obliged to have him in the
boat last year, though he never trained a bit. Then he's in the
eleven, and is a wonderful rider, and tennis-player, and shot."

"Ay, and he's so awfully clever with it all," joined in the man
on the other side. "He'll be a safe first, though I don't believe
he reads more than you or I. He can write songs, too, as fast as
you can talk nearly, and sings them wonderfully."

"Is he of our College, then?"

"Yes, of course, or he couldn't have been in our boat last year."

"But I don't think I ever saw him in chapel or hall"

"No, I daresay not. He hardly ever goes to either, and yet he
manages never to get hauled up much, no one knows how. He never
gets up now till the afternoon, and sits up nearly all night
playing cards with the fastest fellows, or going round singing
glees at three or four in the morning."

Tom sipped his port and looked with great interest at the
admirable Crichton of St. Ambrose's; and, after watching him a
few moments said in a low voice to his neighbor,

"How wretched he looks! I never saw a sadder face."

Poor Blake! one can't help calling him "poor," although he
himself would have winced at it more than any name you could have
called him. You might have admired, feared, or wondered at him,
and he would have been pleased; the object of his life was to
raise such feelings in his neighbors; but pity was the last which
he would like to excite.

He was indeed a wonderfully gifted fellow, full of all sorts of
energy and talent, and power and tenderness; and yet, as his face
told only too truly to anyone who watched him when he was
exerting himself in society, one of the most wretched men in the
College. He had a passion for success--for beating everybody else
in whatever he took in hand, and that, too, without seeming to
make any great effort himself. The doing a thing well and
thoroughly gave him no satisfaction unless he could feel that he
was doing it better and more easily than A, B, or C, and they
felt and acknowledged this. He had had full swing of success for
two years, and now the Nemesis was coming.

For, although not an extravagant man, many of the pursuits in
which he has eclipsed all rivals were far beyond the means of any
but a rich one, and Blake was not rich. He had a fair allowance,
but by the end of his first year was considerably in debt, and,
at the time we are speaking of, the whole pack of Oxford
tradesmen into whose books he had got (having smelt out the
leaness of his expectations), were upon him, besieging him for
payment. This miserable and constant annoyance was wearing his
soul out. This was the reason why his oak was sported, and he was
never seen till the afternoons, and turned night into day. He was
too proud to come to an understanding with his persecutors, even
had it been possible; and now, at his sorest need, his whole
scheme of life was failing him; his love of success was turning
into ashes in his mouth; he felt much more disgust than pleasure
at his triumphs over other men, and yet the habit of striving for
successes, notwithstanding its irksomeness, was too strong to be
resisted.

Poor Blake! he was living on from hand to mouth, flashing out in
his old brilliancy and power, and forcing himself to take the
lead in whatever company he might be; but utterly lonely and
depressed when by himself--reading feverishly in secret, in a
desperate effort to retrieve all by high honors and a fellowship.
As Tom said to his neighbor, there was no sadder face than his to
be seen in Oxford.

And yet at this very wine party he was the life of everything, as
he sat up there between Diogenes--whom he kept in a constant sort
of mild epileptic fit, from laughter, and wine going the wrong
way (for whenever Diogenes raised his glass Blake shot him with
some joke)--and the Captain who watched him with the most
undisguised admiration. A singular contrast, the two men! Miller,
though Blake was the torment of his life, relaxed after the first
quarter of all hour; and our hero, by the same time, gave himself
credit for being a much greater ass than he was, for having ever
thought Blake's face a sad one.

When the room was quite full, and enough wine had been drunk to
open the hearts of the guests, Diogenes rose on a signal from
Miller, and opened the budget. The financial statement was a
satisfactory one; the club was almost free of debt; and,
comparing their position with that of other colleges, Diogenes
advised that they might fairly burden themselves a little more,
and then, if they would stand a whip of ten shillings a man, they
might have a new boat, which he believed they all would agree had
become necessary. Miller supported the new boat in a pungent
little speech; and the Captain, when appealed to, nodded and said
he thought they must have one. So the small supplies and the
large addition to the club debt was voted unanimously, and the
Captain, Miller, and Blake, who had many notions as to the
flooring, lines, and keel of a racing boat, were appointed to
order and superintend the building.

Soon afterwards, coffee came in and cigars were lighted; a large
section of the party went off to play pool, others to stroll
about the streets, others to whist; a few, let us hope, to their
own rooms to read; but these latter were a sadly small minority
even in the quietest of St. Ambrose parties.

Tom, who was fascinated by the heroes at the head of the table,
sat steadily on, sidling up towards them as the intermediate
places became vacant, and at last attained the next chair but one
to the Captain, where for the time he sat in perfect bliss. Blake
and Miller were telling boating stories of the Henley and Thames
regattas, the latter of which had been lately started with great
_eclat_; and from these great yearly events, and the deeds of
prowess done thereat, the talk came gradually round to the next
races.

"Now, Captain," said Miller, suddenly, "have you thought yet what
new men we are to try in the crew this year?"

"No, 'pon my honor I haven't," said the Captain, "I'm reading,
and have no time to spare. Besides, after all, there's lots of
time to think about it. Here we're only half through Lent term,
and the races don't begin till the end of Easter term."

"It won't do," said Miller, "we must get the crew together this
term."

"Well, you and Smith put your heads together and manage it," said
the Captain. "I will go down any day, and as often as you like,
at two o'clock."

"Let's see," said Miller to Smith, "how many of the old crew have
we left?"

"Five, counting Blake," answered Diogenes.

"Counting me! well, that's cool," laughed Blake; "you old tub
haunting flute-player, why am I not to be counted?"

"You never will train, you see," said Diogenes.

"Smith is quite right," said Miller; "there's no counting on you,
Blake. Now, be a good fellow, and promise to be regular this
year."

"I'll promise to do my work in a race, which is more than some of
your best-trained men will do," said Blake, rather piqued.

"Well you know what I think on the subject," said Miller; "but
who have we got for the other three places?"

"There's Drysdale would do," said Diogenes; "I hear he was a
capital oar at Eton; and so, though I don't know him, I managed
to get him once down last term. He would do famously for No.2, or
No.3 if he would pull."

"Do you think he will, Blake? You know him, I suppose," said
Miller.

"Yes, I know him well enough," said Blake; and, shrugging his
shoulders, added, "I don't think you'll get him to train much."

"Well, we must try," said Miller. "Now, who else is there?"

Smith went through four or five names, at each of which Miller
shook his head.

"Any promising freshmen?" said he at last.

"None better than Brown here," said Smith. "I think he'll do well
if he will only work, and stand being coached."

"Have you ever pulled much?" said Miller.

"No," said Tom, "never till this last month--since I've been up
here."

"All the better," said Miller; "now, Captain, you hear; we may
probably have to go in with three new hands; they must get into
your stroke this term, or we shall be nowhere."

"Very well," said the Captain; "I'll give from two till five any
days you like."

"And now let's go and have one pool," said Blake, getting up.
"Come, Captain, just one little pool after all this business."

Diogenes insisted on staying to play his flute; Miller was
engaged; but the Captain, with a little coaxing, was led away by
Blake, and good-naturedly asked Tom to accompany them, when he
saw that he was looking as if he would like it. So the three went
off to the billiard-rooms; Tom in such spirits at the chance of
being tried in the crew, that he hardly noticed the exceedingly
bad exchange which he had involuntarily made of his new cap and
gown for a third-year cap with the board broken into several
pieces, and a fusty old gown which had been about college
probably for ten generations. Under-graduate morality in the
matter of caps and gowns seems to be founded on the celebrated
maxim, "Propriete c'est le vol."

They found the St. Ambrose pool-room full of the fast set; and
Tom enjoyed his game much, though his three lives were soon
disposed of. The Captain and Blake were the last lives on the
board, and divided the pool at Blake's suggestion. He had
scarcely nerve for playing out a single handed match with such an
iron-nerved, steady piece of humanity as the Captain, though he
was the more brilliant player of the two. The party then broke
up, and Tom returned to his rooms; and, when he was by himself
again, his thoughts recurred to Hardy. How odd, he thought, that
they never mentioned him for the boat! Could he have done
anything to be ashamed of? How was it that nobody seemed to know
him, and he to know nobody.

Most readers, I doubt not, will think our hero very green for
being puzzled at so simple a matter; and, no doubt, the steps in
the social scale in England are very clearly marked out, and we
all come to the appreciation of the gradations sooner or later.
But our hero's previous education must be taken into
consideration. He had not been instructed at home to worship mere
conventional distinctions of rank or wealth, and had gone to a
school which was not frequented by persons of rank, and where no
one knew whether a boy was heir to a principality, or would have
to fight his own way in the world. So he was rather taken by
surprise at what he found to be the state of things at St.
Ambrose's and didn't easily realize it.



CHAPTER V

HARDY, THE SERVITOR

It was not long before Tom had effected his object in part. That
is to say, he had caught Hardy several times in the Quadrangle
coming out of Lecture Hall, or Chapel, and had fastened himself
upon him; often walking with him even up to the door of his
rooms. But there matters ended. Hardy was very civil and
gentlemanly; he even seemed pleased with the volunteered
companionship; but there was undoubtedly a coolness about him
which Tom could not make out. But, as he only liked Hardy more,
the more he saw of him, he very soon made up his mind to break
ground himself, and to make a dash at any rate for something more
than a mere speaking acquaintance.

One evening he had as usual walked from Hall with Hardy up to his
door. They stopped a moment talking, and then Hardy, half-opening
the door, said, "Well, goodnight; perhaps we shall meet on the
river to-morrow," and was going in, when Tom, looking him in the
face, blurted out, "I say, Hardy, I wish you'd let me come in and
sit with you a bit."

"I never ask a man of our college into my rooms," answered the
other, "but come in by all means if you like;" and so they
entered.

The room was the worst, both in situation and furniture, which
Tom had yet seen. It was on the ground floor, with only one
window, which looked out into a back yard, where were the offices
of the college. All day, and up to nine o'clock at night, the
yard and offices were filled with scouts; boys cleaning boots and
knives; bed-makers emptying slops and tattling scandal; scullions
peeling potatoes and listening; and the butchers' and
green-grocers' men who supply the college, and loitering about to
gossip and get a taste of the college ale before going about
their business. The room was large, but low and close, and the
floor uneven. The furniture did not add to the cheerfulness of
the apartment. It consisted of one large table in the middle,
covered with an old chequered table-cloth, and an Oxford table
near the window, on which lay half-a-dozen books with writing
materials. A couple of plain Windsor chairs occupied the two
sides of the fireplace, and half-a-dozen common wooden chairs
stood against the opposite wall, three on each side of a
pretty-well-filled book-case; while an old rickety sofa, covered
with soiled chintz, leaned against the wall which fronted the
window, as if to rest its lame leg. The carpet and rug were
dingy, and decidedly the worse for wear; and the college had
evidently neglected to paper the room or whitewash the ceiling
for several generations. On the mantle-piece reposed a few long
clay pipes, and a brown earthenware receptacle for tobacco,
together with a japanned tin case, shaped like a figure of eight,
the use of which puzzled Tom exceedingly. One modestly framed
drawing of a 10-gun brig hung above, and at the side of the
fireplace a sword and belt. All this Tom had time to remark by
the light of the fire, which was burning brightly, while his host
produced a couple of brass candlesticks from his cupboard and
lighted up, and drew the curtain before his window. Then Tom
instinctively left off taking his notes, for fear of hurting the
other's feelings (just as he would have gone on doing, and making
remarks on everything, had the rooms been models of taste and
comfort), and throwing his cap and gown on the sofa, sat down on
one of the Windsor chairs.

"What a jolly chair," said he; "where do you get them? I should
like to buy one."

"Yes, they're comfortable enough," said Hardy, "but the reason I
have them is, that they're the cheapest armchair one can get. I
like an arm-chair, and can't afford to have any other than
these."

Tom dropped the subject of the chairs at once, following his
instinct again, which, sad to say, was already teaching him that
poverty is a disgrace to a Briton, and that, until you know a man
thoroughly, you must always seem to assume that he is the owner
of unlimited ready money. Somehow or another, he began to feel
embarrassed, and couldn't think of anything to say, as his host
took down the pipes and tobacco from the mantle-piece, and placed
them on the table. However, anything was better than silence, so
he began again.

"Very good-sized rooms yours seem," said he, taking up a pipe
mechanically.

"Big enough, for the matter of that," answered the other, "but
very dark and noisy in the day-time."

"So I should think," said Tom; "do you know, I'd sooner, now,
have my freshman's rooms up in the garrets. I wonder you don't
change."

"I get these for nothing," said his host, putting his long clay
to the candle, and puffing out volumes of smoke. Tom felt more
and more unequal to the situation, and filled his pipe in
silence. The first whiff made him cough as he wasn't used to the
fragrant weed in this shape.

"I'm afraid you don't smoke tobacco," said his host from behind
his own cloud; "shall I go out and fetch you a cigar? I don't
smoke them myself; I can't afford it."

"No, thank you," said Tom blushing for shame as if he had come
there only to insult his host, and wishing himself heartily out
of it, "I've got my case here; and the fact is I will smoke a
cigar if you'll allow me, for I'm not up to pipes yet. I wish
you'd take some," he went on, emptying his cigars on to the
table.

"Thank'ee," replied his host, "I prefer a pipe. And now what will
you have to drink? I don't keep wine but I can get a bottle of
anything you like from the common room. That's one of _our_
privileges,"--he gave a grim chuckle as he emphasised the word
"our".

"Who on earth are _we_?" thought Tom "servitors I suppose," for
he knew already that undergraduates in general could not get wine
from the college cellars.

"I don't care a straw about wine," said he, feeling very hot
about the ears; "a glass of beer, or anything you have here--or
tea."

"Well, I can give you a pretty good glass of whiskey," said his
host, going to the cupboard, and producing a black bottle, two
tumblers of different sizes, some little wooden toddy ladles, and
sugar in an old cracked glass.

Tom vowed that, if there was one thing in the world he liked more
than another, it was whiskey; and began measuring out the liquor
carefully into his tumbler, and rolling it round between his eyes
and the candle and smelling it, to show what a treat it was to
him; while his host put the kettle on the fire, to ascertain that
it had quit boiling, and then, as it spluttered and fizzed,
filled up the two tumblers, and restored it to its place on the
hob.

Tom swallowed some of the mixture, which nearly made him cough
again--for, though it was very good, it was also very potent.
However, by an effort he managed to swallow his cough; he would
about as soon have lost a little finger as let it out. Then, to
his great relief, his host took the pipe from his lips, and
inquired, "How do you like Oxford?"

"I hardly know yet," said Tom; "the first few days I was
delighted with going about and seeing the buildings, and finding
out who had lived in each of the old colleges, and pottering
about in the Bodleian, and fancying I should like to be a great
scholar. Then I met several old school fellows going about, who
are up at other colleges, and went to their rooms and talked over
old times. But none of my very intimate friends are up yet, and
unless you care very much about a man already, you don't seem
likely to get intimate with him up here, unless he is at your own
college."

He paused, as if expecting an answer.

"I daresay not," said Hardy, "but I never was at a public school,
unluckily, and so am no judge."

"Well, then, as to the college life," went on Tom, "it's all very
well as far as it goes. There's plenty of liberty and good food.
And the men seem nice fellows--many of them, at least, so far as
I can judge. But I can't say that I like it as much as I liked
our school life."

"I don't understand," said Hardy. "Why not?"

"Oh! I hardly know," said Tom laughing; "I don't seem as if I had
anything to do here; that's one reason, I think. And then, you
see, at Rugby I was rather a great man. There one had a share in
the ruling of 300 boys, and a good deal of responsibility; but
here one has only just to take care of oneself, and keep out of
scrapes; and that's what I never could do. What do you think a
fellow ought to do, now, up here?"

"Oh I don't see much difficulty in that," said his host, smiling;
"get up your lectures well, to begin with."

"But my lectures are a farce," said Tom; "I've done all the books
over and over again. They don't take me an hour a day to get up."

"Well, then, set to work reading something regularly--reading for
your degree, for instance."

"Oh, hang it! I can't look so far forward as that; I shan't be
going up for three years."

"You can't begin too early. You might go and talk to your
college-tutor about it."

"So I did," said Tom; "at least I meant to do it. For he asked me
and two other freshmen to breakfast the other morning, and I was
going to open out to him; but when I got there I was quite shut
up. He never looked one of us in the face, and talked in set
sentences, and was cold, and formal, and condescending. The only
bit of advice he gave us was to have nothing to do with
boating--just the one thing which I feel a real interest in. I
couldn't get out a word of what I wanted to say."

"It is unlucky, certainly, that our present tutors take so little
interest in anything which the men care about. But it is more
from shyness than anything else, that manner which you noticed.
You may be sure that he was more wretched and embarrassed than
any of you."

"Well, but now I should really like to know what you did
yourself," said Tom; "you are the only man of much older standing
than myself whom I know at all yet--I mean I don't know anybody
else well enough to talk about this sort of thing to them. What
did you do, now, besides learning to pull, in your first year?"

"I had learnt to pull before I came up here," said Hardy.

"I really hardly remember what I did besides read. You see, I
came up with a definite purpose of reading. My father was very
anxious that I should become a good scholar. Then my position in
the college and my poverty naturally kept me out of the many
things which other men do."

Tom flushed again at the ugly word, but not so much as at first.
Hardy couldn't mind the subject, or he would never be forcing it
up at every turn, he thought.

"You wouldn't think it," he began again, harping on the same
string, "but I can hardly tell you how I miss the sort of
responsibility I was talking to you about. I have no doubt I
shall get the vacuum filled up before long, but for the life of
me I can't see how yet."

"You will be a very lucky fellow if you don't find it quite as
much as you can do to keep yourself in order up here. It is about
the toughest part of a man's life, I do believe, the time he has
spent here. My university life has been so different altogether
from what yours will be, that my experience isn't likely to
benefit you."

"I wish you would try me, though," said Tom; "you don't know what
a teachable sort of a fellow I am, if any body will take me the
right way. You taught me to scull, you know; or at least put me
in a way to learn. But sculling, and rowing, and cricket, and all
the rest of it, with such reading as I am likely to do, won't be
enough. I feel sure of that already.

"I don't think it will," said Hardy. "No amount of physical or
mental work will fill the vacuum you were talking of just now. It
is the empty house swept and garnished which the boy might have
had glimpses of, but the man finds yawning within him, which must
be filled somehow. It's a pretty good three years' work to learn
how to keep the devils out of it, more or less; by the time you
take your degree. At least I have found it so."

Hardy rose and took a turn or two up and down his room. He was
astonished at finding himself talking so unreservedly to one of
whom he knew so little, and half-wished the words recalled. He
lived much alone, and thought himself morbid and too
self-conscious; why should he be filling a youngster's head with
puzzles? How did he know that they were thinking of the same
thing?

But the spoken word cannot be recalled; it must go on its way for
good or evil; and this one set the hearer staring into the ashes,
and putting many things together in his head.

It was some minutes before he broke silence, but at last he
gathered up his thoughts, and said, "Well, I hope I sha'n't shirk
when the time comes. You don't think a fellow need shut himself
up, though? I'm sure I shouldn't be any the better for that."

"No, I don't think you would," said Hardy.

"Because, you see," Tom went on, waxing bolder and more
confidential, "If I were to take to moping by myself, I shouldn't
read as you or any sensible fellow would do; I know that well
enough. I should just begin, sitting with my legs upon the
mantel-piece, and looking into my own inside. I see you are
laughing, but you know what mean, don't you now?"

"Yes; staring into the vacuum you were talking of just now; it
all comes back to that," said Hardy.

"Well, perhaps it does," said Tom; "and I don't believe it does a
fellow a bit of good to be thinking about himself and his own
doings."

"Only he can't help himself," said Hardy. "Let him throw himself
as he will into all that is going on up here, after all he must
be alone for a great part of his time--all night at any rate--and
when he gets his oak sported, it's all up with him. He must be
looking more or less into his own inside, as you call it."

"Then I hope he won't find it as ugly a business as I do. If he
does, I'm sure he can't be worse employed."

"I don't know that," said Hardy; "he can't learn anything worth
learning in any other way."

"Oh, I like that!" said Tom; "it's worth learning how to play
tennis, and how to speak the truth. You can't learn either by
thinking of yourself ever so much."

"You must know the truth before you can speak it," said Hardy.

"So you always do in plenty of time."

"How?" said Hardy.

"Oh, I don't know," said Tom; "by a sort of instinct I suppose. I
never in my life felt any doubt about what I _ought_ to say or
do; did you?"

"Well, yours is a good, comfortable, working belief at any rate,"
said Hardy, smiling; "and I should advise you to hold on to it as
long as you can."

"But you don't think I can very long, eh?"

"No: but men are very different. There's no saying. If you were
going to get out of the self-dissecting business altogether
though, why should you have brought the subject up at all
to-night? It looks awkward for you, doesn't it?"

Tom began to feel rather forlorn at this suggestion, and probably
betrayed it in his face, for Hardy changed the subject suddenly.

"How do you get on in the boat? I saw you going down to-day, and
thought the time much better."

Tom felt greatly relieved, as he was beginning to find himself in
rather deep water; so he rushed into boating with great zest, and
the two chatted on very pleasantly on that and other matters.

The college clock struck during a pause in their talk, and Tom
looked at his watch.

"Eight o'clock I declare," he said; "why I must have been here
more than two hours. I'm afraid, now, you have been wanting to
work, and I have kept you from it with my talk."

"No, it's Saturday night. Besides, I don't get much society that
I care about, and so I enjoy it all the more. Won't you stop and
have some tea?"

Tom gladly consented, and his host produced a somewhat
dilapidated set of crockery, and proceeded to brew the drink
least appreciated at St. Ambrose's. Tom watched him in silence,
much excercised in his mind as to what manner of man he had
fallen upon; very much astonished at himself for having opened
out so freely, and feeling a desire to know more about Hardy, not
unmixed with a sort of nervousness as to how he was to accomplish
it.

When Hardy sat down again and began pouring out the tea,
curiosity overcame, and he opened with--

"So you read nights, after Hall?

"Yes, for two or three hours; longer, when I am in a good humor."

"What, all by yourself?"

"Generally; but once or twice a week Grey comes in to compare
notes. Do you know him?"

"No, at least he hasn't called on me, I have just spoken to him."

"He is a quiet fellow, and I daresay doesn't call on any man
unless he knew something of him before."

"Don't you?"

"Never," said Hardy, shortly; and added after a short pause,
"very few men would thank me if I did; most would think it
impertinent, and I'm too proud to risk that."

Tom was on the point of asking why; but the uncomfortable feeling
which he had nearly lost came back on him.

"I suppose one very soon gets tired of the wine and supper party
life, though I own I find it pleasant enough now."

"I have never been tired," said Hardy; "servitors are not
troubled with that sort of a thing. If they were I wouldn't go
unless I could return them, and that I can't afford."

"There he goes again," thought Tom; "why will he be throwing that
old story in my face over and over again? He can't think I care
about his poverty; I won't change the subject this time, at any
rate." And so he said:

"You don't mean to say it makes any real difference to a man in
society up here, whether he is poor or rich; I mean, of course,
if he is a gentleman and a good fellow?"

"Yes, it does--the very greatest possible. But don't take my word
for it. Keep your eyes open and judge for yourself; I daresay I'm
prejudiced on the subject."

"Well, I shan't believe it if I can help it," said Tom; "you
know, you said just now that you never called on any one. Perhaps
you don't give men a fair chance. They might be glad to know you
if you would let them, and may think it's your fault that they
don't."

"Very possible," said Hardy; "I tell you not to take my word for
it."

"It upsets all one's ideas so," went on Tom; "why Oxford ought to
be the place in England where money should count for nothing.
Surely, now, such a man as Jervis, our captain, has more
influence than all the rich men in the college put together, and
is more looked up to?"

"He's one of a thousand," said Hardy; "handsome, strong,
good-tempered, clever, and up to everything. Besides, he isn't a
poor man; and mind, I don't say that if he were he wouldn't be
where he is. I am speaking of the rule, and not of the
exceptions."

Here Hardy's scout came in to say that the Dean wanted to speak
to him. So he put on his cap and gown, and Tom rose also.

"Well, I'm sorry to turn you out," said Hardy; "and I'm afraid
I've been very surly and made you very uncomfortable. You won't
come back again in a hurry."

"Indeed I will though, if you will let me," said Tom; "I have
enjoyed my evening immensely."

"Then come whenever you like," said Hardy.

"But I am afraid of interfering with your reading," said Tom.

"Oh, you needn't mind that, I have plenty of time on my hands;
besides, one can't read all night, and from eight till ten you'll
find me generally idle."

"Then you'll see me often enough. But promise, now, to turn me
out whenever I am in the way."

"Very well," said Hardy, laughing; and so they parted for the
time.

Some twenty minutes afterwards Hardy returned to his room after
his interview with the Dean, who merely wanted to speak to him
about some matter of college business.

He flung his cap and gown on the sofa, and began to walk up and
down his room, at first hurriedly, but soon with his usual
regular tramp. However expressive a man's face may be, and
however well you may know it, it is simply nonsense to say that
you can tell what he is thinking about by looking at it, as many
of us are apt to boast. Still more absurd would it be to expect
readers to know what Hardy is thinking about, when they have
never had the advantage of seeing his face even in a photograph.
Wherefore, it would seem that the author is bound on such
occasions to put his readers on equal vantage ground with
himself, and not only tell what a man does, but, so far as may
be, what he is thinking about also.

His first thought, then, was one of pleasure at having been
sought by one who seemed to be just the sort of friend he would
like to have. He contrasted our hero with the few men with whom
he had generally lived, and for some of whom he had a high
esteem--whose only idea of exercise was a two hour constitutional
walk in the afternoons, and whose life was chiefly spent over
books and behind sported oaks--and felt that this was more of a
man after his own heart. Then came doubts whether his new friend
would draw back when he had been up a little longer, and knew
more of the place. At any rate he had said and done nothing to
tempt him; "if he pushes the acquaintance--and I think he
will--it will be because he likes me for myself. And I can do him
good too, I feel sure," he went on, as he ran over rapidly his
own life for the last three years. "Perhaps he won't flounder
into all the sloughs which I have had to drag through; he will
get too much of the healthy, active life up here for that, which
I have never had; but some of them he must get into. All the
companionship of boating and cricketing, and wine-parties, and
supper parties, and all the reading in the world won't keep him
from many a long hour of mawkishness, and discontent, and
emptiness of heart; he feels that already himself. Am I sure of
that, though? I may be only reading myself into him. At any rate,
why should I have helped to trouble him before the time? Was that
a friend's part? Well, he _must_ face it, and the sooner the
better perhaps. At any rate it is done. But what a blessed thing
if one can only help a youngster like this to fight his own way
through the cold clammy atmosphere which is always hanging over
him, ready to settle down on him--can help to keep some living
faith in him, that the world, Oxford and all, isn't a respectable
piece of machinery set going some centuries back! Ah! It's an
awful business, that temptation to believe, or think you believe,
in a dead God. It has nearly broken my back a score of times.
What are all the temptations of the world, the flesh, and the
devil to this? It includes them all. Well, I believe I can help
him, and, please God, I will, if he will only let me; and the
very sight of him does me good; so I won't believe we went down
the lasher together for nothing."

And so at last Hardy finished his walk, took down a volume of Don
Quixote from his shelves, and sat down for an hour's enjoyment
before turning in.



CHAPTER VI

HOW DRYSDALE AND BLAKE WENT FISHING

"Drysdale, what's a servitor?"

"How the deuce should I know?"

This short and pithy dialogue took place in Drysdale's rooms one
evening soon after the conversation recorded in the last chapter.
He and Tom were sitting alone there, for a wonder, and so the
latter seized the occasion to propound this question, which he
had had on his mind for some time. He was scarcely satisfied with
the above rejoinder, but while he was thinking how to come at the
subject by another road, Drysdale opened a morocco fly-book, and
poured its contents on the table, which was already covered with
flies of all sorts and patterns, hanks of gut, delicate made-up
casts, reels, minnows, and tackle enough to kill all the fish in
the four neighboring counties. Tom began turning them over and
scrutinizing the dressings of the flies.

"It has been so mild, the fish must be in season don't you think?
Besides, if they're not, it's a jolly drive to Fairford at any
rate. You've never been behind my team Brown. You'd better come,
now, to-morrow."

"I can't cut my two lectures."

"Bother your lectures! Put on an aeger, then."

"No! that doesn't suit my book, you know."

"I can't see why you should be so cursedly particular. Well, if
you won't, you won't; I know that well enough. But what cast
shall you fish with to-morrow?"

"How many flies do you use?"

"Sometimes two, sometimes three."

"Two's enough, I think; all depends on the weather; but, if it's
at all like today, you can't do better, I should think, than the
old March brown and a palmer to begin with. Then, for change,
this hare's ear, and an alder fly, perhaps; or,--let me see," and
he began searching the glittering heap to select a color to go
with the dull hare's ear.

"Isn't it early for the alder?" said Drysdale.

"Rather, perhaps; but they can't resist it."

"These bang-tailed little sinners any good?" said Drysdale,
throwing some cock-a-bondies across the table.

"Yes; I never like to be without them, and a governor or two.
Here, this is a well-tied lot," said Tom, picking out half
a-dozen. "You never know when you may not kill with either of
them. But I don't know the Fairford water; so my opinion isn't
worth much."

Tom soon returned to the old topic.

"But now, Drysdale, you must know what a servitor is."

"Why should I? Do you mean one of our college servitors?"

"Yes?"

"Oh, something in the upper-servant line. I should put him above
the porter, and below the cook, and butler. He does the don's
dirty work, and gets their broken victuals, and I believe he pays
no college fees."

Tom rather drew into himself at this insolent and offhand
definition. He was astonished and hurt at the tone of his friend.
However, presently, he resolved to go through with it, and began
again.

"But servitors are gentlemen, I suppose?"

"A good deal of the cock-tail about them, I should think. But I
have not the honor of any acquaintance amongst them."

"At any rate, they are undergraduates, are not they?"

"Yes."

"And may take degrees, just like you or me?"

"They may have all the degrees to themselves, for anything I
care. I wish they would let one pay a servitor for passing
little-go for one. It would be deuced comfortable. I wonder it
don't strike the dons, now; they might get clever beggars for
servitors, and farm them, and so make loads of tin."

"But, Drysdale, seriously, why should you talk like that? If they
can take all the degrees we can, and are, in fact, just what we
are, undergraduates, I can't see why they're not as likely to be
gentlemen as we. It can surely make no difference, their being
poor men?"

"It must make them devilish uncomfortable," said the incorrigible
payer of double fees, getting up to light his cigar.

"The name ought to carry respect here, at any rate. The Black
Prince was an Oxford man, and he thought the noblest motto he
could take was, 'Ich dien,' I serve."

"If he were here now, he would change it for 'Je paye.'"

"I often wish you would tell me what you really and truly think,
Drysdale."

"My dear fellow I am telling you what I do really think. Whatever
the Black Prince might be pleased to observe if he were here, I
stick to my motto. I tell you the thing to be able to do here at
Oxford is--to pay."

"I don't believe it."

"I knew you wouldn't."

"I don't believe you do either."

"I do, though. But what makes you so curious about servitors?"

"Why, I made friends with Hardy, one of our servitors. He is such
a fine fellow!"

I am sorry to relate that it cost Tom an effort to say this to
Drysdale, but he despised himself that it was so.

"You should have told me so, before you began to pump me," said
Drysdale. "However, I partly suspected something of the sort.
You've a good bit of a Quixote in you. But really, Brown," he
added, seeing Tom redden and look angry, "I'm sorry if what I
said pained you. I daresay this friend of yours is a gentleman,
and all you say."

"He is more of a gentleman by a long way than most of the-"

"Gentlemen commoners, you were going to say. Don't crane at such
a small fence on my account. I will put it in another way for
you. He can't be a greater snob than many of them."

"Well, but why do you live with them so much, then?"

"Why? because they happen to do the things I like doing, and live
up here as I like to live. I like hunting and driving, and
drawing badgers, and playing cards, and good wine and cigars.
They hunt and drive, and keep dogs and good cellars, and will
play unlimited loo or Van John as long as I please."

"But I know you get very sick of all that often, for I've heard
you say as much half-a-dozen times in the little time I've been
here."

"Why, you don't want to deny me the Briton's privilege of
grumbling, do you?" said Drysdale, as he flung his legs up on the
sofa, crossing one over the other as he lounged on his back--his
favorite attitude; "but suppose I am getting tired of it
all--which I am not--what do you purpose as a substitute?"

"Take to boating. I know you could be in the first boat if you
liked; I heard them say so at Smith's wine the other night."

"But what's to prevent my getting just as tired of that? Besides,
it's such a grind. And then there's the bore of changing all
one's habits."

"Yes, but it's such splendid hard work," said Tom, who was bent
on making a convert of his friend.

"Just so; and that's just what I don't want; the 'books and work
and healthful play' line don't suit my complaint. No, as my uncle
says, 'a young fellow must sow his wild oats,' and Oxford seems a
place especially set apart by Providence for that operation."

In all the wild range of accepted British maxims there is none,
take it for all in all, more thoroughly abominable than this one,
as to the sowing of wild oats. Look at it on what side you will,
and you can make nothing but a devil's maxim of it. What a
man--be he young, old, or middle-aged--sows, _that_, and nothing
else shall he reap. The one only thing to do with wild oats, is
to put them carefully into the hottest part of the fire, and get
them burnt to dust, every seed of them. If you sow them no matter
in what ground, up they will come, with long tough roots like
couch grass, and luxuriant stalks and leaves, as sure as there is
a sun in heaven--a crop which it turns one's heart cold to think
of. The devil, too, whose special crop they are, will see that
they thrive, and you, and nobody else, will have to reap them;
and no common reaping will get them out of the soil, which must
be dug down deep again and again. Well for you if with all your
care you can make the ground sweet again by your dying day. "Boys
will be boys" is not much better, but that has a true side to it;
but this encouragement to the sowing of wild oats, is simply
devilish, for it means that a young man is to give way to the
temptations and follow the lusts of his age. What are we to do
with the wild oats of manhood and old age--with ambition,
over-reaching the false weights, hardness, suspicion, avarice--if
the wild oats of youth are to be sown, and not burnt? What
possible distinction can be drawn between them? If we may sow the
one, why not the other?

But to get back to our story. Tom went away from Drysdale's rooms
that night (after they had sorted all the tackle, which was to
accompany the fishing expedition, to their satisfaction) in a
disturbed state of mind. He was very much annoyed at Drysdale's
way of talking, because he was getting to like the man. He was
surprised and angry at being driven more and more to the
conclusion that the worship of the golden calf was verily and
indeed rampant in Oxford--side by side, no doubt, with much that
was manly and noble, but tainting more or less the whole life of
the place. In fact, what annoyed him most was, the consciousness
that he himself was becoming an idolater. For he couldn't help
admitting that he felt much more comfortable when standing in the
quadrangles or strolling in the High Street with Drysdale in his
velvet cap, and silk gown, and faultless get-up, than when doing
the same things with Hardy in his faded old gown, shabby loose
overcoat, and well-worn trousers. He wouldn't have had Hardy
suspect the fact for all he was worth, and hoped to get over the
feeling soon; but there it was unmistakably. He wondered whether
Hardy had ever felt anything of the kind himself.

Nevertheless, these thoughts did not hinder him from sleeping
soundly, or from getting up an hour earlier than usual to go and
see Drysdale start on his expedition.

Accordingly, he was in Drysdale's rooms next morning betimes, and
assisted at the early breakfast which was going on there. Blake
was the only other man present. He was going with Drysdale, and
entrusted Tom with a message to Miller and the Captain, that he
could not pull in the boat that day, but would pay a waterman to
take his place. As soon as the gate opened, the three,
accompanied by the faithful Jack, and followed by Drysdale's
scout, bearing overcoats, a splendid water-proof apron lined with
fur, and the rods and reels, sallied out of the college, and
sought the livery stables, patronized by the men of St.
Ambrose's. Here they found a dog cart all ready in the yard, with
a strong Roman-nosed, vicious-looking, rat-tailed horse in the
shafts, called Satan by Drysdale; the leader had been sent on to
the first turnpike. The things were packed, and Jack, the
bull-dog, hoisted into the interior in a few minutes; Drysdale
produced a long straight horn, which he called his yard of tin
(probably because it was made of brass), and after refreshing
himself with a blast or two, handed it over to Blake, and then
mounted the dog cart, and took the reins. Blake seated himself by
his side; the help who was to accompany them got up behind, and
Jack looked wisely out from his inside place over the back-board.

"Are we all right?" said Drysdale, catching his long tandem whip
into a knowing double thong.

"All right, sir," said the head ostler, touching his cap.

"You'd better have come, my boy," said Drysdale to Tom, as they
trotted off out of the yard; and Tom couldn't help envying them
as he followed, and watched the dog cart lessening rapidly down
the empty street, and heard the notes of the yard of tin, which
Blake managed to make really musical, borne back on the soft
western breeze. It was such a pleasant morning for fishing.

However, it was too late to repent, had he wished it; and so he
got back to chapel, and destroyed the whole effect of the morning
service on Miller's mind, by delivering Blake's message to that
choleric coxswain as soon as chapel was over. Miller vowed for
the twentieth time that Blake should be turned out of the boat,
and went off to the Captain's rooms to torment him, and consult
what was to be done.

The weather continued magnificent--a soft, dull grey March day,
and a steady wind; and the thought of the lucky fishermen, and
visions of creels filled with huge three-pounders, haunted Tom at
lecture, and throughout the day.

At two o'clock he was down at the river. The college eight was to
go down for the first time in the season to the reached below
Nuneham, for a good training pull, and he had notice, to his
great joy, that he was to be tried in the boat. But, great, no
doubt, as was the glory, the price was a heavy one. This was the
first time he had been subjected to the tender mercies of Miller,
the coxswain, or had pulled behind the Captain; and it did not
take long to convince him that it was a very different style of
thing from anything he had as yet been accustomed to in the
freshman's crew. The long steady sweep of the so-called paddle
tried him almost as much as the breathless strain of the spurt.

Miller, too, was in one of his most relentless moods. He was
angry at Blake's desertion, and seemed to think that Tom had
something to do with it, though he simply delivered the message
which had been entrusted to him; and so, though he distributed
rebuke and objurgation to every man in the boat except the
Captain, he seemed to our hero to take particular delight in
working him. There he stood in the stern, the fiery little
coxswain, leaning forward with a tiller-rope in each hand, and
bending to every stroke, shouting his warnings, and rebukes, and
monitions to Tom, till he drove him to his wits' end. By the time
the boat came back to Hall's, his arms were so numb that he could
hardly tell whether his oar was in or out of his hand; his legs
were stiff and aching, and every muscle in his body felt as if it
had been pulled out an inch or two. As he walked up to College,
he felt as if his shoulders and legs had nothing to do with one
another; in short, he had had a very hard day's work, and, after
going fast asleep at a wine-party, and trying in vain to rouse
himself by a stroll in the streets, fairly gave in about ten
o'clock and went to bed without remembering to sport his oak.

For some hours he slept the sleep of the dead, but at last began
to be conscious of voices, and the clicking of glasses, and
laughter, and scraps of songs; and after turning himself once or
twice in bed, to ascertain whether he was awake or no, rubbed his
eyes, sat up, and became aware that something very entertaining
to the parties concerned was going on in his sitting-room. After
listening for a minute, he jumped up, threw on his shooting-coat,
and appeared at the door of his own sitting-room, where he paused
a moment to contemplate the scene which met his astonished
vision. His fire recently replenished, was burning brightly in
the grate, and his candles on the table on which stood his whisky
bottle, and tumblers, and hot water. On his sofa, which had been
wheeled round before the fire, reclined Drysdale, on his back, in
his pet attitude, one leg crossed over the other, with a paper in
his hand, from which he was singing, and in the arm-chair sat
Blake, while Jack was coiled on the rug, turning himself every
now and then in a sort of uneasy protest against his master's
untimely hilarity. At first, Tom felt inclined to be angry, but
the jolly shout of laughter with which Drysdale received him, as
he stepped out into the light in night-shirt, shooting-coat, and
dishevelled hair, appeased him at once.

"Why, Brown, you don't mean to say you have been in bed this last
half-hour? We looked into the bed-room, and thought it was empty.
Sit down, old fellow, and make yourself at home. Have a glass of
grog; it's first-rate whisky."

"Well you're a couple of cool hands, I must say," said Tom. "How
did you get in?"

"Through the door, like honest men," said Drysdale. "You're the
only good fellow in college to-night. When we got back our fires
were out, and we've been all round the college, and found all the
oaks sported but yours. Never sport your oak, old boy; it's a bad
habit. You don't know what time in the morning you may entertain
angels unawares."

"You're a rum pair of angels, anyhow," said Tom, taking his seat
on the sofa. "But what o'clock is it?"

"Oh, about half-past one," said Drysdale. "We've had a series of
catastrophes. Never got into college till near one. I thought we
should never have waked that besotted little porter. However,
here we are at last, you see, all right."

"So it seems," said Tom; "but how about the fishing?"

"Fishing! We've never thrown a fly all day," said Drysdale.

"He is so cursedly conceited about his knowledge of the country,"
struck in Blake. "What with that, and his awful twist, and his
incurable habit of gossiping, and his blackguard dog, and his
team of a devil and a young female--"

"Hold your scandalous tongue," shouted Drysdale. "To hear _you_
talking of my twist, indeed; you ate four chops and a whole
chicken to-day, at dinner, to your own cheek, you know."

"That's quite another thing," said Blake. "I like to see a fellow
an honest grubber at breakfast and dinner; but you've always got
your nose in the manger. That's how we all got wrong to-day,
Brown. You saw what a breakfast he ate before starting; well,
nothing would satisfy him but another at Whitney. There we fell
in with a bird in mahogany tops, and, as usual, Drysdale began
chumming with him. He knew all about the fishing of the next
three counties. I daresay he did. My private belief is, that he
is one of the Hungerford town council, who let the fishing there;
at any rate, he swore it was no use our going to Fairford; the
only place where fish would be in season was Hungerford. Of
course Drysdale swallowed it all, and nothing would serve him but
that we should turn off for Hungerford at once. Now, I did go
once to Hungerford races, and I ventured to suggest that we
should never get near the place. Not a bit of use; he knew every
foot of the country. It was then about nine; he would guarantee
that we should be there by twelve, at latest."

"So we should have been, but for accidents," struck in Drysdale.

"Well, at any rate, what we did was to drive into Farringdon,
instead of Hungerford, both horses dead done up, at twelve
o'clock, after missing our way about twenty times."

"Because you would put in your oar," said Drysdale.

"Then grub again," went on Blake, "and an hour to bait the
horses. I knew we were as likely to get to Jericho as to
Hungerford. However, he would start; but, luckily, about two
miles from Farringdon, old Satan bowled quietly into a bank,
broke a shaft, and deposited us then and there. He wasn't such a
fool as to be going to Hungerford at that time of day; the first
time in his wicked old life that I ever remember seeing him do
anything that pleased me."

"Come, now," said Drysdale, "do you mean to say you ever sat
behind a better wheeler, when he's in a decent temper?"

"Can't say," said Blake; "never sat behind him in a good temper,
that I can remember."

"I'll trot him five miles out and home in a dog-cart, on any road
out of Oxford, against any horse you can bring, for a fiver."

"Done!" said Blake.

"But were you upset?" said Tom. "How did you get into the bank?"

"Why, you see," said Drysdale, "Jessy,--that's the little
blood-mare, my leader,--is very young, and as shy and skittish as
the rest of her sex. We turned a corner sharp, and came right
upon a gipsy encampment. Up she went into the air in a moment,
and then turned right around and came head on at the cart. I gave
her the double thong across her face to send her back again, and
Satan, seizing the opportunity, rushed against the bank, dragging
her with him, and snapping the shaft."

"And so ended our day's fishing," said Blake. "And next moment
out jumps that brute Jack, and pitches into the gipsy's dog, who
had come up very naturally to have a look at what was going on.
Down jumps Drysdale to see that his beast gets fair play, leaving
me and the help to look after the wreck, and keep his precious
wheeler from kicking the cart into little pieces."

"Come, now," said Drysdale, "you must own we fell on our legs
after all. Hadn't we a jolly afternoon? I'm thinking of turning
tramp, Brown. We spent three or four hours in that camp, and
Blake got spooney on a gipsy girl, and has written I don't know
how many songs on them. Didn't you hear us singing them just
now?"

"But how did you get the cart mended?" said Tom.

"Oh, the tinker patched up the shaft for us,--a cunning old
beggar, the _pere de famille_ of the encampment; up to every move
on the board. He wanted to have a deal with me for Jessy. But
'pon my honor, we had a good time of it. There was the old
tinker, mending the shaft, in his fur cap, with a black pipe, one
inch long, sticking out of his mouth; and the old brown parchment
of a mother, with her head in a red handkerchief, smoking a ditto
pipe to the tinker's, who told our fortunes, and talked like a
printed book. Then there was his wife, and the slip of a girl who
bowled over Blake there, and half a dozen ragged brats; and a
fellow on a tramp, not a gipsy--some runaway apprentice, I take
it, but a jolly dog--with no luggage but an old fiddle on which
he scraped away uncommonly well, and set Blake making rhymes as
we sat in the tent. You never heard any of his songs. Here's one
for each of us; we're going to get up the characters and sing
them about the country;--now for a rehearsal; I'll be the
tinker."

"No, you must take the servant girl," said Blake.

"Well, we'll toss up for characters when the time comes. You
begin then; here's a song," and he handed one of the papers to
Blake, who began singing--

   "Squat on a green plot,
    We scorn a bench or settle, oh.
   Plying or trying,
    A spice of every trade;
   Razors we grind,
    Ring a pig, or mend a kettle, oh;
   Come, what d'ye lack?
    Speak it out, my pretty maid.

   "I'll set your scissors, while
     My granny tells you plainly!
    Who stole your barley meal,
    Your butter or your heart;
   Tell if your husband will
    Be handsome or ungainly,
   Ride in a coach and four, or
    Rough it in a cart."


"Enter Silly Sally; that's I, for the present you see," said
Drysdale; and he began--

   "Oh, dear! what can the matter be?
   Dear, dear! what can the matter be?
   Oh, dear! what can the matter be?
    All in a pucker be I;

   I'm growing uneasy about Billy Martin,
   For love is a casualty desper't unsartin.
   Law! yonder's the gipsy as tells folk's fortin;
    I'm half in the mind for to try."

"Then you must be the old gipsy woman, Mother Patrico; here's
your part Brown."

"But what's the tune?" said Tom.

"Oh, you can't miss it; go ahead;" and so Tom, who was dropping
into the humour of the thing, droned out from the MS. handed to
him--

   "Chairs to mend,
   Old chairs to mend,
   Rush bottom'd cane bottom'd,
   Chairs to mend.

   Maid, approach,
   If thou wouldst know
   What the stars
   May deign to show."


"Now, tinker," said Drysdale, nodding at Blake, who rattled on,--

   "Chance feeds us, chance leads us;
    Round the land in jollity;
   Rag-dealing, nag-stealing,
    Everywhere we roam;
   Brass mending, ass vending,
    Happier than the quality;
   Swipes soaking, pipes smoking,
    Ev'ry barn a home;
   Tink, tink, a tink a tink,
    Our life is full of fun, boys;
   Clink tink, a tink a tink,
    Our busy hammers ring;
   Clink, tink, a tink a tink,
    Our job will soon be done boys;
   Then tune we merrily
    The bladder and the string."


DRYSDALE, as _Silly Sally_.

   "Oh, dear! what can the matter be?
   Dear, dear! what can the matter be?
   Oh, dear! what can the matter be?
    There's such a look in her eye.

   Oh, lawk! I declare I be all of a tremble;
   My mind it misgives me about Sukey Wimble,
   A splatter faced wench neither civil nor nimble
    She'll bring Billy to beggary."


TOM, as _Mother Patrico_.

   "Show your hand;
   Come show your hand!
   Would you know
   What fate has planned?
   Heaven forefend,
   Ay, heav'n forefend!
   What may these
   Cross lines portend?"


BLAKE, as _the Tinker_.

   "Owl, pheasant, all's pleasant,
    Nothing comes amiss to us;
   Hare, rabbit, snare, nab it;
    Cock, or hen, or kite;
   Tom cat, with strong fat,
    A dainty supper is to us;
   Hedge-hog and sedge-frog
    To stew is our delight;
   Bow, wow, with angry bark
    My lady's dog assails us;
   We sack him up, and clap
    A stopper on his din.
   Now pop him in the pot;
    His store of meat avails us;
   Wife cook him nice and hot,
    And granny tans his skin."


DRYSDALE, as _Silly Sally_.

   "Oh, lawk! what a calamity!
   Oh, my! what a calamity!
   Oh, dear! what a calamity!
    Lost and forsaken be I.

   I'm out of my senses, and nought will content me,
   But pois'ning Poll Ady who helped circumvent me;
   Come tell me the means, for no power shall prevent me:
    Oh, give me revenge, or die."


TOM, as _Mother Patrico_

   "Pause awhile!
   Anon, anon!
   Give me time
   The stars to con.
   True love's course
   Shall yet run smooth;
   True shall prove
   The favor'd youth."


BLAKE, as _the Tinker_.

   "Tink tink, a tink a tink,
    We'll work and then get tipsy, oh!
   Clink tink, on each chink,
    Our busy hammers ring.
   Tink tink, a tink a tink,
    How merry lives a gypsy, oh!
   Chanting and ranting;
    As happy as a king."


DRYSDALE, as _Silly Sally_.

   "Joy! Joy! all will end happily!
   Joy! Joy! all will end happily!
   Joy! joy! all will end happily!
    Bill will be constant to I.

   Oh, thankee, good dame, here's my purse and my thimble;
   A fig for Poll Ady and fat Sukey Wimble;
   I now could jump over the steeple so nimble;
    With joy I be ready to cry."


TOM, as _Mother Patrico_.

   "William shall
   Be rich and great;
   And shall prove
   A constant mate.
   Thank not me,
   But thank your fate,
   On whose high
   Decrees I wait."


"Well, won't that do? won't it bring the house down? I'm going to
send for dresses to London, and we'll start next week."

"What, on the tramp, singing these songs?"

"Yes; we'll begin in some out-of-the-way place till we get used
to it."

"And end in the lock-up, I should say," said Tom; "it'll he a
good lark, though. Now, you haven't told me how you got home."

"Oh, we left camp at about five-"

"The tinker having extracted a sovereign from Drysdale,"
interrupted Blake.

"What did you give to the little gypsy yourself?" retorted
Drysdale; "I saw your adieus under the thorn-bush.--Well, we got
on all right to old Murdock's, at Kingston Inn, by about seven,
and there we had dinner; and after dinner the old boy came in. He
and I are great chums, for I'm often there, and always ask him
in. But that beggar Blake, who never saw him before, cut me clean
out in five minutes. Fancy his swearing he is Scotch, and that an
ancestor of his in the sixteenth century married a Murdock!"

"Well, when you come to think what a lot of ancestors one must
have had at that time, it's probably true," said Blake.

"At any rate, it took," went on Drysdale. "I thought old Murdock
would have wept on his neck. As it was, he scattered snuff enough
to fill a pint pot over him out of his mull, and began talking
Gaelic. And Blake had the cheek to jabber a lot of gibberish back
to him, as if he understood every word."

"Gibberish! it was the purest Gaelic," said Blake laughing.

"I heard a lot of Greek words myself," said Drysdale; "but old
Murdock was too pleased at hearing his own clapper going, and too
full of whisky, to find him out."

"Let alone that I doubt whether he remembers more than about five
words of his native tongue himself," said Blake.

"The old boy got so excited that he went up stairs for his plaid
and dirk, and dressed himself up in them, apologising that he
could not appear in the full grab of old Gaul, in honor of his
new-found relative, as his daughter had cut up his old kilt for
'trews for the barnies' during his absence from home. Then they
took to more toddy and singing Scotch songs, till at eleven
o'clock they were standing on their chairs, right hands clasped,
each with one foot on the table, glasses in the other hands, the
toddy flying over the room as they swayed about roaring like
maniacs, what was it ?--oh, I have it:

   'Wug-an-toorey all agree,
   Wug-an-toorey, wug-an-toorey.'"

"He hasn't told you that he tried to join us, and tumbled over
the back of his chair into the dirty-plate basket."

"A libel! a libel!" shouted Drysdale; "the leg of my chair broke,
and I stepped down gracefully and safely, and when I looked up
and saw what a tottery performance it was, I concluded to give
them a wide berth. It would be no joke to have old Murdock topple
over on to you. I left them 'wug-an-tooreying,' and went out to
look after the trap, which was ordered to be at the door at
half-past ten. I found Murdock's ostler very drunk, but sober
compared with that rascally help whom we had been fools enough to
take with us. They had got the trap out and the horses in, but
that old rascal Satan was standing so quiet that I suspected
something wrong. Sure enough, when I came to look, they had him
up to the cheek on one side of his mouth, and third bar on the
other, his belly-band buckled across his back, and no kicking
strap. The old brute was chuckling to himself what he would do
with us as soon as we had started in that trim. It took half an
hour getting all right, as I was the only one able to do
anything."

"Yes, you would have said so," said Blake, "if you had seen him
trying to put Jack up behind. He made six shots with the old dog,
and dropped him about on his head and the broad of his back as if
he had been a bundle of ells."

"The fact is, that that rascally ostler had made poor old Jack
drunk too," explained Drysdale, "and he wouldn't be lifted
straight. However we got off at last, and hadn't gone a mile
before the help (who was maundering away some cursed sentimental
ditty or other behind), lurched more heavily than usual, and
pitched off into the night somewhere. Blake looked for him for
half-an-hour, and couldn't find a hair."

"You don't mean to say the man tumbled off and you never found
him?" said Tom in horror.

"Well, that's about the fact," said Drysdale; "but it isn't so
bad as you think. We had no lamps, and it was an uncommon bad
night for running by holloas."

"But a first-rate night for running by scent," broke in Blake;
"the fellow leant against me until he made his exit, and I'd have
backed myself to have hit the scent again half-a-mile off if the
wind had only been right."

"He may have broken his neck," said Tom.

"Can a fellow sing with a broken neck?" said Drysdale; "hanged if
I know! But don't I tell you, we heard him maundering on
somewhere or other? And when Blake shouted, he rebuked him
piously out of the pitch darkness, and told him to go home and
repent. I nearly dropped off the box laughing at them; and then
he 'uplifted his testimony,' as he called it, against me, for
driving a horse called Satan. I believe he's a ranting methodist
spouter."

"I tried hard to find him," said Blake; "For I should dearly have
liked to kick him safely into the ditch."

"At last Black Will himself couldn't have held Satan another
minute. So Blake scrambled up, and away we came, and knocked into
college at one for a finish: the rest you know."

"Well, you've had a pretty good day of it," said Tom, who had
been hugely amused; "but I should feel nervous about the help, if
I were you."

"Oh, he'll come to no grief, I'll be bound," said Drysdale, "but
what o'clock is it?"

"Three," said Blake, looking at his watch and getting up; "time
to turn in."

"The first time I ever heard you say that," said Drysdale.

"Yes; but you forget we were up this morning before the world was
aired. Good night, Brown."

And off the two went, leaving Tom to sport his oak this time, and
retire in wonder to bed.

Drysdale was asleep, with Jack curled up on the foot of the bed,
in ten minutes. Blake, by the help of wet towels and a knotted
piece of whipcord round his forehead, read Pinder till the chapel
bell began to ring.



CHAPTER VII

AN EXPLOSION

Our hero soon began to feel that he was contracting his first
college friendship. The great, strong, badly-dressed,
badly-appointed servitor, who seemed almost at the same time
utterly reckless of, and nervously alive to, the opinion of all
around him, with his bursts of womanly tenderness and Berserker
rage, alternating like storms and sunshine of a July day on a
high moorland, his keen sense of humor and appreciation of all
the good things of life, the use and enjoyment of which he was so
steadily denying himself from high principle, had from the first
seized powerfully on all Tom's sympathies, and was daily gaining
more hold upon him.

Blessed is the man who has the gift of making friends; for it is
one of God's best gifts. It involves many things, but above all,
the power of going out of oneself, and seeing and appreciating
whatever is noble and living in another man.

But even to him who has the gift, it is often a great puzzle to
find out whether a man is really a friend or not. The following
is recommended as a test in the case of any man about whom you
are not quite sure; especially if he should happen to have more
of this world's goods, either in the shape of talents, rank or
money, or what not, than you.

Fancy the man stripped stark naked of every thing in the world,
except an old pair of trousers and a shirt, for decency's sake,
without even a name to him, and dropped down in the middle of
Holborn or Piccadilly, Would you go up to him then and there, and
lead him out from amongst the cabs and omnibuses, and take him to
your own home and feed him and clothe him, and stand by him
against all the world, to your last sovereign, and your last leg
of mutton? If you wouldn't do this you have no right to call him
by the sacred name of friend. If you would, the odds are that he
would do the same by you, and you may count yourself a rich man.
For, probably were friendship expressible by, or convertible
into, current coin of the realm, one such friend would be worth
to a man, at least 100,000L. How many millionaires are there in
England? I can't even guess; but more by a good many, I fear,
than there are men who have ten real friends. But friendship is
not expressible or convertible. It is more precious than wisdom;
and wisdom "cannot be gotten for gold, nor shall rubies be
mentioned in comparison thereof." Not all the riches that ever
came out of earth and sea are worth the assurance of one such
real abiding friendship in your heart of hearts.

But for the worth of a friendship commonly so called--meaning
thereby a sentiment founded on the good dinners, good stories,
opera stalls, and days' hooting you have gotten or hope to get
out of a man, the snug things in his gift, and his powers of
procuring enjoyment of one kind or another to miserable body or
intellect--why, such a friendship as that is to be appraised
easily enough, if you find it worth your while; but you will have
to pay your pound of flesh for it one way or another--you may
take your oath of that. If you follow my advice, you will take a
10L note down, and retire to your crust of bread and liberty.

Tom was rapidly falling into friendship with Hardy. He was not
bound hand and foot and carried away captive yet, but he was
already getting deep in the toils.

One evening he found himself as usual at Hardy's door about eight
o'clock. The oak was open, but he got no answer when he knocked
at the inner door. Nevertheless he entered, having quite got over
all shyness or ceremony by this time. The room was empty, but two
tumblers and the black bottle stood on the table, and the kettle
was hissing away on the hob. "Ah," thought Tom, "he expects me, I
see;" so he turned his back to the fire and made himself at home.
A quarter of an hour passed, and still Hardy did not return.
"Never knew him out so long before at this time of night,"
thought Tom. "Perhaps he's at some party. I hope so. It would do
him a good deal of good; and I know he might go out if he liked.
Next term, see if I won't make him more sociable. It's a stupid
custom that freshmen don't give parties in their first term, or
I'd do it at once. Why won't he be more sociable? No, after all
sociable isn't the word; he's a very sociable fellow at bottom.
What in the world is it that he wants?"

And so Tom balanced himself on the two hind legs of one of the
Windsor chairs, and betook himself to pondering what it was
exactly which ought to be added to Hardy to make him an
unexceptional object of hero-worship; when the man himself came
suddenly into the room, slamming his oak behind him, and casting
his cap and gown fiercely on to the sofa before he noticed our
hero.

Tom jumped up at once. "My dear fellow, what's the matter?" he
said; "I'm sorry I came in; shall I go?"

"No--don't go--sit down," said Hardy, abruptly; and then began to
smoke fast without saying another word.

Tom waited a few minutes watching for him, and then broke silence
again.--

"I am sure something is the matter, Hardy; you look dreadfully
put out--what is it?"

"What is it?" said Hardy, bitterly; "Oh, nothing at all--nothing
at all; a gentle lesson to servitors as to the duties of their
position; not pleasant, perhaps, for a youngster to swallow; but
I ought to be used to such things at any rate by this time. I beg
your pardon for seeming put out."

"Do tell me what it is," said Tom. "I'm sure I am very sorry for
anything which annoys you."

"I believe you are," said Hardy, looking at him, "and I'm much
obliged to you for it. What do you think of that fellow Chanter's
offering Smith, the junior servitor, a boy just come up, a bribe
of ten pounds to prick him in at chapel when he isn't there?"

"The dirty blackguard," said Tom; "by Jove he ought to be cut. He
will be cut, won't he? You don't mean that he really did offer
him the money?"

"I do," said Hardy, "and the poor little fellow came here after
hall to ask me what he should do with tears in his eyes."

"Chanter ought to be horsewhipped in quad," said Tom.

"I will go and call on Smith directly. What did you do?"

"Why, as soon as I could master myself enough not to lay hands on
him," said Hardy, "I went across to his rooms where he was
entertaining a select party, and just gave him his choice between
writing an abject apology then and there to my dictation, or
having the whole business laid before the principal to-morrow
morning. He chose the former alternative, and I made him write
such a letter as I don't think he will forget in a hurry."

"That's good," said Tom; "but he ought to have been horsewhipped
too. It makes one's fingers itch to think of it. However, Smith's
all right now."

"All right!" said Hardy, bitterly. "I don't know what you call
'all right.' Probably the boy's self-respect is hurt for life.
You can't salve over this sort of thing with an apology-plaster."

"Well, I hope it isn't so bad as that," said Tom.

"Wait till you've tried it yourself," said Hardy, "I'll tell you
what it is; one or two things of this sort--and I've seen many
more than that in my time--sink down into you, and leave marks
like a red-hot iron."

"But, Hardy, now, really, did you ever know a bribe offered
before?" said Tom.

Hardy thought for a moment. "No," said he, "I can't say that I
have; but things as bad, or nearly as bad, often." He paused a
minute, and then went on; "I tell you, if it were not for my dear
old father, who would break his heart over it, I would cut the
whole concern to-morrow. I've been near doing it twenty times,
and enlisting in a good regiment."

"Would it be any better there, though?" said Tom, gently, for he
felt that he was in a gunpowder magazine.

"Better! yes, it must be better," said Hardy; "at any rate the
youngsters there are marchers and fighters; besides, one would be
in the ranks and know one's place. Here one is by way of being a
gentleman--God save the mark! A young officer, be he never such a
fop or profligate, must take his turn at guard, and carry his
life in his hand all over the world wherever he is sent, or he
has to leave the service. Service!--yes, that's the word; that's
what makes every young red-coat respectable, though he mayn't
think it. He is serving his Queen, his country--the devil, too,
perhaps--very likely--but still the other is some sort. He is
bound to it, sworn to it, must do it; more or less. But a
youngster up here, with health, strength, and heaps of
money--bound to no earthly service, and choosing that of the
devil and his own lusts, because some service or other he must
have--I want to know where else under the sun you can see such a
sight as that?"

Tom mumbled something to the effect that it was by no means
necessary that men at Oxford, either rich or poor, need embark in
the service which had been alluded to; which remark, however,
only seemed to add fuel to the fire. For Hardy now rose from his
chair, and began striding up and down the room, his right arm
behind his back, the hand gripping his left elbow, his left hand
brought round in front close to his body, and holding the bowl of
his pipe, from which he was blowing off clouds in puffs like an
engine just starting with a heavy train. The attitude was one of
a man painfully trying to curb himself. His eyes burnt like coals
under his deep brows. The man altogether looked awful, and Tom
felt particularly uncomfortable and puzzled. After a turn or two,
Hardy burst out again--

"And who are they, I should like to know, these fellows who dare
to offer bribes to gentlemen? How do they live? What do they do
for themselves or for this University? By heaven, they are
ruining themselves body and soul, and making this place, which
was meant for the training of learned and brave and righteous
Englishmen, a lie and a snare. And who tries to stop them? Here
and there a don is doing his work like a man; the rest are either
washing their hands of the business, and spending their time in
looking after those who don't want looking after, and cramming
those who would be better without the cramming, or else standing
by, cap in hand, and shouting, 'Oh young men of large fortune and
great connexions! You future dispensers of the good things of
this Realm, come to our colleges and all shall be made pleasant!'
and the shout is taken up by undergraduates, and tradesmen, and
horse-dealers, and cricket-cads, and dog-fanciers 'Come to us,
and us, and us, and we will be your toadies!' Let them; let them
toady and cringe to their precious idols, till they bring this
noble old place down about their ears. Down it will come, down it
must come, for down it ought to come, if it can find nothing
better to worship than rank, money, and intellect. But to live in
the place and love it too, and to see all this going on, and
groan and writhe under it, and not be able-"

At this point in his speech Hardy came to the turning-point in
his march at the farther end of the room, just opposite his
crockery cupboard; but, instead of turning as usual, he paused,
let go the hold on his left elbow, poised himself for a moment to
get a purchase, and then dashed his right fist full against one
of the panels. Crash went the slight deal boards, as if struck
with a sledge-hammer, and crash went glass and crockery behind.
Tom jumped to his feet, in doubt whether an assault on him would
not follow, but the fit was over, and Hardy looked round at him
with a rueful and deprecating face. For a moment Tom tried to
look solemn and heroic, as befitted the occasion; but somehow,
the sudden contrast flashed upon him, and sent him off, before he
could think about it, into a roar of laughter, ending in a
violent fit of coughing; for in his excitement he had swallowed a
mouthful of smoke. Hardy, after holding out for a moment, gave in
to the humour of the thing, and the appealing look passed into a
smile, and the smile into a laugh, as he turned towards his
damaged cupboard, and began opening it carefully in a legitimate
manner.

"I say, old fellow," said Tom, coming up, "I should think you
must find it an expensive amusement. Do you often walk into your
cupboard like that?"

"You see, Brown, I am naturally a man of a very quick temper."

"So it seems" said Tom; "but doesn't it hurt your knuckles? I
should have something softer put up for me if I were you; your
bolster, with a velvet cap on it, or a doctor of divinity's gown,
now."

"You be hanged," said Hardy, as he disengaged the last splinter,
and gently opened the ill-used cupboard door. "Oh, thunder and
turf, look here," he went on, as the state of affairs inside
disclosed itself to his view; "how many times have I told that
thief George never to put anything on this side of my cupboard!
Two tumblers smashed to bits, and I've only four in the world.
Lucky we had those two out on the table."

"And here's a great piece out of the sugar-basin, you see," said
Tom, holding up the broken article; "and, let me see, one cup and
three saucers gone to glory."

"Well, it's lucky it's no worse," said Hardy, peering over his
shoulder; "I had a lot of odd saucers, and there's enough left to
last my time. Never mind the smash, let's sit down again and be
reasonable."

Tom sat down in high good humor. He felt himself more on an
equality with his host than he had done before, and even thought
he might venture on a little mild expostulation or lecturing. But
while he was considering how to improve the occasion Hardy began
himself.

"I shouldn't go so furious, Brown, if I didn't care about the
place so much. I can't bear to think of it as a sort of learning
machine, in which I am to grind for three years to get certain
degrees which I want. No--this place, and Cambridge, and our
great schools, are the heart of dear old England. Did you ever
read Secretary Cook's address to the Vice-Chancellor, Doctors,
&c. in 1636--more critical times, perhaps, even than ours? No?
Well, listen then;" and he went to his bookcase, took down a
book, and read; "'The very truth is, that all wise princes
respect the welfare of their estates, and consider that schools
and universities are (as in a body) the noble and vital parts,
which being vigorous and sound send good blood and active spirits
into the veins and arteries, which cause health and strength; or,
if feeble or ill-affected, corrupt all the vital parts; whereupon
grow diseases, and in the end, death itself.' A low standard up
here for ten years may corrupt half the parishes in the kingdom."

"That's true," said Tom, "but-"

"Yes; and so one has a right to be jealous for Oxford. Every
Englishman ought to be."

"But I really think, Hardy, that you're unreasonable," said Tom,
who had no mind to be done out of his chance of lecturing his
host.

"I am very quick-tempered," said Hardy, "as I told you just now."

"But you're not fair on the fast set up here. They can't help
being rich men, after all."

"No; so one oughtn't to expect them to be going through the eyes
of needles, I suppose. But do you mean to say you ever heard of a
more dirty, blackguard business than this?" said Hardy; "he ought
to be expelled the University."

"I admit that," said Tom; "but it was only one of them, you know.
I don't believe there's another man in the set who would have
done it."

"Well, I hope not," said Hardy; "I may be hard on them--as you
say, they can't help being rich. But, now, I don't want you to
think me a violent one-sided fanatic; shall I tell you some of my
experiences up here--some passages from the life of a servitor?"

"Do," said Tom, "I should like nothing so well."



CHAPTER VIII

HARDY'S HISTORY

"My father is an old commander in the Royal Navy. He was a second
cousin of Nelson's Hardy, and that, believe, was what led him
into the navy, for he had no interest whatever of his own. It was
a visit which Nelson's Hardy, then a young lieutenant, paid to
his relative, my grandfather, which decided my father, he has
told me: but he always had a strong bent to the sea, though he
was a boy of very studious habits.

"However, those were times when brave men who knew and loved
their profession couldn't be overlooked, and my dear old father
fought his way up step by step--not very fast certainly, but,
still fast enough to keep him in heart about his chances in life.
I can show you the accounts of some of the affairs he was in, in
James's History, which you see up on my shelf there, or I could
tell them you myself; but I hope some day, you will know him, and
then you will hear them in perfection.

"My father was made commander towards the end of the war, and got
a ship, which he sailed with a convoy of merchantmen from
Bristol. It was the last voyage he ever made in active service;
but the Admiralty was so well satisfied with his conduct in it
that they kept his ship in commission two years after peace was
declared. And well they might be; for in the Spanish main he
fought an action which lasted, on and off, for two days, with a
French sloop of war, and a privateer, which he always thought was
an American, either of which ought to have been a match for him.
But he had been with Vincent in the _Arrow_, and was not likely
to think much of such small odds as that. At any rate he beat
them off, and not a prize could either of them make out of his
convoy, though I believe his ship was never fit for anything
afterwards, and was broken up as soon as she was out of
commission. We have got her compasses, and the old flag which
flew at the peak through the whole voyage, at home now. It was my
father's own flag, and his fancy to have it always flying. More
than half the men were killed, or badly hit--the dear old father
amongst the rest. A ball took off part of his knee cap, and he
had to fight the last six hours of the action sitting in a chair
on the quarter-deck; but he says it made the men fight better
than when he was among them, seeing him sitting there sucking
oranges.

"Well, he came home with a stiff leg. The Bristol merchants gave
him the freedom of the city in a gold box, and a
splendidly-mounted sword with an inscription on the blade, which
hangs over the mantel-piece at home. When I first left home, I
asked him to give me his old service sword, which used to hang by
the other, and he gave it me at once, though I was only a lad of
seventeen, as he would give me his right eye, dear old father,
which is the only one he has now; the other he lost from a
cutlass wound in a boarding-party. There it hangs, and those are
his epaulettes in the tin case. They used to lie under my pillow
before I had a room of my own, and many a cowardly down-hearted
fit have they helped me to pull through, Brown; and many a mean
act have they helped to keep me from doing. There they are
always; and the sight of them brings home the dear old man to me
as nothing else does, hardly even his letters. I must be a great
scoundrel to go very wrong with such a father.

"Let's see--where was I? Oh, yes; I remember. Well, my father got
his box and sword, and some very handsome letters from several
great men. We have them all in a book at home, and I know them by
heart. The ones he values most are from Collingwood, and his old
captain, Vincent, and from his cousin Nelson's Hardy, who didn't
come off very well himself after the war. But my poor old father
never got another ship. For some time he went up every year to
London, and was always, he says, very kindly received by the
people in power, and often dined with one and another Lord of the
Admiralty who had been an old messmate. But he was longing for
employment; and it used to prey on him while he was in his prime
to feel year after year slipping away and he still without a
ship. But why should I abuse people, and think it hard, when he
doesn't? 'You see, Jack,' he said to me the last time we spoke
about it, 'after all I was a battered old hulk, lame and half
blind. So was Nelson you'll say: but every man isn't a Nelson, my
boy.

'And though I might think I could con or fight a ship as well as
ever, I can't say other folk who didn't know me were wrong for
not agreeing with me. Would you, now Jack, appoint a lame and
blind man to command your ship, if you had one?' But he left off
applying for work as soon as he was fifty, (I just remember the
time), for he began to doubt then whether he was quite so fit to
command a vessel as a younger man; and, though he had a much
better chance after that of getting a ship (for William IV came
to the throne, who knew all about him), he never went near the
Admiralty again. 'God forbid,' he said, 'that his Majesty should
take me if there's a better man to be had.'

"But I have forgotten to tell you how I came into the world, and
am telling you my father's story instead of my own. You seem to
like hearing about it though, and you can't understand one
without the other. However, when my father was made commander, he
married, and bought, with his prize-money and savings, a cottage
and piece of land, in a village on the south coast, where he left
his wife when he went on his last voyage. They had waited some
years, for neither of them had any money; but there never were
two people who wanted it less, or did more good without it to all
who came near them. They had a hard time of it too, for my father
had to go on half-pay; and a commander's half-pay isn't much to
live upon and keep a family. For they had a family; three besides
me; but they are all gone. And my mother, too; she died when I
was quite a boy, and left him and me alone; and since then I have
never known what a woman's love is, for I have no near relations;
and a man with such prospects as mine had better keep down
all--However, there's no need to go into any notion; I won't
wander any more if I can help it.

"I know my father was very poor when my mother died, and I think
(though he never told me so) that he had mortgaged our cottage,
and was very near having to sell it at one time. The expenses of
my mother's illness had been very heavy; I know a good deal of
the best furniture was sold--all, indeed except a handsome arm
chair and a little work table of my mother's. She used to sit in
the chair, in her last illness, on our lawn, and watch the
sunsets. And he sat by her, and watched her, and sometimes read
the Bible to her; while I played about with a big black dog we
had then, named Vincent, after my father's old captain; or with
Burt, his old boatswain, who came with his wife to live with my
father before I can recollect, and lives with us still. He did
everything in the garden, and about the house; and in the house,
too, when his wife was ill, for he can turn his hand to most
anything, like most old salts. It was he who rigged up the up the
mast and weather-cock on the lawn, and used to let me run up the
old flag on Sundays, and on my father's wedding-day, and on the
anniversary of his action, and of Vincent's action in the Arrow.

"After my mother's death my father sent away all the servants,
for the boatswain and his wife are more like friends. I was wrong
to say that no woman has loved me since my mother's death, for I
believe dear old nanny loves me as if I were her own child. My
father, after this, used to sit silent for hours together, doing
nothing but look over the sea, but, except for that, was not much
changed. After a short time he took to teaching me to read, and
from that time I never was away from him for an hour, except when
I was asleep, until I went out into the world.

"As I told you, my father was naturally fond of study. He had
kept up the little Latin he had learnt as a boy, and had always
been reading whatever he could lay his hands on; so that I
couldn't have had a better tutor. They were no lessons to me,
particularly the geographical ones; for there was no part of the
world's sea-coast that he did not know, and could tell me what it
and the people were like; and often when Burt happened to come in
at such times, and heard what my father was talking about, he
would give us some of his adventures and ideas of geography,
which were very queer indeed.

"When I was nearly ten, a new vicar came. He was about my
father's age and a widower, like him; only he had no child. Like
him, too, he had no private fortune, and the living is a very
poor one. He soon became very intimate with us, and made my
father his churchwarden; and, after being present at some of our
lessons, volunteered to teach me Greek, which, he said, it was
time I should begin to learn.

"This was great relief to my father, who had bought a Greek
grammar and dictionary, and a delectus, some time before; and I
could see him often, dear old father, with his glass in his eye,
puzzling away over them when I was playing, or reading Cook's
Voyages, for it had grown to be the wish of his heart that I
should be a scholar, and should go into orders. So he was going
to teach me Greek himself, for there was no one in the parish
except the Vicar who knew a word of anything but English--so that
he could not have got me a tutor, and the thought of sending me
to school had never crossed his mind, even if he could have
afforded to do either. My father only sat by at Greek lessons,
and took no part; but first he began to put in a word here and
there, and then would repeat words and sentences himself, and
look over my book while I construed, and very soon was just as
regular a pupil of the Vicar's as I.

"The Vicar was for the most part very proud of his pupils, and
the kindest of masters; but every now and then be used to be hard
on my father, which made me furious, though he never seemed to
mind it. I used to make mistakes on purpose at those times to
show that I was worse than he at any rate. But this only happened
after we had had a political discussion at dinner; for we dined
at three, and took to our Greek afterwards, to suit the Vicar's
time, who was generally a guest. My father is a Tory, of course,
as you may guess, and the Vicar was a Liberal, of a very mild
sort, as I have since thought; a Whig of '88,' he used to call
himself. But he was in favor of the Reform Bill, which was enough
for my father, who lectured him about loyalty, and opening the
flood-gates to revolution; and used to call up old Burt from the
kitchen, where he was smoking his pipe, and ask him what he used
to think of the Radicals on board ship; and Burt's regular reply
was--

"'Skulks, yer honor, regular skulks. I wouldn't give the twist of
a fiddler's elbow for all the lot of 'em as ever pretended to
handle a swab, or handle a topsail.'

"The Vicar always tried to argue, but, as Burt and I were the
only audience, my father was always triumphant; only he took it
out of us afterwards, at the Greek. Often I used to think, when
they were reading history, and talking about the characters, that
my father was much the more liberal of the two.

"About this time he bought a small half-decked boat of ten tons,
for he and Burt agreed that I ought to learn to handle a boat,
although I was not to go to sea; and when they got the Vicar in
the boat on the summer evenings (for he was always ready for a
sale though he was a very bad sailor), I believe they used to
steer as near the wind as possible, and get into short chopping
seas on purpose. But I don't think he was ever frightened, though
he used sometimes to be very ill.

"And so I went on, learned all I could from my father, and the
Vicar, and old Burt, till I was sixteen. By that time I had begun
to think for myself; and I had made up my mind that it was time I
should do something. No boy ever wanted to leave home less, I
believe; but I saw that I must make a move if I was ever to be
what my father wished me to be. So I spoke to the Vicar, and he
quite agreed with me, and made inquiries amongst his
acquaintance; and so, before I was seventeen, I was offered the
place of under-master in a commercial school, about twenty miles
from home. The Vicar brought the offer, and my father was very
angry at first; but we talked him over, and so I took the
situation.

"And I am very glad I did, although there were many drawbacks.
The salary was 35L a year, and for that I had to drill all the
boys in English, and arithmetic, and Latin, and to teach the
Greek grammar to the five or six who paid extra to learn it. Out
of the school I had always to be with them, and was responsible
for the discipline. It was weary work very often, and what seemed
the worst part of it to me, at the time, was the trade spirit
which leavened the whole of the establishment. The master and
owner of the school, who was a keen vulgar man, but always civil
enough to me, thought of nothing but what would pay. And this
seemed to be what filled the school. Fathers sent their boys,
because the place was so practical, and nothing was taught
(except as extras) which was not to be of so-called real use to
the boys in the world. We had our work quite clearly laid down
for us; and it was, not to put the boys in the way of getting
real knowledge or understanding, or any of the things Solomon
talks about, but to put them in the way of getting on.

"I spent three years at that school, and in that time I rounded
myself pretty well in Latin and Greek--better, I believe, than I
should have done if I had been at a first-rate school myself; and
I hope I did the boys some good, and taught some of them that
cunning was not the best quality to start in life with. And I was
not often very unhappy, for I could always look forward to my
holidays with my father.

"However, I own that I never was better pleased than one
Christmas when the Vicar came over to our cottage, and brought
with him a letter from the Principal of St. Ambrose College,
Oxford, appointing me to a servitorship. My father was even more
delighted than I, and that evening produced a bottle of old rum,
which was part of his ship's stock, and had gone all through his
action, and been in his cellar ever since. And we three in the
parlor, and old Burt and his wife in the kitchen, finished it
that night; the boatswain, I must own, taking the lion's share.
The Vicar took occasion, in the course of the evening, to hint
that it was only poor men who took these places at the
University; and that I might find some inconvenience, and suffer
some annoyance, by not being exactly in the same position as
other men. But my dear old father would not hear of it; I was now
going to be in amongst the very pick of English gentlemen--what
could it matter whether I had money or not? That was the last
thing which real gentlemen thought of. Besides, why was I to be
so very poor? He should be able to allow me whatever would be
necessary to make me comfortable. 'But, Jack,' he said suddenly,
later in the evening, 'one meets low fellows everywhere. You have
met them, I know, often at the confounded school, and will meet
them again. Never you be ashamed of your poverty, my boy.' I
promised readily enough, for I didn't think I could be more tried
in that way than I had been already. I had lived for three years
amongst people whose class notoriously measured all things by a
money standard; now that was all over, I thought. It's easy
making promises in the dark. The Vicar, however, would not let
the matter rest; so we resolved ourselves into a Committee of
Ways and Means, and my father engaged to lay before us an exact
statement of his affairs next day. I went to the door with the
Vicar, and he told me to come and see him in the morning.

"I half-guessed what he wanted to see me for. He knew all my
father's affairs perfectly well, and wished to prepare me for
what was to come in the evening. 'Your father,' he said, 'is one
of the most liberal men I ever met; he is almost the only person
who gives anything to the schools and other charities in this
parish, and he gives to the utmost. You would not wish him, I
know, to cut off these gifts, which bring the highest reward with
them, when they are made in the spirit in which he makes them.
Then he is getting old, and you would never like him to deny
himself the comforts (and few enough they are) which he is used
to. He has nothing but his half-pay to live on; and out of that
he pays 50L a year for insurance; for he has insured his life,
that you may have something besides the cottage and land when he
dies. I only tell you this that you may know the facts
beforehand. I am sure you would never take a penny from him if
you could help it. But he won't be happy unless he makes you some
allowance; and he can do it without crippling himself. He has
been paying off an old mortgage on his property here for many
years, by installments of 40L a year, and the last was paid last
Michaelmas; so that it will not inconvenience him to make you
that allowance. Now, you will not be able to live properly upon
that at Oxford, even as a servitor. I speak to you now, my dear
Jack, as your oldest friend (except Burt), and you must allow me
the privilege of an old friend. I have more than I want, and I
propose to make your allowance at Oxford to 80L a year, and upon
that I think you may manage to get on. Now, it will not be quite
candid, but I think, under the circumstances, we shall be
justified in representing to your father that 40L a year will be
ample for him to allow you. You see what I mean?

"I remember almost word for word what the Vicar said; for it is
not often in one's life that one meets with this sort of friend.
At first I thanked him, but refused to take anything from him. I
had saved enough, I said, to carry me through Oxford. But he
would not be put off; and I found that his heart was as much set
on making me an allowance himself as on saving my father. So I
agreed to take 25L a year from him.

"When we met again in the evening, to hear my father's statement,
it was as good as a play to see the dear old man, with his
spectacles on and his papers before him, proving in some
wonderful way that he could easily allow me at least 80L or 100L
a year. I believe it cost the Vicar some twinges of conscience to
persuade him that all I should want would be 40L a year; and it
was very hard work; but at last we succeeded, and it was so
settled. During the next three weeks the preparations for my
start occupied us all. The Vicar looked out all the classics,
which he insisted that I should take. There they stand on that
middle shelf--all well bound, you see, and many of them old
college prizes. My father made an expedition to the nearest town,
and came back with a large new portmanteau and hat-box; and the
next day the leading tailor came over to fit me out with new
clothes. In fact, if I had not resisted stoutly, I should have
come to college with half the contents of the cottage, and Burt
as valet; for the old boatswain was as bad as the other two. But
I compromised the matter with him by accepting his pocket compass
and the picture of the brig which hangs there; the two things,
next to his wife, which he values, I believe, most in the world.

"Well, it is now two years last October since I came to Oxford as
a servitor; so you see I have pretty, nearly finished my time
here. I was more than twenty then--much older as you know, than
most freshmen. I daresay it was partly owing to the difference in
age, and partly to the fact that I knew no one when I came up,
but mostly to my own bad management and odd temper, that I did
not get on better than I have done with the men here. Sometimes I
think that our college is a bad specimen, for I have made several
friends amongst out-college men. At any rate, the fact is, as you
have no doubt found out--and I hope I haven't tried at all to
conceal it--that I am out of the pale, as it were. In fact, with
the exception of one of the tutors, and one man who was a
freshman with me, I do not know a man in college except as a mere
speaking acquaintance.

"I had been rather thrown off my balance, I think, at the change
in my life, for at first I made a great fool of myself. I had
believed too readily what my father had said, and thought that at
Oxford I should see no more of what I had been used to. Here I
thought that the last thing a man would be valued by would be the
length of his purse, and that no one would look down upon me
because I performed some services to the college in return for my
keep, instead of paying for it in money.

"Yes, I made a great fool of myself, no doubt of that; and, what
is worse, I broke my promise to my father--I often _was_ ashamed
of my poverty, and tried at first to hide it, for somehow the
spirit of the place carried me along with it. I couldn't help
wishing to be thought of and treated as an equal by the men. It's
a very bitter thing for a proud, shy, sensitive fellow, as I am
by nature, to have to bear the sort of assumption and insolence
one meets with. I furnished my rooms well, and dressed well. Ah!
you stare; but this is not the furniture I started with; I sold
it all when I came to my senses, and put in this tumble-down
second-hand stuff, and I have worn out my fine clothes. I know
I'm not well dressed now. (Tom nodded ready acquiescence to this
position.) Yes, though I still wince a little now and then--a
great deal oftener than I like--I don't carry any false colors. I
can't quite conquer the feeling of shame (for shame it is, I am
afraid), but at any rate I don't try to hide my poverty any
longer, I haven't for these eighteen months. I have a grim sort
of pleasure in pushing it in everybody's face. (Tom assented with
a smile, remembering how excessively uncomfortable Hardy had made
him by this little peculiarity the first time he was in his
rooms.) The first thing which opened my eyes a little was the
conduct of the tradesmen. My bills all came in within a week of
the delivery of the furniture and clothes; some of them wouldn't
leave the things without payment. I was very angry and vexed, not
at the bills, for I had my savings, which were more than enough
to pay for everything. But I knew that these same tradesmen never
thought of asking for payment under a year, oftener two, from
other men. Well, it was a lesson. Credit for gentlemen-commoners,
ready-money dealings with servitors! I owe the Oxford tradesmen
much for that lesson. If they would only treat every man who
comes up as a servitor, it would save a deal of misery.

"My cure was completed by much higher folk, though. I can't go
through the whole treatment, but will give you a specimen or two
of the doses, giving precedence (as is the way here) to those
administered by the highest in rank. I got them from all sorts of
people, but none did me more good than the lords' pills. Amongst
other ways of getting on I took to sparring, which was then very
much in vogue. I am a good hand at it, and very fond of it, so
that it wasn't altogether flunkeyism, I'm glad to think. In my
second term two or three fighting men came down from London, and
gave a benefit at the Weirs. I was there, and set to with one of
them. We were well matched, and both of us did our very best; and
when we had had our turn we drew down the house, as they say.
Several young tufts and others of the faster men came up to me
afterwards and complimented me. They did the same by the
professional, but it didn't occur to me at the time that they put
us both in the same category.

"I am free to own that I was really pleased two days afterwards,
when a most elaborate flunkey brought a card to my door inscribed
'The Viscount Philippine, Ch. Ch., at home to-night, eight
o'clock--sparring.' Luckily, I made a light dinner, and went
sharp to time into Christ Church. The porter directed me to the
noble Viscount's rooms; they were most splendid, certainly--first
floor rooms in Peckwater. I was shown into the large loom, which
was magnificently furnished and lighted. A good space was cleared
in the centre; there were all sorts of bottles and glasses on the
sideboard. There might have been twelve or thirteen men present,
almost all in tufts or gentlemen commoners' caps. One or two of
our college I recognized. The fighting man was also there,
stripped for sparring, which none of the rest were. It was plain
that the sport had not begun; I think he was doing some trick of
strength as I came in. My noble host came forward with a nod and
asked me if I would take anything, and when I declined, said,
'Then will you put on the gloves?' I looked at him rather
surprised, and thought it an odd way to treat the only stranger
in his rooms. However, I stripped, put on the gloves, and one of
the others came forward to tie them for me. While he was doing it
I heard my host say to the man, 'A five-pound note, mind, if you
do it within the quarter-of-an-hour.' 'Only half-minute time,
then, my lord,' he answered. The man who was tying my gloves
said, 'Be steady; don't give him a chance to knock you down.' It
flashed across me in a moment now why I was there; but it was too
late to draw back; so we stood up and began sparring. I played
very steadily and light at first to see whether my suspicions
were well founded, and in two minutes I was satisfied. My
opponent tried every dodge to bring on a rally, and when he was
foiled I could see that he was shifting his glove. I stopped and
insisted that his gloves should be tied, and then we went on
again.

"I kept on the defensive. The man was in bad training, and
luckily I had the advantage by an inch or so in length of arm.
Before five minutes was over, I had caught enough of the
bystander's remarks to know that my noble host had betted a pony
that I should be knocked down in a quarter-of-an-hour. My one
object now was to make him lose his money. My opponent did his
utmost for his patron, and fairly winded himself in his efforts
to get at me. He had to call time twice himself. I said not a
word; my time would come I knew, if I could keep on my legs, and
of this I had little fear. I held myself together, made no
attack, and my length of arm gave me the advantage in every
counter. It was all I could do, though, to keep clear of his
rushes as the time drew on. On he came time after time, careless
of guarding, and he was full as good a man as I. 'Time's up; it's
past the quarter.' 'No, by Jove half a minute yet; now's your
time, said my noble host to his man, who answered by a rush. I
met him as before with a steady counter, but this time my blow
got home under his chin, and he staggered, lost his footing, and
went fairly over on his back.

"Most of the bystanders seemed delighted, and some of them
hurried towards me. But I tore off the gloves, flung them on the
ground, and turned to my host. I could hardly speak, but I made
an effort, and said quietly, 'You have brought a stranger to your
rooms, and have tried to make him fight for your amusement; now I
tell you it is a blackguard act of yours--an act which no
gentleman would have done.' My noble host made no remark. I threw
on my waist-coat, and then turned to the rest and said
'_Gentlemen_ would not have stood by and seen it done.' I went up
to the side-board, uncorked a bottle of champagne, and half
filled a tumbler, before a word was spoken. Then one of the
visitors stepped forward and said, 'Mr. Hardy, I hope you won't
go, there has been a mistake; we did not know of this. I am sure
many of us are very sorry for what has occurred; stay and look
on, we will all of us spar.' I looked at him, and then at my
host, to see whether the latter joined in the apology. Not he, he
was doing the dignified sulky, and most of the rest seemed to me
to be with him. 'Will any of you spar with me?' I said,
tauntingly, tossing off the champagne. 'Certainly, the new
speaker said directly, 'If you wish it, and are not too tired, I
will spar with you myself; you will, won't you, James?' and he
turned to one of the other men. If any of them had backed him by
a word I should probably have stayed; several of them, I learnt
afterwards, would have liked to have done so, but it was an
awkward scene to interfere in. I stopped a moment and then said,
with a sneer, 'You're too small, and none of the other gentlemen
seem inclined to offer.'

"I saw that I had hurt him, and felt pleased at the moment I had
done so. I was now ready to start, and I could not think of
anything more unpleasant to say at the moment; so I went up to my
antagonist, who was standing with the gloves on still, not quite
knowing what to be at, and held out my hand. 'I can shake hands
with you at any rate,' I said; 'you only did what you were paid
for in the regular way of business, and you did your best.' He
looked rather sheepish, but held out his gloved hand, which I
shook. 'Now, I have the honor to wish you all a very good
evening;' and so I left the place and got home to my own rooms,
and sat down there with several new ideas in my head. On the
whole, the lesson was not a very bitter one, for I felt that I
had had the best of the game. The only thing I really was sorry
for was my own insolence to the man who had come forward as a
peacemaker. I had remarked his face before. I don't know how it
is with you, but I can never help looking at a tuft--the gold
tassel draws one's eye somehow; and then it's an awful position,
after all, for mere boys to be placed in. So I knew his face
before that day, though I had only seen him two or three times in
the street. Now it was much more clearly impressed on my mind;
and I called it up and looked it over, half hoping that I should
detect something to justify me to myself, but without success.
However, I got the whole affair pretty well out of my head by
bedtime.

"While I was at breakfast the next morning, my scout came in with
a face of the most ludicrous importance, and quite a deferential
manner. I declare I don't think he has ever got back since that
day to his original free-and-easy swagger. He laid a card on my
table, paused a moment, and then said, 'His ludship is houtside
watin', sir.'

"I had had enough of lords' cards; and the scene of yesterday
rose painfully before me as I threw the card into the fire
without looking at it, and said, 'Tell him I am engaged.'

"My scout, with something like a shudder at my audacity, replied,
'His ludship told me to say, sir, as his bis'ness was very
particular, so hif you was engaged he would call again in 'arf an
hour.'

"Tell him to come in, then, if he won't take a civil hint.' I
felt sure who it would be, but hardly knew whether to be pleased
or annoyed, when in another minute the door opened, and in walked
the peacemaker. I don't know which of us was the most
embarrassed; he walked straight up to me without lifting his
eyes, and held out his hand saying, 'I hope, Mr. Hardy, you will
shake hands with me now.'

"'Certainly, my lord,' I said, taking his hand; 'I am sorry for
what I said to you yesterday, when my blood was up.'

"'You said no more than we deserved,' he answered twirling his
cap by the long gold tassel; 'I could not be comfortable without
coming to assure you again myself, that neither I, nor, I
believe, half the men in Philippine's rooms yesterday, knew
anything of the bet. I really cannot tell you how annoyed I have
been about it.'

"I assured him that he might make himself quite easy, and then
remained standing, expecting him to go, and not knowing exactly
what to say further. But he begged me to go on with my breakfast,
and sat down, and then asked me to give him a cup of tea, as he
had not breakfasted. So in a few minutes we were sitting opposite
one another over tea and bread and butter, for he didn't ask for,
and I didn't offer, anything else. It was rather a trying meal,
for each of us was doing all he could to make out the other. I
only hope I was as pleasant as he was. After breakfast he went
and I thought the acquaintance was probably at an end; he had
done all that a gentleman need have done, and had well-nigh
healed a raw place in my mental skin.

"But I was mistaken. Without intruding himself on me, he managed
somehow or another to keep on building up the acquaintance little
by little. For some time I looked out very jealously for any
patronizing airs, and even after I was convinced, that he had
nothing of the sort in him, avoided him as much as I could,
though he was the most pleasant and best-informed man I knew.
However, we became intimate, and I saw a good deal of him in a
quiet way, at his own rooms. I wouldn't go to his parties, and
asked him not to come to me here, for my horror of being thought
a tuft-hunter had become almost a disease. He was not so old as
I, but he was just leaving the University, for he had come up
early, and lord's sons are allowed to go out in two years;--I
suppose because the authorities think they will do less harm here
in two than three years; but it is sometimes hard on poor men,
who have to earn their bread, to see such a privilege given to
those who want it least. When he left, he made me promise to go
and pay him a visit--which I did in the long vacation, at a
splendid place up in the North, and enjoyed myself more than I
care to own. His father, who is quite worthy of his son, and all
his family, were as kind as people could be.

"Well, amongst other folks I met there a young sprig of nobility
who was coming up here the next term. He had been brought up
abroad, and, I suppose, knew very few men of his own age in
England. He was not a bad style of boy, but rather too
demonstrative, and not strong-headed. He took to me wonderfully,
was delighted to hear that I was up at Oxford, and talked
constantly of how much we should see of one another. As it
happened, I was almost the first man he met when he got off the
coach at the 'Angel,' at the beginning of his first term. He
almost embraced me, and nothing would serve but I must dine with
him at the inn, and we spent the evening together, and parted
dear friends. Two days afterwards we met in the street; he was
with two other youngsters, and gave me a polished and distant
bow; in another week he passed me as if we had never met.

"I don't blame him, poor boy. My only wonder is, that any of them
ever get through this place without being thoroughly spoilt. From
Vice-Chancellor down to scout's boy, the whole of Oxford seems to
be in league to turn their boys heads, even if they come up with
them set on straight, which toadying servants at home take care
shall never happen if they can hinder it. The only men who would
do them good up here, both dons and undergraduates, keep out of
their way, very naturally. Gentlemen-commoners have a little
better chance, though not much, and seem to me to be worse than
the tufts, and to furnish most of their toadies.

"Well, you are tired of my railing? I daresay I am rabid about it
all. Only it does go to my heart to think what this place might
be, and what it is. I see I needn't give you any more of my
experience.

"You'll understand now some of the things that have puzzled you
about me. Oh! I know they did; you needn't look apologetic. I
don't wonder, or blame you. I am a very queer bird for the perch
I have lit on; I know that as well as anybody. The only wonder is
that you ever took the trouble to try to lime me. Now have
another glass of toddy. Why! it is near twelve. I must have one
pipe and turn in. No Aristophanes to-night."



CHAPTER IX

"A BROWN BAIT."

Tom's little exaltation in his own eyes consequent on the
cupboard-smashing escapade of his friend was not to last long.
Not a week had elapsed before he himself arrived suddenly in
Hardy's room in as furious a state of mind as the other had so
lately been in, allowing for the difference of the men. Hardy
looked up from his books and exclaimed:--

"What's the matter? Where have you been to-night? You look fierce
enough to sit for a portrait of Sanguinoso Volcanoni, the
bandit."

"Been!" said Tom, sitting down on the spare Windsor chair, which
he usually occupied, so hard as to make it crack again; "been!
I've been to a wine party at Hendon's. Do you know any of that
set?"

"No, except Grey, who came into residence in the same term with
me; we have been reading for degree together. You must have seen
him here sometimes in the evenings."

"Yes, I remember; the fellow with a stiff neck, who won't look
you in the face."

"Ay, but he is a sterling man at the bottom, I can tell you."

"Well, he wasn't there. You don't know any of the rest?"

"No."

"And never went to any of their parties?"

"No."

"You've had no loss, I can tell you," said Tom, pleased that the
ground was clear for him. "I never was amongst such a set of
waspish, dogmatical, over-bearing fellows in my life."

"Why, what in the name of fortune have they been doing to you?
How did you fall among such Philistines?"

"I'm such an easy fool, you see," said Tom, "I go off directly
with any fellow that asks me; fast or slow, it's all the same. I
never think twice about the matter, and generally, I like all the
fellows I meet, and enjoy everything. But just catch me at
another of their stuck-up wines, that's all."

"But you won't tell me what's the matter."

"Well, I don't know why Hendon should have asked me. He can't
think me a likely card for a convert, I should think. At any
rate, he asked me to wine, and I went as usual. Everything was in
capital style (it don't seem to be any part of their creed, mind
you, to drink bad wine), and awfully gentlemanly and decorous."

"Yes, that's aggravating, I admit. It would have been in better
taste, of course, if they had been a little blackguard and
indecorous. No doubt, too, one has a right to expect bad wine at
Oxford. Well?"

Hardy spoke so gravely, that Tom had to look across at him for
half a minute to see whether he was in earnest. Then he went on
with a grin.

"There was a piano in one corner, and muslin curtains--I give you
my word, muslin curtains, besides the stuff ones."

"You don't say so," said Hardy; "put up, no doubt, to insult you.
No wonder you looked, so furious when you came in. Anything
else?"

"Let me see--yes--I counted three sorts of scents on the
mantel-piece, besides Eau-de-Cologne. But I could have stood it
well enough if it hadn't been for their talk. From one thing to
another they got to cathedrals, and one of them called St. Paul's
'a disgrace to a Christian city;' I couldn't stand that, you
know. I was always bred to respect St. Paul's; weren't you?"

"My education in that line was neglected," said Hardy, gravely.
"And so you took up the cudgels for St. Paul's?"

"Yes, I plumped out that St. Paul's was the finest cathedral in
England. You'd have thought I had said that lying was one of the
cardinal virtues--one or two just treated me to a sort of pitying
sneer, but my neighbors were down upon me with a vengeance. I
stuck to my text though, and they drove me into saying I liked
the Ratcliffe more than any building in Oxford; which I don't
believe I do, now I come to think of it. So when they couldn't
get me to budge for their talk, they took to telling me that
every body that knew anything about church architecture was
against me--of course meaning that I knew nothing about it--for
the matter of that, I don't mean to say that I do"--Tom paused;
it had suddenly occurred to him that there might be some reason
in the rough handling he had got.

"But what did you say to the authorities?" said Hardy, who was
greatly amused.

"Said I didn't care a straw for them" said Tom, "there was no
right or wrong in the matter, and I had as good a right to my
opinion as Pugin--or whatever his name is--and the rest."

"What heresy!" said Hardy, laughing; "you caught it for that, I
suppose?"

"Didn't I! They made such a noise over it, that the men at the
other end of the table stopped talking (they were all freshmen at
our end), and when they found what was up, one of the older ones
took me in hand, and I got a lecture about the middle ages, and
the monks. I said I thought England was well rid of the monks;
and then we got on to Protestantism, and fasting, and apostolic
succession, and passive obedience, and I don't know what all! I
only know I was tired enough of it before the coffee came; but I
couldn't go, you know, with all of them on me at once, could I?"

"Of course not; you were like the 6,000 unconquerable British
infantry at Albuera. You held your position by sheer fighting,
suffering fearful loss."

"Well," said Tom, laughing, for he had talked himself into good
humor again. "I dare say I talked a deal of nonsense; and, when I
come to think it over, a good deal of what some of them said had
something in it. I should like to hear it again quietly; but
there were others sneering and giving themselves airs, but that
puts a fellow's back up."

"Yes," said Hardy, "a good many of the weakest and vainest men
who come up take to this sort of thing now. They can do nothing
themselves, and get a sort of platform by going in on the High
Church business from which to look down on their neighbors."

"That's just what I thought," said Tom, "they tried to push
mother Church, mother Church, down my throat at every turn; I'm
as fond of the Church as any of them, but I don't want to be
jumping up on her back every minute, like a sickly chicken
getting on the old hen's back to warm its feet whenever the
ground is cold, and fancying himself taller than all the rest of
the brood."

"You were unlucky," said Hardy; "there are some very fine fellows
amongst them."

"Well, I haven't seen much of them," said Tom, "and I don't want
to see any more, for it seems to be all Gothic mouldings and
man-millinery business."

"You won't think so when you've been up a little longer." said
Hardy, getting up to make tea, which operation he had hardly
commenced, when a knock came at the door, and in answer to
Hardy's "Come in," a slight, shy man appeared, who hesitated, and
seemed inclined to go when he saw that Hardy was not alone.

"Oh, come in, and have a cup of tea, Grey. You know Brown, I
think?" said Hardy, looking round from the fire, where he was
filling his teapot, to watch Tom's reception of the new comer.

Our hero took his feet down, drew himself up and made a solemn
bow, which Grey returned, and then slid nervously into a chair
and looked very uncomfortable. However, in another minute Hardy
came to the rescue and began pouring out the tea. He was
evidently tickled at the idea of confronting Tom so soon with
another of his enemies. Tom saw this, and put on a cool and
majestic manner in consequence, which evidently increased the
discomfort of Grey's seat, and kept Hardy on the edge of an abyss
of laughter. In fact, he had to ease himself by talking of
indifferent matters and laughing at nothing. Tom had never seen
him in this sort of humor before, and couldn't help enjoying it,
though he felt that it was partly at his own expense. But when
Hardy once just approached the subject of the wine party, Tom
bristled up so quickly, and Grey looked so meekly wretched,
though he knew nothing of what was coming, that Hardy suddenly
changed the subject, and turning to Grey, said--

"What have you been doing the last fortnight? You haven't been
here once. I've been obliged to get on with my Aristotle without
you."

"I'm very sorry indeed, but I haven't been able to come," said
Grey, looking sideways at Hardy, and then at Tom, who sat
regarding the wall, supremely indifferent.

"Well, I've finished my Ethics," said Hardy; "can't you come in
to-morrow night to talk them over? I suppose you're through them
too?"

"No, really," said Grey. "I haven't been able to look at them
since the last time I was here."

"You must take care," said Hardy. "The new examiners are all for
science and history; it won't do for you to go in trusting to
your scholarship."

"I hope to make it up in the Easter vacation," said Grey. "You'll
have enough to do then," said Hardy; "but how is it you've
dropped astern so?"

"Why, the fact is," said Grey, hesitatingly, "that the curate of
St. Peter's has set up some night schools, and wanted some help.
So I have been doing what I could to help him; and really,"
looking at his watch, "I must be going. I only wanted to tell you
how it was I didn't come now."

Hardy looked at Tom, who was rather taken aback by this
announcement, and began to look less haughtily at the wall. He
even condescended to take a short glance at his neighbor.

"It's unlucky," said Hardy; "but do you teach every night?"

"Yes," said Grey. "I used to do my science and history at night,
you know; but I find that teaching takes so much out of me, that
I'm only fit for bed now, when I get back. I'm so glad I've told
you. I have wanted to do it for some time. And if you would let
me come in for an hour, directly after hall, instead of later, I
think I could still manage that."

"Of course," said Hardy, "come when you like. But it's rather
hard to take you away every night, so near the examinations."

"It is my own wish," said Grey. "I should have been very glad if
it hadn't happened just now; but as it has I must do the best I
can."

"Well, but I should like to help you. Can't I take a night or two
off your hands?"

"No!" said Tom, fired with sudden enthusiasm; "it will be as bad
for you, Hardy. It can't want much scholarship to teach there.
Let me go. I'll take two nights a week if you'll let me."

"Oh, thank you," said Grey; "but I don't know how my friend might
like it. That is--I mean," he said, getting very red, "it's very
kind of you, only I'm used to it; and--and they rely on me. But I
really must go--good night;" and Grey went off in confusion.

As soon as the door had fairly closed, Hardy could stand it no
longer, and lay back in his chair laughing till the tears ran
down his cheeks. Tom, wholly unable to appreciate the joke, sat
looking at him with perfect gravity.

"What can there be in your look, Brown?" said Hardy, when he
could speak again, "to frighten Grey so? Did you see what a
fright he was in at once, at the idea of turning you into the
night schools? There must be some lurking Protestantism in your
face somewhere, which I hadn't detected."

"I don't believe he was frightened at me a bit. He wouldn't have
you either, remember," said Tom.

"Well, at any rate, that doesn't look as if it were all mere
Gothic-mouldings and man-millinery, does it?" said Hardy.

Tom sipped his tea, and considered.

"One can't help admiring him, do you know, for it," he said. "Do
you think he is really thrown back, now, in his own reading by
this teaching?"

"I'm sure of it. He is such a quiet fellow, that nothing else is
likely to draw him off reading; I can see that he doesn't get on
as he used, day by day. Unless he makes it up somehow, he won't
get his first."

"He don't seem to like the teaching work much," said Tom.

"Not at all, so far as I can see."

"Then it is a very fine thing of him," said Tom.

"And you retract your man-millinery dictum, so far as he is
concerned?"

"Yes, that I do, heartily; but not as to the set in general."

"Well, they don't suit me either; but, on the whole, they are
wanted--at any rate, in this college. Even the worst of them is
making some sort of protest for self-denial, and against
self-indulgence, which is nowhere more needed than here."

"A nice sort of protest--muslin curtains, a piano, and old
claret."

"Oh, you've no right to count Henden among them; he has only a
little hankering after mediaevalism, and thinks the whole thing
gentlemanly."

"I only know the whole clamjamfery of them were there, and didn't
seem to protest much."

"Brown, you're a bigot. I should never have thought you would
have been so furious against any set of fellows, I begin to smell
Arnold."

"No you don't. He never spoke to me against anybody."

"Hallo! It was the Rugby atmosphere, then, I suppose. But I tell
you they are the only men in the college who are making that
protest, whatever their motives may be."

"What do you say to yourself, old fellow?"

"Nonsense! I never deny myself any pleasure that I can afford, if
it isn't wrong in itself, and doesn't hinder anyone else. I can
tell you I am as fond of fine things and good living as you."

"If a thing isn't wrong, and you can afford it, and it doesn't
hurt anybody! Just so; well, then, mustn't it be right for you to
have? You wouldn't have it put under your nose, I suppose, just
for you to smell at, and let it alone?"

"Yes, I know all that. I've been over it often enough, and
there's truth in it. But, mind you, it's rather slippery ground,
especially for a freshman; and there's a good deal to be said on
the other side--I mean, for denying oneself just for the sake of
the self denial."

"Well, they don't deny themselves the pleasure of looking at a
fellow as if he were a Turk, because he likes St. Paul's better
than Westminster Abbey."

"How that snubbing you got at the Ecclesiological wine party
seems to wrankle.--There now! don't bristle up like a hedgehog.
I'll never mention that unfortunate wine again. I saw the eight
come in to-day. You were keeping much better time, but there is a
weak place or two forward."

"Yes," said Tom, delighted to change the subject, "I find it
awfully hard to pull up to Jervis's stroke. Do you think I shall
ever get to it?"

"Of course you will. Why you have only been pulling behind him a
dozen times or so, and his is the most trying stroke on the
river. You quicken a little on it; but I didn't mean you. Two and
five are the blots in the boat."

"You think so?" said Tom, much relieved. "So does Miller, I can
see. It's so provoking--Drysdale is to pull two in the races next
term, and Blake seven, and then Diogenes will go to five. He's
obliged to pull seven now, because Blake won't come down this
term; no more will Drysdale. They say there will be plenty of
time after Easter."

"It's a great pity," said Hardy.

"Isn't it," said Tom; "and it makes Miller so savage. He walks
into us all as if it were our faults. Do you think he's a good
coxswain?"

"First rate on most points, but rather too sharp tongued. You
can't get a man's best out of him without a little praise."

"Yes, that's just it, he puts one's back up," said Tom. "But the
Captain is a splendid fellow, isn't he?"

"Yes, but a little too easy, at least with men like Blake and
Drysdale. He ought to make them train, or turn them out."

"But who could he get? There's nobody else. If you would pull,
now--why shouldn't you? I'm sure it would make us all right."

"I don't subscribe to the club." said Hardy; "I wish I had, for I
should have liked to have pulled with you, and behind Jervis this
year."

"Do let me tell the Captain," said Tom, "I'm sure he'd manage it
somehow."

"I'm afraid it's too late," said Hardy; "I cut myself off from
everything of the sort two years ago, and I'm beginning to think
I was a fool for my pains."

Nothing more was said on the subject at the time, but Tom went
away in great spirits at having drawn this confession out of
Hardy--the more so, perhaps, because he flattered himself that he
had something to say to the change in his friend.



CHAPTER X

SUMMER TERM

How many spots in life are there which will bear comparison with
the beginning of our second term at the University? So far as
external circumstances are concerned, it seems hard to know what
a man could find to ask for at that period of his life, if a
fairy godmother were to alight in his rooms and offer him the
usual three wishes. The sailor who had asked for "all the grog in
the world," and "all the baccy in the world," was indeed driven
to "a little more baccy" as his third requisition; but, at any
rate his two first requisitions were to some extent grounded on
what he held to be substantial wants; he felt himself actually
limited in the matters of grog and tobacco. The condition which
Jack would have been in as a wisher, if he had been started on
his quest with the assurance that his utmost desires in the
direction of alcohol and narcotic were already provided for, and
must be left out of the question, is the only one affording a
pretty exact parallel to the case we are considering. In our
second term we are no longer freshmen, and begin to feel
ourselves at home, while both "smalls" and "greats" are
sufficiently distant to be altogether ignored if we are that way
inclined, or to be looked forward to with confidence that the
game is in our own hands if we are reading men. Our financial
position--unless we have exercised rare ingenuity in involving
ourselves--is all that heart can desire; we have ample allowances
paid in quarterly to the University bankers without thought or
trouble of ours, and our credit is at its zenith. It is a part of
our recognized duty to repay the hospitality we have received as
freshmen; and all men will be sure to come to our first parties
to see how we do the thing; it will be our own faults if we do
not keep them in future. We have not had time to injure our
characters to any material extent with the authorities of our own
college, or of the University. Our spirits are never likely to be
higher, or our digestions better. These and many other comforts
and advantages environ the fortunate youth returning to Oxford
after his first vacation; thrice fortunate, however, if, as
happened in our hero's case, it is Easter term to which he is
returning; for that Easter term, with the four days' vacation,
and the little Trinity term at the end of it, is surely the cream
of the Oxford year. Then, even in this our stern northern
climate, the sun is beginning to have power, the days have
lengthened out, great-coats are unnecessary at morning chapel,
and the miseries of numbed hands and shivering skins no longer
accompany every pull on the river and canter on Bullingdon. In
Christ Church meadows and the college gardens the birds are
making sweet music in the tall elms. You may almost hear the
thick grass growing, and the buds on tree and shrub are changing
from brown, red, or purple, to emerald green under your eyes; the
glorious old city is putting on her best looks, and bursting into
laughter and song. In a few weeks the races begin, and Cowley
marsh will be alive with white tents and joyous cricketers. A
quick ear, on the towing-path by the Gut, may feast at one time
on those three sweet sounds, the thud thud of the eight-oar, the
crack of the rifles at the Weirs, and the click of the bat on the
Magdalen ground. And then Commemoration rises in the background,
with its clouds of fair visitors, and visions of excursions to
Woodstock and Nuneham in the summer days--of windows open on to
the old quadrangles in the long still evenings, through which
silver laughter and strains of sweet music, not made by man,
steal out and puzzle the old celibate jackdaws, peering down from
the battlements, with heads on one side. To crown all, long
vacation, beginning with the run to Henley regatta, or up to town
to see the match with Cambridge at Lord's and taste some of the
sweets of the season, before starting on some pleasure tour or
reading party, or dropping back into the quiet pleasures of
English country life! Surely, the lot of young Englishmen who
frequent our universities is cast in pleasant places. The country
has a right to expect something from those for whom she finds
such a life as this in the years when enjoyment is keenest.

Tom was certainly alive to the advantages of the situation, and
entered on his kingdom without any kind of scruple. He was very
glad to find things so pleasant, and quite resolved to make the
best he could of them. Then he was in a particularly good humour
with himself, for in deference to the advice of Hardy, he had
actually fixed on the books which he should send in for his
little-go examination before going down for the Easter vacation,
and had read them through at home, devoting an hour or two almost
daily to this laudable occupation. So he felt himself entitled to
take things easily on his return. He had brought back with him
two large hampers of good sound wine, a gift from his father, who
had a horror of letting his son set before his friends the
fire-water which is generally sold to the undergraduate. Tom
found that his father's notions of the rate of consumption
prevalent in the university were wild in the extreme. "In his
time," the squire said, "eleven men came to his first wine party,
and he had opened nineteen bottles of port for them. He was very
glad to hear that the habits of the place had changed so much for
the better; and as Tom wouldn't want nearly so much wine, he
should have it out of an older bin." Accordingly, the port which
Tom employed the first hour after his return in stacking
carefully away in his cellar, had been more than twelve years in
bottle, and he thought with unmixed satisfaction of the pleasing
effect it would have on Jervis and Miller, and the one or two
other men who knew good wine from bad, and guided public opinion
on the subject, and of the social importance which he would soon
attain from the reputation of giving good wine.

The idea of entertaining, of being hospitable, is a pleasant and
fascinating one to most young men; but the act soon gets to be a
bore to all but a few curiously constituted individuals. With
these hospitality becomes first a passion and then a faith--a
faith the practice of which, in the cases of some of its
professors, reminds one strongly of the hints on such subjects
scattered about the New Testament. Most of us feel, when our
friends leave us a certain sort of satisfaction, not unlike that
of paying a bill; they have been done for, and can't expect
anything more for a long time. Such thoughts never occur to your
really hospitable man. Long years of narrow means cannot hinder
him from keeping open house for whoever wants to come to him, and
setting the best of everything before all comers. He has no
notion of giving you anything but the best he can command if it
be only fresh porter from the nearest mews. He asks himself not,
"Ought I to invite A or B? do I owe him anything?" but, "Would A
or B like to come here?" Give me these men's houses for real
enjoyment, though you never get anything very choice there,--(how
can a man produce old wine who gives his oldest every
day?)--seldom much elbow room or orderly arrangement. The high
arts of gastronomy and scientific drinking so much valued in our
highly civilized community, are wholly unheeded by him, are
altogether above him, are cultivated in fact by quite another set
who have very little of the genuine spirit of hospitality in
them, from those tables, should one by chance happen upon them,
one senses, certainly with a feeling of satisfaction and
expansion, chiefly physical, but entirely without the expansion
of heart which one gets at the scramble of the hospitable man. So
that we are driven to remark, even in such everyday matters as
these, but it is the invisible, the spiritual, which after all
gives value and reality even to dinners; and, with Solomon, to
prefer the most touching _diner Russe_, the dinner of herbs where
love is, though I trust that neither we nor Solomon should object
to well-dressed cutlets with our salad, if they happened to be
going.

Readers will scarcely need to be told that one of the first
things Tom did, after depositing his luggage and unpacking his
wine, was to call at Hardy's rooms, where he found his friend
deep as usual in his books, the hard-worked atlases and
dictionaries of all sorts taking up more space than ever. After
the first hearty greeting, Tom occupied his old place with much
satisfaction.

"How long have you been up, old fellow?" he began; "you look
quite settled."

"I only went home for a week. Well, what have you been doing in
the vacation?"

"Oh, there was nothing much going on; so, amongst other things,
I've nearly floored my little-go work."

"Bravo! you'll find the comfort of it now. I hardly thought you
would take to the grind so easily."

"It's pleasant enough for a spurt," said Tom; "but I shall never
manage a horrid perpetual grind like yours. But what in the world
have you been doing to your walls?"

Tom might well ask, for the corners of Hardy's room were covered
with sheets of paper of different sizes, pasted against the wall
in groups. In the line of sight, from about the height of four to
six feet, there was scarcely an inch of the original paper
visible, and round each centre group there were outlying patches
and streamers, stretching towards floor or ceiling, or away
nearly to the bookcases or fireplace.

"Well, don't you think it is a great improvement on the old
paper?" said Hardy. "I shall be out of rooms next term, and it
will be a hint to the College that the rooms want papering.
You're no judge of such matters, or I should ask you whether you
don't see great artistic taste in the arrangement."

"Why, they're nothing but maps, and lists of names and dates,"
said Tom, who had got up to examine the decorations. "And what in
the world are all these queer pins for?" he went on, pulling a
strong pin with a large red sealing-wax head out of the map
nearest to him.

"Hullo! take care there, what are you about?" shouted Hardy,
getting up and hastening to the corner. "Why, you irreverent
beggar, those pins are the famous statesmen and warriors of
Greece and Rome."

"Oh, I beg your pardon; I didn't know I was in such august
company;" saying which, Tom proceeded to stick the red-headed pin
back in the wall.

"Now, just look at that," said Hardy, taking the pin out from the
place where Tom had stuck it. "Pretty doings there would be
amongst them with your management. This pin is Brasidas; you've
taken him away from Naupactus, where he was watching the eleven
Athenian galleys anchored under the temple of Apollo, and struck
him down right in the middle of the Pnyx, where he will be
instantly torn in pieces by a ruthless and reckless mob. You call
yourself a Tory indeed! However, 'twas always the same with you
Tories; calculating, cruel, and jealous. Use your leaders up, and
throw them over--that's the golden rule of aristocracies."

"Hang Brasidas," said Tom, laughing; "stick him back at Naupactus
again. Here, which is Cleon? The scoundrel! give me hold of him,
and I'll put him in a hot berth."

"That's he, with the yellow head. Let him alone, I tell you, or
all will be hopeless confusion when Grey comes for his lecture.
We're only in the third year of the war."

"I like your chaff about Tories sacrificing their great men,"
said Tom, putting his hands in his pockets to avoid temptation.
"How about your precious democracy, old fellow? Which is
Socrates?"

"Here, the dear old boy!--this pin with the great grey head, in
the middle of Athens, you see. I pride myself on my Athens.
Here's the Piraeus and the long walls, and the hill of Mars.
Isn't it as good as a picture?"

"Well, it is better than most maps, I think," said Tom; "but
you're not going to slip out so easily. I want to know whether
your pet democracy did or did not murder Socrates."

"I'm not bound to defend democracies. But look at my pins. It may
be the natural fondness of a parent, but I declare they seem to
me to have a great deal of character, considering the material.
You'll guess them at once, I'm sure, if you mark the color and
shape of the wax. This one now, for instance, who is he?"

"Alcibiades," answered Tom, doubtfully.

"Alcibiades!" shouted Hardy; "you fresh from Rugby, and not know
your Thucydides better than that? There's Alcibiades, that little
purple-headed, foppish pin, by Socrates. This rusty-colored one
is that respectable old stick-in-the-mud, Nicias."

"Well, but you've made Alcibiades nearly the smallest of the
whole lot," said Tom.

"So he was, to my mind," said Hardy; "just the sort of insolent
young ruffian whom I should have liked to buy at my price, and
sell at his own. He must have been very like some of our
gentlemen-commoners, with the addition of brains."

"I should really think, though," said Tom, "It must be a capital
plan for making you remember the history."

"It is, I flatter myself. I've long had the idea, but I should
never have worked it out and found the value of it but for Grey.
I invented it to coach him in his history. You see we are in the
Grecian corner. Over there is the Roman. You'll find Livy and
Tacitus worked out there, just as Herodotus and Thucydides are
here; and the pins are stuck for the Second Punic War, where we
are just now. I shouldn't wonder if Grey got his first, after
all, he's picking up so quick in my corners; and says he never
forgets any set of events when he has picked them out with the
pins."

"Is he working at that school still?" asked Tom.

"Yes, as hard as ever. He didn't go down for the vacation, and I
really believe it was because the curate told him the school
would go wrong if he went away."

"It's very plucky of him, but I do think he's a great fool not to
knock it off now till he has passed, don't you?"

"No," said Hardy; "he is getting more good there than he can ever
get in the schools, though I hope he'll do well in them too."

"Well, I hope so; for he deserves it. And now, Hardy, to change
the subject, I am going to give my first wine next Thursday; and
here's the first card which, has gone out for it. You'll promise
me to come now, won't you?"

"What a hurry you're in." said Hardy, taking the card which he
put on his mantel-piece, after examining it.

"But you'll promise to come, now?"

"I'm very hard at work; I can't be sure."

"You needn't stay above half an hour. I've brought back some
famous wine from the governor's cellar; and I want so to get you
and Jervis together. He is sure to come."

"Why, that's the bell for chapel beginning already," said Hardy;
"I had no notion it was so late. I must be off, to put the new
servitor up to his work. Will you come in after hall?"

"Yes if you will come to me next Thursday."

"We'll talk about it. But mind you come to-night; for you'll find
me working Grey in the Punic wars, and you'll see how the pins
act. I'm very proud of my show."

And so Hardy went off to chapel, and Tom to Drysdale's rooms, not
at all satisfied that he had made Hardy safe. He found Drysdale
lolling on his sofa, as usual, and fondling Jack. He had just
arrived, and his servant and the scout were unpacking his
portmanteaus. He seemed pleased to see Tom, but looked languid
and used up.

"Where have you been this vacation?" said Tom; "you look seedy."

"You may say that," said Drysdale. "Here, Henry, get out a bottle
of Schiedam. Have a taste of bitters? there's nothing like it to
set one's digestion right."

"No, thank'ee," said Tom, rejecting the glass which Henry
proffered him; "my appetite don't want improving."

"You're lucky, then," said Drysdale. "Ah, that's the right stuff!
I feel better already."

"But where have you been?"

"Oh, in the little village. It's no use being in the country at
this time of year. I just went up to Limmer's, and there I stuck,
with two or three more, till to-day."

"I can't stand London for more than a week," said Tom. "What did
you do all the day?"

"We hadn't much to say to day-light" said Drysdale. "What with
theatres, and sparing-cribs and the Coal-hole and Cider-cellars,
and a little play in St. James's Street now and then, one wasn't
up to early rising. However, I was better than the rest, for I
had generally breakfasted by two o'clock."

"No wonder you look seedy. You'd much better have been in the
country."

"I should have been more in pocket, at any rate," said Drysdale.
"By Jove, how it runs away with the ready! I'm fairly cleaned
out; and if I haven't luck at Van John, I'll be hanged if I know
how I'm to get through term. But, look here, here's a bundle of
the newest songs--first rate, some of them." And he threw some
papers across to Tom, who glanced at them without being at all
edified.

"You're going to pull regularly, I hope, this term, Drysdale."

"Yes, I think so; it's cheap amusement, and I want a little
training for a change."

"That's all right."

"I've brought down some dresses for our gipsy business, by the
way. I didn't forget that. Is Blake back?"

"I don't know," said Tom; "but we shan't have time before the
races."

"Well afterwards will do; though the days oughtn't to be too
long. I'm all for a little darkness in masquerading."

"There's five o'clock striking. Are you going to dine in hall?"

"No; I shall go to the Mitre, and get a broil."

"Then I'm off. Let's see,--will you come and wine with me next
Thursday?"

"Yes; only send us a card, 'to remind.'"

"All right!" said Tom, and went off to hall, feeling dissatisfied
and uncomfortable about his fast friend, for whom he had a
sincere regard.

After hall, Tom made a short round amongst his acquaintance, and
then, giving himself up to the strongest attraction, returned to
Hardy's rooms, comforting himself with the thought that it really
must be an act of Christian charity to take such a terrible
reader off his books for once in a way, when his conscience
pricked him for intruding on Hardy during his hours of work. He
found Grey there, who was getting up his Roman history, under
Hardy's guidance; and the two were working the pins on the maps
and lists in the Roman corner when Tom arrived. He begged them
not to stop, and very soon was as much interested in what they
were doing as if he also were going into the schools in May; for
Hardy had a way of throwing life into what he was talking about,
and, like many men with strong opinions, and passionate natures,
either carried his hearers off their legs and away with him
altogether, or aroused every spark of combativeness in them. The
latter was the effect which his lecture on the Punic Wars had on
Tom. He made several protests as Hardy went on; but Grey's
anxious looks kept him from going fairly into action, till Hardy
stuck the black pin, which represented Scipio, triumphantly in
the middle of Carthage, and, turning round said, "And now for
some tea, Grey, before you have to turn out."

Tom opened fire while the tea was brewing.

"You couldn't say anything bad enough about aristocracies this
morning, Hardy, and now to-night you are crowing over the success
of the heaviest and cruelest oligarchy that ever lived, and
praising them up to the skies."

"Hullo! here's a breeze!" said Hardy, smiling; "but I rejoice, O
Brown, in that they thrashed the Carthaginians, and not, as you
seem to think, in that they being aristocrats, thrashed the
Carthaginians; for oligarchs they were not at this time."

"At any rate they answer to the Spartans in the struggle, and the
Carthaginians to the Athenians; and yet all your sympathies are
with the Romans to-night in the Punic Wars, though they were with
the Athenians before dinner."

"I deny your position. The Carthaginians were nothing but a great
trading aristocracy--with a glorious family or two I grant you,
like that of Hannibal; but, on the whole, a dirty,
bargain-driving, buy-cheap-and-sell-dear aristocracy--of whom the
world was well rid. They like the Athenians indeed! Why, just
look what the two people have left behind them-"

"Yes," interrupted Tom; "but we only know the Carthaginians
through the reports of their destroyers. Your heroes trampled
them out with hoofs of iron."

"Do you think the Roman hoof could have trampled out their Homer
if they ever had one?" said Hardy. "The Romans conquered Greece
too, remember."

"But Greece was never so near beating them."

"True. But I hold to my point. Carthage was the mother of all
huxters, compassing sea and land to sell her wares."

"And no bad line of life for a nation. At least Englishmen ought
to think so."

"No they ought not; at least if _'Punica fides'_ is to be the
rule of trade. Selling any amount of Brummagem wares never did
nation or man much good, and never will. Eh, Grey?"

Grey winced at being appealed to, but remarked that he hoped the
Church would yet be able to save England from the fate of Tyre or
Carthage, the great trading nations of the old world; and then,
swallowing his tea, and looking as if he had been caught robbing
a henroost, he made a sudden exit, and hurried away out of
college to the night school.

"What a pity he is so odd and shy," said Tom; "I should so like
to know more of him."

"It _is_ a pity. He is much better when he is alone with me. I
think he has heard from some of the set that you are a furious
Protestant, and sees an immense amount of stiff-neckedness in
you."

"But about England and Carthage," said Tom, shirking the subject
of his own peculiarities; "you don't really think us like them?
It gave me a turn to hear you translating 'Punica fides' into
Brummagem wares just now.

"I think that successful trade is our rock ahead. The devil who
holds new markets and twenty per cent profits in his gift is the
devil that England has most to fear from. 'Because of unrighteous
dealings, and riches gotten by deceit the kingdom is translated
from one people to another,' said the wise man. Think of that
opium war the other day. I don't believe we can get over many
more such businesses as that. Grey falls back on the Church, you
see, to save the nation; but the Church he dreams of will never
do it. Is there any that can? There _must_ be surely, or we have
believed a lie. But this work of making trade righteous, of
Christianizing trade, looks like the very hardest the Gospel has
ever had to take in hand--in England at any rate."

Hardy spoke slowly and doubtfully, and paused as if asking for
Tom's opinion.

"I never heard it put in that way. I know very little of politics
or the state of England. But come, now; the putting down the
slave-trade and compensating our planters, _that_ shows that we
are not sold to the trade devil yet, surely."

"I don't think we are. No, thank God, there are plenty of signs
that we are likely to make a good fight of it yet."

They talked together for another hour, drawing their chairs round
to the fire, and looking dreamingly into the embers, as is the
wont of men who are throwing out suggestions, and helping one
another to think, rather than arguing. At the end of that time,
Tom left Hardy to his books, and went away laden with several new
ideas, one of the clearest of which was that he was awfully
ignorant of the contemporary history of his own country, and that
it was the thing of all others which he ought to be best informed
on, and thinking most about. So, being of an impetuous turn of
mind, he went straight to his rooms to commence his new study,
where, after diligent hunting, the only food of the kind he
required which turned up was the last number of _Bell's Life_
from the pocket of his great coat. Upon this he fell to work, in
default of anything better, and was soon deep in the P. R.
column, which was full of interesting speculations as to the
chances of Bungaree, in his forthcoming campaign against the
British middleweights. By the time he had skimmed through the
well-known sheets, he was satisfied that the columns of his old
acquaintance were not the place, except in the police reports,
where much could be learnt about the present state or future
prospects of England. Then, the first evening of term being a
restless place, he wandered out again, and before long landed, as
his custom was, at Drysdale's door.

On entering the room he found Drysdale and Blake alone together,
the former looking more serious than Tom had ever seen him
before. As for Blake, the restless, haggard expression sat more
heavily than ever on his face, sadly marring its beauty. It was
clear that they changed the subject of their talk abruptly on his
entrance; so Tom looked anywhere except straight before him as he
was greeting Blake. He really felt very sorry for him at the
moment. However, in another five minutes, he was in fits of
laughter over Blake's description of the conversation between
himself and the coachman who had driven the Glo'ster day-mail by
which he had come up; in which conversation, nevertheless, when
Tom came to think it over, and try to repeat it afterwards, the
most facetious parts seemed to be the "sez he's" and the "sez
I's" with which Jehu larded his stories; so he gave up the
attempt, wondering what he could have found in it to laugh at.

"By the way, Blake," said Drysdale, "how about our excursion into
Berkshire masquerading this term? Are you game?"

"Not exactly," said Blake; "I really must make the most of such
time as I have left, if I'm going into the schools this term."

"If there's one thing which spoils Oxford it is those schools,"
said Drysdale; "they get in the way of everything. I ought to be
going up for smalls myself next term, and I haven't opened a book
yet, and don't mean to do so. Follow a good example, old fellow,
you're cock-sure of your first, every-body knows."

"I wish everybody would back his opinion, and give me a shade of
odds. Why, I have scarcely thought of my history."

"Why the d---l should they make such a fuss about history? One
knows perfectly well that those old black-guard heathens were no
better than they should be; and what good it can do to lumber
one's head with who their grandmothers were, and what they ate,
and when and where and why they had their stupid brains knocked
out, I can't see for the life of me."

"Excellently well put. Where did you pick up such sound views,
Drysdale? But you're not examiner yet; and, on the whole, I must
rub up my history somehow. I wish I knew how to do it."

"Can't you put on a coach?" said Drysdale.

"I have one on, but history is my weak point, said Blake.

"I think I can help you," said Tom. "I've just been hearing a
lecture in Roman history, and one that won't be so easy to forget
as most;" and he went on to explain Hardy's plans, to which Blake
listened eagerly.

"Capital!" he said, when Tom had finished. "In whose rooms did
you say they are?"

"In Hardy's, and he works at them every night with Grey."

"That's the queer big servitor, his particular pal," put in
Drysdale; "there's no accounting for tastes."

"You don't know him," retorted Tom; "and the less you say about
him the better."

"I know he wears highlows and short flannels, and-"

"Would you mind asking Hardy to let me come to his lectures?"
interrupted Blake, averting the strong language which was rising
to Tom's lips. "I think they seem just the things I want. I
shouldn't like to offer to pay him, unless you think-"

"I'm quite sure," interrupted Tom, "that he won't take anything.
I will ask him to-morrow whether he will let you come, and he is
such a kind good fellow that I'm almost sure he will."

"I should like to know your pal, too, Brown," said Drysdale; "you
must introduce me, with Blake."

"No, I'll be hanged if I do," said Tom.

"Then I shall introduce myself," said Drysdale; "see if I don't
sit next him, now, at your wine on Thursday."

Here Drysdale's scout entered with two notes, and wished to know
if Mr. Drysdale would require anything more. Nothing but hot
water; he could put the kettle on, Drysdale said, and go; and
while the scout was fulfilling his orders, he got up carelessly,
whistling, and walking to the fire, read the notes by the light
of one of the candles which were burning on the mantle-piece.
Blake was watching him eagerly, and Tom saw this, and made some
awkward efforts to go on talking about the advantages of Hardy's
plan for learning history. But he was talking to deaf ears, and
soon came to a stand still. He saw Drysdale crumple up the notes
in his hand and shove them into his pocket. After standing for a
few seconds in the same position, with his back to them, he
turned around with a careless air, and sauntered to the table
where they were sitting.

"Let's see, what were we saying?" he began. "Oh, about your
eccentric pal, Brown."

"You've answers from both?" interrupted Blake. Drysdale nodded,
and was beginning to speak again to Tom when Blake got up and
said, with white lips, "I _must_ see them."

"No, never mind, what does it matter?"

"Matter! by heaven, I must and will see them now."

Tom saw at once that he had better go, and so took up his cap,
wished them good night, and went off to his own rooms.

He might have been sitting there for about twenty minutes, when
Drysdale entered.

"I couldn't help coming over, Brown," he said, "I must talk to
some one, and Blake has gone off raging. I don't know what he'll
do--I never was so bothered or savage in my life."

"I am very sorry," said Tom; "he looked very bad in your rooms.
Can I do anything?"

"No, but I must talk to some one. You know--no you don't, by the
way--but, however, Blake got me out of a tremendous scrape in my
first term, and there's nothing that I am not bound to do for
him, and wouldn't do if I could. Yes, by George, whatever fellows
say of me they shall never say I didn't stand by a man who stood
by me. Well, he owes a dirty 300L. or 400L. or something of the
sort--nothing worth talking of, I know--to people in Oxford, and
they have been leading him a dog's life this year and more. Now,
he's just going up for his degree, and two or three of these
creditors--the most rascally of course--are sueing him in the
Vice-Chancellor's Court, thinking now's the time to put the screw
on. He will be ruined if they are not stopped somehow. Just after
I saw you to-day, he came to me about it. You never saw a fellow
in such a state; I could see it was tearing him to pieces,
telling it to me even. However, I soon set him at ease as far as
I was concerned; but, as the devil will have it, I can't lend him
the money, though 60L. would get him over the examination, and
then he can make terms. My guardian advanced me 200L. beyond my
allowance just before Easter, and I haven't 20L. left, and the
bank here has given me notice not to overdraw any more. However,
I thought to settle it easy enough; so I told him to meet me at
the Mitre in half an hour for dinner, and when he was gone I sat
down and wrote two notes--the first to St. Cloud. That fellow was
with us off and on in town, and one night he and I went partners
at _roulette_, I finding ready-money for the time, gains and
losses to be equally shared in the end. I left the table to go
and eat some supper, and he lost 80L., and paid it out of my
money. I didn't much care, and he cursed the luck and
acknowledged that he owed me 40L. at the time. Well, I just
reminded him of this 40L. and said I should be glad of it (I know
he has plenty of money just now), but added, that it might stand
if he would join me and Blake in borrowing 60L.; I was fool
enough to add that Blake was in difficulties, and I was most
anxious to help him. As I thought that St. Cloud would probably
pay the 40L. but do no more, I wrote also to Chanter--heaven
knows why, except that the beast rolls in money, and has fawned
on me till I've been nearly sick this year past--and asked him to
lend Blake 50L. on our joint note of hand. Poor Blake! when I
told him what I had done at the Mitre, I think I might as well
have stuck the carving knife into him. We had a wretched two
hours; then you came in, and I got my two answers--here they
are."

Tom took the proffered notes, and read:


"DEAR DRYSDALE,--Please explain the allusion in yours to some
mysterious 40L. I remember perfectly the occurrence to which you
refer in another part of your note. You were tired of sitting at
the table, and went off to supper, leaving me (not by my own
desire) to play for you with your money. I did so, and had
abominable luck, as you will remember, for I handed you back a
sadly dwindled heap on your return to the table. I hope you are
in no row about that night? I shall be quite ready to give
evidence of what passed if it will help you in any way. I am
always yours very truly,

A. ST. CLOUD

"P. S. I must decline the little joint operation for Blake's
benefit, which you propose."


The second answer ran:

"DEAR DRYSDALE,--I am sorry that I cannot accommodate Mr. Blake,
as a friend of yours, but you see his acceptance is mere waste
paper, and you cannot give security until you are of age, so if
you were to die the money would be lost. Mr. Blake has always
carried his head as high as if he had 5000l. a year to spend;
perhaps now he will turn less haughty to men who could buy him up
easy enough.

I remain yours sincerely,

JABEZ CHANTER."


Tom looked up and met Drysdale's eyes, which had more of purpose
in them than he had ever seen before. "Fancy poor Blake reading
those two notes," he said, "and 'twas I brought them on him.
However, he shall have the money somehow to-morrow, if I pawn my
watch. I'll be even with those two some day." The two remained in
conference for some time longer; it is hardly worth while to do
more than relate the result.

At three o'clock the next day, Blake, Drysdale and Tom were in
the back parlor of a second-rate inn, in the Corn-market. On the
table were pens and ink, some cases of Eau-de-Cologne and
jewelry, and behind it a fat man of forbidding aspect who spent a
day or two in each term at Oxford. He held in his thick red damp
hand, ornamented as to the fore-finger with a huge ring, a piece
of paper.

"Then I shall draw for a hundred-and-five?"

"If you do we won't sign," said Drysdale; "now, be quick, Ben"
(the fat man's name was Benjamin), "you infernal shark, we've
been wrangling long enough over it. Draw for 100L at three
months, or we're off."

"Then, Mr. Drysdale, you gents will take part in goods. I wish to
do all I can for gents as comes well introduced, but money is
very scarce just now."

"Not a stuffed bird, bottle of Eau-de-Cologne, ring or cigar,
will we have. So now, no more nonsense, put down 75L on the
table."

The money-lender, after another equally useless attempt to move
Drysdale, who was the only one of the party who spoke, produced a
roll of bills, and counted out 75L, thinking to himself that he
would make this young spark sing a different tune before very
long. He then filled up the piece of paper, muttering that the
interest was nothing considering the risk, and he hoped they
would help him to some thing better with some of their friends.
Drysdale reminded him, in terms not too carefully chosen, that he
was getting cent per cent. The document was signed,--Drysdale
took the notes, and they went out.

"Well, that's well over," said Drysdale, as they walked towards
High Street. "I'm proud of my tactics, I must say; one never does
so well for oneself as for anyone else. If I had been on my own
hook, that fellow would have let me in for 20L worth of stuffed
birds and bad jewelry. Let's see, what do you want, Blake?"

"Sixty will do," said Blake.

"You had better take 65L; there'll be some law costs to pay," and
Drysdale handed him the notes.

"Now, Brown, shall we divide the balance,--a fiver a piece?"

"No, thank you," said Tom, "I don't want it; as you two are to
hold me harmless, you must do what you like with the money." So
Drysdale pocketed the 10L, after which they walked in silence to
the gate of St. Ambrose. The most reckless youngster doesn't
begin this sort of thing without reflections which are apt to
keep him silent. At the gates Blake wrung both their hands. "I
don't say much, but I sha'n't forget it." He got out the words
with some difficulty, and went off to his rooms.



CHAPTER XI

MUSCULAR CHRISTIANITY

Within the next week or two several important events had happened
to one and another of our St. Ambrose friends. Tom had introduced
Blake to Hardy, after some demur on the part of the latter. Blake
was his senior by a term; might have called on him any time these
three years; why should he want to make his acquaintance now? But
when Tom explained to him that it would be a kind thing to let
Blake come and coach up his history with him, for that unless he
took a high degree in the coming examination, he would have to
leave the college, and probably be ruined for life, Hardy at once
consented.

Tom did not venture to inquire for a day or two how the two hit
it off together. When he began cautiously to approach the
subject, he was glad to find that Hardy liked Blake. "He is a
gentleman, and very able," he said; "it is curious to see how
quickly he is overhauling Grey, and yet how Grey takes to him. He
has never looked scared at him (as he still does at you, by the
way) since the first night they met. Blake has the talent of
setting people at their ease without saying anything. I shouldn't
wonder if Grey thinks he has sound Church notions. It's a
dangerous talent, and may make a man very false if he doesn't
take care." Tom asked if Blake would be up in his history in
time. Hardy thought he might perhaps, but he had a great lee-way
to make up. If capacity for taking in cram would do it, he would
be all right. He had been well crammed in his science, and had
put him (Hardy) up to many dodges which might be useful in the
schools, and which you couldn't get without a private tutor.

Then Tom's first wine had gone off most successfully. Jervis and
Miller had come early and stayed late, and said all that was
handsome of the port, so that he was already a social hero with
the boating set. Drysdale, of course, had been there, rattling
away to everybody in his reckless fashion, and setting a good
example to the two or three fast men whom Tom knew well enough to
ask, and who consequently behaved pretty well, and gave
themselves no airs, though as they went away together they
grumbled slightly that Brown didn't give claret. The rest of the
men had shaken together well, and seemed to enjoy themselves. The
only drawback to Tom had been that neither Hardy nor Grey had
appeared. They excused themselves afterwards on the score of
reading, but Tom felt aggrieved in Hardy's case; he knew that it
was only an excuse.

Then the training had begun seriously, Miller had come up
specially for the first fortnight, to get them well in hand, as
he said. After they were once fairly started, he would have to go
down till just before the races; but he thought he might rely on
the Captain to keep them up to their work in the interval.

So Miller, the coxswain, took to drawing the bow up to the ear at
once. At the very beginning of the term, five or six weeks before
the races, the St. Ambrose boat was to be seen every other day at
Abingdon; and early dinners, limitation of liquids and tobacco,
and abstinence from late supper parties, pastry, ice, and all
manner of trash, likely in Miller's opinion to injure nerve or
wind, were hanging over the crew, and already, in fact, to some
extent enforced. The Captain shrugged his shoulders, submitted to
it all himself and worked away with all imperturbable temper;
merely hinting to Miller, in private, that he was going too fast,
and that it would be impossible to keep it up. Diogenes highly
approved; he would have become the willing slave of any tyranny
which should insist that every adult male subject should pull
twenty miles, and never imbibe more than a quart of liquid, in
the twenty-four hours. Tom was inclined to like it, as it helped
him to realize the proud fact that he was actually in the boat.
The rest of the crew were in all stages of mutiny and were only
kept from breaking out by their fondness for the Captain and the
knowledge that Miller was going in a few days. As it was, Blake
was the only one who openly rebelled. Once or twice he stayed
away. Miller swore and grumbled, the Captain shook his head, and
the crew in general rejoiced.

It is to one of these occasions to which we must now turn. If the
usual casual voyager of novels had been standing on Sandford
lock, at about four, on the afternoon of April -th, 184-, he
might have beheld the St. Ambrose eight-oar coming with a steady
swing up the last reach. If such voyager were in the least
conversant with the glorious mystery of rowing, he would have
felt his heart warm at the magnificent sweep and life of the
stroke, and would, on the whole, have been pleased with the
performance of the crew generally, considered as a college crew
in the early stages of training. They came "hard all" up to the
pool below the lock, the coxswain standing in the stern with a
tiller-rope in each hand, and then shipped oars; the lock-gates
opened, and the boat entered, and in another minute or two was
moored to the bank above the lock, and the crew strolled into the
little inn which stands by the lock, and, after stopping in the
bar to lay hands on several pewters full of porter, passed
through the house into the quoit and skittle-grounds behind.
These were already well filled with men of other crews, playing
in groups or looking on at the players. One of these groups, as
they passed, seized on the Captain, and Miller stopped with him;
the rest of the St. Ambrose men, in no humor for skittles,
quoits, or any relaxation except rest and grumbling, took
possession of the first table and seats offered, and came to
anchor.

Then followed a moment of intense enjoyment, of a sort only
appreciable by those who have had a twelve miles' training pull
with a coxswain as sharp as a needle, and in an awful temper.

"Ah," said Drysdale, taking the pewter down from his lips, with a
sigh, and handing it to Tom who sat next him, "by Jove I feel
better."

"It's almost worth while pulling 'hard all' from Abingdon to get
such a thirst," said another of the crew.

"I'll tell you what, though," said Drysdale, "to-day's the last
day you'll catch me in this blessed boat."

Tom had just finished his draught, but did not reply; it was by
no means the first time that Drysdale had announced this resolve.
The rest were silent also.

"It's bad enough to have to pull your heart out, without getting
abused all the way into the bargain. There Miller stands in the
stern--and a devilish easy thing it is to stand there and walk
into us--I can see him chuckle as he comes to you and me,
Brown--'Now, 2, well forward;' '3, don't jerk;' 'Now 2, throw
your weight on the oar; come, now, you can get another pound on.'
I hang on like grim Death,--then its 'Time, 2; now, 3-'"

"Well, it's a great compliment," broke in Tom, with a laugh; "he
thinks he can make something of us."

"He'll make nothing of us first, I think," said Drysdale. "I've
lost eight pounds in a fortnight. The Captain ought to put me in
every place in the boat, in turn, to make it water-tight. I've
larded the bottom boards under my seat so that not a drop of
water will ever come through again."

"A very good thing for you, old fellow," said Diogenes; "you look
ten times better than you did at the beginning of the term."

"I don't know what you call a good thing, you old fluter. I'm
obliged to sit on my hip bones--I can't go to a lecture--all the
tutors think I am poking fun at them, and put me on directly. I
haven't been able to go to lecture these ten days."

"So fond of lecture as he is, too, poor fellow," put in Tom.

"But they've discommonsed me for staying away," said Drysdale;
"not that I care much for that, though."

"Well, Miller goes down to-morrow morning--I heard him say so,"
said another.

"Then we'll memorialize the Captain and get out of these Abingdon
pulls. Life isn't worth having at this rate."

"No other boat has been below Sandford, yet."

And so they sat on and plotted, and soon most of the other crews
started. And then they took their turn at skittles, and almost
forgot their grievances, which must be explained to those who
don't know the river at Oxford.

The river runs along the south of the city, getting into the
university quarter after it passes under the bridge connecting
Berks and Oxfordshire, over which is the road to Abingdon. Just
below this bridge are the boat builders' establishments on both
sides of the river, and then on the Oxfordshire side is
Christchurch meadow, opposite which is moored the university
barge. Here is the goal of all university races; and the
racecourse stretches away down the river for a mile and a half,
and a little below the starting place of the races is Iffley
Lock. The next lock below Iffley is the Sandford Lock (where we
left our boat's crew playing at skittles), which is about a mile
and a half below Iffley. Below Sandford there is no lock till you
get to Abingdon, a distance of six miles and more by the river.
Now, inasmuch as the longest distance to be rowed in the races is
only the upper mile and a half from Iffley to the university
barge, of course all crews think themselves very hardly treated
if they are taken further than to Sandford. Pulling "hard all"
from Sandford to Iffley, and then again from Iffley over the
regular course, ought to be enough in all conscience. So chorus
the crews; and most captains and coxswains give in. But here and
there some enemy of his kind--some uncomfortable, worriting,
energizing mortal, like Miller--gets command of a boat, and then
the unfortunate crew are dragged, bemoaning their fate, down
below Sandford, where no friendly lock intervenes to break the
long, steady swing of the training pull every two miles, and the
result for the time is blisters and mutiny. I am bound to add
that it generally tells, and that the crew which has been
undergoing that _peine forte et dure_ is very apt to get the
change out of it on the nights of hard races.

So the St. Ambrose crew played out their skittles, and settled to
appeal the Captain in a body the next day, after Miller's
departure; and then being summoned to the boat, they took to the
water again, and paddled steadily up home, arriving just in time
for hall for those who liked to hurry. Drysdale never liked
hurrying himself; besides, he could not dine in hall, as he was
discommonsed for persistent absence from lecture, and neglect to
go to the Dean when sent for to explain his absence.

"I say, Brown, hang hall," he said to Tom, who was throwing on
his things; "come and dine with me at the Mitre. I'll give you a
bottle of hock; it's very good there."

"Hock's about the worst thing you drink in training," said
Miller. "Isn't it, Jervis?"

"It's no good, certainly," said the Captain, as he put on his cap
and gown; "come along, Miller."

"There, you hear?" said Miller. "You can drink a glass of sound
sherry, if you want wine;" and he followed the Captain.

Drysdale performed a defiant pantomime after the retiring
coxswain, and then easily carried his point with Tom, except as
to the hock. So they walked up to the Mitre together, where
Drysdale ordered dinner and a bottle of hock in the coffee-room.

"Don't order hock, Drysdale; I shan't drink any."

"Then I shall have it all to my own cheek. If you begin making a
slave of yourself to that Miller, he'll very soon cut you down to
a glass of water a day, with a pinch of rhubarb in it, and make
you drink that standing on your head."

"Gammon; but I don't think it's fair on the rest of the crew not
to train as well as one can."

"You don't suppose drinking a pint of hock to-night will make you
pull any the worse this day six weeks, when the races begin, do
you?"

"No; but--"

"Hullo! look here," said Drysdale, who was inspecting a printed
bill pinned up on the wall of the coffee hall; "Wombwell's
menagerie is in the town, somewhere down by Worcester. What fun!
We'll go there after dinner."

The food arrived with Drysdale's hock, which he seemed to enjoy
all the more from the assurance which every glass gave him that
he was defying the coxswain, and doing just the thing he would
most dislike. So he drank away, and facetiously speculated how he
could be such an idiot as to go on pulling. Every day of his life
he made good resolutions in the reach above the Gut that it
should be his last performance, and always broke them next day.
He supposed the habit he had of breaking all good resolutions was
the way to account for it.

After dinner they set off to find the wild-beast show; and, as
they will be at least a quarter of an hour reaching it, for the
pitch is in a part of the suburbs little known to gownsmen, the
opportunity may be seized of making a few remarks to the patient
reader, which impatient readers are begged to skip.

Our hero on his first appearance in public some years since, was
without his own consent at once patted on the back by the
good-natured critics, and enrolled for better or worse in the
brotherhood of muscular Christians, who at that time were
beginning to be recognised as an actual and lusty portion of
general British life. As his biographer, I am not about to take
exception to his enrolment; for, after considering the persons up
and down Her Majesty's dominions to whom the new nick-name has
been applied, the principles which they are supposed to hold, and
the sort of lives they are supposed to lead; I cannot see where
he could in these times have fallen upon a nobler brotherhood. I
am speaking of course under correction, and with only a slight
acquaintance with the faith of muscular Christianity, gathered
almost entirely from the witty expositions and comments of
persons of a somewhat dyspeptic habit, who are not amongst the
faithful themselves. Indeed, I am not aware that any authorized
articles of belief have been sanctioned or published by the sect,
Church, or whatever they may be. Moreover, at the age at which
our hero has arrived, and having regard to his character, I
should say that he has in all likelihood thought very little on
the subject of belief, and would scarcely be able to give any
formal account of his own, beyond that contained in the Church
Catechism, which I for one think may very well satisfy him for
the present. Nevertheless, he had suddenly been caught at the
gate of St. Ambrose's College, by one of the gentlemen who do the
classifying for the British public, and accosted with, "Sir, you
belong to a body whose creed it is to fear God, and walk 1000
miles in 1000 hours;" I believe he would have replied, "Do I,
sir? I'm very glad to hear it. They must be a very good set of
fellows. How many weeks' training, do they allow?"

But in the course of my inquiries on the subject of muscular
Christians, their works and ways, a fact has forced itself on my
attention, which, for the sake of ingenious youth, ought not to
be passed over. I find, then, that, side by side with these
muscular Christians, and apparently claiming some sort of
connection with them (the same concern, as the pirates of
trade-marks say), have risen up another set of persons, against
whom I desire to caution my readers and my hero, and to warn the
latter that I do not mean on any pretense whatever to allow him
to connect himself with them, however much he may be taken with
their off-hand, "hail brother well-met" manner and dress, which
may easily lead careless observers to take the counterfeit for
the true article. I must call the persons in question
"musclemen," as distinguished from muscular Christians; the only
point in common between the two being, that both hold it to be a
good thing to have strong and well-exercised bodies, ready to be
put at the shortest notice to any work of which bodies are
capable, and to do it well. Here all likeness ends; for the
"muscle" man seems to have no belief whatever as to the purposes
for which his body has been given him, except some hazy idea that
it is to go up and down the world with him, belaboring men or
captivating women for his benefit or pleasure, at once the
servant and fomentor of those fierce and brutal passions which he
seems to think it a necessity, and rather a fine thing than
otherwise, to indulge and obey. Whereas, so far as I know, the
least of the muscular Christians has hold of the old chivalrous
and Christian belief, that a man's body is given him to be
trained and brought into subjection, and then used for the
protection of the weak, the advancement of all righteous causes,
and the subduing of the earth which God has given to the children
of men. He does not hold that mere strength or activity are in
themselves worthy of any respect or worship, or that one man is a
bit better than another because he can knock him down, or carry a
bigger sack of potatoes than he. For mere power, whether of body
or intellect, he has (I hope and believe) no reverence whatever,
though, _coeteris paribus_, he would probably himself, as a
matter of taste, prefer the man who can lift a hundred-weight
round his head with his little finger to the man who can
construct a string of perfect Sorites, or expound the doctrine of
"contradictory inconceivables."

The above remarks occur as our hero is marching innocently down
towards his first "town and gown" row, and I should scarcely like
to see him in the middle of it, without protesting that it is a
mistake. I know that he, and other youngsters of his kidney, will
have fits of fighting or desiring to fight with their poorer
brethren, just as children have the measles. But the shorter the
fit the better for the patient, for like the measles it is a
great mistake, and a most unsatisfactory complaint. If they can
escape it altogether so much the better. But instead of treating
the fit as a disease, "musclemen" professors are wont to
represent it as a state of health, and to let their disciples run
about in middle age with the measles on them as strong as ever.
Now although our hero had the measles on him at this particular
time, and the passage of arms which I am about shortly to
describe led to results of some importance in his history, and
cannot therefore be passed over, yet I wish at the same time to
disclaim, both in my sponsorial and individual character, all
sympathy with town and gown rows, and with all other class rows
and quarrels of every sort and kind, whether waged with sword,
pen, tongue, fist or otherwise. Also to say that in all such
rows, so far as I have seen or read, from the time when the Roman
plebs marched out to Mons Sacer, down to 1848, when the English
chartists met on Kennington Common, the upper classes are most to
blame. It may be that they are not the aggressors on any given
occasion; very possibly they may carry on the actual fighting
with more fairness (though this is by no means true as a rule);
nevertheless the state of feeling which makes such things
possible, especially in England, where men in general are only
too ready to be led and taught by their superiors in rank, may be
fairly laid at their door. Ever, in the case of strikes, which
just now will of course be at once thrown in my teeth, I say
fearlessly, let any man take the trouble to study the question
honestly, and he will come to the conviction that all
combinations of the men for the purpose of influencing the labor
market, whether in the much and unjustly abused Trades'
Societies, or in other forms, have been defensive organizations,
and that the masters might, as a body, over and over again have
taken the sting out of them if they had acted fairly, as many
individuals amongst them have done. Whether it may not be too
late now, is a tremendous question for England, but one which
time only can decide.

When Drysdale and Tom at last found the caravans, it was just
getting dark. Something of a crowd had collected outside, and
there was some hissing as they ascended the short flight of steps
which led to the platform in front of the show; but they took no
notice of it, paid their money, and entered.

Inside they found an exciting scene. The place was pretty well
lighted, and the birds and beasts were all alive in their several
dens and cages, walking up and down, and each uttering
remonstrances after its own manner, the shrill notes of birds
mingling with the moan of the beasts of prey and chattering of
the monkeys. Feeding time had been put off till night to suit the
undergraduates, and the undergraduates were proving their
appreciation of the attention by playing off all manner of
practical jokes on birds and beasts, their keepers, and such of
the public as had been rash enough to venture in. At the farther
end was the keeper, who did the showman, vainly endeavouring to
go through his usual jogtrot description. His monotone was
drowned every minute by the chorus of voices, each shouting out
some new fact in natural history touching the biped or quadruped
whom the keeper was attempting to describe. At that day a great
deal of this sort of chaff was current, so that the most
dunder-headed boy had plenty on the tip of his tongue. A small
and indignant knot of townspeople, headed by a stout and severe
middle-aged woman, with two big boys, her sons, followed the
keeper, endeavouring by caustic remarks and withering glances to
stop the flood of chaff, and restore the legitimate authority and
the reign of keeper and natural history.

At another point was a long Irishman in cap and gown, who had
clearly had as much wine as he could carry, close to the bars of
the panther's den, through which he was earnestly endeavouring,
with the help of a crooked stick, to draw the tail of whichever
of the beasts stopped for a moment in its uneasy walk. On the
other side were a set of men bent on burning the wretched
monkeys' fingers with the lighted ends of their cigars, in which
they seemed successful enough, to judge by the angry chatterings
and shriekings of their victims.

The two new comers paused for a moment on the platform inside the
curtain; and then Drysdale, rubbing his hands, and in high glee
at the sight of so much misrule in so small a place, led the way
down on to the floor deep in sawdust, exclaiming, "Well, this
_is_ a lark! We're just in for all the fun of the fair."

Tom followed his friend, who made straight for the show man, and
planted himself at his side, just as that worthy, pointing with
his pole, was proceeding--

"This is the jackal, from--"

"The Caribee Hielands, of which I'm a native mysel'," shouted a
gownsman.

"This is the jackal, or lion's provider," began again the much
enduring keeper.

"Who always goes before the lion to purwide his purwisions,
purwiding there's anything to purwide," put in Drysdale.

"Hem--really I do think it's scandalous not to let the keeper
tell about the beasteses," said the unfortunate matron, with a
half turn towards the persecutors, and grasping her bag.

"My dear madam," said Drysdale, in his softest voice, "I assure
you he knows nothing about the beasteses. We are Doctor
Buckland's favourite pupils, are also well known to the great
Panjandrum, and have eaten more beasteses than the keeper has
ever seen."

"I don't know who you are, young man, but you don't know how to
behave yourselves," rejoined the outraged female; and the keeper,
giving up the jackal as a bad job, pointing with his pole,
proceeded--

"The little hanimal in the upper cage is the hopossom, of North
America--"

"The misguided offspring of the raccoon and the gumtree," put in
one of his tormentors.

Here a frightful roaring and struggling at a little distance,
mingled with shouts of laughter, and "Hold on, Pat!" "Go it,
panther!" interrupted the lecture, and caused a rush to the other
side, where the long Irishman, Donovan, by name, with one foot
against the bars, was holding on to the tail of one of the
panthers, which he had at length managed to catch hold of. The
next moment he was flat on his back in the sawdust, and his
victim was bounding wildly about the cage. The keeper hurried
away to look after the outraged panther; and Drysdale, at once
installing himself as showman, began at the next cage--

"This is the wild man of the woods, or whangee-tangee, the most
untameable--good heavens, ma'am, take care!" and he seized hold
on the unfortunate woman and pulled her away from the bars.

"Oh, goodness!" she screamed, "it's got my tippet; oh, Bill,
Peter, catch hold!" Bill and Peter proved unequal to the
occasion, but a gownsman seized the vanishing tippet, and after a
moment's struggle with the great ape, restored a meagre half to
the proper owner, while Jacko sat grinning over the other half,
picking it to pieces. The poor woman had now had enough of it,
and she hurried off with her two boys, followed by the few
townspeople who were still in the show, to lay her case directly
before the mayor, as she informed the delinquents from the
platform before disappearing. Her wrongs were likely to be more
speedily avenged, to judge by the angry murmurs which arose
outside immediately after her exit.

But still the high jinks went on, Donovan leading all mischief,
until the master of the menagerie appeared inside, and
remonstrated with the men. "He must send for the police," he
said, "if they would not leave the beasts alone. He had put off
the feeding in order to suit them; would they let his keepers
feed the beasts quietly?" The threat of the police was received
with shouts of defiance by some of the men, though the greater
part seemed of the opinion that matters were getting serious.

The proposal of feeding, was however, welcomed by all and
comparative quiet ensued for some ten minutes, while the baskets
of joints, bread, stale fish, and potatoes were brought in, and
the contents distributed to the famished occupants of the cages.
In the interval of peace the showman-keeper, on a hint from his
master, again began his round. But the spirit of mischief was
abroad, and it only needed this to make it break out again. In
another two minutes the beasts, from the lion to the smallest
monkey, were struggling for their suppers, with one or more
undergraduates; the elephant had torn the gown off Donovan's
back, having only just missed his arm; the manager in a confusion
worthy of the tower of Babel, sent off a keeper for the city
police, and turned the gas out.

The audience, after the first moment of surprise and indignation,
groped their way towards the steps and mounted the platform,
where they held a council of war. Should they stay where they
were or make a sally at once, break through the crowd and get
back to their colleges? It was curious to see how in that short
minute individual character came out, and the coward, the
cautious man, the resolute prompt Englishman, each was there, and
more than one species of each. Donovan was one of the last up the
steps, and as he stumbled up caught something of the question
before the house. He shouted loudly at once for descending and
offering battle. "But boys," he added, "first wait till I
adthress the meeting," and he made for the opening in the canvas
through which the outside platform was reached. Stump oratory and
a free fight were just the two temptations which Donovan was
wholly unable to resist; it was with a face radiant with
devil-may-care delight that he burst through the opening,
followed by all the rest (who felt that the matter was out of
their hands, and must go its own way after the Irishman), and
rolling to the front of the outside platform, rested one hand on
the rail, and waved the other gracefully towards the crowd.

This was the signal for a burst of defiant shouts and hissing.
Donovan stood blandly waving his hand for silence. Drysdale,
running his eye over the mob, turned to the rest and said,
"There's nothing to stop us, not twenty grown men in the whole
lot."

Then one of the men lighting upon the drumsticks, which the usual
man in corduroys had hidden away, began beating the big drum
furiously. One of the unaccountable whims which influence crowds
seized on the mob, and there was almost perfect silence. This
seemed to take Donovan by surprise; the open air was having the
common effect on him; he was getting unsteady on his legs, and
his brains were wondering. "Now's your time, Donovan, my
boy--begin."

"Ah, yes, to be sure, what'll I say? let's see," said Donovan,
putting his head on one side--

"Friends, Romans, countrymen," suggested some wag.

"To be sure," cried Donovan; "Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend
me your ears."

"Bravo Pat, well begun; pull their ears well when you've got
'em."

"Bad luck to it! where was I? you divels--I mean ladies and
gentlemen of Oxford city as I was saying, the poets-"

Then the storm of shouting and hissing arose again, and Donovan,
after an ineffectual attempt or two to go on, leaned forward and
shook his fist generally at the mob. Luckily for him, there were
no stones about; but one of the crowd, catching the first missel
at hand, which happened to be a cabbage stalk, sent it with true
aim at the enraged orator. He jerked his head on one side to
avoid it; the motion unsteadied his cap; he threw up his hand,
which, instead of catching the falling cap, as it was meant to
do, sent it spinning among the crowd below. The owner, without a
moment's hesitation, clapped both hands on the bar before him,
and followed his property, vaulting over on the heads of those
nearest the platform, amongst whom he fell, scattering them right
and left.

"Come on, gown, or he'll be murdered," sang out one of Donovan's
friends. Tom was one of the first down the steps; they rushed to
the spot in another moment, and the Irishman rose, plastered with
dirt, but otherwise none the worse for his feat; his cap, covered
with mud, was proudly stuck on, hind part before. He was of
course thirsting for battle, but not quite so much master of his
strength as usual; so his two friends, who were luckily strong
and big men, seized him, one to each arm.

"Come along, keep together," was the word; "there's no time to
lose. Push for the corn-market."

The cry of "Town! town!" now rose on all sides. The gownsmen in a
compact body, with Donovan in the middle, pushed rapidly across
the open space in which the caravans were set up and gained the
street. Here they were comparatively safe; they were followed
close, but could not be surrounded by the mob. And now again a
bystander might have amused himself by noting the men's
characters. Three or four pushed rapidly on, and were out of
sight ahead in no time. The greater part, without showing any
actual signs off fear, kept steadily on, at a good pace. Close
behind these, Donovan struggled violently with his two
conductors, and shouted defiance to the town; while a small and
silent rear guard, amongst whom were Tom and Drysdale, walked
slowly and, to all appearance, carelessly behind, within a few
yards of the crowd of shouting boys who headed the advancing
town. Tom himself felt his heart beating quick, and I don't think
had any particular desire for the fighting to begin, with such
long odds on the town side; but he was resolved to be in it as
soon as any one if there was to be any. Thus they marched through
one or two streets without anything more serious than an
occasional stone passing their ears. Another turn would have
brought them into the open parts of the town, within hearing of
the colleges, when suddenly Donovan broke loose from his
supporters, and rushing with a shout on the advanced guard of the
town, drove them back in confusion for some yards. The only thing
to do was to back him up; so the rear-guard, shouting "Gown!
gown!" charged after him. The effect of the onset was like that
of Blount at Flodden, when he saw Marmion's banner go down,--a
wide space was cleared for a moment, the town driven back on the
pavements, and up the middle of the street, and the rescued
Donovan caught, set on his legs, and dragged away again some
paces towards college. But the charging body was too few in
number to improve the first success, or even to insure its own
retreat. "Darkly closed the war around." The town lapped on them
from the pavements, and poured on them down the middle of the
street, before they had time to rally and stand together again.

What happened to the rest--who was down, who fought, who
fled,--Tom had no time to inquire; for he found himself suddenly
the centre of a yelling circle of enemies. So he set his teeth
and buckled to his work; and the thought of splendid single
combat, and glory such as he had read of in college stories, and
tradition handing him down as the hero of that great night,
flashed into his head as he cast his eye round for foemen worthy
of his steel. None such appeared; so, selecting the one most of
his own size, he squared and advanced on him. But the challenged
one declined the combat, and kept retreating; while from behind,
and at the sides, one after another of the "town" rushing out
dealt Tom a blow and vanished again into the crowd. For a moment
or two he kept his head and temper; the assailants individually
were too insignificant to put out his strength upon; but head and
temper were rapidly going;--he was like a bull in the arena with
the picadores sticking their little javelins in him. A smart blow
on the nose, which set a myriad of stars dancing before his eyes,
finished the business, and he rushed after the last assailant,
dealing blows to right and left, on small and great. The mob
closed in on him, still avoiding attacks in front, but on the
flank and rear they hung on him and battered at him. He had to
turn sharply round after every step to shake himself clear, and
at each turn the press thickened, the shouts waxed louder and
fiercer; he began to get unsteady; tottered, swayed, and,
stumbling over a prostrate youth, at last went down full length
on to the pavement, carrying a couple of his assailants with him.
And now it would have fared hardly with him, and he would
scarcely have reached college with sound bones,--for I am sorry
to say an Oxford town mob is a cruel and brutal one, and a man
who is down has no chance with it,--but that for one moment he
and his prostrate foes were so jumbled together that the town
could not get at him, and the next cry of "Gown! gown!" rose high
above the din; the town were swept back again by the rush of a
reinforcement of gownsmen, the leader of whom seized him by the
shoulders and put him on his legs again; while his late
antagonists crawled away to the side of the road.

"Why, Brown!" said his rescuer,--Jervis, the Captain,--"this,
you? Not hurt, eh?"

"Not a bit," said Tom.

"Good; come on, then; stick to me." In three steps they joined
the rest of the gown, now numbering some twenty men. The mob was
close before them, gathering for another rush. Tom felt a cruel,
wild devil beginning to rise in him; he had never felt the like
before. This time he longed for the next crash, which happily for
him, was fated never to come off.

"Your names and colleges, gentlemen," said a voice close behind
them at this critical moment. The "town" set up a derisive shout,
and, turning round, the gownsmen found the velvet sleeves of one
of the proctors at their elbow and his satellites, vulgarly
called bull-dogs, taking notes of them. They were completely
caught, and so quietly gave the required information.

"You will go to your colleges at once," said the proctor, "and
remain within gates. You will see these gentlemen to the
High-street," he added to his marshal; and then strode on after
the crowd, which was vanishing down the street.

The men turned and strolled towards the High-street, the marshall
keeping, in a deferential but wide-awake manner, pretty close to
them, but without making any show of watching them. When they
reached the High-street he touched his hat and said civilly, "I
hope you will go home now, gentlemen, the senior proctor is very
strict."

"All right, marshall; good night," said the good natured ones.

"D--- his impudence," growled one or two of the rest, and the
marshal bustled away after his master. The men looked at one
another for a moment or two. They were of different colleges, and
strangers. The High-street was quiet; so without the exchange of
a word, after the manner of British youth, they broke up into
twos and threes, and parted. Jervis, Tom, and Drysdale, who
turned up quite undamaged, sauntered together towards St.
Ambrose's.

"I say, where are you going?" said Drysdale.

"Not to college, I vote," said Tom.

"No, there may be some more fun."

"Mighty poor fun, I should say, you'll find it," said Jervis;
"however, if you will stay, I suppose I must. I can't leave you
two boys by yourselves."

"Come along then, down here." So they turned down one of the
courts leading out of the High-street, and so by back streets
bore up again for the disturbed districts.

"Mind and keep a sharp lookout for the proctors," said Jervis;
"as much row as you please, but we mustn't be caught again."

"Well, only let's keep together if we have to bolt."

They promenaded in lonely dignity for some five minutes, keeping
eyes and ears on full strain.

"I tell you what," said Drysdale, at last, "it isn't fair, these
enemies in the camp; what with the 'town' and their stones and
fists, and the proctors with their 'name and college,' we've got
the wrong end of the stick."

"Both wrong ends, I can tell you," said Jervis. "Hello, Brown,
your nose is bleeding."

"Is it?" said Tom, drawing his hand across his mouth; "'twas that
confounded little fellow then who ran up to my side while I was
squaring at the long party. I felt a sharp crack, and the little
rascal bolted into the crowd before I could turn at him."

"Cut and come again," said Drysdale, laughing.

"Ay, that's the regular thing in these blackguard street
squabbles. Here they come then," said Jervis. "Steady, all."

They turned around to face the town, which came shouting down the
street behind them in pursuit of one gownsman, a little,
harmless, quiet fellow, who had fallen them on his way back to
his college from a tea with his tutor, and, like a wise man, was
giving them leg-bail as hard as he could foot it. But the little
man was of a courageous, though prudent soul, and turned panting
and gasping on his foes the moment he found himself amongst
friends again.

"Now, then, stick together; don't let them get around us," said
Jervis.

They walked steadily down the street, which was luckily a narrow
one, so that three of them could keep the whole of it, halting
and showing front every few yards, when the crowd pressed too
much. "Down with them! Town, town! That's two as was in the
show." "Mark the velvet-capped chap. Town, town!" shouted the
hinder part of the mob, but it was a rabble of boys as before,
and the front rank took very good care of itself, and forbore
from close quarters.

The small gownsman had now got his wind again; and smarting under
the ignominy of his recent flight, was always a pace or two
nearer the crowd than the other three, ruffling up like a little
bantam, and shouting defiance between the catchings of his
breath.

"You vagabonds! you cowards! Come on now I say! Gown, gown!" And
at last, emboldened by the repeated halts of the mob, and
thirsting for revenge, he made a dash at one of the nearest of
the enemy. The suddenness of the attack took both sides by
surprise, then came a rush by two or three of the town to the
rescue.

"No, no! stand back--one at a time," shouted the Captain,
throwing himself between the combatants and the mob. "Go it,
little 'un; serve him out. Keep the rest back boys; steady!" Tom
and Drysdale faced towards the crowd, while a little gownsman and
his antagonist--who defended himself vigorously enough now--came
to close quarters, in the rear of the gown line; too close to
hurt one another but what with hugging and cuffing the townsman
in another half-minute was sitting quietly on the pavement with
his back against the wall, his enemy squaring in front of him,
and daring him to renew the combat. "Get up, you coward; get up,
I say, you coward! He won't get up," said the little man, eagerly
turning to the Captain. "Shall I give him a kick?"

"No, let the cur alone," replied Jervis. "Now, do any more of you
want to fight? Come on like men one at a time. I'll fight any man
in the crowd."

Whether the challenge would have been answered must rest
uncertain; for now the crowd began to look back, and a cry arose,
"Here they are, proctors! now they'll run."

"So we must, by Jove, Brown," said the Captain. "What's your
college?" to the little hero.

"Pembroke."

"Cut away, then; you're close at home."

"Very well, if I must; good night," and away went the small man
as fast as he had come; and it has never been heard that he came
to further grief, or performed other feats that night.

"Hang it, don't let's run," said Drysdale.

"Is it the proctors?" said Tom. "I can t see them."

"Mark the bloody-faced one; kick him over," sang out a voice in
the crowd.

"Thank'ee," said Tom, savagely. "Let's have one rush at them."

"Look! there's the proctor's cap just through them; come along
boys--well, stay if you like, and be rusticated, I'm off," and
away went Jervis, and the next moment Tom and Drysdale followed
the good example, and, as they had to run, made the best use of
their legs, and in two minutes were well ahead of their pursuers.
They turned a corner; "Here, Brown! alight in this public, cut
in, and it's all right." Next moment they were in the dark
passage of a quiet little inn, and heard with a chuckle part of
the crowd scurry by the door in pursuit, while they themselves
suddenly appeared in the neat little bar, to the no small
astonishment of its occupants. These were a stout elderly woman
in spectacles, who was stitching away at plain work in an
arm-chair on one side of the fire; the foreman of one of the
great boat-builders, who sat opposite her, smoking his pipe with
a long glass of clear ale at his elbow; and a bright-eyed, neat
handed bar maid, who was leaning against the table, and talking
to the others as they entered.



CHAPTER XII

THE CAPTAIN'S NOTIONS

The old lady dropped her work, the barmaid turned round with a
start and little ejaculation, and the foreman stared with all his
eyes for a moment, and then, jumping up, exclaimed--

"Bless us, if it isn't Muster Drysdale and Muster Brown, of
Ambrose's. Why what's the matter, sir? Muster Brown, you be all
covered wi' blood, sir."

"Oh dear me! poor young gentlemen!" cried the hostess;--"Here,
Patty, run and tell Dick to go for the doctor, and get the best
room--"

"No, please don't; it's nothing at all," interrupted Tom,
laughing;--"a basin of cold water and a towel, if you please,
Miss Patty, and I shall be quite presentable in a minute. I'm
very sorry to have frightened you all."

Drysdale joined in the assurances that it was nothing but a
little of his friend's "claret," which he would be all the better
for losing, and watched with an envious eye the interest depicted
in Patty's pretty face, as she hurried in with a basin of fresh
pumped water, and held the towel. Tom bathed his face, and very
soon was as respectable a member of society as usual, save for a
slight swelling on one side of his nose.

Drysdale meantime--seated on the table--had been explaining the
circumstances to the landlady and the foreman. "And now, ma'am,"
said he as Tom joined them, and seated himself on a vacant chair,
"I'm sure you must draw famous ale."

"Indeed, sir, I think Dick--that's my ostler, sir--is as good a
brewer as is in the town. We always brew at home, sir, and I hope
always shall."

"Quite right, ma'am, quite right," said Drysdale; "and I don't
think we can do better than follow Jem here. Let us have a jug of
the same ale as he is drinking. And you'll take a glass with us,
Jem? or will you have spirits?"

Jem was for another glass of ale, and bore witness to its being
the best in Oxford, and Patty drew the ale, and supplied two more
long glasses. Drysdale, with apologies, produced his cigar case;
and Jem, under the influence of the ale and a first-rate Havannah
(for which he deserted his pipe, though he did not enjoy it half
as much), volunteered to go and rouse the yard and conduct them
safely back to college. This offer was of course, politely
declined and then, Jem's hour for bed having come, he being a
methodical man, as became his position, departed, and left our
two young friends in sole possession of the bar. Nothing could
have suited the two young gentlemen better, and they set to work
to make themselves agreeable. They listened with lively interest
to the landlady's statement of the difficulties of a widow woman
in a house like hers, and to her praises of her factotum Dick and
her niece Patty. They applauded her resolution of not bringing up
her two boys in the publican line, though they could offer no
very available answer her appeals for advice as to what trade
they should be put to; all trades were so full, and things were
not as they to be. The one thing, apparently, which was wanting
to the happiness of Drysdale at Oxford, was the discovery of such
beer as he had at last found at "The Choughs."

Dick was to come up to St. Ambrose's the first thing in the
morning and carry off his barrel, which would never contain in
future any other liquid. At last that worthy appeared in the bar
to know when he was to shut up, and was sent out by his mistress
to see that the street was clear, for which service he received a
shilling, though his offer of escort was declined. And so, after
paying in a splendid manner for their entertainment, they found
themselves in the street, and set off for college, agreeing on
the way that "The Choughs" was a great find, the old lady was the
best old soul in the world, and Patty the prettiest girl in
Oxford. They found the streets quiet, and walking quickly along
them, knocked at the college gates at half-past eleven. The stout
porter received them with a long face.

"Senior proctor's sent down here an hour back, gentlemen, to find
whether you was in college."

"You don't mean that, porter? How kind of him! What did you say?"

"Said I didn't know, sir; but the marshal said, if you come in
after, that you was to go to the senior proctor's at half-past
nine to-morrow."

"Send my compliments to the senior proctor," said Drysdale, "and
say I have a very particular engagement to morrow morning, which
will prevent my having the pleasure of calling on him."

"Very good, sir," said the porter, giving a little dry chuckle,
and tapping the keys against his leg; "only perhaps you wouldn't
mind writing him a note, sir, as he is rather a particular
gentleman."

"Didn't he send after anyone else?" said Tom.

"Yes, sir, Mr. Jervis, sir."

"Well, and what about him?"

"Oh, sir, Mr. Jervis! an old hand, sir. He'd been in gates long
time, sir, when the marshal came."

"The sly old beggar!" said Drysdale, "good night, porter; mind
you send my message to the proctor. If he is set on seeing me
to-morrow, you can say that he will find a broiled chicken and a
hand at picquet in my rooms, if he likes to drop in to lunch."

The porter looked after them for a moment, and then retired to
his deep old chair in the lodge, pulled his night cap over his
ears, put up his feet before the fire on a high stool, and folded
his hands on his lap. "The most impidentest thing on the face of
the earth is it gen'l'man-commoner in his first year,"
soliloquized the little man. "'Twould ha' done that one a sight
of good, now, if he'd got a good hiding in the street to-night.
But he's better than most on 'em, too," he went on; "uncommon
free with his tongue, but just as free with his arf-sovereigns.
Well, I'm not going to peach if the proctor don't send again in
the morning. That sort's good for the college; makes things
brisk; has his _wine_ from town, and don't keep no keys. I
wonder, now, if my Peter's been out a fighting? He's pretty nigh
as hard to manage, is that boy, as if he was at college hisself."

And so, muttering over his domestic and professional grievances,
the small janitor composed himself to a nap. I may add,
parenthetically, that his hopeful Peter, a precocious youth of
seventeen, scout's boy on No. 3 staircase of St. Ambrose's
College, was represented in the boot cleaning and errand line by
a substitute for some days; and when he returned to duty was
minus a front tooth.

"What fools we were not to stick to the Captain. I wonder what we
shall get," said Tom, who was troubled in his mind at the
proctor's message, and not gifted naturally with the recklessness
and contempt of authority which in Drysdale's case approached the
sublime.

"Who cares? I'll be bound, now, the old fox came straight home to
earth. Let's go and knock him up."

Tom assented, for he was anxious to consult Jervis as to his
proceedings in the morning; so they soon found themselves
drumming at his oak, which was opened shortly by "the stroke" in
an old boating-jacket. They followed him in. At one end of his
table stood his tea-service and the remains of his commons, which
the scout had not cleared away; at the other, open books,
note-books, and maps showed that the Captain read, as he rowed,
"hard all."

"Well, are you two only just in?"

"Only just, my Captain," answered Drysdale.

"Have you been well thrashed, then? You don't look much damaged?"

"We are innocent of fight since your sudden departure--flight,
shall I call it?--my Captain."

"Where have you been?"

"Where! why in the paragon of all pot houses; snug little bar
with red curtains; stout old benevolent female in spectacles;
barmaid an houri; and for malt the most touching tap in Oxford,
wasn't it, Brown?"

"Yes, the beer was undeniable," said Tom.

"Well, and you dawdled there till now?" said Jervis.

"Even so. What with mobs that wouldn't fight fair, the captains
who would run away, and the proctors marshals who would
interfere, we were 'perfectly disgusted with the whole
proceedings,' as the Scotchman said when he was sentenced to be
hanged."

"Well! Heaven, they say, protects children, sailors, and drunken
men; and whatever answer to Heaven in the academical system
protects freshmen," remarked Jervis.

"Not us, at any rate," said Tom, "for we are to go to the proctor
to-morrow morning."

"What, did he catch you in your famous public?"

"No; the marshal came round to the porter's lodge, asked if we
were in, and left word that, if we were not, we were to go to him
in the morning. The porter told us just now as we came in."

"Pshaw," said the Captain, with disgust; "now you'll be gated
probably, and the whole crew will be thrown out of gear. Why
couldn't you have come home when I did?"

"We do not propose to attend the levee of that excellent person
in office to-morrow morning," said Drysdale. "He will forget all
about it. Old Copas won't say a word--catch him. He gets too much
out of me for that."

"Well, you'll see; I'll back the proctor's memory."

"But, Captain, what are you going to stand?"

"Stand! nothing, unless you like a cup of cold tea. You'll get no
wine or spirits here at this time of night, and the buttery is
shut. Besides you've had quite as much beer as good for you at
your paragon public."

"Come, now, Captain, just two glasses of sherry, and I'll promise
to go to bed."

"Not a thimbleful."

"You old tyrant!" said Drysdale, hopping off his perch on the
elbow of the sofa. "Come along, Brown, let's go and draw for some
supper, and a hand at Van John. There's sure to be something
going up my staircase; or, at any rate, there's a cool bottle of
claret in my rooms."

"Stop and have a talk, Brown," said the Captain, and prevailed
against Drysdale, who, after another attempt to draw Tom off,
departed on his quest for drink and cards.

"He'll never do for the boat, I'm afraid," said the Captain;
"with his rascally late hours, and drinking and eating all sorts
of trash. It's a pity, too for he's a pretty oar for his weight."

"He is such uncommon good company, too," said Tom.

"Yes; but I'll tell you what. He's just a leetle too good company
for you and me, or any fellows who mean to take a degree. Let's
see, this is only his third term? I'll give him, perhaps, two
more to make the place too hot to hold him. Take my word for it,
he'll never get to his little-go."

"It will be a great pity, then," said Tom.

"So it will. But after all, you see, what does it matter to him?
He gets rusticated; takes his name off with a flourish of
trumpets--what then? He falls back on 5,000L a year in land, and
a good accumulation in consols, runs abroad or lives in town for
a year. Takes the hounds when he comes of age, or is singled out
by some discerning constituency, and sent to make laws for his
country, having spent the whole of his life hitherto in breaking
all the laws he ever came under. You and I, perhaps, go fooling
about with him, and get rusticated. We make our friends
miserable. We can't take our names off, but have to come cringing
back at the end of our year, marked men. Keep our tails between
our legs for the rest of the time. Lose a year at our
professions, and most likely have the slip casting up against us
in one way or another for the next twenty years. It's like the
old story of the giant and the dwarf, or like fighting a sweep,
or any other one-sided business."

"But I'd sooner have to fight my own way in the world after all;
wouldn't you?" said Tom.

"H-m-m!" said the Captain, throwing himself back in the chair,
and smiling; "can't answer off hand. I'm a third year man, and
begin to see the other side rather clearer than I did when I was
a freshman like you. Three years at Oxford, my boy, will teach
you something of what rank and money count for, if they teach you
nothing else."

"Why, here's the Captain singing the same song as Hardy," thought
Tom.

"So you two have to go to the proctor to-morrow?"

"Yes."

"Shall you go? Drysdale won't."

"Of course I shall. It seems to me childish not to go; as if I
were back in the lower school again. To tell you the truth, the
being sent for isn't pleasant; but the other I couldn't stand."

"Well, I don't feel anything of that sort. But I think you're
right on the whole. The chances are that he'll remember your
name, and send for you again if you don't go; and then you'll be
worse off."

"You don't think he'll rusticate us, or anything of that sort?"
said Tom, who had felt horrible twinges at the Captain's picture
of the effects of rustication on ordinary mortals.

"No; not unless he's in a very bad humour. I was caught three
times in one night in my freshman's term, and only got an
imposition."

"Then I don't care," said Tom. "But it's a bore to have been
caught in so seedy an affair; if it had been a real good row, one
wouldn't have minded so much."

"Why, what did you expect? It was neither better nor worse than
the common run of such things."

"Well, but three parts of the crowd were boys."

"So they are always--or nine times out of ten at any rate."

"But there was no real fighting; at least, I only know I got
none."

"There isn't any real fighting, as you call it, nine times out of
ten."

"What is there, then?"

"Why, something of this sort. Five shopboys, or scouts' boys,
full of sauciness, loitering at an out-of-the-way street corner.
Enter two freshmen, full of dignity and bad wine. Explosion of
inflammable material. Freshmen mobbed into High-street or
Broad-street, where the tables are turned by a gathering of many
more freshmen, and the mob of town boys quietly subsides, puts
its hands in its pockets, and ceases to shout 'Town, town!' The
triumphant freshmen march up and down for perhaps half an hour,
shouting 'Gown, gown!' and looking furious, but not half sorry
that the mob vanishes like mist at their approach. Then come the
proctors, who hunt down, and break up the gown in some half-hour
or hour. The 'town' again marches about in the ascendant, and
mobs the scattered freshmen, wherever they can be caught in very
small numbers."

"But with all your chaff about freshmen, Captain, you were in it
yourself to-night; come now."

"Of course, I had to look after you two boys."

"But you didn't know we were in when you came up?"

"I was sure to find some of you. Besides, I'll admit one don't
like to go in while there's any chance of a real row as you call
it, and so gets proctorized in one's old age for one's
patriotism."

"Were you ever in a real row?" said Tom.

"Yes, once, about a year ago. The fighting numbers were about
equal, and the town all grown men, labourers and mechanics. It
was desperate hard work, none of your shouting and promenading.
That Hardy, one of our Bible clerks, fought like a Paladin; I
know I shifted a fellow in corduroys on to him, whom I had found
an uncommon tough customer, and never felt better pleased in my
life than when I saw the light glance on his hobnails as he went
over into the gutter two minutes afterwards. It lasted, perhaps,
ten minutes, and both sides were very glad to draw off."

"But, of course, you licked them?"

"We said we did."

"Well, I believe that a gentleman will always lick in a fair
fight."

"Of course you do, it's the orthodox belief."

"But don't you?"

"Yes; if he is as big and strong, and knows how to fight as well
as the other. The odds are that he cares a little more for giving
in, and that will pull him through."

"That isn't saying much, though."

"No, but it's quite as much as is true. I'll tell you what it is,
I think just this, that we are generally better in the fighting
way than shopkeepers, clerks, flunkies, and all fellows who don't
work hard with their bodies all day. But the moment you come to
the real hard-fisted fellow; used to nine or ten hours' work a
day, he's a cruel hard customer. Take seventy or eighty of them
at haphazard, the first you meet, and turn them into St. Ambrose
any morning--by night I take it they would be lords of this
venerable establishment if we had to fight for the possession;
except, perhaps, for that Hardy--he's one of a thousand, and was
born for a fighting man; perhaps he might pull us through."

"Why don't you try him in the boat?"

"Miller manages all that. I spoke to him about it after that row,
but he said that Hardy had refused to subscribe to the club, said
he couldn't afford it, or something of the sort. I don't see why
that need matter, myself, but I suppose, as we have rules, we
ought to stick to them."

"It's a great pity though. I know Hardy well, and you can't think
what a fine fellow he is."

"I'm sure of that. I tried to know him, and we don't get on badly
as speaking acquaintance. But he seems a queer, solitary bird."

Twelve o'clock struck; so Tom wished the Captain good night and
departed, meditating much on what he had heard and seen. The
vision of terrible single combats, in which the descendant of a
hundred earls polishes off the huge representative of the masses
in the most finished style, without a scratch on his own
aristocratic features, had faded from his mind.

He went to bed that night, fairly sickened with his experience of
a town and gown row, and with a nasty taste in his mouth. But he
felt much pleased at having drawn out the Captain so completely.
For "the stroke" was in general a man of marvellous few words,
having many better uses than talking to put his breath to.

Next morning he attended at the proctor's rooms at the appointed
time, not without some feeling of shame at having to do so;
which, however, wore off when he found some dozen men of other
colleges waiting about on the same errand as himself. In his turn
he was ushered in, and as he stood by the door, had time to look
the great man over as he sat making a note of the case he had
just disposed of. The inspection was reassuring. The proctor was
a gentlemanly, straight-forward looking man of about thirty, not
at all donnish, and his address answered to his appearance.

"Mr. Brown, of St. Ambrose's, I think," he said.

"Yes, sir."

"I sent you to your college yesterday evening; did you go
straight home?"

"No, sir."

"How was that, Mr. Brown?"

Tom made no answer, and the proctor looked at him steadily for a
few seconds, and then repeated.

"How was that?"

"Well, sir," said Tom, "I don't mean to say I was going straight
to college, but I should have been in long before you sent, only
I fell in with the mob again, and then there was a cry that you
were coming. And so-" He paused.

"Well," said the proctor, with a grim sort of curl about the
corners of his mouth.

"Why, I ran away, and turned into the first place which was open,
and stopped till the streets were quiet."

"A public house, I suppose."

"Yes, sir; 'The Choughs.'"

The proctor considered a minute, and again scrutinized Tom's look
and manner, which certainly were straightforward, and without any
tinge of cringing or insolence.

"How long have you been up?"

"This is my second term, sir."

"You have never been sent to me before, I think?"

"Never, sir."

"Well, I can't overlook this, as you yourself confess to a direct
act of disobedience. You must write me out 200 lines of Virgil.
And now, Mr. Brown, let me advise you to keep out of disreputable
street quarrels in future. Good morning."

Tom hurried away, wondering what it would feel like to be writing
out Virgil again as a punishment at his time of life, but glad
above measure that the proctor had asked him no questions about
his companion. The hero was of course, mightily tickled at the
result, and seized the occasion to lecture Tom on his future
conduct, holding himself up as a living example of the benefits
which were sure to accrue to a man who never did anything he was
told to do. The soundness of his reasoning, however, was somewhat
shaken by the dean, who, on the same afternoon, managed to catch
him in quad; and, carrying him off, discoursed with him
concerning his various and systematic breaches of discipline,
pointed out to him that he had already made such good use of his
time that if he were to be discommonsed for three more days he
would lose his term; and then took of his cross, gave him a book
of Virgil to write out and gated him for a fortnight after hall.
Drysdale sent out his scout to order his punishment as he might
have ordered a waistcoat, presented old Copas with a
half-sovereign, and then dismissed punishment and gating from his
mind. He cultivated with great success the science of mental
gymnastics, or throwing everything the least unpleasant off his
mind at once. And no doubt it is a science worthy of all
cultivation, if one desires to lead a comfortable life. It gets
harder, however, as the years roll over us, to attain to any
satisfactory proficiency in it; so it should be mastered as early
in life as may be.

The town and gown row was the talk of the college for the next
week. Tom, of course, talked much about it, like his neighbors,
and confided to one and another the Captain's heresies. They were
all incredulous; for no one had ever heard him talk as much in a
term as Tom reported him to have done on this one evening.

So it was resolved that he should be taken to task on the subject
on the first opportunity; and, as nobody was afraid of him, there
was no difficulty in finding a man to bell the cat. Accordingly,
at the next wine of the boating set, the Captain had scarcely
entered when he was assailed by the host with--

"Jervis, Brown says you don't believe a gentleman can lick a cad,
unless he is the biggest and strongest of the two."

The Captain, who hated coming out with his beliefs, shrugged his
shoulders, sipped his wine, and tried to turn the subject. But,
seeing that they were all bent on drawing him out, he was not the
man to run from his guns; and so he said quietly:

"No more I do."

Notwithstanding the reverence in which he was held, this saying
could not be allowed to pass, and a dozen voices were instantly
raised, and a dozen authentic stories told to confute him. He
listened patiently, and then, seeing he was in for it, said:

"Never mind fighting. Try something else; cricket, for instance.
The players generally beat the gentlemen, don't they?"

"Yes; but they are professionals."

"Well, and we don't often get a university crew which can beat
the watermen?"

"Professionals again."

"I believe the markers are the best tennis-players, ain't they?"
persevered the Captain; "and I generally find keepers and
huntsmen shooting and riding better than their master's, don't
you?"

"But that's not fair. All the cases you put are those of men who
have nothing else to do, who live by the things gentlemen only
take up for pleasure."

"I only say that the cads, as you call them, manage, somehow or
another, to do them best," said the Captain.

"How about the army and navy? The officers always lead."

"Well, there they're all professionals, at any rate," said the
Captain. "I admit that the officers lead; but the men follow
pretty close. And in a forlorn hope there are fifty men to one
officer, after all."

"But they must be led. The men will never go without an officer
to lead."

"It's the officers' business to lead, I know; and they do it. But
you won't find the best judges talking as if the men wanted much
leading. Read Napier: the finest story in his book is of the
sergeant who gave his life for his boy officer's--your namesake,
Brown--at the Coa."

"Well, I never thought to hear you crying down gentlemen."

"I'm not crying down gentlemen," said the Captain. "I only say
that a gentleman's flesh and blood, and brains, are just the
same, and no better than another man's. He has all the chances on
his side in the way of training, and pretty near all the prizes;
so it would be hard if he didn't do most things better than poor
men. But give them the chance of training, and they will tread on
his heels soon enough. That's all I say."

That was all, certainly, that the Captain said, and then relapsed
into his usual good-tempered monosyllabic state; from which all
the eager talk of the men, who took up the cudgels naturally
enough for their own class, and talked themselves before the wine
broke up into a renewed consciousness of their natural
superiority, failed again to rouse him.

This was, in fact, the Captain's weak point, if he had one. He
had strong beliefs himself; one of the strongest of which was,
that nobody could be taught anything except by his own
experience; so he never, or very rarely, exercised his own
personal influence, but just quietly went on his own way, and let
other men go theirs. Another of his beliefs was, that there was
no man or thing in the world too bad to be tolerated; faithfully
acting up to which belief, the Captain himself tolerated persons
and things intolerable.

Bearing which facts in mind, the reader will easily guess the
result of the application which the crew duly made to him the day
after Miller's back was turned. He simply said that the training
they proposed would not be enough, and that he himself should
take all who chose to go down, to Abingdon twice a week. From
that time there were many defaulters; and the spirit of Diogenes
groaned within him, as day after day the crew had to be filled up
from the torpid or by watermen. Drysdale would ride down to
Sandford, meeting the boat on its way up, and then take his place
for the pull up to Oxford, while his groom rode his horse up to
Folly bridge to meet him. There he would mount again and ride off
to Bullingdon, or to the Isis, or Quentin, or other social
meeting equally inimical to good training. Blake often absented
himself three days in a week, and other men once or twice.

From considering which facts, Tom came to understand the
difference between his two heroes; their strong likeness in many
points he had seen from the first. They were alike in
truthfulness, bravery, bodily strength, and in most of their
opinions. But Jervis worried himself about nothing, and let all
men and things alone, in the belief that the world was not going
so very wrong, or would right itself somehow without him. Hardy,
on the other hand, was consuming his heart over everything that
seemed to him to be going wrong in himself and round about
him--in the college, in Oxford, in England, in the ends of the
earth, and never letting slip a chance of trying to set right,
here a thread, and there a thread. A self-questioning, much
enduring man; a slayer of dragons himself, and one with whom you
could not live much without getting uncomfortably aware of the
dragons which you also had to slay.

What wonder that, apart altogether from the difference in their
social position, the one man was ever becoming more and more
popular, while the other was left more and more to himself. There
are few of us at Oxford, or elsewhere, who do not like to see a
man living a brave and righteous life, so long as he keeps clear
of us; and still fewer who _do_ like to be in constant contact
with one who, not content with so living himself, is always
coming across them, and laying bare to them their own
faint-heartedness, and sloth, and meanness. The latter, no doubt,
inspires the deeper feeling, and lays hold with a firmer grip of
the men he does lay hold of, but they are few. For men can't
always keep up to high pressure till they have found firm ground
to build upon, altogether outside of themselves; and it is hard
to be thankful and fair to those who are showing us time after
time that our foothold is nothing but shifting sand.

The contrast between Jervis and Hardy now began to force itself
daily more and more on our hero's attention.

From the night of the town and gown row, "The Choughs" became a
regular haunt of the crew, who were taken there under the
guidance of Tom and Drysdale the next day. Not content with
calling there on his way from the boats, there was seldom an
evening now that Tom did not manage to drop in and spend an hour
there.

When one is very much bent on doing a thing, it is generally easy
enough to find very good reasons, or excuses at any rate, for it;
and whenever any doubts crossed Tom's mind, he silenced them by
the reflection that the time he spent at "The Choughs" would
otherwise have been devoted to wine parties or billiards; and it
was not difficult to persuade himself that his present occupation
was the more wholesome of the two. He could not, however, feel
satisfied till he had mentioned his change in life to Hardy. This
he found a much more embarrassing matter than he fancied it would
be. But, after one or two false starts, he managed to get out
that he had found the best glass of ale in Oxford, at a quiet
little public on the way to the boats, kept by the most perfect
of widows, with a factotum of an ostler, who was a regular
character, and that he went there most evenings for an hour or
so. Wouldn't Hardy come some night?

No, Hardy couldn't spare the time.

Tom felt rather relieved at this answer; but, nevertheless went
on to urge the excellence of the ale as a further inducement.

"I don't believe it's half so good as our college beer, and I'll
be bound it's half as dear again."

"Only a penny a pint dearer," said Tom, "that won't ruin
you,--all the crew go there."

"If I were the Captain," said Hardy, "I wouldn't let you run
about drinking ale at night after wine parties. Does he know
about it?"

"Yes, and goes there himself often on the way from the boats,"
said Tom.

"And at night, too?" said Hardy.

"No," said Tom, "but I don't go there after drinking wine; I
haven't been to a wine these ten days, at least not for more than
five minutes."

"Well, sound ale is better than Oxford wine," said Hardy, "if you
must drink something;" and so the subject dropped.

And Tom went away satisfied that Hardy had not disapproved of his
new habit. It certainly occurred to him that he had omitted all
mention of the pretty barmaid in his enumeration of the
attractions of "The Choughs," but he set down to mere accident;
it was a slip which he would set right in their next talk. But
that talk never came, and the subject was not again mentioned
between them. In fact, to tell the truth, Tom's visits to his
friend's rooms in the evenings became shorter and less frequent
as "The Choughs" absorbed more and more of his time. He made
excuses to himself, that Hardy must be glad of more time, and
would be only bored if he kept dropping in every night, now that
the examination for degree was so near; that he was sure he drove
Grey away, who would be of much more use to Hardy just now.
These, and many other equally plausible reasons, suggested
themselves whenever his conscience smote him for his neglect, as
it did not seldom. But he always managed to satisfy himself
somehow, without admitting the real fact, that these visits were
no longer what they had been to him; that a gulf had sprung up,
and was widening day by day between him and the only friend who
would have had the courage and honesty to tell him the truth
about his new pursuit. Meantime Hardy was much pained at the
change in his friend, which _he_ saw quickly enough, and often
thought over it with a sigh as he sat at his solitary tea. He set
it down to his own dullness, to the number of new friends such a
sociable fellow as Tom was sure to make, and who, of course,
would take up more and more of his time; and, if he felt a little
jealousy every now and then, put it resolutely back, struggling
to think no evil, or if there were any, to lay it on his own
shoulders.

Cribbage is a most virtuous and respectable game, and yet
scarcely, one would think, possessing in itself sufficient
attractions to keep a young gentleman in his twentieth year tied
to the board, and going through the quaint calculation night
after night of "fifteen two, fifteen four, two for his nob, and
one for his heels." The old lady of "The Choughs" liked nothing
so much as her game of cribbage in the evenings, and the board
lay ready on the little table by her elbow in the cozy bar, a
sure stepping-stone to her good graces. Tom somehow became an
enthusiast in cribbage, and would always loiter behind his
companions for his quiet game; chatting pleasantly while the old
lady cut and shuffled the dirty pack, striving keenly for the
nightly stake of sixpence, which he seldom failed to lose, and
laughingly wrangling with her over the last points in the game
which decided the transfer of the two sixpences (duly posted in
the snuffer-tray beside the cribbage-board) into his waistcoat
pocket or her bag, until she would take off her spectacles to
wipe them, and sink back in her chair exhausted with the pleasing
excitement.

Such an odd taste as it seemed, too, a bystander might reasonably
have thought, when he might have been employing his time so much
more pleasantly in the very room. For, flitting in and out of the
bar during the game, and every now and then stooping over the old
lady's shoulder to examine her hand, and exchange knowing looks
with her, was the lithe little figure of Miss Patty, with her
oval race, and merry eyes, and bright brown hair, and jaunty
little cap, with fresh blue ribbons of the shade of the St.
Ambrose colors. However, there is no accounting for tastes, and
it is fortunate that some like apples and some onions. It may
possibly be, too, that Miss Patty did not feel herself neglected,
or did not care about attention. Perhaps she may not have been
altogether unconscious that every least motion and word of hers
was noticed, even when the game was at its keenest. At any rate,
it was clear enough that she and Tom were on the best terms,
though she always took her aunt's part vehemently in any little
dispute which arose, and sometimes even came to the rescue at the
end, and recaptured the vanished sixpences out of the wrongful
grasp which he generally laid on them the moment the old lady
held out her hand and pronounced the word "game." One knows that
size has little to do with strength, or one might have wondered
that her little hands should have been able to open his fingers
so surely one by one, though he seemed to do all he could to keep
them shut. But, after all, if he really thought he had a right to
the money, he had always time to put it in his pocket at once,
instead of keeping his clenched hand on the table, and arguing
about it till she had time to get up to the succour of her aunt.



CHAPTER XIII

THE FIRST BUMP

"What's the time, Smith?"

"Half-past three, old fellow," answered Diogenes, looking at his
watch.

"I never knew a day go so slowly," said Tom; "isn't it time to go
down to the boats?"

"Not by two hours and more, old fellow--can't you take a book, or
something to keep you quiet? You won't be fit for anything by six
o'clock, if you go on worrying like this." And so Diogenes turned
himself to his flute, and blew away to all appearances as
composedly as if it had been the first week of term, though, if
the truth must be told, it was all he could do not to get up and
wander about in a feverish and distracted state, for Tom's
restlessness infected him.

Diogenes' whole heart was in the college boat; and so, though he
had pulled dozens of races in his time, he was almost as nervous
as a freshman on this the first day of the races. Tom, all
unconscious of the secret discomposure of the other, threw
himself into a chair and looked at him with wonder and envy. The
flute went "toot, toot, toot," till he could stand it no longer.
So he got up and went to the window, and, leaning out, looked up
and down the street for some minutes in a purposeless sort of
fashion, staring hard at everybody and everything, but
unconscious all the time that he was doing so. He would not have
been able in fact, to answer Diogenes a word, had not that worthy
inquired of him what he had seen, when he presently drew in his
head and returned to his fidgety ramblings about the room.

"How hot the sun is! but there's a stiff breeze from the
south-east. I hope it will go down before the evening, don't
you?"

"Yes, this wind will make it very rough below the Gut. Mind you
feather high now at starting."

"I hope to goodness I sha'n't catch a crab," said Tom.

"Don't think about it, old fellow; that's your best plan."

"But I can't think of anything else," said Tom. "What the deuce
is the good of telling a fellow not to think about it?"

Diogenes apparently had nothing particular to reply, for he put
his flute to his mouth again; and at the sound of the "toot,
toot" Tom caught up his gown and fled into the quadrangle.

The crew had had their early dinner of steaks and chops, stale
bread, and a glass and a half of old beer a piece at two o'clock,
in the Captain's rooms. The current theory of training at that
time was--as much meat as you could eat, the more underdone the
better, and the smallest amount of drink upon which you could
manage to live. Two pints in the twenty-four hours was all that
most boat's crews that pretended to train at all were allowed,
and for the last fortnight it had been the nominal allowance of
the St. Ambrose crew. The discomfort of such a diet in the hot
summer months, when you were at the same time taking regular and
violent exercise, was something very serious. Outraged human
nature rebelled against it; and though they did not admit it in
public, there were very few men who did not rush to their water
bottles for relief, more or less often, according to the
development of their bumps of conscientiousness and obstinacy. To
keep to the diet at all strictly involved a very respectable
amount of physical endurance. Our successors have found out the
unwisdom of this, as of other old superstitions; and that in
order to get a man into training for a boat-race now-a-days, it
is not of the first importance to keep him in a constant state of
consuming thirst, and the restlessness of body and sharpness of
temper which thirst generally induces.

Tom appreciated the honor of being in the boat in his first year
so keenly, that he had almost managed to keep to his training
allowance, and consequently, now that the eventful day had
arrived, was in a most uncomfortable frame of body and
disagreeable frame of mind.

He fled away from Diogenes' flute, but found no rest. He tried
Drysdale. That hero was lying on his back on his sofa playing
with Jack, and only increased Tom's thirst and soured his temper
by the viciousness of his remarks on boating, and everything and
person connected therewith; above all, on Miller, who had just
come up, had steered them the day before, and pronounced the crew
generally, and Drysdale in particular, "not half trained."

Blake's oak was sported, as usual. Tom looked in at the Captain's
door, but found him hard at work reading, and so carried himself
off; and, after a vain hunt after others of the crew, and even
trying to sit down and read, first a novel, then a play of
Shakespeare, with no success whatever, wandered away out of the
college, and found himself in five minutes, by a natural and
irresistible attraction, on the university barge.

There were half a dozen men or so reading the papers, and a group
or two discussing the coming races. Amongst other things the
chances of St. Ambrose's making a bump the first night were
weighed. Every one joining in praising the stroke, but there were
great doubts whether the crew could live up to it. Tom carried
himself on to the top of the barge to get out of hearing, for
listening made his heart beat and his throat drier than ever. He
stood on the top and looked right away down to the Gut, the
strong wind blowing his gown about. Not even a pair oar was to be
seen; the great event of the evening made the river a solitude at
this time of day. Only one or two skiffs were coming home,
impelled by reading men, who took their constitutionals on the
water, and were coming in to be in time for afternoon chapel. The
fastest and best of these soon came near enough for Tom to
recognize Hardy's stroke; so he left the barge and went down to
meet the servitor at his landing, and accompanied him to the St.
Ambrose dressing-room.

"Well, how do you feel for the race to-night?" said Hardy, as he
dried his neck and face, which he had been sluicing with cold
water, looking as hardy and bright as a racer on Derby day.

"Oh, wretched! I'm afraid I shall break down" said Tom, and
pouring out some of his doubts and miseries. Hardy soon comforted
him greatly; and by the time they were half across Christchurch
meadow, he was quite in heart again. For he knew how well Hardy
understood rowing, and what a sound judge he was; and it was
therefore cheering to hear that he thought they were certainly
the second best, if not the best boat on the river; and that they
would be sure to make some bumps unless they had accidents.

"But that's just what I fear so," said Tom. "I'm afraid I shall
make some awful blunder."

"Not you!" said Hardy; "only remember. Don't you fancy you can
pull the boat by yourself, and go to trying to do it. There's
where young oars fail. If you keep thorough good time you'll be
pretty sure to be doing your share of work. Time is everything,
almost."

"I'll be sure to think of that," said Tom; and they entered St.
Ambrose just as the chapel bell was going down; and he went to
chapel and then to hall, sitting by and talking for companionship
while the rest dined.

And so at last the time slipped away, and the Captain and Miller
mustered them at the gates and walked off to the boats. A dozen
other crews were making their way in the same direction, and half
the undergraduates of Oxford streamed along with them. The banks
of the river were crowded; and the punts plied rapidly backwards
and forwards, carrying loads of men over to the Berkshire side.
The university barge, and all the other barges, were decked with
flags, and the band was playing lively airs as the St. Ambrose
crew reached the scene of action.

No time was lost in the dressing-room, and in two minutes they
were all standing in flannel trousers and silk jerseys at the
landing-place.

"You had better keep your jackets on," said the Captain; "we
sha'n't be off yet."

"There goes Brazen-nose."

"They look like work, don't they?"

"The black and yellow seems to slip along so fast. They're no end
of good colors. I wish our new boat was black."

"Hang her colors, if she's only stiff in the back, and don't
dip."

"Well, she didn't dip yesterday; at least, the men on the bank
said so."

"There go Baliol, and Oriel, and University."

"By Jove, we shall be late! Where's Miller?"

"In the shed, getting the boat out. Look, here's Exeter."

The talk of the crew was silenced for the moment as every man
looked eagerly at the Exeter boat. The Captain nodded to Jervis
with a grim smile as they paddled gently by.

Then the talk began again, "How do you think she goes?"

"Not so badly. They're very strong in the middle of the boat."

"Not a bit of it; it's all lumber."

"You'll see. They're better trained than we are. They look as
fine as stars."

"So they ought. They've pulled seven miles to our five for the
last month, I'm sure."

"Then we sha'n't bump them."

"Why not?"

"Don't you know that the value of products consist in the
quantity of labor which goes to produce them? Product pace over
course from Iffley up. Labor expended, Exeter 7; St. Ambrose, 5.
You see it is not in the nature of things that we should bump
them--Q.E.D."

"What moonshine! as if ten miles behind their stroke are worth
two behind Jervis!"

"My dear fellow, it isn't my moonshine; you must settle the
matter with the philosophers. I only apply a universal law to a
particular case."

Tom, unconscious of the pearls of economic lore which were being
poured out for the benefit of the crew, was watching the Exeter
eight as it glided away towards the Cherwell. He thought they
seemed to keep horribly good time.

"Halloa, Drysdale; look, there's Jack going across in one of the
punts."

"Of course it is. You don't suppose he would go down to see the
race."

"Why won't Miller let us start? Almost all the boats are off."

"There's plenty of time. We may just as well be up here as
dawdling about the bank at Iffley."

"We sha'n't go down till the last; Miller never lets us get out
down below."

"Well, come; here's the boat, at last."

The new boat now emerged from its shed, guided steadily to where
they were standing by Miller and the waterman. Then the coxswain
got out and called for bow, who stepped forward.

"Mind how you step now, there are no bottom boards, said Miller.

"Shall I take my jacket?"

"Yes; you had better all go down in jackets in this wind. I've
sent a man down to bring them back. Now two."

"Aye, aye!" said Drysdale, stepping forward. Then came Tom's
turn, and soon the boat was manned.

"Now," said Miller, taking his place, "are all your stretchers
right?"

"I should like a little more grease on my rollocks."

"I'm taking some down; we'll put it on down below. Are you all
right?"

"Yes."

"Then push her off--gently."

The St. Ambrose boat was almost the last, so there were no punts
in the way, or other obstructions; and they swung steadily down
past the university barge, the top of which was already covered
with spectators. Every man in the boat felt as if the eyes of
Europe were on him, and pulled in his very best form. Small
groups of gownsmen were scattered along the bank in Christchurch
meadow, chiefly dons, who were really interested in the races,
but, at that time of day, seldom liked to display enthusiasm
enough to cross the water and go down to the starting-place.
These sombre groups lighted up here and there by the dresses of a
few ladies, who were walking up and down, and watching the boats.
At the mouth of the Cherwell were moored two punts, in which
reclined at their ease some dozen young gentlemen, smoking;
several of these were friends of Drysdale's, and hailed him as
the boat passed.

"What a fool I am to be here!" he grumbled, in an undertone,
casting an envious glance at the punts in their comfortable
berth, up under the banks, and out of the wind. "I say, Brown,
don't you wish we were well past this on the way up?"

"Silence in the bows?" shouted Miller.

"You devil, how I hate you!" growled Drysdale, half in jest and
half in earnest, as they sped along under the willows.

Tom got more comfortable at every stroke, and by the time they
reached the Gut began to hope that he should not have a fit or
lose all his strength just at the start, or cut a crab, or come
to some other unutterable grief, the fear of which had been
haunting him all day.

"Here they are at last!--come along now--keep up with them," said
Hardy to Grey, as the boat neared the Gut; and the two trotted
along downwards, Hardy watching the crew and Grey watching him.

"Hardy, how eager you look!"

"I'd give twenty pounds to be going to pull in the race." Grey
shambled on in silence by the side of his big friend, and wished
he could understand what it was that moved him so.

As the boat shot into the Gut from under the cover of the
Oxfordshire bank, the wind caught the bows.

"Feather high, now," shouted Miller; and then added in a low
voice to the Captain, "It will be ticklish work, starting in this
wind."

"Just as bad for all the other boats," answered the Captain.

"Well said, old philosopher!" said Miller. "It's a comfort to
steer you; you never make a fellow nervous. I wonder if you ever
felt nervous yourself, now?"

"Can't say," said the Captain. "Here's our post; we may as well
turn."

"Easy, bow side--now two and four, pull her round--back water,
seven and five!" shouted the coxswain; and the boat's head swung
round, and two or three strokes took her into the bank.

Jack instantly made a convulsive attempt to board, but was
sternly repulsed, and tumbled backwards into the water.

Hark!--the first gun. The report sent Tom's heart into his mouth
again. Several of the boats pushed off at once into the stream;
and the crowds of men on the bank began to be agitated, as it
were, by the shadow of the coming excitement. The St. Ambrose
crew fingered their oars, put a last dash of grease on their
rollocks, and settled their feet against the stretchers.

"Shall we push her off?" asked "bow."

"No, I can give you another minute," said Miller, who was
sitting, watch in hand, in the stern, "only be smart when I give
the word."

The Captain turned on his seat, and looked up the boat. His face
was quiet, but full of confidence, which seemed to pass from him
into the crew. Tom felt calmer and stronger, he met his eye. "Now
mind, boys, don't quicken," he said, cheerily; "four short
strokes, to get way on her, and then steady. Here, pass up the
lemon."

And he took a sliced lemon out of his pocket, put a small piece
into his own mouth, and then handed it to Blake, who followed his
example, and passed it on. Each man took a piece; and just as
"bow" had secured the end, Miller called out--

"Now, jackets off, and get her head out steadily."

The jackets were thrown on shore, and gathered up by the boatmen
in attendance. The crew poised their oars, No. 2 pushing out her
head, and the Captain doing the same for the stern. Miller took
the starting-rope in his hand.

"How the wind catches her stern," he said; "here, pay out the
rope, one of you. No, not you--some fellow with a strong hand.
Yes, you'll do," he went on, as Hardy stepped down the bank and
took hold of the rope; "let me have it foot by foot as I want it.
Not too quick; make the most of it--that'll do. Two and three dip
your oars in to give her way."

The rope paid out steadily, and the boat settled to her place.
But now the wind rose again, and the stern drifted towards the
bank.

"You _must_ back her a bit, Miller, and keep her a little further
out, or our oars on stroke side will catch the bank."

"So I see; curse the wind. Back her, one stroke all. Back her, I
say!" shouted Miller.

It is no easy matter to get a crew to back her an inch just now,
particularly as there are in her two men who have never rowed a
race before, except in the torpids, and one who has never rowed a
race in his life.

However, back she comes; the starting-rope slackens in Miller's
left hand, and the stroke, unshipping his oar, pushes the stern
gently out again.

There goes the second gun! one short minute more, and we are off.
Short minute, indeed! you wouldn't say so if you were in the
boat, with your heart in your mouth, and trembling all over like
a man with the palsy. Those sixty seconds before the starting gun
in your first race--why, they are a little life-time.

"By Jove, we are drifting in again," said Miller, in horror. The
Captain looked grim, but said nothing; it was too late now for
him to be unshipping again. "Here, catch hold of the long
boat-hook, and fend her off."

Hardy, to whom this was addressed, seized the boat-hook, and,
standing with one foot in the water, pressed the end of the
boat-hook against the gunwale, at the full stretch of his arm,
and so by main force, kept the stern out. There was just room for
stroke oars to dip, and that was all. The starting-rope was as
taut as a harp-string; will Miller's left hand hold out?

It is an awful moment. But the coxswain, though almost dragged
backwards off his seat, is equal to the occasion. He holds his
watch in his right hand with the tiller rope.

"Eight seconds more only. Look out for the flash. Remember, all
eyes in the boat."

There it comes, at last--the flash of the starting gun. Long
before the sound of the report can roll up the river, the whole
pent-up life and energy which has been held in leash, as it were,
for the last six minutes, is let loose, and breaks away with a
bound and a dash which he who has felt it will remember for his
life, but the like of which, will he ever feel again? The
starting-ropes drop from the coxswains' hands, the oars flash
into the water, and gleam on the feather, the spray flies from
them, and the boats leap forward.

The crowds on the bank scatter, and rush along, each keeping as
near as it may be to its own boat. Some of the men on the towing
path, some on the very edge of, often in, the water--some
slightly in advance, as if they could help to drag their boat
forward--some behind, where they can see the pulling better--but
all at full speed, in wild excitement, and shouting at the top of
their voices to those on whom the honor of the college is laid.

"Well pulled, all!" "Pick her up there, five!" "You're gaining,
every stroke!" "Time in the bows!" "Bravo, St. Ambrose!"

On they rushed by the side of the boats, jostling one another,
stumbling, struggling, and panting along.

For a quarter of a mile along the bank the glorious maddening
hurly-burly extends, and rolls up the side of the stream.

For the first ten strokes Tom was in too great fear of making a
mistake to feel or hear or see. His whole soul was glued to the
back of the man before him, his one thought to keep time, and get
his strength into the stroke. But as the crew settled down into
the well known long sweep, what we may call consciousness
returned; and while every muscle in his body was straining, and
his chest heaved, and his heart leapt, every nerve seemed to be
gathering new life, and his senses to wake into unwonted
acuteness. He caught the scent of the wild thyme in the air, and
found room in his brain to wonder how it could have got there, as
he had never seen the plant near the river, or smelt it before.
Though his eye never wandered from the back of Diogenes, he
seemed to see all things at once. The boat behind, which seemed
to be gaining--it was all he could do to prevent himself from
quickening on the stroke as he fancied that--the eager face of
Miller, with his compressed lips, and eyes fixed so earnestly
ahead that Tom could almost feel the glance passing over his
right shoulder; the flying banks and the shouting crowd; see them
with his bodily eyes he could not, but he knew nevertheless that
Grey had been upset and nearly rolled down the bank into the
water in the first hundred yards, that Jack was bounding and
scrambling and barking along by the very edge of the stream;
above all, he was just as well aware as if he had been looking at
it, of a stalwart form in cap and gown, bounding along,
brandishing the long boat-hook, and always keeping just opposite
the boat; and amid all the Babel of voices, and the dash and
pulse of the stroke, and the laboring of his own breathing, he
heard Hardy's voice coming to him again and again, and clear as
if there had been no other sound in the air, "Steady, two!
steady! well pulled! steady, steady!" The voice seemed to give
him strength and keep him to his work. And what work it was! he
had had many a hard pull in the last six weeks, but "never aught
like this."

But it can't last for ever; men's muscles are not steel, or their
lungs bull's hide, and hearts can't go on pumping a hundred miles
an hour without bursting. The St. Ambrose's boat is well away
from the boat behind, there is a great gap between the
accompanying crowds; and now, as they near the Gut, she hangs for
a moment or two in hand, though the roar from the bank grows
louder and louder, and Tom is already aware that the St. Ambrose
crowd is melting into the one ahead of them.

"We must be close to Exeter!" The thought flashes into him, and
it would seem into the rest of the crew at the same moment. For,
all at once, the strain seems taken off their arms again; there
is no more drag; she springs to the stroke as she did at the
start; and Miller's face which had darkened for a few seconds,
lightens up again.

Miller's face and attitude are a study. Coiled up into the
smallest possible space, his chin almost resting on his knees,
his hands close to his sides, firmly but lightly feeling the
rudder, as a good horseman handles the mouth of a free-going
hunter,--if a coxswain could make a bump by his own exertions,
surely he will do it. No sudden jerks of the St. Ambrose rudder
will you see, watch as you will from the bank; the boat never
hangs through fault of his, but easily and gracefully rounds
every point. "You're gaining! you're gaining!" he now and then
mutters to the Captain, who responds with a wink, keeping his
breath for other matters. Isn't he grand, the Captain, as he
comes forward like lightening, stroke after stroke, his back
flat, his teeth set, his whole frame working from the hips with
the regularity of a machine? As the space still narrows, the eyes
of the fiery little coxswain flash with excitement, but he is far
too good a judge to hurry the final effort before victory is safe
in his grasp.

The two crowds mingle now, and no mistake; and the shouts come
all in a heap over the water. "Now, St. Ambrose, six strokes
more." "Now, Exeter, you're gaining; pick her up." "Mind the Gut,
Exeter." "Bravo, St. Ambrose." The water rushes by, still eddying
from the strokes of the boat ahead. Tom fancies now that he can
hear their oars, and the working of their rudder, and the voice
of their coxswain. In another moment both boats are in the Gut,
and a perfect storm of shouts reaches them from the crowd, as it
rushes madly off to the left of the footbridge, amidst which "Oh,
well steered, well steered, St. Ambrose!" is the prevailing cry.
Then Miller, motionless as a statue till now, lifts his right
hand and whirls the tassel round his head; "Give it her now,
boys; six strokes and we are into them." Old Jervis lays down
that great broad back, and lashes his oar through the water with
the might of a giant, the crew caught him up in another stroke,
the tight new boat answers to the spurt, and Tom feels a little
shock behind him, and then a grating sound, as Miller shouts
"Unship oars, bow and three," and the nose of the St. Ambrose
boat glides quietly up the side of the Exeter, till it touches
their stroke oar.

"Take care what you're coming to." It is the coxswain of the
bumped boat who speaks.

Tom, looking round, finds himself within a foot or two of him;
and, being utterly unable to contain his joy, and unwilling to
exhibit it before the eyes of a gallant rival, turns away towards
the shore, and begins telegraphing to Hardy.

"Now then, what are you at there in the bows? Cast her off quick.
Come, look alive! Push across at once out of the way of the other
boats."

"I congratulate you, Jervis," says the Exeter stroke as the St.
Ambrose boat shot past him. "Do it again next race and I sha'n't
care."

"We were within three lengths of Brazen-nose when we bumped,"
says the all-observant Miller in a low voice.

"All right," answers the Captain; "Brazen-nose isn't so strong as
usual. We sha'n't have much trouble there, but a tough job up
above, I take it."

"Brazen-nose was better steered than Exeter."

"They muffed it in the Gut, eh?" said the Captain. "I thought so
by the shouts."

"Yes, we were pressing them a little down below, and their
coxswain kept looking over his shoulder. He was in the Gut before
he knew it, and had to pull his left hand hard or they would have
fouled the Oxfordshire corner. That stopped their way, and in we
went."

"Bravo; and how well we started too."

"Yes, thanks to that Hardy. It was touch and go though; I
couldn't have held that rope two seconds more."

"How did our fellows work; she dragged a good deal below the
Gut."

Miller looked somewhat serious, but even he cannot be finding
fault just now. For the first step is gained, the first victory
won; and, as Homer sometimes nods, so Miller relaxes the
sternness of his rule. The crew, as soon as they have found their
voices again, laugh and talk, and answer the congratulations of
their friends, as the boat slips along close to the towing path
on the Berks side, "easy all," almost keeping pace nevertheless
with the lower boats, which are racing up under the willows on
the Oxfordshire side. Jack, after one or two feints, makes a
frantic bound into the water, and is hauled dripping into the
boat by Drysdale, unchid by Miller, but to the intense disgust of
Diogenes, whose pantaloons and principles are alike outraged by
the proceeding. He--the Cato of the oar--scorns to relax the
strictness of his code even after victory won. Neither word nor
look does he cast to the exhulting St. Ambrosians on the bank; a
twinkle in his eye and a subdued chuckle or two, alone betray
that though an oarsman he is mortal. Already he revolves in his
mind the project of an early walk under a few pea-coats, not
being quite satisfied (conscientious old boy!) that he tried his
stretcher enough in that final spurt, and thinking that there
must be an extra pound of flesh on him somewhere or other which
did the mischief.

"I say, Brown," said Drysdale, "how do you feel?"

"All right," said Tom; "I never felt jollier in my life."

"By Jove, though, it was an awful grind; didn't you wish yourself
well out of it below the Gut?"

"No, nor you either."

"Didn't I? I was awfully baked, my throat is like a limekiln yet.
What did you think about?"

"Well, about keeping time, I think," said Tom, "but I can't
remember much."

"I only kept on by thinking how I hated those devils in the
Exeter boat, and how done up they must be, and hoping their NO.2
felt like having a fit."

At this moment they came opposite the Cherwell. The leading boat
was just passing the winning-post, off the university barge, and
the band struck up the "Conquering Hero," with a crash. And while
a mighty sound of shouts, murmurs, and music went up into the
evening sky, Miller shook the tiller-ropes again, the Captain
shouted, "Now then, pick her up," and the St. Ambrose boat shot
up between the swarming banks at racing pace to her
landing-place, the lion of the evening.

Dear readers of the gentler sex! you, I know, will pardon the
enthusiasm which stirs our pulses, now in sober middle age, as we
call up again the memories of this the most exciting sport of our
boy hood (for we were but boys then, after all). You will pardon,
though I fear hopelessly unable to understand, the above sketch;
your sons and brothers will tell you it could not have been less
technical.

For you, male readers, who have never handled an oar,--what shall
I say to you? You at least, I hope, in some way--in other
contests of one kind or another--have felt as we felt, and have
striven as we strove. You _ought_ to understand and sympathize
with us in all our boating memories. Oh, how fresh and sweet they
are! Above all, that one of the gay little Henley town, the
carriage-crowded bridge, the noble river reach, the giant
poplars, which mark the critical point of the course--the roaring
column of "undergrads," light blue and dark purple, Cantab and
Oxonian, alike and yet how different,--hurling along together,
and hiding the towing-path--the clang of Henley church-bells--the
cheering, the waving of embroidered handkerchiefs, and glancing
of bright eyes, the ill-concealed pride of fathers, open delight
and exultation of mothers and sisters--the levee in the town-hall
when the race was rowed, the great cup full of champagne (inn
champagne, but we were not critical)--the chops, the steaks, the
bitter beer--but we run into anti-climax--remember, we were boys
then, and bear with us if you cannot sympathize.

And you, old companions, [Greek text] thranitai, benchers, (of
the gallant eight-oar), now seldom met, but never-forgotten,
lairds, squires, soldiers, merchants, lawyers, grave J.P.'s,
graver clergymen, gravest bishops (for of two bishops at least
does our brotherhood boast), I turn for a moment, from my task,
to reach to you the right hand of fellowship from these pages,
and empty the solemn pewter--trophy of hard-won victory--to your
health and happiness.

Surely none the worse Christians and citizens are ye for your
involuntary failing of muscularity!



CHAPTER XIV

A CHANGE IN THE CREW, AND WHAT CAME OF IT

It was on a Saturday that the St. Ambrose boat made the first
bump, described in our last chapter. On the next Saturday, the
day-week after the first success, at nine o'clock in the evening,
our hero was at the door of Hardy's rooms. He just stopped for
one moment outside, with his hand on the lock, looking a little
puzzled, but withal pleased, and then opened the door and
entered. The little estrangement which there had been between
them for some weeks, had passed away since the races had begun.
Hardy had thrown himself into the spirit of them so thoroughly,
that he had not only regained all his hold on Tom, but had warmed
up the whole crew in his favour, and had mollified the martinet
Miller himself. It was he who had managed the starting-rope in
every race, and his voice from the towing path had come to be
looked upon as a safe guide for clapping on or rowing steady.
Even Miller, autocrat as he was, had come to listen for it, in
confirmation of his own judgment, before calling on the crew for
the final effort.

So Tom had recovered his old footing in the servitor's rooms; and
when he entered on the night in question did so with the bearing
of an intimate friend. Hardy's tea commons were on one end of the
table as usual, and he was sitting at the other poring over a
book. Tom marched straight up to him, and leant over his
shoulder.

"What, here you are at the perpetual grind," he said. "Come; shut
up, and give me some tea; I want to talk to you."

Hardy looked up with a grim smile.

"Are you up to a cup of tea?" he said; "look here, I was just
reminded of you fellows. Shall I construe for you?"

He pointed with his finger to the open page of the book he was
reading. It was the Knights of Aristophanes, and Tom, leaning
over his shoulder, read,--

   [Greek text] chata chathixion malachoz ina meh tribehz tehn en
Salamint,  &c.

After meditating a moment, he burst out; "You hardhearted old
ruffian! I come here for sympathy, and the first thing you do is
to poke fun at me out of your wretched classics. I've a good mind
to clear out and not to do my errand."

"What's a man to do?" said Hardy. "I hold that it's always better
to laugh at fortune. What's the use of repining? You have done
famously, and second is a capital place on the river."

"Second be hanged!" said Tom. "We mean to be first."

"Well, I hope we may!" said Hardy. "I can tell you nobody felt it
more than I--not even old Diogenes--when you didn't make your
bump to-night."

"Now you talk like a man, and a Saint Ambrosian," said Tom. "But
what do you think? Shall we ever catch them?" and, so saying, he
retired to a chair opposite the tea things.

"No," said Hardy; "I don't think we ever shall. I'm very sorry to
say it, but they are an uncommonly strong lot, and we have a weak
place or two in our crew. I don't think we can do more than we
did to-night--at least with the present crew."

"But if we could get a little more strength we might?"

"Yes, I think so. Jervis's stroke is worth two of theirs. A very
little more powder would do it."

"Then we must have a little more powder."

"Ay, but how are we to get it? Who can you put in?"

"You!" said Tom, sitting up. "There, now, that's just what I am
come about. Drysdale is to go out. Will you pull next race? They
all want you to row."

"Do they?" said Hardy, quietly (but Tom could see that his eye
sparkled at the notion, though he was too proud to show how much
he was pleased); "then they had better come and ask me
themselves."

"Well, you cantankerous old party, they're coming, I can tell
you!" said Tom in great delight. "The Captain just sent me to
break ground, and will be here directly himself. I say now,
Hardy," he went on, "don't you say no. I've set my heart upon it.
I'm sure we shall bump them if you pull."

"I don't know that," said Hardy, getting up, and beginning to
make tea, to conceal the excitement he was in at the idea of
rowing; "you see I'm not in training."

"Gammon," said Tom, "you're always in training, and you know it."

"Well," said Hardy, "I can't be in worse than Drysdale. He has
been of no use above the Gut these last three nights."

"That's just what Miller says," said Tom, "and here comes the
Captain." There was a knock at the door while he spoke, and
Jervis and Miller entered.

Tom was in a dreadful fidget for the next twenty minutes, and may
best be compared to an enthusiastic envoy negotiating a treaty,
and suddenly finding his action impeded by the arrival of his
principals. Miller was very civil, but not pressing; he seemed to
have come more with a view of talking over the present state of
things, and consulting upon them, than to enlisting a recruit.
Hardy met him more than halfway, and speculated on all sorts of
possible issues, without a hint of volunteering himself. But
presently Jervis, who did not understand finessing, broke in, and
asked Hardy, point blank, to pull in the next race; and when he
pleaded want of training, overruled him at once by saying that
there was no better training than sculling. So in half an hour
all was settled. Hardy was to pull five in the next race,
Diogenes was to take Blake's place, at No. 7, and Blake to take
Drysdale's oar at No. 2. The whole crew were to go for a long
training walk the next day, Sunday, in the afternoon; to go down
to Abingdon on Monday, just to get into swing in their new
places, and then on Tuesday to abide the fate of war. They had
half an hour's pleasant talk over Hardy's tea, and then
separated.

"I always told you he was our man," said the Captain to Miller,
as the walked together to the gates; "we want strength, and he is
as strong as a horse. You must have seen him sculling yourself.
There isn't his match on the river to my mind."

"Yes, I think he'll do," replied Miller; "at any rate he can't be
worse than Drysdale."

As for Tom and Hardy, it may safely be said that no two men in
Oxford went to bed in better spirits that Saturday night than
they two.

And now to explain how it came about that Hardy was wanted.
Fortune had smiled upon the St. Ambrosians in the two races which
succeeded the one in which they had bumped Exeter. They had risen
two more places without any very great trouble. Of course, the
constituencies on the bank magnified their powers and doings.
There never was such a crew, they were quite safe to be head of
the river, nothing could live against their pace. So the young
oars in the boat swallowed all they heard, thought themselves the
finest fellows going, took less and less pains to keep up their
condition, and when they got out of earshot of Jervis and
Diogenes, were ready to bet two to one that they would bump Oriel
the next night, and keep easily head of the river for the rest of
the races.

Saturday night came, and brought with it a most useful though
unpalatable lesson to the St. Ambrosians. The Oriel boat was
manned chiefly by old oars, seasoned in many a race, and not
liable to panic when hard pressed. They had a fair, though not a
first-rate stroke, and a good coxswain; experts remarked that
they were rather too heavy for their boat, and that she dipped a
little when they put on anything like a severe spurt; but on the
whole they were by no means the sort of crew you could just run
into hand over hand. So Miller and Diogenes preached, and so the
Ambrosians found out to their cost.

They had the pace of the other boat, and gained as usual a boat's
length before the Gut; but, first those two fatal corners were
passed, and then other well-remembered spots where former bumps
had been made, and still Miller made no sign; on the contrary, he
looked gloomy and savage. The St. Ambrosian shouts from the shore
too changed from the usual exultant peals into something like a
quaver of consternation, while the air was rent with the name and
laudations of "little Oriel."

Long before the Cherwell Drysdale was completely baked (he had
played truant the day before and dined at the Weirs, were he had
imbibed much dubious hock), but he from old habit managed to keep
time. Tom and the other young oars got flurried, and quickened;
the boat dragged, there was no life left in her, and, though they
managed just to hold their first advantage, could not put her a
foot nearer the stern of the Oriel boat, which glided past the
winning-post a clear boat's length ahead of her pursuer, and with
a crew much less depressed.

Such races must tell on strokes; and even Jervis, who had pulled
magnificently throughout, was very much done at the close, and
leant over his oar with a swimming in his head, and an approach
to faintness, and was scarcely able to see for a minute or so.
Miller's indignation knew no bounds, but he bottled it up till he
had manoeuvered the crew into their dressing-room by themselves,
Jervis having stopped below. Then he did not spare them. "They
would kill their captain, whose little finger was worth the whole
of them; they were disgracing the college; three or four of them
had neither heart, head nor pluck." They all felt that this was
unjust, for after all had they not brought the boat up to the
second place? Poor Diogenes sat in a corner and groaned; he
forgot to prefix "old fellow" to the few observations he made.
Blake had great difficulty in adjusting his necktie before the
glass; he merely remarked in a pause of the objurgation, "In
faith, coxswain, these be very bitter words." Tom and most of the
others were too much out of heart to resist; but at last Drysdale
fired up--

"You've no right to be so savage that I can see," he said,
suddenly stopping the low whistle in which he was indulging, as
he sat on the corner of the table; "you seem to think No 2 the
weakest out of several weak places in the boat."

"Yes, I do," said Miller.

"Then this honourable member," said Drysdale, getting off the
table, "seeing that his humble efforts are unappreciated, thinks
it best for the public service to place his resignation in the
hands of your coxswainship."

"Which my coxswainship is graciously pleased to accept," replied
Miller.

"Hurrah for a roomy punt and a soft cushion next racing
night--it's almost worth while to have been rowing all this time,
to realize the sensations I shall feel when I see you fellows
passing the Cherwell on Tuesday."

"_Suave est_, it's what I'm partial to, _mari mango_, in the last
reach, _terra_, from the towing path, _alterius magnum spectare
laborem_, to witness the tortures of you wretched beggars in the
boat. I'm obliged to translate for Drysdale, who never learned
Latin," said Blake, finishing his tie before the glass. There was
an awkward silence. Miller was chafing inwardly and running over
in his mind what was to be done; and nobody else seemed quite to
know what ought to happen next, when the door opened and Jervis
came in.

"Congratulate me, my Captain," said Drysdale; "I'm well out of it
at last."

Jervis "pished and pshaw'd" a little at hearing what had
happened, but his presence acted like oil on the waters. The
moment the resignation was named, Tom's thoughts had turned to
Hardy. Now was the time--he had such confidence in the man, that
the idea of getting him in for next race entirely changed the
aspect of affairs to him, and made him feel as "bumptious" again
as he had done in the morning. So with this idea in his head, he
hung about till the Captain had made his toilet, and joined
himself to him and Miller as they walked up.

"Well, what are we going to do now," said the Captain.

"That's just what you have to settle," said Miller; "you have
been up all the term, and know the men's pulling better than I."

"I suppose we must press somebody from the torpid--let me see,
there's Burton."

"He rolls like a porpoise," interrupted Miller, positively;
"impossible."

"Stewart might do, then."

"Never kept time for three strokes in his life," said Miller.

"Well, there are no better men," said the Captain.

"Then we may lay our account to stopping where we are, if we
don't even lose a place," said Miller.

"Dust unto dust, what must be, must;

If you can't get crumb, you'd best eat crust." said the Captain.

"It's all very well talking coolly now," said Miller, "but you'll
kill yourself trying to bump, and there are three more nights."

"Hardy would row if you asked him, I'm sure," said Tom.

The Captain looked at Miller, who shook his head. "I don't think
it," he said; "I take him to be a shy bird that won't come to
everybody's whistle. We might have had him two years ago, I
believe--I wish we had."

"I always told you so," said Jervis; "at any rate let's try him.
He can but say no, and I don't think he will for you see he has
been at the starting place every night, and as keen as a freshman
all the time."

"I'm sure he won't," said Tom; "I know he would give anything to
pull."

"You had better go to his rooms and sound him," said the Captain;
"Miller and I will follow in half an hour."

We have already heard how Tom's mission prospered.

The next day, at a few moments before two o'clock, the St.
Ambrose crew, including Hardy, with Miller (who was a desperate
and indefatigable pedestrian), for leader, crossed Magdalen
Bridge. At five they returned to college, having done a little
over fifteen miles fair heal and toe walking in the interval. The
afternoon had been very hot, and Miller chuckled to the Captain,
"I don't think there will be much trash left in any of them after
that. That fellow Hardy is as fine as a race-horse, and, did you
see, he never turned a hair all the way."

The crew dispersed to their rooms, delighted with the performance
now that it was over, and feeling that they were much the better
for it, though they all declared it had been harder work than any
race they had yet pulled. It would have done a trainer's heart
good to have seen them, some twenty minutes afterwards, dropping
into hall (where they were allowed to dine on Sundays on the
joint), fresh from cold baths, and looking ruddy and clear, and
hard enough for anything.

Again on Monday, not a chance was lost. The St. Ambrose boat
started soon after one o'clock for Abingdon. They swung steadily
down the whole way, and back again to Sandford without a single
spurt; Miller generally standing in the stern and preaching above
all things steadiness and time. From Sandford up, they were
accompanied by half a dozen men or so, who ran up the bank
watching them. The struggle for the first place on the river was
creating great excitement in the rowing world, and these were
some of the most keen connoisseurs, who, having heard that St.
Ambrose had changed a man, were on the look-out to satisfy
themselves as to how it would work. The general opinion was
veering round in favor of Oriel; changes so late in the races, at
such a critical moment, were looked upon as very damaging.

Foremost amongst the runners on the bank was a wiry, dark man,
with a sanguine complexion, who went with a peculiar long, low
stride, keeping his keen eye well on the boat. Just above
Kennington Island, Jervis, noticing this particular spectator for
the first time, called on the crew, and, quickening his stroke,
took them up the reach at racing pace. As they lay in Iffley Lock
the dark man appeared above them, and exchanged a few words and a
great deal of dumb show with the Captain and Miller, and then
disappeared.

From Iffley up they went steadily again. On the whole Miller
seemed to be in very good spirits in the dressing room; he
thought the boat trimmed better, and went better than she had
ever done before, and complimented Blake particularly for the
ease with which he had changed sides. They all went up in high
spirits, calling on their way at "The Choughs" for one glass of
old ale round, which Miller was graciously pleased to allow. Tom
never remembered till they were out again that Hardy had never
been there before, and felt embarrassed for a moment, but it soon
passed off. A moderate dinner and early to bed finished the day,
and Miller was justified in his parting remark to the Captain,
"Well, if we don't win, we can comfort ourselves that we hav'n't
dropped a stitch this last two days, at any rate."

Then the eventful day arose which Tom, and many others felt was
to make or mar St. Ambrose. It was a glorious early-summer day,
without a cloud, scarcely a breath of air stirring. "We shall
have a fair start at any rate," was the general feeling. We have
already seen what a throat-drying, nervous business, the morning
of a race-day is, and must not go over the same ground more than
we can help; so we will imagine the St. Ambrose boat down at the
starting place, lying close to the towing path, just before the
first gun.

There is a much greater crowd than usual opposite the two first
boats. By this time most of the other boats have found their
places, for there is not much chance of anything very exciting
down below; so, besides the men of Oriel and St. Ambrose (who
muster to-night of all sorts, the fastest of the fast and the
slowest of the slow having been by this time shamed into
something like enthusiasm), many of other colleges, whose boats
have no chance of bumping or being bumped, flock to the point of
attraction.

"Do you make out what the change is?" says a backer of Oriel to
his friend in the like predicament.

"Yes, they've got a NO.5, don't you see, and, by George, I don't
like his looks," answered his friend; "awfully long and strong in
the arm, and well ribbed up. A devilish awkward customer. I shall
go and try to get a hedge."

"Pooh," says the other, "did you ever know one man win a race?"

"Ay, that I have," says his friend, and walks off toward the
Oriel crowd to take five to four on Oriel in half-sovereigns, if
he can get it.

Now their dark friend of yesterday comes up at a trot, and pulls
up close to the Captain, with whom he is evidently dear friends.
He is worth looking at, being coxswain of the O. U. B., the best
steerer, runner and swimmer in Oxford; amphibious himself and
sprung from an amphibious race. His own boat is in no danger, so
he has left her to take care of herself. He is on the look-out
for recruits for the University crew, and no recruiting sergeant
has a sharper eye for the sort of stuff he requires.

"What's his name?" he says in a low tone to Jervis, giving a jerk
with his head towards Hardy. "Where did you get him?"

"Hardy," answers the Captain, in the same tone; "it's his first
night in the boat."

"I know that," replies the coxswain; "I never saw him row before
yesterday. He's the fellow who sculls in that brown skiff, isn't
he?"

"Yes, and I think he'll do; keep your eye on him."

The coxswain nods as if he were somewhat of the same mind, and
examines Hardy with the eye of a connoisseur, pretty much as the
judge at an agricultural show looks at the prize bull. Hardy is
tightening the strop of his stretcher, and all-unconscious of the
compliments which are being paid him. The great authority seems
satisfied with his inspection, grins, rubs his hands, and trots
off to the Oriel boat to make comparisons.

Just as the first gun is heard, Grey sidles nervously to the
front of the crowd as if he were doing something very audacious,
and draws Hardy's attention, exchanging sympathizing nods with
him, but saying nothing, for he knows not what to say, and then
disappearing again in the crowd.

"Hallo, Drysdale, is that you?" says Blake, as they push off from
the shore. "I thought you were going to take it easy in a punt."

"So I thought," says Drysdale, "but I couldn't keep away, and
here I am. I shall run up; and mind, if I see you within ten
feet, and cock-sure to win, I'll give a view holloa. I'll be
bound you shall hear it."

"May it come speedily," said Blake, and then settled himself in
his seat.

"Eyes in the boat--mind now, steady all, watch the stroke and
don't quicken."

These are Miller's last words; every faculty of himself and the
crew being now devoted to getting a good start. This is no
difficult matter, as the water is like glass, and the boat lies
lightly on it, obeying the slightest dip of the oars of bow and
two, who just feel the water twice or thrice in the last minute.
Then, after a few moments of breathless hush on the bank, the
last gun is fired, and they are off.

The same scene of mad excitement ensues, only tenfold more
intense, as almost the whole interest of the races is tonight
concentrated on the two head boats and their fate. At every gate
there is a jam, and the weaker vessels are shoved into the
ditches, upset and left unnoticed. The most active men, including
the O. U. B. coxswain, shun the gates altogether, and take the
big ditches in their stride, making for the long bridges, that
they may get quietly over these and be safe for the best part of
the race. They know that the critical point of the struggle will
be near the finish.

Both boats made a beautiful start, and again as before in the
first dash the St. Ambrose pace tells, and they gain their boat's
length before first winds fail; then they settle down for a long
steady effort. Both crews are rowing comparatively steady
reserving themselves for the tug of war up above. Thus they pass
the Gut, and those two treacherous corners, the scene of
countless bumps, into the wider water beyond, up under the
willows.

Miller's face is decidedly hopeful; he shows no sign, indeed, but
you can see that he is not the same man as he was at this place
in the last race. He feels that to-day the boat is full of life,
and that he can call on his crew with hopes of an answer. His
well-trained eye also detects that, while both crews are at full
stretch, his own, instead of losing, as it did on the last night,
is now gaining inch by inch on Oriel. The gain is scarcely
perceptible to him even; from the bank it is quite imperceptible;
but there it is; he is surer and surer of it, as one after
another the willows are left behind.

And now comes the pinch. The Oriel captain is beginning to be
conscious of the fact which has been dawning on Miller, but will
not acknowledge it to himself, and as his coxswain turns the
boat's head gently across the stream, and makes for the Berkshire
side and the goal, now full in view, he smiles grimly as he
quickens his stroke; he will shake off these light heeled gentry
yet, as he did before.

Miller sees the move in a moment, and signals his captain, and
the next stroke St. Ambrose has quickened also; and now there is
no mistake about it, St. Ambrose is creeping up slowly but
surely. The boat's length lessens to forty feet, thirty feet;
surely and steadily lessens. But the race is not lost yet; thirty
feet is a short space enough to look at on the water, but a good
bit to pick up foot by foot in the last two or three hundred
yards of a desperate struggle. They are over, under the Berkshire
side now and there stands up the winning-post, close ahead, all
but won. The distance lessens, and lessens still, but the Oriel
crew stick steadily and gallantly to their work, and will fight
every inch of distance to the last. The Oriel men on the bank who
are rushing along sometimes in the water, sometimes out, hoarse,
furious, madly alternating between hope and despair, have no
reason to be ashamed of a man in the crew. Off the mouth of the
Cherwell there is still twenty feet between them. Another minute
and it will be over one way or another. Every man in both crews
is now doing his best, and no mistake; tell me which boat holds
the most men who can do better than their best at a pinch, who
will risk a broken blood-vessel, and I will tell you how it will
end. "Hard pounding, gentlemen; let's see who will pound
longest," the Duke is reported to have said at Waterloo, and won.
"Now, Tommy, lad, 'tis thou or I," Big Ben said as he came up to
the last round of his hardest fight, and won. Is there a man of
that temper in either crew tonight? If so, now's his time. For
both coxswains have called on their men for the last effort;
Miller is whirling the tassel of his right-hand tiller rope round
his head, like a wiry little lunatic; from the towing path, from
Christchurch meadow, from the row of punts, from the clustered
tops of the barges, comes a roar of encouragement and applause,
and the band, unable to resist the impulse, breaks with a crash
into the "Jolly Young Watermen," playing two bars to the second.
A bump in the Gut is nothing--a few partisans on the towing-path
to cheer you, already out of breath; but up here at the very
finish, with all Oxford looking on, when the prize is the
headship of the river--once in a generation only do men get such
a chance.

Who ever saw Jervis not up to his work? The St. Ambrose stroke is
glorious. Tom had an atom of go still left in the very back of
his head, and at this moment he heard Drysdale's view holloa
above all the din; it seemed to give him a lift, and other men
besides in the boat, for in another six strokes the gap is
lessened and St. Ambrose has crept up to ten feet, and now to
five from the stern of Oriel. Weeks afterwards Hardy confided to
Tom that when he heard that view holloa he seemed to feel the
muscles of his arms and legs turn into steel, and did more work
in the last twenty strokes than in any other forty in the earlier
part of the race.

Another fifty yards and Oriel is safe, but the look on the
captain's face is so ominous that their coxswain glances over his
shoulder. The bow of St. Ambrose is within two feet of their
rudder. It is a moment for desperate expedients. He pulls his
left tiller rope suddenly, thereby carrying the stern of his own
boat out of the line of the St. Ambrose, and calls on his crew
once more; they respond gallantly yet, but the rudder is against
them for a moment, and the boat drags. St. Ambrose overlaps. "A
bump, a bump," shout the St. Ambrosians on shore. "Row on, row
on," screams Miller. He has not yet felt the electric shock, and
knows he will miss his bump if the young ones slacken for a
moment. A young coxswain would have gone on making shots at the
stern of the Oriel boat, and so have lost.

A bump now and no mistake; the bow of the St. Ambrose boat jams
the oar of the Oriel stroke, and the two boats pass the
winning-post with the way that was on them when the bump was
made. So near a shave was it.

Who can describe the scene on the bank? It was a hurly-burly of
delirious joy, in the midst of which took place a terrific combat
between Jack and the Oriel dog--a noble black bull terrier
belonging to the college in general, and no one in
particular--who always attended the races and felt the misfortune
keenly. Luckily they were parted without worse things happening;
for though the Oriel men were savage, and not disinclined for a
jostle, the milk of human kindness was too strong for the moment
in their adversaries. So Jack was choked off with some trouble,
and the Oriel men extricated themselves from the crowd, carrying
off Crib, their dog, and looking straight before them into
vacancy.

"Well rowed, boys," says Jervis, turning round to his crew as
they lay panting on their oars.

"Well rowed; five," says Miller, who even in the hour of such a
triumph is not inclined to be general in laudation.

"Well rowed, five," is echoed from the bank; it is that cunning
man, the recruiting-sergeant. "_Fatally_ well rowed," he adds to
a comrade, with whom he gets into one of the punts to cross to
Christchurch meadow; "we must have him in the University crew."

"I don't think you'll get him to row, from what I hear," answers
the other.

"Then he must he handcuffed and carried into the boat by force,"
says the O. U. B. coxswain; "why is not the pressgang an
institution in this university?"



CHAPTER XV

A STORM BREWS AND BREAKS

Certainly Drysdale's character came out well that night. He did
not seem the least jealous of the success which had been achieved
through his dismissal. On the contrary, there was no man in the
college who showed more interest in the race, or joy at the
result, then he. Perhaps the pleasure of being out of it himself
may have reckoned for something with him. In any case, there he
was at the door with Jack, to meet the crew as they landed after
the race, with a large pewter, foaming with shandygaff, in each
hand, for their recreation. Draco himself could not have
forbidden them to drink at that moment; so, amidst shaking of
hands and clapping on the back, the pewters travelled round from
stroke to bow, and then the crew went off to their dressing-room,
accompanied by Drysdale and others.

"Bravo! it was the finest race that has been seen on the river
this six years; everybody says so. You fellows have deserved well
of your country. I've sent up to college to have supper in my
room, and you must all come. Hang training! there are only two
more nights, and you're safe to keep your place. What do you say
Captain? eh, Miller? Now be good-natured for once."

"Well, we don't get head of the river every night," said Miller.
"I don't object if you'll all turn out and go to bed at eleven."

"That's all right," said Drysdale; "and now let's go to the old
'Choughs' and have a glass of ale while supper is getting ready.
Eh, Brown?" and he hooked his arm into Tom's and led the way into
the town.

"I'm so sorry you were not in it for the finish," said Tom, who
was quite touched by his friend's good-humour.

"Are you?" said Drysdale; "it's more than I am, then, I can tell
you. If you could have seen yourself under the willows, you
wouldn't have thought yourself much of an object of envy. Jack
and I were quite satisfied with our share of work and glory on
the bank. Weren't we, old fellow?" at which salutation Jack
reared himself on his hind legs and licked his master's hand.

"Well, you're a real good fellow for taking it as you do. I don't
think I could have come near the river if I had been you."

"I take everything as it comes," said Drysdale. "The next race is
on Derby day, and I couldn't have gone if I hadn't been turned
out of the boat; that's a compensation, you see. Here we are. I
wonder if Miss Patty has heard of the victory?"

They turned down the little passage entrance of "The Choughs" as
he spoke, followed by most of the crew, and by a tail of younger
St. Ambrosians, their admirers, and the bar was crowded the next
moment. Patty was there, of course, and her services were in
great requisition; for though each of the crew only took a small
glass of the old ale, they made as much fuss about it with the
pretty barmaid as if they were drinking hogsheads. In fact, it
had become clearly the correct thing with the St. Ambrosians to
make much of Patty; and, considering the circumstances, it was
only a wonder that she was not more spoiled than seemed to be the
case. Indeed, as Hardy stood up in the corner opposite to the
landlady's chair, a silent onlooker at the scene, he couldn't
help admitting to himself that the girl held her own well,
without doing or saying anything unbecoming a modest woman. And
it was a hard thing for him to be fair to her, for what he saw
now in a few minutes confirmed the impression which his former
visit had left on his mind--that his friend was safe in her
toils; how deeply, of course he could not judge, but that there
was more between them than he could approve was now clear enough
to him, and he stood silent, leaning against the wall in that
farthest corner, in the shadow of a projecting cupboard, much
distressed in mind, and pondering over what it behove him to do
under the circumstances. With the exception of a civil sentence
or two to the old landlady who sat opposite him knitting, and
casting rather uneasy looks from time to time towards the front
of the bar, he spoke to no one. In fact, nobody came near that
end of the room, and their existence seemed to have been
forgotten by the rest.

Tom had been a little uncomfortable for the first minute; but
after seeing Hardy take his glass of ale, and then missing him,
he forgot all about him, and was too busy with his own affairs to
trouble himself further. He had become a sort of drawer, or
barman, at "The Cloughs," and presided, under Patty, over the
distribution of the ale, giving an eye to his chief to see that
she was not put upon.

Drysdale and Jack left after a short stay, to see that the supper
was being properly prepared. Soon afterwards Patty went off out
of the bar in answer to some bell which called her to another
part of the house; and the St. Ambrosians voted that it was time
to go off to college to supper, and cleared out into the street.

Tom went out with the last batch of them, but lingered a moment
in the passage outside. He knew the house and its ways well
enough by this time. The next moment Patty appeared from a side
door, which led to another part of the house.

"So you're not going to stay and play a game with aunt," she
said; "what makes you in such a hurry?"

"I must go up to college; there's a supper to celebrate our
getting head of the river." Patty looked down and pouted a
little. Tom took her hand, and said sentimentally, "Don't be
cross, now; you know that I would sooner stay here, don't you?"

She tossed her head, and pulled away her hand, and then changing
the subject, said, "Who's that ugly old fellow who was here again
to-night?"

"There was no one older than Miller, and he is rather an admirer
of yours. I shall tell him you called him ugly."

"Oh, I don't mean Mr. Miller; you know that well enough," she
answered. "I mean him in the old rough coat, who don't talk to
anyone."

"Ugly old fellow, Patty? Why, you mean Hardy. He's a great friend
of mine, and you must like him for my sake."

"I'm sure I won't. I don't like him a bit; he looks so cross at
me."

"It's all your fancy. There now, good-night."

"You shan't go, however, till you've given me that handkerchief.
You promised it me if you got head of the river."

"Oh! you little story-teller. Why, they are my college colors. I
wouldn't part with them for worlds. I'll give you a lock of my
hair, and the prettiest handkerchief you can find in Oxford; but
not this."

"But I _will_ have it and you _did_ promise me it," she said, and
put up her hands suddenly, and untied the bow of Tom's
neck-handkerchief. He caught her wrists in his hands, and looked
down into her eyes, in which, if he saw a little pique at his
going, he saw other things which stirred in him strange feelings
of triumph and tenderness.

"Well, then you shall pay for it, anyhow," he said.--Why, need I
tell what followed?--There was a little struggle; a "Go along,
do, Mr. Brown;" and the next minute Tom minus his handkerchief,
was hurrying after his companions; and Patty was watching him
from the door, and setting her cap to rights. Then she turned and
went back into the bar, and started, and turned red, as she saw
Hardy there, still standing in the further corner, opposite her
aunt. He finished his glass of ale as she came in, and then
passed out wishing them "Good-night."

"Why aunt" she said, "I thought they were all gone. Who was that
sour-looking man?"

"He seems a nice quiet gentleman, my dear," said the old lady,
looking up. "I'm sure he's much better than those ones as make so
much racket in the bar. But where have you been, Patty?"

"Oh, to the commercial room, aunt. Won't you have a game at
cribbage?" and Patty took up the cards and set the board out, the
old lady looking at her doubtfully all the time through her
spectacles. She was beginning to wish that the college gentlemen
wouldn't come so much to the house, though they were very good
customers.

Tom, minus his handkerchief, hurried after his comrades, and
caught them up before they got to college. They were all there
but Hardy, whose absence vexed our hero for a moment; he had
hoped that Hardy, now that he was in the boat, would have shaken
off all his reserve towards the other men, and blamed him because
he had not done so at once. There could be no reason for it but
his own oddness he thought, for everyone was full of his praises
as they strolled on talking of the race. Miller praised his
style, and time, and pluck. "Didn't you feel how the boat sprung
when I called on you at the Cherwell?" he said to the Captain.
"Drysdale was always dead beat at the Gut, and just like a log in
the boat, pretty much like some of the rest of you."

"He's in such good training, too," said Diogenes; "I shall find
out how he diets himself."

"We've pretty well done with that, I should hope," said No.6.
"There are only two more nights, and nothing can touch us now."

"Don't be too sure of that," said Miller. "Mind now, all of you,
don't let us have any nonsense till the races are over and we are
all safe."

And so they talked on till they reached college, and then
dispersed to their rooms to wash and dress and met again in
Drysdale's rooms, where supper was awaiting them.

Again Hardy did not appear. Drysdale sent a scout to his rooms,
who brought back word that he could not find him; so Drysdale set
to work to do the honors of his table and enjoyed the pleasure of
tempting the crew with all sorts of forbidden hot liquors, which
he and the rest of the non professionals imbibed freely. But with
Miller's eye on them, and the example of Diogenes and the Captain
before them, the rest of the crew exercised an abstemiousness
which would have been admirable, had it not been in a great
measure compulsory.

It was a great success, this supper at Drysdale's, although
knocked up at an hour's notice. The triumph of their boat, had,
for the time, the effect of warming up and drawing out the
feeling of fellowship, which is the soul of college life. Though
only a few men besides the crew sat down to supper, long before
it was cleared away men of every set in the college came in, in
the highest spirits, and the room was crowded. For Drysdale sent
round to every man in the college with whom he had a speaking
acquaintance, and they flocked in and sat where they could, and
men talked and laughed with neighbors, with whom, perhaps, they
had never exchanged a word since the time when they were freshmen
together.

Of course there were speeches, cheered to the echo, and songs, of
which the choruses might have been heard in the High-street. At a
little before eleven, nevertheless, despite the protestations of
Drysdale, and the passive resistance of several of their number,
Miller carried off the crew, and many of the other guests went at
the same time, leaving their host and a small circle to make a
night of it.

Tom went to his room in high spirits, humming the air of one of
the songs he had just heard; but he had scarcely thrown his gown
on a chair when a thought struck him, and he ran down stairs
again and across to Hardy's rooms.

Hardy was sitting with some cold tea poured out, but untasted,
before him, and no books open--a very unusual thing with him at
night. But Tom either did not or would not notice that there was
anything unusual.

He seated himself and began gossiping away as fast as he could,
without looking much at the other. He began by recounting all the
complimentary things which had been said by Miller and others of
Hardy's pulling. Then he went on to the supper party; what a
jolly evening they had had; he did not remember anything so
pleasant since he had been up, and he retailed the speeches, and
named the best songs. "You really ought to have been there. Why
didn't you come? Drysdale sent over for you. I'm sure every one
wished you had been there. Didn't you get his message?"

"I didn't feel up to going," said Hardy.

"There's nothing the matter, eh?" said Tom, as the thought
crossed his mind that perhaps Hardy had hurt himself in the race,
as he had not been regularly training.

"No, nothing," answered the other.

Tom tried to make play again, but soon came to an end of his
talk. It was impossible to make head against that cold silence.
At last he stopped, looked at Hardy for a minute, who was staring
abstractedly at the sword over his mantel-piece, and then said,--

"There _is_ something the matter, though. Don't sit glowering as
if you had swallowed a furze bush. Why you haven't been smoking,
old boy?" he added, getting up and putting his hand on the others
shoulder. "I see that's it. Here, take one of my weeds, they're
mild. Miller allows two of these a day."

"No, thank'ee," said Hardy, rousing himself; "Miller hasn't
interfered with my smoking, and I _will_ have a pipe, for I think
I want it."

"Well, I don't see that it does you any good," said Tom, after
watching him fill and light, and smoke for some minutes without
saying a word. "Here, I've managed the one thing I had at heart.
You are in the crew, and we are head of the river, and everybody
is praising your rowing up to the skies, and saying that the bump
was all your doing. And here I come to tell you, and not a word
can I get out of you. Ain't you pleased? Do you think we shall
keep our place?" He paused a moment.

"Hang it all, I say," he added, losing all patience; "swear a
little if you can't do anything else. Let's hear your voice; it
isn't such a tender one that you need keep it all shut up."

"Well," said Hardy, making a great effort; "the real fact is I
_have_ something, and something very serious to say to you."

"Then I'm not going to listen to it," broke in Tom; "I'm not
serious, and I won't be serious, and no one shall make me serious
to-night. It's no use, so don't look glum. But isn't the ale at
'The Choughs' good? and isn't it a dear little place?"

"It's that place I want to talk to you about," said Hardy,
turning his chair suddenly so as to front his visitor. "Now,
Brown, we haven't known one another long, but I think I
understand you, and I know I like you, and I hope you like me."

"Well, well, well," broke in Tom, "of course I like you, old
fellow, or else I shouldn't come poking after you, and wasting so
much of your time, and sitting on your cursed hard chairs in the
middle of the races. What has liking to do with 'The Choughs,' or
'The Choughs' with long faces? You ought to have had another
glass of ale there."

"I wish you had never had a glass of ale there," said Hardy,
bolting out his words as if they were red hot. "Brown you have no
right to go to that place."

"Why?" said Tom, sitting up in his chair and beginning to be
nettled.

"You know why," said Hardy, looking him full in the face, and
puffing out huge volumes of smoke. In spite of the bluntness of
the attack, there was a yearning look which spread over the
rugged brow, and shone out of the deep set eyes of the speaker,
which almost conquered Tom. But first pride, and then the
consciousness of what was coming next, which began to dawn on
him, rose in his heart. It was all he could do to meet that look
full, but he managed it, though he flushed to the roots of his
hair, as he simply repeated through his set teeth, "Why?"

"I say again," said Hardy, "you know why."

"I see what you mean," said Tom, slowly; "as you say, we have not
known one another long; long enough, though, I should have
thought, for you to have been more charitable. Why am I not to go
to 'The Cloughs'? Because there happens to be a pretty bar maid
there? All our crew go, and twenty other men besides."

"Yes; but do any of them go in the sort of way you do? Does she
look at anyone of them as she does at you?"

"How do I know?"

"That's not fair, or true, or like you, Brown," said Hardy,
getting up and beginning to walk up and down the room. "You _do_
know that that girl doesn't care a straw for the other men who go
there. You _do_ know that she is beginning to care for you."

"You seem to know a great deal about it," said Tom; "I don't
believe you were ever there before two days ago."

"No, I never was."

"Then I think you needn't be quite so quick at finding fault. If
there were anything I didn't wish you to see, do you think I
should have taken you there? I tell you she is quite able to take
care of herself."

"So I believe," said Hardy; "if she were a mere giddy, light
girl, setting her cap at every man who came in, it wouldn't
matter so much--for her at any rate. She can take care of herself
well enough so far as the rest are concerned, but you know it
isn't so with you. You know it now, Brown; tell the truth; anyone
with half an eye can see it."

"You seem to have made pretty good use of your eyes in these two
nights, anyhow," said Tom.

"I don't mind your sneers, Brown," said Hardy as he tramped up
and down with his arms locked behind him; "I have taken on myself
to speak to you about this; I should be no true friend if I
shirked it. I'm four years older than you, and have seen more of
the world and of this place than you. You sha'n't go on with this
folly, this sin, for want of warning."

"So it seems," said Tom doggedly. "Now I think I've had warning
enough; suppose we drop the subject."

Hardy stopped his walk, and turned on Tom with a look of anger.
"Not yet," he said, firmly; "you know best how and why you have
done it, but you know that somehow or other you have made that
girl like you."

"Suppose I have, what then; whose business is that but mine and
hers?"

"It's the business of everyone who won't stand by and see the
devil's game played under his nose if he can hinder it."

"What right have you to talk about the devil's game to me?" said
Tom. "I'll tell you what; if you and I are to keep friends we had
better drop this subject."

"If we are to keep friends we must go to the bottom of it. There
are only two endings to this sort of business and you know it as
well as I."

"A right and wrong one, eh? and because you call me your friend
you assume that my end will be the wrong one."

"I do call you my friend, and I say the end must be the wrong one
here. There's no right end. Think of your family. You don't mean
to say--you dare not tell me, that you will marry her?"

"I _dare_ not tell you!" said Tom, starting up in his turn; "I
dare tell you or any man anything I please. But I won't tell you
or any man anything on compulsion."

"I repeat," went on Hardy, "you _dare_ not say you mean to marry
her. You don't mean it--and, as you don't, to kiss her as you did
to-night--"

"So you were sneaking behind to watch me!" burst out Tom, chafing
with rage, and glad to find any handle for a quarrel. The two men
stood fronting one another, the younger writhing with the sense
of shame and outraged pride, and longing for a fierce answer--a
blow--anything, to give vent to the furies which were tearing
him.

But at the end of a few seconds the elder answered, calmly and
slowly,--

"I will not take those words from any man; you had better leave
my rooms."

"If I do, I shall not come back till you have altered your
opinions."

"You need not come back till you have altered yours."

The next moment Tom was in the passage; the next, striding up and
down the side of the inner quadrangle in the pale moonlight.

Poor fellow! it was no pleasant walking ground for him. Is it
worth our while to follow him up and down in his tramp? We have
most of us walked the like marches at one time or another of our
lives. The memory of them is by no means one which we can dwell
on with pleasure. Times they were of blinding and driving storm,
and howling winds, out of which voices as of evil spirits spoke
close in our ears--tauntingly, temptingly, whispering to the
mischievous wild beast which lurks in the bottom of all our
hearts, now, "Rouse up! art thou a man and darest not do this
thing?" now, "Rise, kill and eat--it is thine, wilt thou not take
it? Shall the flimsy scruples of this teacher, or the sanctified
cant of that, bar thy way, and balk thee of thine own? Thou hast
strength to brave them--to brave all things in earth, or heaven,
or hell; put out thy strength and be a man!"

Then did not the wild beast within us shake itself, and feel its
power, sweeping away all the "Thou shalt not's" which the law
wrote up before us in letters of fire, with the "_I will_" of
hardy, godless, self-assertion? And all the while--which alone
made the storm really dreadful to us--was there not the still
small voice--never to be altogether silenced by the roarings of
the tempest of passion, by the evil voices, by our own violent
attempts to stifle it--the still small voice appealing to the
man, the true man, within us, which is made in the image of
God--calling on him to assert his dominion over the wild
beast--to obey, and conquer, and live? Ay! and though we may have
followed the other voices, have we not, while following them,
confessed in our hearts, that all true strength, and nobleness,
and manliness, was to be found in the other path? Do I say that
most of us have had to tread this path, and fight this battle?
Surely I might have said all of us; all, at least, who have
passed the bright days of their boyhood. The clear and keen
intellect no less than the dull and heavy; the weak, the cold,
the nervous, no less than the strong and passionate of body. The
arms and the field have been divers; can have been the same, I
suppose, to no two men, but the battle must have been the same to
all. One here and there may have had a foretaste of it as a boy;
but it is the young man's battle, and not the boy's, thank God
for it! That most hateful and fearful of all realities, call it
by what name we will--self, the natural man, the old Adam--must
have risen up before each of us in early manhood, if not sooner,
challenging the true man within us to which the Spirit of God is
speaking, to a struggle for life or death.

Gird yourself, then, for the fight, my young brother, and take up
the pledge which was made for you when you were a helpless child.
This world, and all others, time and eternity, for you hang upon
the issue. This enemy must be met and vanquished--not finally,
for no man while on earth I suppose, can say that he is slain;
but, when once known and recognized, met and vanquished he must
be, by God's help in this and that encounter, before you can be
truly called a man; before you can really enjoy any one even of
this world's good things.

This strife was no light one for our hero on the night in his
life at which we have arrived. The quiet sky overhead, the quiet
solemn old buildings, under the shadow of which he stood, brought
him no peace. He fled from them into his own rooms; he lighted
his candles and tried to read, and force the whole matter from
his thoughts; but it was useless; back it came again and again.
The more impatient of its presence he became, the less could he
shake it off. Some decision he must make; what should it be? He
could have no peace till it was taken. The veil had been drawn
aside thoroughly, and once for all. Twice he was on the point of
returning to Hardy's rooms to thank him, confess, and consult;
but the tide rolled back again. As the truth of the warning sank
deeper and deeper into him, the irritation against him who had
uttered it grew also. He could not and would not be fair yet. It
is no easy thing for anyone of us to put the whole burden of any
folly or sin on our own backs all at once. "If he had done it in
any other way," thought Tom, "I might have thanked him."

Another effort to shake off the whole question. Down into the
quadrangle again; lights in Drysdale's rooms. He goes up, and
finds the remains of the supper, tankards full of egg-flip and
cardinal, and a party playing at _vingt-un_. He drinks freely,
careless of training or boat-racing, anxious only to drown
thought. He sits down to play. The boisterous talk of some, the
eager keen looks of others, jar on him equally. One minute he is
absent, the next boisterous, then irritable, then moody. A
college card-party is no place to-night for him. He loses his
money, is disgusted at last, and gets to his own rooms by
midnight; goes to bed feverish, dissatisfied with himself, with
all the world. The inexorable question pursues him even into the
strange helpless land of dreams, demanding a decision, when he
has no longer power of will to choose either good or evil.

But how fared it all this time with the physician? Alas! little
better than with his patient. His was the deeper and more
sensitive nature. Keenly conscious of his own position, he had
always avoided any but the most formal intercourse with the men
in his college whom he would have liked most to live with. This
was the first friendship he had made amongst them, and he valued
it accordingly; and now it seemed to lie at his feet in hopeless
fragments, and cast down too by his own hand. Bitterly he blamed
himself over and over again, as he recalled every word that had
passed--not for having spoken--that he felt had been a sacred
duty--but for the harshness and suddenness with which he seemed
to himself to have done it.

"One touch of gentleness or sympathy, and I might have won him.
As it was, how could he have met me otherwise than he did--hard
word for hard word, hasty answer for proud reproof? Can I go to
him and recall it all? No! I can't trust myself; I shall only
make matters worse. Besides, he may think that the servitor--Ah!
am I there again? The old sore, self, self, self! I nurse my own
pride; I value it more than my friend; and yet--no, no! I cannot
go, though I think I could die for him. The sin, if sin there
must be, be on my head. Would to God I could bear the sting of
it! But there will be none--how can I fear? he is too true, too
manly. Rough and brutal as my words have been, they have shown
him the gulf. He will, he must escape it. But will he ever come
back to me? I care not, so he escape."

How can my poor words follow the strong loving man in the
wrestlings of his spirit, till far on in the quiet night he laid
the whole before the Lord and slept! Yes, my brother, even so:
the old, old story; but start not at the phrase, though you may
never have found its meaning--He laid the whole before the Lord
in prayer, for his friend, for himself, for the whole world.

And you, too, if ever you are tried as he was--as every man must
be in one way or another--must learn to do the like with every
burthen on your soul, if you would not have it hanging round you
heavily, and ever more heavily, and dragging you down lower and
lower till your dying day.



CHAPTER XVI

THE STORM RAGES

Hardy was early in the chapel the next morning. It was his week
for pricking in. Every man who entered--from the early men who
strolled in quietly while the bell was still ringing, to the
hurrying, half-dressed loiterers who crushed in as the porter was
closing the doors, and disturbed the congregation in the middle
of the confession--gave him a turn (as the expressive phrase is),
and every turn only ended in disappointment. He put by his list
at last, when the doors were fairly shut, with a sigh. He had
half expected to see Tom come into morning chapel with a face
from which he might have gathered hope that his friend had taken
the right path. But Tom did not come at all, and Hardy felt it
was a bad sign.

They did not meet till the evening, at the river, when the boat
went down for a steady pull, and then Hardy saw at once that all
was going wrong. Neither spoke to or looked at the other. Hardy
expected some one to remark it, but nobody did. After the pull
they walked up, and Tom as usual led the way, as if nothing had
happened, into "The Choughs." Hardy paused for a moment, and then
went in too, and stayed till the rest of the crew left. Tom
deliberately stayed after them all. Hardy turned for a moment as
he was leaving the bar, and saw him settling himself down in his
chair with an air of defiance, meant evidently for him, which
would have made most men angry. He was irritated for a moment,
and then was filled with ruth for the poor wrong-headed youngster
who was heaping up coals of fire for his own head. In his
momentary anger Hardy said to himself, "Well, I have done what I
can; now he must go his own way;" but such a thought was soon
kicked in disgrace from his noble and well-disciplined mind. He
resolved, that, let it cost what it might in the shape of loss of
time and trial of temper, he would leave no stone unturned, and
spare no pains, to deliver his friend of yesterday from the
slough into which he was plunging. How he might best work for
this end occupied his thoughts as he walked towards college.

Tom sat on at "The Choughs," glorifying himself in the thought
that now, at any rate, he had shown Hardy that he wasn't to be
dragooned into doing or not doing anything. He had had a bad time
of it all day, and his good angel had fought hard for victory;
but self-will was too strong for the time. When he stayed behind
the rest, it was more out of bravado than from any defined
purpose of pursuing what he tried to persuade himself was an
innocent flirtation. When he left the house some hours after he
was deeper in the toils than ever, and dark clouds were gathering
over his heart. From that time he was an altered man, and
altering as rapidly for the worse in body as in mind. Hardy saw
the change in both, and groaned over it in secret. Miller's quick
eye detected the bodily change. After the next race he drew Tom
aside, and said,--

"Why, Brown, what's the matter? What have you been about? You're
breaking down. Hold on, man; there's only one more night."

"Never fear," said Tom, proudly, "I shall last it out."

And in the last race he did his work again, though it cost him
more than all the preceding ones put together, and when he got
out of the boat he could scarcely walk or see. He felt a fierce
kind of joy in his own distress, and wished that there were more
races to come. But Miller, as he walked up arm-in-arm with the
Captain, took a different view of the subject.

"Well, it's all right, you see," said the Captain; "but we're not
a boat's length better than Oriel over the course after all. How
was it we bumped them? If anything, they drew a-little on us
to-night."

"Ay, half a boat's length, I should say," answered Miller. "I'm
uncommonly glad it's over; Brown is going all to pieces; he
wouldn't stand another race, and we haven't a man to put in his
place."

"It's odd, too," said the Captain; "I put him down as a laster,
and he has trained well. Perhaps he has overdone it a little.
However, it don't matter now."

So the races were over; and that night a great supper was held in
St. Ambrose Hall, to which were bidden, and came, the crews of
all the boats from Exeter upwards. The Dean, with many misgivings
and cautions, had allowed the hall to be used, on pressure from
Miller and Jervis. Miller was a bachelor and had taken a good
degree, and Jervis bore a high character and was expected to do
well in the schools. So the poor Dean gave in to them, extracting
many promises in exchange for his permission, and flitted
uneasily about all the evening in his cap and gown, instead of
working on at his edition of the Fathers, which occupied every
minute of his leisure, and was making an old man of him before
his time.

From eight to eleven the fine old pointed windows of St. Ambrose
Hall blazed with light, and the choruses of songs, and the cheers
which followed the short intervals of silence which the speeches
made, rang out over the quadrangles, and made the poor Dean amble
about in a state of nervous bewilderment. Inside there was hearty
feasting, such as had not been seen there, for aught I know,
since the day when the king came back to "enjoy his own again."
The one old cup, relic of the Middle Ages, which had survived the
civil wars,--St. Ambrose's had been a right loyal college, and
the plate had gone without a murmur into Charles the First's
war-chest,--went round and round; and rival crews pledged one
another out of it, and the massive tankards of a later day, in
all good faith and good fellowship. Mailed knights, grave
bishops, royal persons of either sex, and "other our
benefactors," looked down on the scene from their heavy gilded
frames, and, let us hope, not unkindly. All passed off well and
quietly; the out-college men were gone, the lights were out, and
the butler had locked the hall door by a quarter past eleven, and
the Dean returned in peace to his own rooms.

Had Tom been told a week before that he would not have enjoyed
that night, that it would not have been amongst the happiest and
proudest of his life, he would have set his informer down as a
madman. As it was, he never once rose to the spirit of the feast,
and wished it all over a dozen times. He deserved not to enjoy
it; but not so Hardy, who was nevertheless almost as much out of
tune as Tom; though the University coxswain had singled him out,
named him in his speech, sat by him and talked to him for a
quarter of an hour, and asked him to go to the Henley and Thames
regattas in the Oxford crew.

The next evening, as usual, Tom found himself at "The Choughs"
with half a dozen others. Patty was in the bar by herself,
looking prettier than ever. One by one the rest of the men
dropped off, the last saying, "Are you coming, Brown?" and being
answered in the negative.

He sat still, watching Patty as she flitted about, washing up the
ale glasses and putting them on their shelves, and getting out
her work basket; and then she came and sat down in her aunt's
chair opposite him, and began stitching away demurely at an apron
she was making. Then he broke silence,--

"Where's your aunt to-night, Patty?"

"Oh, she has gone away for a few days, for a visit to some
friends."

"You and I will keep house, then, together; you shall teach me
all the tricks of the trade. I shall make a famous barman, don't
you think?"

"You must learn to behave better, then. But I promised aunt to
shut up at nine; so you must go when it strikes. Now promise me
you will go."

"Go at nine! what, in half an hour? The first evening I have ever
had a chance of spending alone with you; do you think it likely?"
and he looked into her eyes. She turned away with a slight
shiver, and a deep blush.

His nervous system had been so unusually excited in the last few
days, that he seemed to know everything that was passing in her
mind. He took her hand. "Why, Patty, you're not afraid of me,
surely?" he said, gently.

"No, not when you're like you are now. But you frightened me just
this minute. I never saw you look so before. Has anything
happened to you?"

"No, nothing. Now then, we're going to have a jolly evening, and
play Darby and Joan together," he said, turning away, and going
to the bar window; "shall I shut up, Patty?"

"No, it isn't nine yet; somebody may come in."

"That's just why I mean to put the shutters up; I don't want
anybody."

"Yes, but I do, though. Now I declare, Mr. Brown, if you go on
shutting up, I'll run into the kitchen and sit with Dick."

"Why will you call me 'Mr. Brown'?"

"Why, what should I call you?"

"Tom, of course."

"Oh, I never! one would think you was my brother," said Patty,
looking up with a pretty pertness which she had a most bewitching
way of putting on. Tom's rejoinder, and the little squabble which
they had afterward about where her work-table should stand, and
other such matters, may be passed over. At last he was brought to
reason, and to anchor opposite his enchantress, the work-table
between them; and he sat leaning back in his chair and watching
her, as she stitched away without ever lifting her eyes. He was
in no hurry to break the silence. The position was particularly
fascinating to him, for he had scarcely ever yet had a good look
at her before, without fear of attracting attention, or being
interrupted. At last he roused himself.

"Any of our men been here to-day, Patty?" he said, sitting up.

"There now, I've won," she laughed; "I said to myself I wouldn't
speak first, and I haven't. What a time you were. I thought you
would never begin."

"You're a little goose! Now I begin then; who've been here
to-day?"

"Of your college? let me see;" and she looked away across to the
bar window, pricking her needle into the table. "There was Mr.
Drysdale and some others called for a glass of ale as they
passed, going out driving. Then there was Mr. Smith and them from
the boats about four, and that ugly one--I can't mind his name--"

"What, Hardy?"

"Yes, that's it; he was here about half-past six, and--"

"What, Hardy here after hall?" interrupted Tom, utterly
astonished.

"Yes, after your dinner up at college. He's been here two or
three times lately."

"The deuce he has!"

"Yes, and he talks so pleasant to aunt, too. I'm sure he is a
very nice gentleman, after all. He sat and talked tonight for
half an hour, I should think."

"What did he talk about?" said Tom, with a sneer.

"Oh, he asked me whether I had a mother, and where I came from,
and all about my bringing up, and made me feel quite pleasant. He
is so nice and quiet and respectful, not like most of you. I'm
going to like him very much, as you told me."

"I don't tell you so now."

"But you did say he was your great friend."

"Well, he isn't that now."

"What, have you quarreled?"

"Yes."

"Dear; dear; how odd you gentlemen are!"

"Why, it isn't a very odd thing for men to quarrel, is it?"

"No, not in the public room. They're always quarreling there,
over their drink and the bagatelle-board; and Dick has to turn
them out. But gentlemen ought to know better."

"They don't, you see, Patty."

"But what did you quarrel about?"

"Guess."

"How can I guess? What was it about?"

"About you."

"About me!" she said, looking up from her work in wonder. "How
could you quarrel about me?"

"Well, I'll tell you; he said I had no right to come here. You
won't like him after that, will you Patty?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," said Patty, going on with her work, and
looking troubled.

They sat still for some minutes. Evil thoughts crowded into Tom's
head. He was in the humor for thinking evil thoughts, and,
putting the worst construction on Hardy's visits, fancied he came
there as his rival. He did not trust himself to speak till he had
mastered his precious discovery, and put it away in the back of
his heart, and weighed it down there with a good covering of
hatred and revenge, to be brought out as occasion should serve.
He was plunging down rapidly enough now; but he had new motives
for making the most of his time, and never played his cards
better or made more progress. When a man sits down to such a
game, the devil will take good care he sha'n't want cunning or
strength. It was ten o'clock instead of nine before he left,
which he did with a feeling of triumph. Poor Patty remained
behind, and shut up the bar, her heart in a flutter, and her
hands shaking, while Dick was locking the front door. She hardly
knew whether to laugh or cry; she felt the change which had come
over him, and was half fascinated and half repelled by it.

Tom walked quickly back to college, in a mood which I do not care
to describe. The only one of his thoughts which my readers need
be troubled with, put itself into some such words as these in his
head:--"So, it's Abingdon fair next Thursday, and she has
half-promised to go with me. I know I can make it certain. Who'll
be going besides? Drysdale, I'll be bound. I'll go and see him."

On entering college he went straight to Drysdale's rooms, and
drank deeply, and played high into the short hours of the night,
but found no opportunity of speaking.

Deeper and deeper yet for the next few days, downwards and ever
faster downwards he plunged, the light getting fainter and ever
fainter above his head. Little good can come of dwelling on those
days. He left off pulling, shunned his old friends, and lived
with the very worst men he knew in college, who were ready enough
to let him share all their brutal orgies.

Drysdale, who was often present, wondered at the change, which he
saw plainly enough. He was sorry for it in his way, but it was no
business of his. He began to think that Brown was a good enough
fellow before, but would make a devilish disagreeable one if he
was going to turn fast man.

At "The Choughs" all went on as if the downward path knew how to
make itself smooth. Now that the races were over, and so many
other attractions were going on in Oxford, very few men came in
to interfere with him. He was scarcely ever away from Patty's
side, in the evenings while her aunt was absent, and gained more
and more power over her. He might have had some compassion, but
that he was spurred on by hearing how Hardy haunted the place
now, at times when he could not be there. He felt that there was
an influence struggling with his in the girl's mind; he laid it
to Hardy's door, and imputed it still more and more to motives as
base as his own. But Abingdon fair was coming on Thursday. When
he left "The Choughs" on Tuesday night, he had extracted a
promise from Patty to accompany him there, and had arranged their
place of meeting.

All that remained to be done was to see if Drysdale was going.
Somehow he felt a disinclination to go alone with Patty. Drysdale
was the only man of those he was now living with to whom he felt
the least attraction. In a vague way he clung to him; and though
he never faced the thought of what he was about fairly, yet it
passed through his mind that even in Drysdale's company he would
be safer than if alone. It was all pitiless, blind, wild work,
without rudder or compass; the wish that nothing very bad might
come out of it all, however, came up in spite of him now and
again, and he looked to Drysdale, and longed to become even as
he.

Drysdale was going. He was very reserved on the subject, but at
last confessed that he was not going alone. Tom persisted.
Drysdale was too lazy and careless to keep anything from a man
who was bent on knowing it. In the end it was arranged that he
should drive Tom out the next afternoon. He did so. They stopped
at a small public house some two miles out of Oxford. The cart
was put up, and after carefully scanning the neighborhood they
walked quickly to the door of a pretty retired cottage. As they
entered, Drysdale said,

"By Jove, I thought I caught a glimpse of your friend Hardy at
that turn."

"Friend! he's no friend of mine."

"But didn't you see him?"

"No."

They reached college again between ten and eleven, and parted,
each to his own rooms.

To his surprise, Tom found a candle burning on his table. Round
the candle was tied a piece of string, at the end of which hung a
note. Who ever had put it there had clearly been anxious that he
should in no case miss it when he came in. He took it up and saw
that it was in Hardy's hand. He paused, and trembled as he stood.
Then with an effort he broke the seal and read:--

"I must speak once more. To-morrow it may be too late. If you go
to Abingdon fair with her in the company of Drysdale and his
mistress, or, I believe, in any company, you will return a
scoundrel, and she--; in the name of the honor of your mother and
sister, in the name of God, I warn you. May He help you through
it.

"JOHN HARDY."

Here we will drop the curtain for the next hour. At the end of
that time, Tom staggered out of his room, down the staircase,
across the quadrangle, up Drysdale's staircase. He paused at the
door to gather some strength, ran his hands through his hair, and
arranged his coat; notwithstanding, when he entered, Drysdale
started to his feet, upsetting Jack from his comfortable coil on
the sofa.

"Why, Brown, you're ill; have some brandy," he said, and went to
his cupboard for the bottle.

Tom leant his arm on the fireplace; his head on it. The other
hung down by his side, and Jack licked it, and he loved the dog
as he felt the caress. Then Drysdale came to his side with a
glass of brandy, which he took and tossed off as though it had
been water. "Thank you," he said, and as Drysdale went back with
the bottle, reached a large armchair and sat down in it.

"Drysdale, I sha'n't go with you to Abingdon fair to-morrow."

"Hullo! what, has the lovely Patty thrown you over?" said
Drysdale, turning from the cupboard, and resuming his lounge on
the sofa.

"No." he sank back into the chair, on the arms of which his
elbows rested, and put his hands up before his face, pressing
them against his burning temples. Drysdale looked at him hard,
but said nothing; and there was a dead silence of a minute or so,
broken only by Tom's heavy breathing, which he labored in vain to
control.

"No," he repeated at last, and the remaining words came out
slowly as they were trying to steady themselves, "but, by God,
Drysdale I _can't_ take her with you, and that--" a dead pause.

"The young lady you met to-night, eh?"

Tom nodded, but said nothing.

"Well, old fellow," said Drysdale, "now you've made up your mind,
I tell you, I'm devilish glad of it. I'm no saint, as you know,
but I think it would have been a d--d shame if you had taken her
with us."

"Thank you," said Tom, and pressed his fingers tighter on his
forehead; and he did feel thankful for the words, though coming
from such a man, they went into him like coals of fire.

Again there was a long pause, Tom sitting as before.

Drysdale got up and strolled up and down his room, with his hands
in the pockets of his silk-lined lounging coat, taking at each
turn a steady look at the other. Presently he stopped, and took
his cigar out of his mouth. "I say, Brown," he said, after
another minute's contemplation of the figure before him, which
bore such an unmistakable impress of wretchedness, that it made
him quite uncomfortable, "why don't you cut that concern?"

"How do you mean?" said Tom.

"Why that 'Choughs' business--I'll be hanged if it won't kill
you, or make a devil of you before long, if you go on with it."

"It's not far from that now."

"So I see--and I'll tell you what, you're not the sort of fellow
to go in for this kind of thing. You'd better leave it to
cold-blooded brutes, like some we know--I needn't mention names."

"I'm awfully wretched, Drysdale; I've been a brute my self to you
and everybody of late."

"Well, I own I don't like the new side of you. Now make up your
mind to cut the whole concern, old fellow," he said, coming up
goodnaturedly, and putting his hand on Tom's shoulder, "it's hard
to do, I dare say, but you had better make a plunge and get it
over. There's wickedness enough going about without your helping
to shove another one into it."

Tom groaned as he listened, but he felt that the man was trying
to help him in his own way, and according to his light, as
Drysdale went on expounding his own curious code of morality.
When it was ended, he shook Drysdale's hand, and, wishing him
good night, went back to his own rooms. The first step upwards
towards the light had been made,--for he felt thoroughly humbled
before the man on whom he had expended in his own mind so much
patronizing pity for the last half year--whom he had been
fancying he was influencing for good.

During the long hours of the night the scenes of the last few
hours, of the last few days, came back to him and burnt into his
soul. The gulf yawned before him now plain enough, open at his
feet--black, ghastly. He shuddered at it, wondering if he should
even yet fall in, felt wildly about for strength to stand firm,
to retrace his steps; but found it not. He found not yet the
strength he was in search of, but in the grey morning he wrote a
short note:--

"I shall not be able to take you to Abingdon fair to-day. You
will not see me perhaps for some days. I am not well.

"I am very sorry. Don't think that I am changed. Don't be
unhappy, or I don't know what I may do." There was no address and
no signature to the note.

When the gates opened he hurried out of the college and, having
left it and a shilling with Dick (whom he found cleaning the
yard, and much astonished at his appearance, and who promised to
deliver it to Patty with his own hands before eight o'clock), he
got back again to his own rooms, went to bed, worn out in mind
and body, and slept till mid-day.



CHAPTER XVII

NEW GROUND

My readers have now been steadily at Oxford for six months
without moving. Most people find such a spell of the place
without a change quite as much as they care to take; perhaps too,
it may do our hero good to let him alone for a little, that he
may have time to look steadily into the pit which he has been so
near falling down, which is still yawning awkwardly in his path;
moreover, the exigencies of a story teller must lead him away
from home now and then. Like the rest of us, his family must have
change of air, or he has to go off to see a friend properly
married, or a connexion buried; to wear white or black gloves
with or for some one, carrying such sympathy as he can with him,
so that he may come back from every journey, however short, with
a wider horizon. Yes; to come back home after every stage of
life's journeying with a wider horizon--more in sympathy with men
and nature, knowing ever more of the righteous and eternal laws
which govern them, and of the righteous and loving will which is
above all, and around all, and beneath all--this must be the end
and aim of all of us, or we shall be wandering about blindfold,
and spending time and labor and journey-money on that which
profiteth nothing. So now I must ask my readers to forget the old
buildings and quadrangles of the fairest of England's cities, the
caps and the gowns, the reading and rowing for a short space, and
take a flight with me to other scenes and pastures new.

The nights are pleasant in May, short and pleasant for travel. We
will leave the ancient city asleep, and do our flight in the
night to save time. Trust yourself then to the story-teller's
aerial machine. It is but a rough affair, I own, rough and
humble, unfitted for high or great flights, with no gilded panels
or dainty cushions, or C-springs--not that we shall care about
springs, by the way, until we alight on terra firma again--still,
there is much to be learned in a third-class carriage if we will
only not look while in it for cushions and fine panels, and forty
miles an hour traveling, and will not be shocked at our fellow
passengers for being weak in their h's and smelling of fustian.
Mount in it, then, you who will, after this warning; the fares
are holiday fares, the tickets return tickets. Take with you
nothing but the poet's luggage,

   "A smile for Hope, a tear for Pain,
   A breath to swell the voice of Prayer."

and may you have a pleasant journey, for it is time that the
stoker should be looking to his going gear.

So now we rise slowly in the moonlight from St. Ambrose's
quadrangle, and, when we are clear of the clock-tower, steer away
southwards, over Oxford city and all its sleeping wisdom and
folly, over street and past spire, over Christ Church and the
canons' houses, and the fountain in Tom quad; over St. Aldate's
and the river, along which the moonbeams lie in a pathway of
twinkling silver, over the railway sheds--no, there was then no
railway, but only the quiet fields and footpaths of Hincksey
hamlet. Well, no matter; at any rate, the hills beyond, and
Bagley Wood, were there then as now; and over hills and wood we
rise, catching the purr of the night-jar, the trill of the
nightingale, and the first crow of the earliest cock-pheasant, as
he stretches his jewelled wings, conscious of his strength and
his beauty, heedless of the fellows of St. John's, who slumber
within sight of his perch, on whose hospitable board he shall one
day lie, prone on his back, with fair larded breast turned
upwards for the carving-knife, having crowed his last crow. He
knows it not; what matters it to him? If he knew it, could a
Bagley Wood cock-pheasant desire a better ending?

We pass over the vale beyond; hall and hamlet, church, and
meadow, and copse, folded in mist and shadow below us, each
hamlet holding in its bosom the material of three volumed novels
by the dozen, if we could only pull off the roofs of the houses
and look steadily into the interiors; but our destination is
farther yet. The faint white streak behind the distant Chilterns
reminds us that we have no time for gossip by the way; May nights
are short, and the sun will be up by four. No matter; our journey
will now be soon over, for the broad vale is crossed, and the
chalk hills and downs beyond. Larks quiver up by us, "higher,
ever higher," hastening up to get a first glimpse of the coming
monarch, careless of food, flooding the fresh air with song.
Steadily plodding rooks labour along below us, and lively
starlings rush by on the look-out for the early worm; lark and
swallow, rook and starling, each on his appointed round. The sun
arises, and they get them to it; he is up now, and these breezy
uplands over which we hang are swimming in the light of
horizontal rays, though the shadows and mists still lie on the
wooded dells which slope away southwards.

Here let us bring to, over the village of Englebourn, and try to
get acquainted with the outside of the place before the good folk
are about, and we have to go down among them and their sayings
and doings.

The village lies on the southern slopes of the Berkshire hills,
on the opposite side to that under which our hero was born.
Another soil altogether is here, we remark in the first place.
This is no chalk; this high knoll which rises above--one may
almost say hangs over--the village, crowned with Scotch firs, its
sides tufted with gorse and heather. It is the Hawk's Lynch, the
favorite resort of Englebourn folk, who come up for the view, for
the air, because their fathers and mothers came up before them,
because they came up themselves as children--from an instinct
which moves them all in leisure hours and Sunday evenings, when
the sun shines and the birds sing, whether they care for view or
air or not. Something guides all their feet hitherward; the
children, to play hide-and-seek and look for nests in the
gorse-bushes; young men and maidens, to saunter and look and
talk, as they will till the world's end--or as long, at any rate,
as the Hawk's Lynch and Englebourn last--and to cut their
initials, enclosed in a true lover's knot, on the short rabbit's
turf; steady married couples, to plod along together consulting
on hard times and growing families; even old tottering men, who
love to sit at the feet of the firs, with chins leaning on their
sticks, prattling of days long past, to anyone who will listen,
or looking silently with dim eyes into the summer air, feeling
perhaps in their spirits after a wider and more peaceful view
which will soon open for them. A common knoll, open to all, up in
the silent air, well away from every-day Englebourn life, with
the Hampshire range and the distant Beacon Hill lying soft on the
horizon, and nothing higher between you and the southern sea,
what a blessing the Hawk's Lynch is to the village folk, one and
all! May Heaven and a thankless soil long preserve it and them
from an enclosure under the Act!

There is much temptation lying about, though, for the enclosers
of the world. The rough common land stretches over the whole of
the knoll, and down to its base, and away along the hills behind,
of which the Hawk's Lynch is an outlying spur. Rough common land,
broken only by pine woods of a few acres each in extent, an
occasional woodman's or squatter's cottage and little patch of
attempted garden. But immediately below, and on each flank of the
spur, and half-way up the slopes, come small farm enclosures,
breaking here and there the belt of woodlands, which generally
lies between the rough wild upland, and the cultivated country
below. As you stand on the knoll you can see common land just
below you at its foot narrow into a mere road, with a border of
waste on each side which runs into Englebourn street. At the end
of the straggling village stands the church with its square
tower, a lofty grey stone building, with bits of fine decorated
architecture about it, but much of churchwarden Gothic
supervening. The churchyard is large, and the graves, as you can
see plainly even from this distance, are all crowded on the
southern side. The rector's sheep are feeding in the northern
part, nearest to us, and a small gate at one corner opens into
his garden. The Rectory looks large and comfortable, and its
grounds well cared for and extensive, with a rookery of elms at
the lawn's end. It is the chief house of the place, for there is
no resident squire. The principal street contains a few shops,
some dozen, perhaps, in all; and several farm houses lie a little
back from it, with gardens in front, and yards and barns and
orchards behind; and there are two public-houses. The other
dwellings are mere cottages, and very bad ones for the most part,
with floors below the level of the street. Almost every house in
the village is thatched, which adds to the beauty though not to
the comfort of the place. The rest of the population who do not
live in the street are dotted about the neighboring lanes,
chiefly towards the west, on our right as we look down from the
Hawk's Lynch. On this side the country is more open, and here
most of the farmers live, as we may see by the number of
homesteads. And there is a small brook on that side too, which
with careful damming is made to turn a mill, there where you see
the clump of poplars. On our left as we look down, the country to
the east of the village is thickly wooded; but we can see that
there is a village green on that side, and a few scattered
cottages, the farthest of which stands looking out like a little
white eye, from the end of a dense copse.

Beyond it there is no sign of habitation for some two miles; then
you can see the tall chimneys of a great house, and a well
timbered park round it. The Grange is not in Englebourn
parish--happily for that parish, one is sorry to remark. It must
be a very bad squire who does not do more good than harm by
living in a country village. But there are very bad squires, and
the owner of the Grange is one of them. He is, however, for the
most part, an absentee, so that we are little concerned with him,
and in fact, have only to notice this one of his bad habits, that
he keeps that long belt of woodlands, which runs into Englebourn
parish, and comes almost up to the village, full of hares and
pheasants. He has only succeeded to the property some three or
four years, and yet the head of game on the estate, and above all
in the woods, has trebled or quadrupled. Pheasants by hundreds
are reared under hens, from eggs bought in London, and run about
the keepers' houses as tame as barn door fowls all the summer.
When the first party comes down for the first _battue_ early in
October, it is often as much as the beaters can do to persuade
these pampered fowls that they are wild game, whose duty it is to
get up and fly away, and be shot at. However, they soon learn
more of the world--such of them, at least, as are not slain--and
are unmistakable wild birds in a few days. Then they take to
roosting farther from their old haunts, more in the outskirts of
the woods, and the time comes for others besides the squire's
guests to take their education in hand, and teach pheasants at
least that they are no native British birds. These are a wild
set, living scattered about the wild country; turf-cutters,
broom-makers, squatters, with indefinite occupations, and
nameless habits, a race hated of keepers and constables. These
have increased and flourished of late years; and, notwithstanding
the imprisonments and transportations which deprive them
periodically of the most enterprising members of their community,
one and all give thanks for the day when the owner of the Grange
took to pheasant breeding. If the demoralization stopped with
them, little harm might come of it, as they would steal fowls in
the homesteads if there were no pheasants in the woods--which
latter are less dangerous to get, and worth more when gotten.
But, unhappily, this method of earning a livelihood has strong
attractions, and is catching; and the cases of farm labourers who
get into trouble about game are more frequent season by season in
the neighbouring parishes, and Englebourn is no better than the
rest. And the men are not likely to be much discouraged from
these practices, or taught better by the fanners; for, if there
is one thing more than another that drives that sturdy set of
men, the Englebourn yeomen, into a frenzy, it is talk of the game
in the Grange covers. Not that they dislike sport; they like it
too well, and, moreover, have been used to their fair share of
it. For the late squire left the game entirely in their hands.
"You know best how much game your land will carry without serious
damage to the crops," he used to say. "I like to show my friends
a fair day's sport when they are with me, and have enough game to
supply the house and make a few presents. Beyond that, it is no
affair of mine. You can course whenever you like; and let me know
when you want a day's shooting, and you shall have it." Under
this system the yeomen became keen sportsmen; they and all their
labourers took a keen interest in preserving, and the whole
district would have risen on a poacher. The keeper's place became
a sinecure, and the squire had as much game as he wanted without
expense, and was, moreover, the most popular man in the county.
Even after the new man came, and all was changed, the mere
revocation of their sporting liberties, and the increase of game,
unpopular as these things were, would not alone have made the
farmers so bitter, and have raised that sense of outraged justice
in them. But with these changes came in a custom new in the
country--the custom of selling the game. At first the report was
not believed; but soon it became notorious that no head of game
from the Grange estates was ever given away, that not only did
the tenants never get a brace of birds or a hare, or the
labourers a rabbit, but not one of the gentlemen who helped to
kill the game ever found any of the bag in his dog-cart after the
day's shooting. Nay, so shameless had the system become, and so
highly was the art of turning the game to account cultivated at
the Grange, that the keepers sold powder and shot to any of the
guests who had emptied their own belts or flasks at something
over the market retail price. The light cart drove to the
market-town twice a week in the season, loaded heavily with game,
but more heavily with the hatred and scorn of the farmers; and,
if deep and bitter curses could break patent axles or necks, the
new squire and his game-cart would not long have vexed the
countryside. As it was, not a man but his own tenants would
salute him in the market-place; and these repaid themselves for
the unwilling courtesy by bitter reflections on a squire who was
mean enough to pay his butcher's and poulterer's bills out of
their pockets.

Alas that the manly instinct of sport which is so strong in all
of us Englishmen--which sends Oswells single handed against the
mightiest beasts that walk the earth, and takes the poor cockney
journeyman out a ten miles' walk almost before daylight, on the
rare summer holiday mornings, to angle with rude tackle in
reservoir or canal--should be dragged through such mire as this
in many an English shire in our day. If English landlords want to
go on shooting game much longer, they must give up selling it.
For if selling game becomes the rule, and not the exception (as
it seems likely to do before long), good-bye to sport in England.
Every man who loves his country more than his pleasure or his
pocket--and, thank God, that includes the great majority of us
yet, however much we may delight in gun and rod, let any
demagogue in the land say what he pleases--will cry, "Down with
it," and lend a hand to put it down for ever.

But to return to our perch on the Hawk's Lynch above Englebourn
village. The rector is the fourth of his race who holds the
family living--a kind, easy-going, gentlemanly old man, a Doctor
of Divinity, as becomes his position, though he only went into
orders because there was the living ready for him. In his day he
had been a good magistrate and neighbour, living with and much in
the same way as the squires round about. But his contemporaries
had dropped off one by one; his own health had long been failing;
his wife was dead; and the young generation did not seek him. His
work and the parish had no real hold on him; so he had nothing to
fall back on, and had become a confirmed invalid, seldom leaving
the house and garden even to go to church, and thinking more of
his dinner and his health than of all other things in earth or
heaven.

The only child who remained at home with him was a daughter, a
girl of nineteen or thereabouts, whose acquaintance we shall make
presently, and who was doing all that a good heart and sound head
prompted in nursing an old hypochondriac, and filling his place
in the parish. But though the old man was weak and selfish, he
was kind in his way, and ready to give freely or do anything that
his daughter suggested for the good of his people, provided the
trouble were taken off his shoulders. In the year before our tale
opens, he had allowed some thirty acres of his glebe to be
parcelled out in allotments amongst the poor; and his daughter
spent almost what she pleased in clothing-clubs, and sick-clubs,
and the school, without a word from him. Whenever he did
remonstrate, she managed to get what she wanted out of the
house-money, or her own allowance.

We must make acquaintance with such other of the inhabitants as
it concerns us to know in the course of the story; for it is
broad daylight, and the villagers will be astir directly. Folk
who go to bed before nine, after a hard day's work, get into the
habit of turning out soon after the sun calls them. So now,
descending from the Hawk's Lynch, we will alight at the east end
of Englebourn, opposite the little white cottage which looks out
at the end of the great wood, near the village green.

Soon after five on that bright Sunday morning, Harry Winburn
unbolted the door of his mother's cottage, and stepped out in his
shirt-sleeves on to the little walk in front, paved with pebbles.
Perhaps some of my readers will recognize the name of an old
acquaintance, and wonder how he got here; so let us explain at
once. Soon after our hero went to school, Harry's father had died
of a fever. He had been a journeyman blacksmith, and in the
receipt, consequently, of rather better wages than generally fall
to the lot of the peasantry, but not enough to leave much of a
margin over current expenditure. Moreover, the Winburns had
always been open-handed with whatever money they had; so that all
he left for his widow and child, of worldly goods, was their "few
sticks" of furniture, L5 in the savings bank, and the money from
his burial-club which was not more than enough to give him a
creditable funeral--that object of honorable ambition to all the
independent poor. He left, however, another inheritance to them,
which is in price above rubies, neither shall silver be named in
comparison thereof,--the inheritance of an honest name, of which
his widow was proud, and which was not likely to suffer in her
hands.

After the funeral, she removed to Englebourn, her own native
village, and kept her old father's house till his death. He was
one of the woodmen to the Grange, and lived in the cottage at the
corner of the wood in which his work lay. When he, too, died,
hard times came on Widow Winburn. The steward allowed her to keep
on the cottage. The rent was a sore burden to her, but she would
sooner have starved than leave it. Parish relief was out of the
question for her father's child and her husband's widow; so she
turned her hand to every odd job which offered, and went to work
in the fields when nothing else could be had. Whenever there was
sickness in the place, she was an untiring nurse; and, at one
time, for some nine months, she took the office of postman, and
walked daily some nine miles through a severe winter. The fatigue
and exposure had broken down her health, and made her an old
woman before her time. At last, in a lucky hour, the Doctor came
to hear of her praiseworthy struggles, and gave her the Rectory
washing, which had made her life a comparatively easy one again.

During all this time her poor neighbors had stood by her as the
poor do stand by one another, helping her in numberless small
ways, so that she had been able to realize the great object of
her life, and keep Harry at school till he was nearly fourteen.
By this time he had learned all that the village pedagogue could
teach, and had in fact become an object of mingled pride and
jealousy to that worthy man, who had his misgivings lest Harry's
fame as a scholar should eclipse his own before many years were
over.

Mrs. Winburn's character was so good, that no sooner was her son
ready for a place than a place was ready for him; he stepped at
once into the dignity of carter's boy, and his earnings, when
added to his mother's, made them comfortable enough. Of course
she was wrapped up in him, and believed that there was no such
boy in the parish. And indeed she was nearer the truth than most
mothers, for he soon grew into a famous specimen of a countryman;
tall and lithe, full of nervous strength, and not yet bowed down
or stiffened by the constant toil of a labourer's daily life. In
these matters, however, he had rivals in the village; but in
intellectual accomplishments he was unrivalled. He was full of
learning according to the village standard, could write and
cipher well, was fond of reading such books as came in his way,
and spoke his native English almost without an accent. He is
one-and-twenty at the time when our story takes him up; a
thoroughly skilled labourer, the best hedger and ditcher in the
parish; and, when his blood is up, he can shear twenty sheep in a
day, without razing the skin, or mow for sixteen hours at a
stretch, with rests of half an hour for meals twice in the day.

Harry shaded his eyes with his hand for a minute, as he stood
outside the cottage drinking in the fresh, pure air, laden with
the scent of the honeysuckle which he had trained over the porch,
and listening to the chorus of linnets and finches from the copse
at the back of the house; he then set about the household duties,
which he always made it a point of honour to attend to himself on
Sundays. First he unshuttered the little lattice-window of the
room on the ground floor; a simple enough operation, for the
shutter was a mere wooden flap, which was closed over the window
at night and bolted with a wooden bolt on the outside, and thrown
back against the wall in the daytime. Any one who would could
have opened it at any moment of the night; but the poor sleep
sound without bolts. Then he took the one old bucket of the
establishment, and strode away to the well on the village green,
and filled it with clear, cold water, doing the same kind office
for the vessels of two or three rosy little damsels and boys, of
ages varying from ten to fourteen, who were already astir, and to
whom the winding-up of the parish chain and bucket would have
been a work of difficulty. Returning to the cottage, he proceeded
to fill his mother's kettle, sweep the hearth, strike a light,
and make up the fire with a faggot from the little stack in the
corner of the garden. Then he hauled the three-legged round table
before the fire, and dusted it carefully over, and laid out the
black Japan tea-tray with two delf cups and saucers of gorgeous
pattern, and diminutive plates to match, and placed the sugar and
slop basins, the big loaf and small piece of salt butter, in
their accustomed places, and the little black teapot on the hob
to get properly warm. There was little more to be done indoors,
for the furniture was scanty enough; but everything in turn
received its fair share of attention, and the little room, with
its sunken tiled floor and yellow-washed walls, looked cheerful
and homely. Then Harry turned his attention to the shed of his
own contriving, which stood beside the faggot-stack, and from
which expostulatory and plaintive grunts had been issuing ever
since his first appearance at the door, telling of a faithful and
useful friend who was sharp set on Sunday mornings, and desired
his poor breakfast, and to be dismissed for the day to pick up
the rest of his livelihood with his brethren porkers of the
village on the green and in the lanes. Harry served out to the
porker the poor mess which the wash of the cottage and the odds
and ends of the little garden afforded; which that virtuous
animal forthwith began to discuss with both fore-feet in the
trough--by way, probably, of adding to the flavor--while his
master scratched him gently between the ears and on the back with
a short stick till the repast was concluded. Then he opened the
door of the stye, and the grateful animal rushed out into the
lane, and away to the green with a joyful squeal and flirt of his
hind-quarters in the air; and Harry, after picking a bunch of
wall-flowers, and pansies, and hyacinths, a line of which flowers
skirted the narrow garden walk, and putting them in a long-necked
glass which he took from the mantel-piece, proceeded to his
morning ablutions, ample materials for which remained at the
bottom of the family bucket, which he had put down on a little
bench by the side of the porch. These finished, he retired
indoors to shave and dress himself.



CHAPTER XVIII

ENGLEBOURNE VILLAGE

Dame Winburn was not long after her son, and they sat down
together to breakfast in their best Sunday clothes--she, in a
plain large white cap which covered all but a line of grey hair,
a black stuff gown reaching to neck and wrists, and small silk
neckkerchief put on like a shawl; a thin, almost gaunt old woman,
whom the years had not used tenderly, and who showed marks of
their usage--but a resolute, high-couraged soul, who had met hard
times in the face, and could meet them again if need were. She
spoke in broad Berkshire, and was otherwise a homely body, but
self-possessed and without a shade of real vulgarity in her
composition.

The widow looked with some anxiety at Harry as he took his seat.
Although something of a rustic dandy, of late he had not been so
careful in the matter of dress as usual; but, in consequence of
her reproaches, on this Sunday there was nothing to complain of.
His black velveteen shooting coat, and cotton plush waistcoat,
his brown corduroy knee-breeches and gaiters, sat on him well,
and gave the world assurance of a well-to-do man, for few of the
Englebourn labourers rose above smock-frocks and fustian
trousers. He wore a blue bird's-eye handkerchief round his neck,
and his shirt, though coarse in texture, was as white as the sun
and the best laundress in Englebourn could manage to bleach it.
There was nothing to find fault with in his dress, therefore, but
still his mother did not feel quite comfortable as she took
stealthy glances at him. Harry was naturally a reserved fellow,
and did not make much conversation himself, and his mother felt a
little embarrassed on this particular morning.

It was not, therefore, until Dame Winburn had finished her first
slice of bread and butter, and had sipped the greater part of her
second dish of tea out of her saucer, that she broke silence.

"I minded thy business last night, Harry, when I wur up at the
Rectory about the washin'. It's my belief as thou'lt get t'other
'lotment next quarter-day. The Doctor spoke very kind about it,
and said as how he heer'd as high a character o' thee, young as
thee bist, as of are' a man in the parish, and as how he wur set
on lettin' the lots to thaay as'd do best by 'em; only he said as
the farmers went agin givin' more nor an acre to any man as
worked for _them_; and the Doctor, you see, he don't like to go
altogether agin the vestry folk."

"What business is it o' theirs," said Harry, "so long as they get
their own work done? There's scarce one on 'em as hasn't more
land already nor he can keep as should be, and for all that they
want to snap up every bit as falls vacant, so as no poor man
shall get it."

"'Tis mostly so with them as has," said his mother, with a half
puzzled look; "Scriptur says as to them shall be given, and they
shall have more abundant," Dame Winburn spoke hesitatingly, and
looked doubtfully at Harry, as a person who has shot with a
strange gun, and knows not what effect the bolt may have. Harry
was brought up all standing by this unexpected quotation of his
mother's; but, after thinking for a few moments while he cut
himself a slice of bread, replied:--

"It don't say as those shall have more that can't use what
they've got already. 'Tis a deal more like Naboth's vineyard for
aught as I can see. But 'tis little odds to me which way it
goes."

"How canst talk so, Harry?" said his mother reproachfully; "thou
know'st thou wast set on it last fall, like a wasp on sugar. Why
scarce a day past but thou wast up to the Rectory, to see the
Doctor about it; and now thou'rt like to get th'lotment thou'lt
not go anyst 'un."

Harry looked out at the open door, without answering. It was
quite true that, in the last autumn, he had been very anxious to
get as large an allotment as he could into his own hands, and
that he had been for ever up towards the Rectory, but perhaps not
always on the allotment business. He was naturally a
self-reliant, shrewd fellow, and felt that if he could put his
hand on three or four acres of land, he could soon make himself
independent of the farmers. He knew that at harvest-times, and
whenever there was a pinch for good labourers, they would be glad
enough to have him; while at other times, with a few acres of his
own, he would be his own master and could do much better for
himself. So he had put his name down first on the Doctor's list,
taken the largest lot he could get, and worked it so well that
his crops, amongst others, had been a sort of village show last
harvest-time. Many of the neighboring allotments stood out in sad
contrast to those of Harry and the more energetic of the
peasantry, and lay by the side of these latter only half worked
and full of weeds, and the rent was never ready. It was worse
than useless to let matters go on thus, and the question arose,
what was to be done with the neglected lots. Harry, and all the
men like him, applied at once for them; and their eagerness to
get them had roused some natural jealousy amongst the farmers,
who began to foresee that the new system might shortly leave them
with none but the worst labourers. So the vestry had pressed on
the Doctor, as Dame Winburn said, not to let any man have more
than an acre, or an acre and a half; and the well-meaning,
easy-going invalid old man couldn't make up his mind what to do.
So here was May again, and the neglected lots were still in the
nominal occupation of the idlers. The Doctor got no rent, and was
annoyed at the partial failure of a scheme which he had not
indeed originated, but for which he had taken much credit to
himself. The negligent occupiers grumbled that they were not
allowed a drawback for manure, and that no pigstyes were put up
for them. "'Twas allers understood so," they maintained, "and
they'd never ha' took to the lots but for that." The good men
grumbled that it would be too late now for them to do more than
clean the lots of weeds this year. The farmers grumbled that it
was always understood that no man should have more than one lot.
The poor rector had led his flock into a miry place with a
vengeance. People who cannot make up their minds breed trouble in
other places besides country villages. However quiet and out of
the way the place may be, there is always some _quasi_ public
topic, which stands, to the rural Englishman, in the place of
treaty, or budget, or reform-bill. So the great allotment
question, for the time, was that which exercised the minds of the
inhabitants of Englebourn; and until lately no one had taken a
keener interest in it than Harry Winburn. But that interest had
now much abated, and so Harry looked through the cottage door,
instead of answering his mother.

"'Tis my belief as you med amost hev it for the axin'." Dame
Winburn began again when she found that he would not re-open the
subject himself. "The young missus said as much to me herself
last night. Ah! to be sure, things'd go better if she had the
guidin' on 'em."

"I'm not going after it any more, mother. We can keep the bits o'
sticks here together without it while you be alive; and if
anything was to happen to you, I don't think I should stay in
these parts. But it don't matter what becomes o' me; I can earn a
livelihood anywhere."

Dame Winburn paused a moment before answering to subdue her
vexation, and then said, "How can 'ee let hankerin' arter a lass
take the heart out o' thee so? Hold up thy head, and act a bit
measterful. The more thow makest o' thyself, the more like thou
art to win."

"Did you hear aught of her last night, mother?" replied Harry,
taking advantage of this ungracious opening to speak of the
subject which was uppermost in his mind.

"I heer'd she wur goin' on well," said his mother.

"No likelihood of her comin' home?"

"Not as I could make out. Why, she hevn't been gone not four
months. Now, do 'ee pluck up a bit, Harry; and be more like
thyself."

"Why, mother, I've not missed a day's work since Christmas; so
there ain't much to find fault with."

"Nay, Harry, 'tisn't thy work. Thou wert always good at thy work,
praise God. Thou'rt thy father's own son for that. But thou
dostn't keep about like, and take thy place wi' the lave on 'em
since Christmas. Thou look'st hagged at times, and folk'll see't,
and talk about thee afore long."

"Let 'em talk. I mind their talk no more than last year's wind,"
said Harry, abruptly.

"But thy old mother does," she said, looking at him with eyes
full of pride and love; and so Harry, who was a right good son,
began to inquire what it was that was specially weighing on his
mother's mind, determined to do anything in reason to re-place
her on the little harmless social pinnacle from which she was
wont to look down on all the other mothers and sons of the
parish. He soon found out that her present grievance arose from
his having neglected his place as ringer of the heavy bell in the
village peal on the two preceding Sundays; and, as this post was,
in some sort the corresponding one to stroke of the boat at
Oxford, her anxiety was reasonable enough. So Harry promised to
go to ringing in good time that morning, and then set about
little odds and ends of jobs till it would be time to start. Dame
Winburn went to her cooking and other household duties, which
were pretty well got under when her son took his hat and started
for the belfry. She stood at the door with a half-peeled potato
in one hand, shading her eyes with the other, as she watched him
striding along the raised footpath under the elms, when the sound
of light footsteps and pleasant voices, coming up from the other
direction, made her turn round and drop a curtsey as the rector's
daughter and another young lady stopped at her door.

"Good morning, Betty," said the former; "here's a bright Sunday
morning at last, isn't it?"

"'Tis indeed, miss; but where hev'ee been to?"

"Oh, we've only been for a little walk before school-time. This
is my cousin, Betty. She hasn't been at Englebourn since she was
quite a child; so I've been taking her to the Hawk's Lynch to see
our view."

"And you can't think how I have enjoyed it," said her cousin; "it
is so still and beautiful."

"I've heer'd say as there ain't no such a place for thretty mile
round," said Betty, proudly, "But do'ee come in, tho', and sit'ee
down a bit," she added, bustling inside her door, and beginning
to rub down a chair with her apron; "'tis a smart step for
gentlefolk to walk afore church." Betty's notions of the walking
powers of gentlefolk were very limited.

"No, thank you, we must be getting on," said Miss Winter; "but
how lovely your flowers are! Look, Mary, did you ever see such
double pansies? We've nothing like them at the Rectory."

"Do'ee take some," said Betty, emerging again, and beginning to
pluck a handful of her finest flowers; "'tis all our Harry's
doing; he's 'mazing partickler about seeds."

"He seems to make everything thrive, Betty. There, that's plenty,
thank you. We won't take many, for fear they should fade before
church is over."

"Oh, dwont'ee be afeard, there's plenty more; and you be as
welcom' as the day."

Betty never said a truer word; she was one of the real
open-handed sort, who are found mostly amongst those who have the
least to give. They or anyone else were welcome to the best she
had.

So the young ladies took the flowers, thanked her again, and
passed on towards the Sunday-school.

The rector's daughter might have been a year or so older than her
companion; she looked more. Her position in the village had been
one of much anxiety, and she was fast getting an old head on
young shoulders. The other young lady was a slip of a girl just
coming out; in fact, this was the first visit which she had ever
paid out of leading strings. She had lived in a happy home, where
she had always been trusted and loved, and perhaps a thought too
much petted.

There are some natures which attract petting; you can't help
doing your best to spoil them in this way, and it is
satisfactory, therefore, to know (as the fact is) that they are
just the ones which cannot be so spoilt.

Miss Mary was one of these. Trustful, for she had never been
tricked; fearless, for she had never been cowed; pure and bright
as the Englebourn brook at fifty yards from its parent spring in
the chalk, for she had a pure and bright nature, and had come in
contact as yet with nothing which could soil or cast a shadow.
What wonder that her life gave forth light and music as it glided
on, and that every one who knew her was eager to have her with
them, to warm themselves in the light and rejoice in the music!

Besides all her other attractions, or in consequence of them for
anything I know, she was one of the merriest young women in the
world, always ready to bubble over and break out into clear
laughter on the slightest provocation. And provocation had not
been wanting during the last two days which she had spent with
her cousin. As usual she had brought sunshine with her, and the
old doctor had half forgotten his numerous complaints and
grievances for the time. So the cloud which generally hung over
the house had been partially lifted, and Mary, knowing and
suspecting nothing of the dark side of life at Englebourn
Rectory, rallied her cousin on her gravity, and laughed till she
cried at the queer ways and talk of the people about the place.

As soon as they were out of hearing of Dame Winburn, Mary began--

"Well, Katie, I can't say that you have mended your case at all."

"Surely you can't deny that there is a great deal of character in
Betty's face?" said Miss Winter.

"Oh, plenty of character; all your people, as soon as they begin
to stiffen a little and get wrinkles, seem to be full of
character, and I enjoy it much more than beauty; but we were
talking about beauty, you know."

"Betty's son is the handsomest young man in the parish," said
Miss Winter; "and I must say I don't think you could find a
better-looking one anywhere."

"Then I can't have seen him."

"Indeed you have; I pointed him out to you at the post office
yesterday. Don't you remember? He was waiting for a letter."

"Oh, yes! now I remember. Well, he was better than most. But the
faces of your young people in general are not interesting--I
don't mean the children, but the young men and women--and they
are awkward and clownish in their manners, without the quaintness
of the elder generation, who are the funniest old dears in the
world."

"They will all be quaint enough as they get older. You must
remember the sort of life they lead. They get their notions very
slowly, and they must have notions in their heads before they can
show them on their faces."

"Well, your Betty's son looked as if he had a notion of hanging
himself yesterday."

"It's no laughing matter, Mary. I hear that he is desperately in
love."

"Poor fellow! that makes a difference, of course. I hope he won't
carry out his notion. Who is it, do you know? Do tell me all
about it."

"Our gardener's daughter, I believe. Of course, I never meddle
with these matters; but one can't help hearing the servant's
gossip. I think it likely to be true, for he was about our
premises at all sorts of times until lately, and I never see him
now that she is away."

"Is she pretty?" said Mary, who was getting interested.

"Yes, she is our belle. In fact, they are the two beauties of the
parish."

"Fancy that cross-grained old Simon having a pretty daughter. Oh,
Katie, look here! who is this figure of fun?"

The figure of fun was a middle-aged man of small stature, and
very bandy-legged, dressed in a blue coat and brass buttons, and
carrying a great bass-viol bigger than himself, in a rough baize
cover. He came out of a footpath into the road just before them,
and, on seeing them, touched his hat to Miss Winter, and then
fidgeted along with his load, and jerked his head in a
deprecatory manner away from them as he walked on, with the sort
of look and action which a favorite terrier uses when his master
holds out a lighted cigar to his nose. He was the village tailor
and constable, also the principal performer in the church-music
which obtained in Englebourn. In the latter capacity he had of
late come into collision with Miss Winter.

For this was another of the questions which divided the
parish--The great church music question. From time immemorial, at
least ever since the gallery at the west end had been built, the
village psalmody had been in the hands of the occupiers of that
Protestant structure. In the middle of the front row sat the
musicians, three in number, who played respectively a bass-viol,
a fiddle, and a clarionet. On one side of them were two or three
young women, who sang treble--shrill, ear-piercing treble--with a
strong nasal Berkshire drawl in it. On the other side of the
musicians sat the blacksmith, the wheelwright, and other
tradesmen of the place. Tradesmen means in that part of the
country what we mean by artisan, and these were naturally allied
with the laborers, and consorted with them. So far as
church-going was concerned, they formed a sort of independent
opposition, sitting in the gallery, instead of in the nave, where
the farmers and the two or three principal shopkeepers--the great
landed and commercial interests--regularly sat and slept, and
where the two publicans occupied pews, but seldom made even the
pretence of worshipping.

The rest of the gallery was filled by the able-bodied male
peasantry. The old worn-out men generally sat below in the free
seats; the women also, and some few boys. But the hearts of these
latter were in the gallery--a seat on the back benches of which
was a sign that they had indued the _toga virilis_, and were
thenceforth free from maternal and pastoral tutelage in the
matter of church-going. The gallery thus constituted had
gradually usurped the psalmody as their particular and special
portion of the service; they left the clerk and the school
children, aided by such of the aristocracy below as cared to
join, to do the responses; but, when singing time came, they
reigned supreme. The slate on which the Psalms were announced was
hung out from before the centre of the gallery, and the clerk,
leaving his place under the reading-desk, marched up there to
give them out. He took this method of preserving his
constitutional connection with the singing, knowing that
otherwise he could not have maintained the rightful position of
his office in this matter. So matters had stood until shortly
before the time of our story.

The present curate, however, backed by Miss Winter, had tried a
reform. He was a quiet man, with a wife and several children, and
small means. He had served in the diocese ever since he had been
ordained, in a hum-drum sort of way, going where he was sent for,
and performing his routine duties reasonably well, but without
showing any great aptitude for his work. He had little interest,
and had almost given up expecting promotion, which he certainly
had done nothing particular to merit. But there was one point on
which he was always ready to go out of his way, and take a little
trouble. He was a good musician, and had formed choirs at all his
former curacies.

Soon after his arrival, therefore, he, in concert with Miss
Winter, had begun to train the children in church-music. A small
organ, which had stood in a passage in the Rectory for many
years, had been repaired, and appeared first at the schoolroom,
and at length under the gallery of the church; and it was
announced one week to the party in possession, that, on the next
Sunday, the constituted authorities would take the church-music
into their own hands. Then arose a strife, the end of which had
nearly been to send the gallery off, in a body, headed by the
offended bass-viol, to the small red-brick little Bethel at the
other end of the village. Fortunately the curate had too much
good sense to drive matters to extremities, and so alienate the
parish constable, and a large part of his flock, though he had
not tact or energy enough to bring them round to his own views.
So a compromise was come to; and the curate's choir were allowed
to chant the Psalms and Canticles, which had always been read
before, while the gallery remained triumphant masters of the
regular Psalms.

My readers will now understand why Miss Winter's salutation to
the musical constable was not so cordial as it was to the other
villagers whom they had come across previously.

Indeed, Miss Winter, though she acknowledged the constable's
salutation, did not seem inclined to encourage him to accompany
them, and talk his mind out, although he was going the same way
with them; and, instead of drawing him out, as was her wont in
such cases, went on talking herself to her cousin.

The little man walked out in the road, evidently in trouble of
mind. He did not like to drop behind or go ahead without some
further remark from Miss Winter, and yet could not screw up his
courage to the point of opening the conversation himself. So he
ambled on alongside the footpath on which they were walking,
showing his discomfort by a twist of his neck every few seconds,
and perpetual shiftings of his bass-viol, and hunching up of one
shoulder.

The conversation of the young ladies under these circumstances
was of course forced; and Miss Mary, though infinitely delighted
at the meeting, soon began to pity their involuntary companion.
She was full of the sensitive instinct which the best sort of
women have to such a marvellous extent, and which tells them at
once and infallibly if any one in their company has even a
creased rose-leaf next their moral skin.

Before they had walked a hundred yards she was interceding for
the rebellious constable.

"Katie," she said softly in French, "do speak to him. The poor
man is frightfully uncomfortable."

"It serves him right," answered Miss Winter in the same language;
"you don't know how impertinent he was the other day to Mr.
Walker. And he won't give way on the least point, and leads the
rest of the old singers, and makes them as stubborn as himself."

"But look how he is winking and jerking his head at you. You
really mustn't be so cruel to him, Katie. I shall have to begin
talking to him if you don't."

Thus urged, Miss Winter opened the conversation by asking after
his wife, and when she had ascertained "that his missus wur
pretty middlin," made some other commonplace remark, and relapsed
into silence. By the help of Mary, however, a sort of disjointed
dialogue was kept up till they came to the gate which led up to
the school, into which the children were trooping by twos and
threes. Here the ladies turned in, and were going up the walk
towards the school door, when the constable summoned up courage
to speak on the matter which was troubling him, and, resting the
bass-viol carefully on his right foot, calling out after them,

"Oh, please marm! Miss Winter!"

"Well," she said quietly, turning round, "what do you wish to
say?"

"Why, please mann, I hopes as you don't think I be any ways unked
'bout this here quire singin', as they calls it  I'm sartin you
knows as there ain't amost nothing I wouldn't do to please ee."

"Well, you know how to do it very easily," she said when he
paused. "I don't ask you even to give up your music and try to
work with us, though I think you might have done that. I only ask
you to use some psalms and tunes which are fit to be used in a
church."

"To be sure us ool. 'Taint we as wants no new-fangled tunes; them
as we sings be aal owld ones as ha' been used in our church ever
since I can mind. But you only choose thaay as you likes out o'
the book? and we be ready to kep to thaay."

"I think Mr. Walker made a selection for you some weeks ago,"
said Miss Winter; "did he not?"

"'Ees, but 'tis narra mossel o' use for we to try his 'goriums
and sich like. I hopes you wun't be offended wi' me, miss, for I
be telling nought but truth." He spoke louder as they got nearer
to the school door, and, as they were opening it, shouted his
last shot after them, "'Tis na good to try thaay tunes o' his'n,
miss. When us praises God, us likes to praise un joyful."

"There, you hear that, Mary," said Miss Winter. "You'll soon
begin to see why I look grave. There never was such a hard parish
to manage. Nobody will do what they ought. I never can get them
to do anything. Perhaps we may manage to teach the children
better, that's my only comfort."

"But, Katie dear, what _do_ the poor things sing? Psalms, I
hope."

"Oh yes, but they choose all the odd ones on purpose, I believe.
Which class will you take?"

And so the young ladies settled to their teaching, and the
children in her class all fell in love with Mary before
church-time.

The bass-viol proceeded to the church and did the usual
rehearsals, and gossiped with the sexton, to whom he confided the
fact that the young missus was "terrible vexed." The bells soon
began to ring, and Widow Winburn's heart was glad as she listened
to the full peal, and thought to herself that it was her Harry
who was making so much noise in the world, and speaking to all
the neighborhood. Then the peal ceased as church-time drew near,
and the single bell began, and the congregation came flocking in
from all sides. The farmers, letting their wives and children
enter, gathered round the church porch and compared notes in a
ponderous manner on crops and markets. The labourers collected
near the door by which the gallery was reached. All the men of
the parish seemed to like standing about before church, until
they had seen the clergyman safely inside. He came up with the
school children and the young ladies, and in due course the bell
stopped and the service began. There was a very good congregation
still at Englebourn; the adult generation had been bred up in
times when every decent person in the parish went to church, and
the custom was still strong, notwithstanding the rector's bad
example. He scarcely ever came to church himself in the mornings,
though his wheelchair might be seen going up and down on the
gravel before his house or on the lawn on warm days, and this was
one of his daughter's greatest troubles.

The little choir of children sang admirably, led by the
schoolmistress, and Miss Winter and the curate exchanged
approving glances. They performed the liveliest chant in their
collection, that the opposition might have no cause to complain
of their want of joyfulness. And in turn Miss Winter was in hopes
that, out of deference to her, the usual rule of selection in the
gallery might have been modified. It was with no small annoyance,
therefore, that, after the Litany was over, and the tuning
finished, she heard the clerk give out that they would praise God
by singing part of the ninety-first Psalm. Mary, who was on the
tiptoe of expectation as to what was coming, saw the curate give
a slight shrug with his shoulders and lift of his eyebrows as he
left the reading-desk, and in another minute it became a painful
effort for her to keep from laughing as she slyly watched her
cousin's face; while the gallery sang with vigour worthy of any
cause or occasion--

   "On the old lion He shall go,
   The adder fell and long;
   On the young lion tread also,
   With dragons stout and strong."

The trebles took up the last line, and repeated--

   "With dragons stout and strong;"

and then the whole strength of the gallery chorused again--

   "With _dra-gons_ stout and strong;"

and the bass-viol seemed to her to prolong the notes and to gloat
over them as he droned them out, looking triumphantly at the
distant curate. Mary was