 Part 2 Chapter 3 of Tom Brown's School Days. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Icy Jumbo. Tom Brown's School Days by Thomas Hughes. Part 2 Chapter 3 Arthur Makes a Friend. Let nature be your teacher. Sweet is the law which nature brings. Our meddling intellect misshapes the beautyous forms of things. We murder to dissect. Enough of science and art. Close up those barren leaves. Come forth and bring with you a heart that watches and receives. Wordsworth. About six weeks after the beginning of the half, as Tom and Arthur were sitting one night before supper, beginning their verses, Arthur suddenly stopped and looked up and said, Tom, do you know anything of Martin? Yes, said Tom, taking his hand out of his back hair, and delighted to throw his grados adparnassum onto the sofa. I know him pretty well. He's a very good fellow, but as mad as a hatter. He's called madman, you know, and never was such a fellow for getting all sorts of rum things about him. He tamed two snakes last half and used to carry them about in his pocket, and I'll be bound he's got some hedgehogs and rats in his cupboard now, and no one knows what besides. I should very much like to know him, said Arthur. He was next to me in the form to-day, and he'd lost his book and looked over mine, and he seemed so kind and gentle that I liked him very much. Ah! Poor madman, he's always losing his books, said Tom, and getting called up and floored because he hasn't got them. I like him all the better, said Arthur. Well, his great fun, I can tell you, said Tom, throwing himself back on the sofa, and chuckling at the remembrance. We had such a game with him one day last half. He had been kicking up horrid stinks for some time in his study till I suppose some fellow told Mary and she told the doctor. Anyhow, one day a little before dinner, when he came down from the library, the doctor, instead of going home, came striding into the hall. East and I and five or six other fellows were at the fire, and preciously we stared, for he don't come in like that once a year, unless it's a wet day and there's a fight in the hall. East, says he, just come and show me Martin's study. Oh! Here's a game, whispered the rest of us, and we all cut up stairs after the doctor, East leading. As we got into the new row, which was hardly wide enough to hold the doctor and his gown, click, click, click, we heard in the old madman's den. Then that stopped all of a sudden, and the bolts went too, like fun. The madman knew East's step, and thought there was going to be a siege. It's the doctor, Martin, he's here and wants to see you, sings out East. Then the bolts went back slowly, and the door opened, and there was the old madman standing, looking precious scared. His jacket off, his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, and his long skinny arms all covered with anchors and arrows and letters, tattooed in with gunpowder like a sailor-boys, and a stink fit knock you down coming out. It was all the doctor could do to stand his ground, and East and I, who were looking in under his arms, held our noses tight. The old magpie was standing on the windowsill, all his feathers drooping, and looking disgusted and half poisoned. What can you be about, Martin? says the doctor. You really mustn't go on in this way, you're a nuisance to the whole passage. Please, sir, I was only mixing up this powder, there isn't any harm in it. And the madman seized nervously on his pestle and mortar to show the doctor the harmlessness of his pursuits, and went on pounding, click, click, click. He hadn't given six clicks before, puff! Up went the hole into a great blaze, away went the pestle and mortar across the study, and back we tumbled into the passage. The magpie fluttered down into the court, swearing, and the madman danced out, howling, with his fingers in his mouth. The doctor caught hold of him, and called us to fetch some water. There you silly fellow, said he, quite pleased, though, to find he wasn't much hurt. You see, you don't know the least what you're doing with all those things, and now, mind, you must give up practising chemistry by yourself. Then he took hold of his arm, and looked at it. And I saw he had to bite his lip, and his eyes twinkled, but he said, quite grave, here, you see, you've been making all these foolish marks on yourself, which you can never get out, and you'll be very sorry for it in a year or two. Now come down to the housekeeper's room, and let us see if you are hurt. And away went the two, and we all stayed, and had a regular turnout of the den, till Martin came back with his hand bandaged and turned us out. However, I'll go and see what he's after, and tell him to come in after prayers to supper. And away went Tom, to find the boy in question, who dwelt in a little study by himself in new row. The aforesaid Martin, whom Arthur had taken such a fancy for, was one of those unfortunates who were at that time of day, and are, I fear, still, quite out of their place at a public school. If we knew how to use our boys, Martin would have been seized upon and educated as a natural philosopher. He had a passion for birds, beasts, and insects, and knew more of them and their habits than anyone in rugby, except perhaps the doctor, who knew everything. He was also an experimental chemist on a small scale, and had made unto himself an electric machine, from which it was his greatest pleasure and glory to administer small shocks to any small boys who were rash enough to venture into his study. And this was by no means an adventure free from excitement, for besides the probability of a snake dropping onto your head, or twining lovingly up your leg, or a rat getting into your britch's pocket in search of food, there was the animal and chemical odour to be faced, which always hung about the den, and the chance of being blown up in some of the many experiments which Martin was always trying, with the most wondrous results in the shape of explosions and smells that mortal boy ever heard of. Of course poor Martin, in consequence of his pursuits, had become an Ishmaelite in the house. In the first place he half poisoned all his neighbours, and they in turn were always on the lookout to pounce upon any of his numerous livestock, and drive him frantic by enticing his pet old magpie out of his window into a neighbouring study, and making the disreputable old bird drunk on toast soaked in beer and sugar. Then Martin, for all his sins, inhabited a study looking into a small court some ten feet across, the window of which was completely commanded by those of the study's opposite in the sick room row, these latter being at a slightly higher elevation. East, and another boy of an equally tormenting and ingenious turn of mind, now lived exactly opposite, and had expended huge pains and time in the preparation of instruments of annoyance for the behoof of Martin and his live colony. One morning an old basket made its appearance, suspended by a short cord outside Martin's window, in which were deposited an amateur nest containing four young, hungry jackdaws, the pride and glory of Martin's life for the time being, and which he was currently asserted to have hatched upon his own person. At the end the morning and late at night he was to be seen half out of window, administering to the varied wants of his callow brood. After deep cogitation, East and his chum had spliced a knife on to the end of a fishing-rod, and having watched Martin out, had, after half an hour's severe sawing, cut the string by which the basket was suspended, and tumbled it on to the pavement below, with hideous remonstrance from the occupants. Poor Martin, returning from his short absence, collected the fragments and replaced his brood, except the one whose neck had been broken in the descent, in their old location, suspending them this time by string and wire twisted together, defiant of any sharp instrument which his persecutors could command. But like the Russian engineers at Sevastopol, East and his chum had an answer for every move of the adversary, and the next day had mounted a gun in the shape of a pea-shooter upon the ledge of their window, trained so as to bear exactly upon the spot which Martin had to occupy while tending his nurselings. The moment he began to feed they began to shoot. In vain did the enemy himself invest in a pea-shooter, and endeavour to answer the fire while he fed the young birds with his other hand. His attention was divided, and his shots flew wild, while every one of theirs told on his face and hands, and drove him into howlings and imprecations. He had been driven to ensconce the nest in a corner of his already too well-filled den. His door was barricaded by a set of ingenious bolts of his own invention, for the sieges were frequent by the neighbours when any unusually ambrosial odour spread itself from the den to the neighbouring studies. The door panels were in a normal state of smash, but the frame of the door resisted all besiegers, and behind it the owner carried on his varied pursuits, much in the same state of mind I should fancy as a border farmer lived in, in the days of the Moss Troopers, when his hold might be summoned, or his cattle carried off at any minute of night or day. Open Martin, old boy, it's only I, Tom Brown. Oh, very well, stop a moment. One bolt went back. You're sure East isn't there? No, no, hang it, open! Tom gave a kick. The other bolt creaked, and he entered the den. Den indeed it was, about five feet six inches long by five feet wide and seven feet high. About six tattered school-books and a few chemical books, taxidermy, Stanley on Birds, and an odd volume of Buick, the latter in much better preservation, occupied the top-shelves. The other shelves, where they had not been cut away and used by the owner for other purposes, were fitted up for the abiding places of birds, beasts, and reptiles. There was no attempt at carpet or curtain. The table was entirely occupied by the great work of Martin, the electric machine, which was covered carefully with the remains of his tablecloth. The jack-door cage occupied one wall, and the other was adorned by a small hatchet, a pair of climbing-ions, and his tin candle-box, in which he was for the time being endeavouring to raise a hopeful young family of field-mice. As nothing should be let to lie useless, it was well that the candle-box was thus occupied, for candles Martin never had. A pound was issued to him weekly, as to the other boys, but as candles were available capital and easily exchangeable for birds' eggs or young birds, Martin's pound invariably found its way, in a few hours, to howl its the bird fanciers, in the built-in road, who would give a hawks or a nightingale's egg or a young linen in exchange. Martin's ingenuity was therefore forever on the rack to supply himself with a light. Just now he had hit upon a grand invention, and the den was lighted by a flaring cotton wick issuing from a ginger-beer bottle full of some doleful composition. When light altogether failed him, Martin would loaf about by the fires in the passages or hall, after the manner of digs, and try to do his verses or learn his lines by the fire-light. Well, old boy, you haven't got any sweeter in the den this half. How that stuff in the bottle stinks! Never mind. I ain't going to stop. But you come up after prayers to our study. You know young Arthur. We've got grey study. We'll have a good supper and talk about bird-nesting. Martin was evidently highly pleased at the invitation, and promised to be up without fail. As soon as prayers were over, and the sixth and fifth-form boys had withdrawn to the aristocratic seclusion of their own room, and the rest, or democracy, had sat down to their supper in the hall, tome and Arthur, having secured their allowances of bread and cheese, started on their feet to catch the eye of the preposterous of the weak, who remained in charge during supper, walking up and down the hall. He happened to be an easygoing fellow, so they got a pleasant nod to their, please may I go out? And away they scrambled to prepare for Martin a sumptuous banquet. This Tom had insisted on, for he was in great delight on the occasion, the reason of which delight must be expounded. The fact was that this was the first attempt at a friendship of his own which Arthur had made, and Tom hailed it as a grand step. The ease with which he himself had become hailed fellow well met with anybody, and blundered into and out of twenty friendships a half year, made him sometimes sorry and sometimes angry at Arthur's reserve and loneliness. True, Arthur was always pleasant, and even jolly, with any boys who came with Tom to their study, but Tom felt that it was only through him, as it were, that his charm associated with others, and that but for him Arthur would have been dwelling in a wilderness. This increased his consciousness of responsibility, and though he hadn't reasoned it out and made it clear to himself, yet somehow he knew that this responsibility, this trust which he had taken on him without thinking about it, head over heels in fact, was the centre and turning point of his school life, that which was to make him or ma him, his appointed work and trial for the time being. And Tom was becoming a new boy, though with frequent tumbles in the dirt and perpetual hard battle with himself, and was daily growing in manfulness and thoughtfulness, as every high courage and well principled boy must, when he finds himself for the first time consciously at grips with self and the devil. Already he could turn almost without a sigh from the school gates, from which had just scampered off East and three or four others of his own particular set, bound for some jolly lark not quite according to law, and involving probably a row with louts, keepers or farm labourers, the skipping dinner or calling over, some of Phoebe Jennings' beer, and a very possible flogging at the end of it as a relish. He had quite got over the stage in which he would grumble to himself. Well, hang it, it's very hard of the doctor to have saddled me with Arthur. Why couldn't he have chummed in with Foggy or Tomkin, or any of the fellows who never do anything but walk around the close and finish their copies the first day they're set? But although this was past, he longed, and felt that he was right in longing, for more time for the legitimate pastimes of cricket, fives, bathing, and fishing, within bounds, in which Arthur could not yet be his companion, and he felt that when the youngen, as he now generally called him, had found a pursuit and some other friend for himself, he should be able to give more time to the education of his own body with a clear conscience. And now what he so wished for had come to pass. He almost hailed it as a special providence, as indeed it was, but not for the reasons he gave for it, what providences are, that Arthur should have singled out Martin of all fellows for a friend. The old madman is the very fellow, thought he, he will take him scrambling over half the country after bird's eggs and flowers, make him run and swim and climb like an Indian, and not teach him a word of anything bad, or keep him from his lessons. What luck! And so, with more than his usual heartiness, he dived into his cupboard and hauled out an old knuckle-bone of ham, and two or three bottles of beer, together with the solemn pewter only used on state occasions. While Arthur, equally elated at the easy accomplishment of his first act of volition in the joint establishment, produced from his side a bottle of pickles and a pot of jam, and cleared the table. In a minute or two the noise of the boys coming up from supper was heard, and Martin knocked and was admitted, bearing his bread and cheese, and the three fell too with a hearty good will upon the Vians, talking faster than they ate, for all shyness disappeared in a moment before Tom's bottled beer and hospitable ways. Here's Arthur, a regular young town-mouse, with a natural taste for the woods, Martin, longing to break his neck climbing trees, and with a passion for young snakes. Well, I say, sputtered out Martin eagerly, will you come to-morrow, both of you, to Caldicott's spinny then? For I know of a kestrel's nest, up a fir tree, I can't get at it without help, and brown you can climb against any one. Oh yes, do let us go, said Arthur, I never saw a hawk's nest, nor a hawk's egg. You just come down to my study, then, and I'll show you five sorts, said Martin. I, the old madman, has got the best collection in the house out and out, said Tom, and then Martin, warming with unaccustomed good cheer and the chance of a convert, launched out into a proposed bird-nesting campaign, betraying all manner of important secrets, a golden-crested wren's nest near Butlin's Mound, a moorhen who was sitting on nine eggs in a pond down the Barbie Road, and a kingfisher's nest in a corner of the old canal above Browns Over Mill. He had heard, he said, that no one had ever got a kingfisher's nest out perfect, and that the British Museum, or the government, or somebody, had offered one hundred pounds to any one who could bring them a nest and eggs not damaged, in the middle of which astounding announcement, to which the others were listening with open ears, and already considering the application of the hundred pounds, came a knock on the door, and East's voice was heard craving admittance. There's Harry, said Tom, we'll let him in, I'll keep him steady, Martin, I thought the old boy would smell out the supper. But it was that Tom's heart had already smitten him for not asking his feeder, Socrates, to the feast, although only an extempore affair. And though prudence and the desire to get Martin and Arthur together alone at first had overcome his scruples, he was now heartily glad to open the door, broach another bottle of beer, and hand over the old ham-knuckle to the searching of his old friend's pocket-knife. Ah, you greedy fagabonds, said East, with his mouth full! I knew there was something going on when I saw you cut off out a hall so quick with your suppers. What a stunning tap, Tom! You are a winner for bottling the swipes. I've had practice enough for the sixth in my time, and it's hard if I haven't picked up a wrinkle or two for my own benefit. Well, old madman, and how goes the bird-nesting campaign? How's howlet? I expect the young rooks will be out in another fortnight, and then my turn comes. There'll be no young rooks fit for pies for a month yet. Shows how much you know about it, rejoined Martin, who, though very good friends with East, regarded him with considerable suspicion for his propensity to practical jokes. Scud knows nothing and cares for nothing but grub and mischief, said Tom, but young rook pie, especially when you've had to climb for them, is very pretty-eating. However, I say, Scud, we're all going after a hawks-nest tomorrow in Caldecott-Spinney, and if you'll come and behave yourself, we'll have a stunning climb. And a bathe in Agonype. Hooray! I'm your man. No. No. No bathing in Agonype. That's where our betters go. Well, well, never mind. I'm for the hawks-nest and anything that turns up. And the bottled beer being finished, and his hunger appeased, East departed to his study. That's Sneak Jones, as he informed them, who had just got into the sixth, and occupied the next study, having instituted a nightly visitation upon East and his chum, to their no small discomfort. When he was gone, Martin rose to follow, but Tom stopped him. No one goes near New Row, said he, so you may just as well stop here and do your verses, and then we'll have some more talk. We'll be no end quiet. Besides, no proposter comes here now. We haven't been visited once this half. So the table was cleared, the cloth restored, and the three fell to work with gradus and dictionary upon the morning's vulgis. They were three very fair examples of the way in which such tasks were done at Rugby, in the consulship of Plancas. And doubtless the method is little changed, for there is nothing new under the sun, especially at schools. Now be it known unto all you boys who are at schools which do not rejoice in the time-honoured institution of the vulgis, commonly supposed to have been established by William of Wickham at Winchester, and imported to Rugby, by Arnold, more for the sake of the lines which were learnt by heart with it, than for its own intrinsic value, as I have always understood. That it is a short exercise in Greek or Latin verse, on a given subject the minimum number of lines being fixed for each form. The master of the form gave out at fourth lesson on the previous day the subject for next morning's vulgis, and at first lesson each boy had to bring his vulgis ready to be looked over, and with the vulgis a certain number of lines from one of the Latin or Greek poets then being construed in the form had to be got by heart. The master at first lesson called up each boy in the form in order, and put him on in the lines. If he couldn't say them, or seemed to say them by reading them off the master's or some other boy's book who stood near, he was sent back, and went below all the boys who did so say, or seemed to say them. But in either case his vulgis was looked over by the master, who gave and entered in his book, to the credit or discredit of the boy, so many marks as the composition merited. At Rugby vulgis and lines were the first lesson every other day in the week, on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and as there were thirty-eight weeks in the school year, it is obvious to the meanest capacity that the master of each form had to set one hundred and fourteen subjects every year, two hundred and twenty-eight every two years, and so on. Now to persons of moderate invention this was a considerable task, and human nature, being prone to repeat itself, it will not be wondered that the masters gave the same subjects sometimes over again after a certain lapse of time. To meet and rebuke this bad habit of the masters the schoolboy mind, with its accustomed ingenuity, had invented an elaborate system of tradition. Almost every boy kept his own vulgis written out in a book, and these books were duly handed down from boy to boy, till, if the tradition has gone on till now, I suppose the popular boys, in whose hands bequeathed vulgis books have accumulated, are prepared with three or four vulgises on any subject in heaven or earth, or in more worlds than one which an unfortunate master can pitch upon. At any rate such lucky fellows had generally one for themselves and one for a friend in my time. The only objection to the traditionary method of doing your vulguses was the risk that the successions might have become confused, and so that you and another follower of traditions should show up the same identical vulgus some fine morning, in which case, when it happened, considerable grief was the result. But when did such risk hinder boys or men from shortcuts and pleasant paths? Now in the study that night, Tom was the upholder of the traditionary method of vulgus doing. He carefully produced two large vulgus books, and began diving into them, and picking out a line here and an ending there, tags, as they were vulgarly called, till he had gotten all that he thought he could make fit. He then proceeded to patch his tags together with the help of his gradus, producing an incongruous and feeble result of eight elegiac lines, the minimum quantity for his form, and finishing up with two highly moral lines extra, making ten in all, which he cribbed in tire from one of his books beginning, O Genus Humanum, and which he himself must have used a dozen times before, whenever an unfortunate or wicked hero of whatever nation or language under the sun was the subject. Indeed, he began to have great doubts whether the master wouldn't remember them, and so only throw them in as extra lines, because in any case they would call off attention from the other tags, and if detected being extra lines he wouldn't be sent back to do more in their place, while if they passed muster again he would get marks for them. The second method, pursued by Martin, may be called the doggied or prosaic method. He, no more than Tom, took any pleasure in the task, but having no old vulgar books of his own, or any one's else, could not follow the traditionary method, for which too, as Tom remarked, he hadn't the genius. Martin then proceeded to write down eight lines in English of the most matter-of-fact kind, the first that came into his head, and to convert these line by line by main force of gradus and dictionary into Latin that would scan. This was all he cared for, to produce eight lines with no false quantities or concords. Whether the words were apt, or what the sense was, mattered nothing, and as the article was all new, not a line beyond the minimum did the followers of the doggied method ever produce. The third, or artistic method, was Arthur's. He considered first what point in the character or event which was the subject, could most neatly be brought out within the limits of a vulgous, trying always to get his idea into the eight lines, but not binding himself to ten or even twelve lines if he couldn't do this. He then set to work as much as possible without gradus or other help to clothe his idea in appropriate Latin or Greek, and would not be satisfied till he had polished it well up with the aptest and most poetic words and phrases he could get at. A fourth method indeed was used in the school, but of two simpler kinds to require a comment. It may be called the vicarious method, obtained amongst big boys of lazy or bullying habits, and consisted simply in making clever boys whom they could thrash do their whole vulgous for them, and constrict them afterwards, which latter is a method not to be encouraged, and which I strongly advise you all not to practice. Of the others you will find the traditionary method most troublesome, unless you can steal your vulgous's whole, experto crede, and that the artistic method pays the best both in Marx and other ways. The vulgous is being finished by nine o'clock, and Martin having rejoiced above measure in the abundance of light and of gradus and dictionary, and other conveniences almost unknown to him for getting through the work, and having been pressed by Arthur to come and do his verses there whenever he liked. The three boys went down to Martin's den, and Arthur was initiated into the lore of birds' eggs to his great delight. The exquisite colouring and forms astonished and charmed him, who had scarcely ever seen any but a hen's egg or an ostrich's, and by the time he was lugged away to bed he had learned the names of at least twenty sorts, and dreamed of the glorious perils of tree-climbing, and that he had found a rock's egg in the island as big as sin-bads and clouded like a tit-larks, in blowing which Martin and he had nearly been drowned in the yoke. End of Part 2, Chapter 3 Part 2, Chapter 4 of Tom Brown's School Days This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. I have found out a gift for my fair. I have found where the wood-pigeons breed. But let me the plunder forbear. She would say it was a barbarous deed. Row. And now, my lad, take from them via shilling, and on my advice in future think. So Billy pouched them all so that they would be able to make a living out of it. Manuscript Ballard The next morning, at first lesson, Tom was turned back in his lines, and so had to wait till the second round, while Martin and Arthur said there's all right, and got out of school at once. When Tom got out and ran down to breakfast at Harrow Wells, they were missing, and stumps informed him that they had swallowed the wood-pigeons. Tom hurried over his own breakfast, and went first to Martin's study, and then to his own, but no signs of the missing boys were to be found. He felt half angry and jealous of Martin. Where could they be gone? He learned a second lesson with East and the rest in no very good temper, and then went out into the quadrangle. And then he went out, and went out into the quadrangle, and second lesson with East and the rest in no very good temper, and then went out into the quadrangle. About ten minutes before school, Martin and Arthur arrived in the quadrangle, breathless, and, catching sight of him, Arthur rushed up, all excitement, and with a bright glow on his face. Oh, Tom, look here! cried he, holding out three more hen's eggs. We've been down to the Barbie Road, and to the pool Martin told us of last night, and just see what we've got. Tom wouldn't be pleased, and only looked out for something to find fault with. Why, youngan, said he, what have you been after? You don't mean to say you've been wading? The tone of reproach made poor little Arthur shrink up in a moment and look piteous, and Tom, with a shrug of his shoulders, turned his anger on Martin. Well, I didn't think, madman, that you'd have been such a muff as to let him be getting wet through at this time of day. You might have done the wading yourself. So I did, of course. Only he would come in, too, to see the nest. We left six eggs in. They'll be hatched in a day or two. Hang the eggs, said Tom. A fellow can't turn his back for a moment, but all his work's undone. He'll be laid up for a week for this precious lark I'll be bound. Indeed, Tom, now, pleaded Arthur, my feet ain't wet, for Martin made me take off my shoes and stockings and trousers. But they are wet, and dirty, too, can't I see? answered Tom. And you'll be called up and flawed when the master sees what a state you're in. You haven't looked at second lesson, you know. Oh, Tom, you old humbug, you to be up braiding anyone with not learning their lessons. If you hadn't been flawed yourself now at first lesson, do you mean to say you wouldn't have been with them? And you've taken away all poor little Arthur's joy and pride in his first bird's eggs, and he goes and puts them down in the study and takes down his books with a sigh, thinking he has done something horribly wrong, whereas he has learnt on in advance much more than will be done at second lesson. But old madman hasn't, and gets called up, and makes some frightful shots, losing about ten places and all but getting flawed. This somewhat appeases Tom's wrath, and by the end of the lesson he has regained his temper. And afterwards in their study he begins to get right again, as he watches Arthur's intense joy at seeing Martin blowing the eggs and gluing them carefully onto bits of cardboard, and notes the anxious loving looks which the little fellow casts side-long at him. And then he thinks, what an ill-tempered beast I am. Here's just what I was wishing for last night come about, and I'm spoiling it all. And in another five minutes has swallowed the last mouthful of his bile, and is repaid by seeing his little sensitive plant expand again, and sun itself in his smiles. After dinner the madman is busy with the preparations for their expedition, fitting new straps onto his climbing irons, filling large pill-boxes with cotton wool, and sharpening east small axe. They carry all their munitions into calling-overs, and directly afterwards, having dodged such preposterous, as are on the lookout for fags at Cricket, the fore set off at a smart trot down the law-ford footpath, straight for Caldecott's spinny and the hawk's nest. Martin leads the way in high feather. It is quite a new sensation to him, getting companions, and he finds it very pleasant, and means to show them all manner of proofs of his science and skill. Brown and East may be better at Cricket and football and games, thinks he, but out in the fields would see if I can't teach them something. He has taken the leadership already, and strides away in front with his climbing irons strapped under one arm, his pecking-bag under the other, and his pockets and hat full of pill-boxes, cotton wool, and other, etc. Each of the others carries a pecking-bag, and east his hatchet. When they had crossed three or four fields without a check, Arthur began to lag, and Tom, seeing this, shouted to Martin to pull up a bit. We ain't out here in hounds. What's the good of grinding on at this rate? There's the spinny, said Martin, pulling up on the brow of a slope at the bottom of which lay law-ford brook, and pointing to the top of the opposite slope. The nest is in one of those high fir trees at this end, and down by the brook there I know of a sedge-bird's nest. We'll go and look at it coming back. Oh, come on, don't let us stop, said Arthur, who was getting excited at the sight of the wood. So they broke into a trot again, and were soon across the brook, up the slope, and into the spinny. Here they advanced as noiselessly as possible, lest keepers or other enemies should be about, and stopped at the foot of a tall fir, at the top of which Martin pointed out with pride the kestrel's nest, the object of their quest. Oh, where? Which is it? asks Arthur, gaping up in the air and having the most vague idea of what it would be like. There, don't you see? said East, pointing to a lump of mistletoe in the next tree, which was a beach. He saw that Martin and Tom were busy with the climbing irons, and couldn't resist the temptation of hoaxing. Arthur stared and wondered more than ever. Well, how curious! It doesn't look a bit like what I expected, said he. Very odd birds, kestrels, said East, looking waggishly at his victim, who were still stargazing. But I thought it was in a fir tree, objected Arthur. Oh, didn't you know? That's a new sort of fir which Old Caldecott brought from the Himalayas. Really? said Arthur. I'm glad I know that. How unlike our firs they are. They do very well here, too, don't they? The spinny's full of them. What's that humbuggy's telling you? cried Tom, looking up, having caught the word Himalayas, and suspecting what East was after. Only about this fir, said Arthur, putting his hand on the stem of the beach. Fir! shouted Tom. Why, you don't mean to say, youngan, you don't know a beach when you see one. Poor little Arthur looked terribly ashamed, and East exploded in laughter which made the wood ring. I've hardly ever seen any trees, faulted Arthur. What a shame to hoax him, scud, cried Martin. Never mind, Arthur. You shall know more about trees than he does in a week or two. And isn't that the kestrel's nest, then? asked Arthur. That? Why, that's a piece of mistletoe. There's the nest. That lump of sticks up this fir. Don't believe him, Arthur, struck in the incorrigible East. I just saw an old magpie go out of it. Martin did not deign to reply to this sally, except by a grunt, as he buckled the last buckle of his climbing-ions, and Arthur looked reproachfully at East without speaking. But now came the tug of war. It was a very difficult tree to climb until the branches were reached, the first of which was some fourteen feet up, for the trunk was too large at the bottom to be swarmed. In fact, neither of the boys could reach more than half round it with their arms. Martin and Tom, both of whom had irons on, tried it without success at first. The fir bark broke away when they stuck the irons in as soon as they lent any weight on their feet, and the grip of their arms wasn't enough to keep them up. So, after getting up three or four feet, down they came, slithering to the ground, barking their arms and faces. They were furious, and East sat by, laughing and shouting at each failure. Two to one on the old magpie! We must try a pyramid, said Tom at last. Now, scud, you lazy rascal, stick yourself against the tree. I dare say, and have you standing on my shoulders with the irons on? What do you think my skin's made of? However, up he got and lent against the tree, putting his head down and clasping it with his arms as far as he could. Now then, madman, said Tom, you next. No, I'm lighter than you, you go next. So Tom got on East's shoulders and grasped the tree above, and then Martin scrambled up onto Tom's shoulders, amidst the totterings and groanings of the pyramid, and, with a spring which sent his supporters howling to the ground, clasped the stem some ten feet up and remained clinging. For a moment or two they thought he couldn't get up, but then, holding on with his arms and teeth, he worked first one iron, then the other, firmly into the bark, got another grip with his arms, and in another minute had hold of the lowest branch. All up with the old magpie now, said East, and after a minute's rest up went Martin hand over hand, watched by Arthur with fearful eagerness. Isn't it very dangerous? said he. Not a bit, answered Tom. You can't hurt if you only get good hand-hold. Try every branch with a good pull before you trust it, and then up you go. Martin was now amongst the small branches close to the nest, the way dashed the old bird and soared up above the trees, watching the intruder. All right, four eggs, shouted he. Take them all, shouted East. That'll be one apiece. No, no, leave one, and then she won't care, said Tom. We boys had an idea that birds couldn't count and were quite content as long as you left one egg. I hope it is so. Martin carefully put one egg into each of his boxes and the third into his mouth, the only other place of safety, and came down like a lamp-lighter. All went well till he was within ten feet of the ground when, as the trunk enlarged, his hold got less and less firm, and at last, down he came with a run, tumbling onto his back on the turf, spluttering and spitting out the remains of the great egg which had broken by the jar of his fall. Urgh! Urgh! Something to drink! Urgh! It was addled! Spluttered he, while the wood rang again with the merry laughter of East and Tom. Then they examined the prizes, gathered up their things, and went off to the brook where Martin swallowed huge draughts of water to get rid of the taste, and they visited the sedge-bird's nest, and from thence struck across the country in high glee, beating the hedges and brakes as they went along, and Arthur at last, to his intense delight, was allowed to climb a small hedgerow oak for a magpie's nest with Tom, who kept all round him like a mother, and showed him where to hold and how to throw his weight, and though he was in a great fright, didn't show it, and was applauded by all for his lissomeness. They crossed a road soon afterwards, and there, close to them, lay a great heap of charming pebbles. Look here, shouted East, here's luck! I've been longing for some good honest pecking this half-hour. Let's fill the bags and have no more of this foosling bird-nesting. No one objected, so each boy filled the fustian bag he carried full of stones. They crossed into the next field, Tom and East taking one side of the hedges, and the other two the other side. Noise enough they made, certainly, but it was too early in the season for the young birds, and the old birds were too strong on the wing for our young marksmen, and flew out of shot after the first discharge. But it was great fun rushing along the hedgerows and discharging stone after stone at blackbirds and chaffinches, though no result in the shape of slaughtered birds was obtained, and Arthur soon entered into it and rushed to head back the birds and shouted and threw and tumbled into ditches and over and through hedges as wild as the madman himself. Presently the party in full cry after an old blackbird, who was evidently used to the thing and enjoyed the fun, for he would wait till they came close to him and then fly on for forty yards or so, and with an impudent flicker of his tail dart into the depth of the quickset, came beating down a high double hedge two on each side. There he is again! Head him! Let drive! I had him there! Take care of your throwing, madman! The shouts might have been heard a quarter of a mile off. They were heard some two hundred yards off by a farmer and two of his shepherds who were doctoring sheep in a fold in the next field. Now the farmer in question rented a house and yard situate at the end of the field in which the young bird fanciers had arrived, which house and yard he didn't occupy or keep anyone else in. Nevertheless, like a brainless and unreasoning Britain, he persisted in maintaining on the premises a large stock of cocks, hens, and other poultry. Of course, all sorts of depredators visited the place from time to time. Foxes and gypsies wrought havoc in the night, while in the daytime I regret to have to confess that visits from the rugby boys and consequent disappearances of ancient and respectable fowls were not unfrequent. Tom and East had, during the period of their outlawry, visited the farm in question for felonious purposes, and on one occasion had conquered and slain a duck there and borne away the carcass triumphantly hidden in their handkerchiefs. However, they were sickened of the practice by the trouble and anxiety which the wretched duck's body caused them. They carried it to Sally Harrowells in hope of a good supper, but she, after examining it, made a long face and refused to dress or have anything to do with it. Then they took it into their study and began plucking it themselves. But what to do with the feathers? Where to hide them? Good gracious, Tom! What a lot of feathers a duck has, groaned East, holding a bagful in his hand and looking disconsolately at the carcass, not yet half plucked. And I do think he's getting high, too, already, said Tom, smelling at him cautiously, so we must finish him up soon. Yes, all very well, but how are we to cook him? I'm sure I ain't going to try it in the hall or passages. We can't afford to be roasting ducks about. Our character's too bad. I wish we were rid of the brute, said Tom, throwing him on the table in disgust. And after a day or two more it became clear that got rid of he must be. So they packed him and sealed him up in brown paper and put him in the cupboard of an unoccupied study where he was found in the holidays by the matron, a gruesome body. They had never been duck hunting there since, but others had, and the bold yeoman was very sore on the subject and bent on making an example of the first boys he could catch. So he and his shepherds crouched behind the hurdles and watched the party, who were approaching all unconscious. Why should that old guinea fowl be lying out in the hedge just at this particular moment of the year? Who can say? Guinea fowls always are, so are all other things, animals and persons, requisite for getting one into scrapes, always ready when any mischief can come of them. At any rate, just under East's nose popped out the old guinea hen, scuttling along and shrieking, Come back, come back! at the top of her voice. Either of the other three might perhaps have withstood the temptation, but East first lets drive the stone he has in his hand at her and then rushes to turn her into the hedge again. He succeeds, and then they are all at it for dear life, up and down the hedge in full cry, the Come back, come back! getting shriller and fainter every minute. Meantime, the farmer and his men steal over the hurdles and creep down the hedge towards the scene of action. They are almost within a stone's throw of Martin, who is pressing the unlucky chase hard, when Tom catches sight of them and sings out, Louts, where louts, your side madman, look ahead! And then, catching hold of Arthur, hurries him away across the field towards rugby as hard as they can tear. Had he been by himself he would have said to see it out with the others, but now his heart sinks and all his pluck goes. The idea of being led up to the doctor with Arthur, for bagging fouls, quite unmans and takes half the run out of him. However, no boys are more able to take care of themselves than East and Martin. They dodge the pursuers, slip through a gap and come pelting after Tom and Arthur, whom they catch up in no time. The farmer and his men are making good running about a field behind. Tom wishes to himself that they had made off in any other direction, but now they are all for it together and must see it out. You won't leave the young one, will you? says he as they haul poor little Arthur, already losing wind from the fright through the next hedge. Not we is the answer from both. The next hedge is a stiff one. The pursuers gain horribly on them, and they only just pull Arthur through with two great rents in his trousers as the foremost shepherd comes up on the other side. As they start into the next field, they are aware of two figures walking down the footpath in the middle of it and recognise homes and digs taking a constitutional. Those good-natured fellows immediately shout, On! let's go to them and surrender, pants Tom. Agreed, and in another minute the four boys to the great astonishment of those worthys rush breathless up to homes and digs, who pull up to see what is the matter, and then the whole is explained by the appearance of the farmer and his men, who unite their forces and bear down on the knot of boys. There is no time to explain, and Tom's heart beats frightfully quick as he ponders. Will they stand by us? The farmer makes a rush at east and collars him, and that young gentleman with unusual discretion, instead of kicking his shins, looks appealingly at homes and stands still. Hello there, not so fast, says Holmes, who is bound to stand up for them till they are proved in the wrong. Now, what's all this about? I've got the young varmin at last, have I, pants the farmer. Why, they've been a skulking about my yard and stealing my fowls, that's where it is, and if I don't have they flugged for it every one on them, my name ain't Thompson. Holmes looks grave and digs his face falls. They are quite ready to fight, no boys in the school more so, but they are preposterous and understand their office and can't uphold unrighteous causes. I haven't been near his old barn this half, cries east. Nor I, nor I, chime in Tom and Martin. Now, Willam, didn't you see him there last week? East, I seen him, sure enough, says Willam, grasping a prong he carried and preparing for action. The boys deny stoutly, and Willam is driven to admit that if it weren't they to as chaps as like him as two peasants, and, least ways, he'll swear he seed them to in the yard last Martin mass, indicating east and Tom. Holmes has had time to meditate. Now, sir, he says he to Willam. You see, you can't remember what you have seen, and I believe the boys. I don't care, blusters the farmer. They was out of my fowls today, that's enough for I. Willam, you catch older to other chap. They've been a-sneaking about this two hours, I tells he, shouted he, as Holmes stands between Martin and Willam, and have drove a matter of a dozen young bullets pretty night to death. Oh, there's a wacker, cried east. We haven't been within a hundred yards of his barn. We haven't been up here above ten minutes, and we've seen nothing but a tough old guinea-hen who ran like a greyhound. Indeed, that's all true, Holmes, upon my honour, added Tom. We weren't after his fowls. Guinea-hen ran out of the hedge under our feet, and we've seen nothing else. Grat the hair-talk. The catch-older teller, Willam, and come along weon. Farmer Thompson, said Holmes, warning off Willam and the prong with his stick, while Diggs faced the other shepherd, cracking his fingers like pistol-shots. Now listen to reason. The boys haven't been after your fowls. That's plain. Tells he I see them. Who be you, I should like to know? Never you mind, Farmer, answered Holmes, and now I'll just tell you what it is. You ought to be ashamed of yourself for leaving all that poultry about, with no one to watch it, so near the school. You deserve to have it all stolen. So if you choose to come up to the doctor with them, I shall go with you and tell him what I think of it. The farmer began to take Holmes for a master. Besides, he wanted to get back to his flock. Corporal punishment was out of the question, the odds were too great, so he began to hint at paying for the damage. Arthur jumped at this, offering to pay anything, and the farmer immediately valued the guinea hen at half a sovereign. Half a sovereign, cried East, now released from the farmer's grip. Well, that's a good one. The old hen ain't hurt a bit, and she's seven years old, I know, and as tough as whip-cord, she couldn't lay another egg to save her life. It was at last settled that they should pay the farmer two shillings, and his man one shilling, and so the matter ended to the unspeakable relief of Tom, who hadn't been able to say a word, being sick at heart at the idea of what the doctor would think of him, and now the whole party of boys marched off down the footpath towards rugby. Holmes, who was one of the best boys in the school, began to improve the occasion. Now, you youngsters, said he, as he marched along in the middle of them, mind this, you're very well out of this scrape, don't you go near Thompson's barn again, do you hear? Profuse promises from all, especially East. Mind, I don't ask questions, went on mentor, but I rather think that some of you have been there before this, after his chickens. Now, knocking over other people's chickens, and running off with them, is stealing. It's a nasty word, but that's the plain English of it. If the chickens were dead and lying in a shop, you wouldn't take them. I know that, any more than you would apples out of Griffith's basket. But there's no real difference between chickens running about and apples on a tree, and the same articles in a shop. I wish our morals were sounder in such matters. There's nothing so mischievous as these school distinctions, which jumble up right and wrong, and justify things in us for which poor boys would be sent to prison. And good old Holmes delivered his soul on the walk home of many wise sayings, and as the song said, I need a sight of good advice, which same sermons sank into them all, more or less, and very penitent they were for several hours. But truth compels me to admit that East, at any rate, forgot it all in a week, but remembered the insult which had been put upon him by Farmer Thompson, and with the tadpole and other harebrained youngsters committed a raid on the barn soon afterwards, in which they were caught by the shepherds and severely handled, besides having to pay eight shillings, all the money they had in the world, to escape being taken up to the doctor. Martin became a constant inmate in the joint study from this time, and Arthur took to him so kindly that Tom couldn't resist slight fits of jealousy, which, however, he managed to keep to himself. The kestrel's eggs had not been broken, strange to say, and formed the nucleus of Arthur's collection, at which Martin worked heart and soul, and introduced Arthur to howlet the bird fancier, and instructed him in the rudiments of the art of stuffing. In token of his gratitude Arthur allowed Martin to tattoo a small anchor on one of his wrists, which decoration, however, he carefully concealed from Tom. Before the end of the half-year he had trained into a bold climber and good runner, and as Martin had foretold, knew twice as much about trees, birds, flowers, and many other things as our good-hearted and facetious young friend Harry East. End of Part 2, Chapter 4 Part 2, Chapter 5 of Tom Brown's school days. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Icy Jumbo. Tom Brown's school days by Thomas Hughes. Part 2, Chapter 5, The Fight. Sorgebat McNevisius et mox yactobat ultra, pugnabo tuar gratia feroci hoc mactualtro. Etonian There is a certain sort of fellow, we who are used to studying boys all know him well enough, of whom you can predicate with almost positive certainty, after he has been a month at the school, that he is sure to have a fight, and with almost equal certainty that he will have but one. Tom Brown was one of these, and as it is our well-waid intention to give a full, true, and correct account of Tom's only single combat with a school fellow in the manner of our friend Bell's life, let those young persons whose stomachs are not strong, or who think are good set to with the weapons which God has given us all, an uncivilized, un-Christian, or un-gentlemanly affair, just skip this chapter at once, for it won't be to their taste. It was not at all usual in those days for two schoolhouse boys to have a fight. Of course, there were exceptions, when some cross-grained, hard-headed fellow came up who would never be happy unless he was quarrelling with his nearest neighbours, or when there was some class dispute between the fifth form and the fags, for instance, which required bloodletting. And a champion was picked out on each side tacitly, who settled the matter by a good hearty meal. But for the most part, the constant use of those surest keepers of the peace, the boxing gloves, kept the schoolhouse boys from fighting one another. Two or three nights in every week the gloves were brought out, either in the hall or fifth form room, and every boy who was ever likely to fight at all knew all his neighbour's prowess perfectly well, and could tell to a nicety what chance he would have in a stand-up fight with any other boy in the house. But of course, no such experience could be gotten as regarded boys in other houses, and as most of the other houses were more or less jealous of the schoolhouse, collisions were frequent. After all, what would life be without fighting, I should like to know. From the cradle to the grave, fighting, rightly understood, is the business, the real highest, honestest business of every son of man. Everyone who is worth his salt has his enemies, who must be beaten, be their evil thoughts and habits in himself, or spiritual wickednesses in high places, or Russians, or border-ruffians, or Bill, Tom or Harry, who will not let him live his life in quiet till he has thrashed them. It is no good for Quakers or any other body of men to uplift their voices against fighting. Human nature is too strong for them, and they don't follow their own precepts. Every soul of them is doing his own piece of fighting, somehow and somewhere. The world might be a better world without fighting, for anything I know, but it wouldn't be our world. And therefore I am dead against crying peace when there is no peace and isn't meant to be. I am as sorry as any man to see folk fighting the wrong people and the wrong things, but I'd a deal sooner see them doing that than that they should have no fight in them. So having recorded, and being about to record my hero's fight of all sorts, with all sorts of enemies, I shall now proceed to give an account of his passage at arms with the only one of his schoolfellows whom he ever had to encounter in this manner. It was drawing towards the close of Arthur's first half-year, and the May evenings were lengthening out. Locking up was not till late o'clock, and everybody was beginning to talk about what he would do in the holidays. The shell, in which form all our dramatis personae now are, were reading, amongst other things, the last book of Homer's Iliad, and had worked through it as far as the speeches of the women over Hector's body. It is a whole school day, and four or five of the schoolhouse boys, amongst whom are Arthur, Tom and East, are preparing third lesson together. They have finished the regulation forty lines, and are for the most part getting very tired, notwithstanding the exquisite pathos of Helen's lamentation. And now several long four-syllaballed words come together, and the boy with the dictionary strikes work. I'm not going to look out any more words, says he. We've done the quantity. Ten to one we shan't get so far. Let's get out into the close. Come along, boys, cries East, always ready to leave the grind, as he called it. Our old coach is laid up, you know, and we shall have one of the new masters who's sure to go slow and let us down easy. So an adjournment to the close was carried Nemcon, little Arthur not daring to uplift his voice, but being deeply interested in what they were reading stayed quietly behind and learnt on for his own pleasure. As East had said, the regular master of the form was unwell, and they were to be heard by one of the new masters, quite a young man, who had only just left the university. Certainly it would be hard lines if, by dawdling as much as possible in coming in and taking their places, entering into long-winded explanations of what was the usual course of the regular master of the form, and others of the stock contrivances of boys for wasting time in school, they could not spin out the lesson so that he should not work them through more than the forty lines. As to which quantity there was a perpetual fight going on between the master and his form, the latter insisting, and enforcing by passive resistance, that it was the prescribed quantity of Homer for a shell lesson, the former that there was no fixed quantity, but that they must always be ready to go on to fifty or sixty lines if there were time within the hour. However, notwithstanding all their efforts, the new master got on horribly quick. He seemed to have the bad taste to be really interested in the lesson, and to be trying to work them up into something like an appreciation of it, giving them good spirited English words instead of the wretched bald stuff into which they rendered poor old Homer, and construing over each piece himself to them after each boy to show them how it should be done. Now the clock strikes the three quarters. There is only a quarter of an hour more, but the forty lines are all but done. So the boys, one after another, who are called up, stick more and more, and make bolder and even more bald work of it. The poor young master is pretty near beat by this time, and feels ready to knock his head against the wall, or his fingers against somebody else's head. So he gives up altogether the lower and middle parts of the form and looks round in despair at the boys on the top bench to see if there is one out of whom he can strike a spark or two, and who will be too chivalrous to murder the most beautiful utterances of the most beautiful woman of the old world. His eye rests on Arthur, and he calls him up to finish construing Helen's speech, whereupon all the other boys draw long breaths and begin to stare about and take it easy. They are all safe. Arthur is the head of the form and sure to be able to construe, and that will tide on safely till the hour strikes. Arthur proceeds to read out the passage in Greek before construing it, as the custom is. Tom, who isn't paying much attention, is suddenly caught by the falter in his voice as he reads the two lines. He looks up at Arthur. Why bless us, thinks he, what can be the matter with the young one? He's never going to get flawed. He's sure to have learnt to the end. Next moment he is reassured by the spirited tone in which Arthur begins construing and betakes himself to drawing dog's heads in his notebook, while the master, evidently enjoying the change, turns his back on the middle bench and stands before Arthur, beating a sort of time with his hand and foot and saying, yes, yes, very well, as Arthur goes on. But as he nears the fatal two lines, Tom catches that falter and again looks up. He sees that there is something the matter. Arthur can hardly get on at all. What can it be? Suddenly at this point Arthur breaks down altogether and fairly bursts out crying and dashes the cuff of his jacket across his eyes, blushing up to the roots of his hair and feeling as if he should like to go down suddenly through the floor. The whole four are taken aback. Most of them stare stupidly at him, while those who are gifted with presence of mind find their places and look steadily at their books, in hopes of not catching the master's eye and getting called up in Arthur's place. The master looks puzzled for a moment and then seeing, as the fact is, that the boy is really affected to tears by the most touching thing in Homer, perhaps in all profane poetry put together, steps up to him and lays his hand kindly on his shoulder saying, never mind, my little man, you've construed very well, stop a minute, there's no hurry. Now, as luck would have it, there sat next above Tom on that day, in the middle bench of the form, a big boy by name Williams, generally supposed to be the cock of the shell, therefore of all the school below the fifths. The small boys, who are great speculators on the prowess of their elders, used to hold forth to one another about Williams's great strength and to discuss whether East or Brown would take a licking from him. He was called Slogger Williams, from the force with which it was supposed he could hit. In the main he was a rough, good-natured fellow enough, but very much alive to his own dignity. He reckoned himself the king of the form and kept up his position with the strong hand, especially in the matter of forcing boys not to construe more than the legitimate forty lines. He had already grunted and grumbled to himself when Arthur went on reading beyond the forty lines, but now that he had broken down just in the middle of all the long words, the Slogger's wrath was fairly roused. Sneaking little brute muttered he, regardless of prudence. Clapping on the waterworks just in the hardest place, see if I don't punch his head after fourth lesson. "'Who's?' said Tom, to whom the remark seemed to be addressed. "'Why, that little sneak Arthur's,' replied Williams. "'No, you shan't,' said Tom. "'Hello!' exclaimed Williams, looking at Tom with great surprise for a moment, and then giving him a sudden dig in the ribs with his elbow, which sent Tom's books flying onto the floor and called the attention of the master, who turned suddenly round and seeing the state of things said, "'Williams, go down three places and then go on.' The Slogger found his legs very slowly and proceeded to go below Tom and two other boys with great disgust, and then turning round and facing the master said, "'I haven't learnt any more, sir. Our lesson is only forty lines.' "'Is that so?' said the master, appealing generally to the top bench. "'No answer.' "'Who is the head boy of the form?' said he, waxing Roth. "'Arthur, sir,' answered three or four boys, indicating our friend. "'Oh, your name's Arthur. Well, now, what is the length of your regular lesson?' Arthur hesitated a moment and then said, "'We call it only forty lines, sir.' "'How do you mean you call it?' "'Well, sir, Mr. Graham says we ain't to stop there when there's time to construe more.' "'I understand,' said the master. "'Williams, go down three more places and write me out the lesson in Greek and English. "'And now, Arthur, finish construing.' "'Oh, would I be in Arthur's shoes after fourth lesson,' said the little boys to one another. "'But Arthur finished Helen's speech without any further catastrophe, "'and the clock struck four, which ended third lesson.' "'Another hour was occupied in preparing and saying fourth lesson, "'during which Williams was bottling up his Roth, "'and when five struck and the lessons for the day were over, "'he prepared to take summary vengeance on the innocent cause of his misfortune.' "'Tom was detained in school a few minutes after the rest, "'and on coming out into the quadrangle the first thing he saw was a small ring of boys, "'applauding Williams, who was holding Arthur by the collar. "'There, you young sneak!' said he, giving Arthur a cuff on the head with his other hand. "'What made you say that?' "'Hello,' said Tom, shouldering into the crowd. "'You drop that, Williams. You shan't touch him.' "'Who'll stop me?' said the slogger, raising his hand again. "'I,' said Tom, and suiting the action to the word, "'he struck the arm which held Arthur's arm so sharply "'that the slogger dropped it with a start "'and turned the full current of his Roth on Tom.' "'Will you fight?' "'Yes, of course. "'Haza! There's going to be a fight between slogger Williams and Tom Brown!' "'The news ran like wildfire about, "'and many boys who were on their way to tea at their several houses turned back "'and sought the back of the chapel where the fights come off.' "'Just run and tell East to come and back me,' said Tom, "'to a small school-house boy, who was off like a rocket to Harrowells, "'just stopping for a moment to poke his head into the school-house hall, "'where the lower boys were already at tea and sing out, "'Fight! Tom Brown and Slogger Williams!' "'Up start half the boys at once, "'leaving bread, eggs, butter, sprouts, and all the rest to take care of themselves. "'The greater part of the remainder follow in a minute, "'after swallowing their tea, "'carrying their food in their hands to consume as they go. "'Three or four only remain, "'who steal the butter of the more impetuous "'and make to themselves an unctuous feast.' "'In another minute East and Martin tear through the quadrangle, "'carrying a sponge, and arrive at the scene of action "'just as the competence are beginning to strip. "'Tom felt he had got his work cut out for him, "'as he stripped off his jacket, waistcoat, and braces. "'East tied his handkerchief round his waist "'and rolled up his shirt-sleeves for him. "'Now, old boy, don't you open your mouth to say a word "'or try to help yourself a bit. We'll do all that. "'You keep all your breath and strength for the slogger. "'Martin, meanwhile, folded the clothes "'and put them under the chapel rails. "'And now Tom, with East to handle him "'and Martin to give him a knee, "'steps out on the turf and is ready for all that may come. "'And here is the slogger, too, "'all stripped and thirsting for the fray.' "'It doesn't look a fair match at first. "'Williams is nearly two inches taller "'and probably a long year older than his opponent "'and he is very strongly made about the arms and shoulders. "'Peels well as the little knot of big fifth-form boys, "'the amateurs, say, who stand outside the ring of little boys, "'looking complacently on, but taking no active part "'in the proceedings. "'But down below he is not so good by any means. "'No spring from the loins and feeble-ish, "'not to say shipwrecky about the knees. "'Tom, on the contrary, though not half so strong in the arms, "'is good all over. "'Straight, hard and springy, from neck to ankle, "'better perhaps in his legs than anywhere. "'Besides, you can see by the clear white of his eye "'and fresh bright look of his skin "'that he is in tip-top training, "'able to do all he knows, "'while the slogger looks rather sodden, "'as if he didn't take much exercise "'and ate too much tuck. "'The timekeeper is chosen, "'a large ring made, "'and the two stand up opposite one another for a moment, "'giving us time just to make our little observations. "'If Tom will only condescend to fight with his head and heels, "'as East mutters to Martin, "'we shall do. "'But seemingly he won't, for there he goes in, "'making play with both hands. "'Hard all is the word. "'The two stand to one another like men. "'Rally follows rally in quick succession, "'each fighting as if he thought "'to finish the whole thing out of hand. "'Can't last at this rate,' say the knowing ones, "'while the partisans of each make the air ring "'with their shouts and counter-shouts "'of encouragement, approval and defiance. "'Take it easy, take it easy. "'Keep away, let him come after you,' implores East, "'as he wipes Tom's face after the first round "'with the wet sponge, "'while he sits back on Martin's knee, "'supported by the madman's long arms, "'which tremble a little from excitement. "'Times up,' calls the timekeeper. "'There he goes again. "'Hang it all,' growls East, "'as his man is at it again as hard as ever. "'A very severe round follows, "'in which Tom gets out and out the worst of it, "'and is at last hit clean off his legs "'and deposited on the grass by a right-hander "'from the slogger. "'Loud shouts rise from the boys of Slogger's house, "'and the schoolhouse is silent and vicious, "'ready to pick quarrels anywhere. "'Two to one in half-crowns on the bigon,' says Rattle, one of the amateurs, "'a cool fellow in thunder-enlightening waistcoat "'and puffy, good-natured face. "'Done, another amateur of quieter look, "'taking out his notebook to enter it, "'for our friend Rattle sometimes forgets these little things.' "'Mean time, East is freshening up Tom with the sponges "'for next round, and has set two other boys "'to rub his hands. "'Tom, old boy,' whispers he, "'this may be fun for you, but it's death to me. "'He'll hit all the fight out of you "'for five minutes, and then I shall go "'and drown myself in the island ditch. "'Faint him. Use your legs. "'Draw him about. "'He'll lose his wind then in no time, "'and you can go into him. "'Hit at his body, too. "'We'll take care of his frontispiece by and by.'" Tom felt the wisdom of the council, and saw already that he couldn't go in and finish the slogger off at Mere Hammer and Tong's, so changed his tactics completely in the third round. He now fights cautiously, getting away from and parrying the slogger's lunging hits instead of trying to counter, and leading his enemy a dance all round the ring after him. "'He's thunking. Go in, Williams. "'Catch him up. Finish him off!' screamed the small boys of the slogger party. "'Just what we want,' thinks East, chuckling to himself, as he sees Williams excited by these shouts and thinking the game in his own hands, blowing himself in his exertions to get to close quarters again, while Tom is keeping away with perfect ease. They quarter over the ground again and again, Tom always on the defensive. The slogger pulls up at last for a moment, fairly blown. "'Now then, Tom,' sings out East, dancing with delight. Tom goes in in a twinkling, and hits two heavy body blows and gets away again before the slogger can catch his wind, which, when he does, he rushes with blind fury at Tom, and being skillfully parried and avoided, overreaches himself and falls on his face, amidst terrific cheers from the schoolhouse boys. "'W-2-1,' says Groove to rattle, note-book in hand. "'Stop a bit,' says that hero, looking uncomfortably at Williams, who is puffing away on his second's knee, winded enough but little the worse in any other way. After another round the slogger too seems to see that he can't go in and win right off and has met his match or their abouts, so he too begins to use his head and tries to make Tom lose his patience and come in before his time, and so the fight sways on, now one and now the other getting a trifling pull. Tom's face begins to look very one-sided. There are queer little bumps on his forehead and his mouth is bleeding, but East keeps the wet sponge going so scientifically that he comes up looking as fresh and bright as ever. Williams is only slightly marked in the face, but by the nervous movement of his elbows you can see that Tom's body-blows are telling. In fact half the vice of the slogger's hitting is neutralised, for he dent lunge out freely for fear of exposing his sides. It is too interesting by this time for much shouting and the whole ring is very quiet. All right, Tommy, whispers East, hold on to the horse that's to win. We've got the last. Keep your head, old boy. But where is Arthur all this time? Words cannot paint the poor little fellow's distress. He couldn't muster courage to come to the ring, but wandered up and down from the great fire's court to the corner of the chapel rails, now trying to make up his mind to throw himself between them and to try to stop them, then thinking of running in and telling his friend Mary, who he knew would instantly report to the doctor. The stories he had heard of men being killed in prize fights rose up horribly before him. Once only when the shouts of, Well done, Brown! Hazard for the schoolhouse! rose higher than ever. He ventured up to the ring, thinking the victory was won. Catching sight of Tom's face in the state I have described, all fear of consequences vanishing out of his mind, he rushed straight off to the matron's room, beseeching her to get the fight stopped or he should die. But it's time for us to get back to the close. What is this fierce tumult and confusion? The ring is broken, and high and angry words are being bandied about. It's all fair! It isn't! No hugging! The fight is stopped. The combatants, however, sit there quietly, tended by their seconds, while their adherents wrangle in the middle. East can't help shouting challenges to two or three of the other side, though he never leaves Tom for a moment and plies the sponges as fast as ever. The fact is that at the end of the last round, Tom, seeing a good opening, had closed with his opponent, and after a moment's struggle had thrown him heavily by help of the fall he had learnt from his village rival in the Vale of the White Horse. Williams hadn't the ghost of a chance with Tom at wrestling, and the conviction broke at once on the slogger faction that if this were allowed their man must be licked. There was a strong feeling in the school against catching hold and throwing, though it was generally ruled all fair within limits, so the ring was broken and the fight stopped. The schoolhouse are overruled. The fight is on again, but there is to be no throwing, and East, in high wrath, threatens to take his man away after the next round, which he don't mean to do, by the way, when suddenly Youngbrook comes through the small gate at the end of the chapel. The schoolhouse faction rushed to him. Oh, hurrah! Now we shall get fair play. Please, Brook, come up. They won't let Tom Brown throw him. Throw whom? says Brook, coming up to the ring. Oh, Williams, I see. Nonsense. Of course he may throw him if he catches him fairly above the waist. Now, Youngbrook, you're in the sixth, you know, and you ought to stop all fights. He looks hard at both boys. Anything wrong? he says to East, nodding at Tom. Not a bit. Not beat at all? Bless you, no. Heaps are fighting him. Ain't there, Tom? Tom looks at Brook and grins. How's he? nodding at Williams. So-so. Rather done, I think, since his last fall. He won't stand above two more. Time's up. The boys rise again and face one another. Brook can't find it in his heart to stop them just yet, so the round goes on. The slog are waiting for Tom and reserving all his strength to hit him out should he come in for the wrestling dodge again, for he feels that that must be stopped or his sponge will soon go up in the air. And now another newcomer appears on the field to wit the under-porter with his long brush and great wooden receptacle for dust under his arm. He has been sweeping out to the schools. You'd better stop, gentlemen, he says. The doctor knows that Brown's fighting. He'll be out in a minute. To go to Bath, Bill, is all that excellent servitor gets by his advice, and being a man of his hands and a staunch upholder of the schoolhouse can't help stopping to look on for a bit and see Tom Brown, their pet craftsman, fight around. It is grim earnest now and no mistake. Both boys feel this and summon every power of head, hand and eye to their aid. A piece of luck on either side, a foot slipping, a blow getting well home, or another fall may decide it. Tom works slowly round for an opening. He has all the legs and can choose his own time. The slogger waits for the attack and hopes to finish it by some heavy right-handed blow. As they quarter slowly over the ground the evening sun comes out from behind a cloud and falls full on Williams' face. Tom darts in, the heavy right hand is delivered, but only grazes his head. A short rally at close quarters and they close. In another moment the slogger is thrown again heavily for the third time. I'll give you three or two on the little one in half-crowns," said Groove to Rattle. No thanky, answers the other, diving his hands farther into his coattails. Just at this stage of the proceedings the door of the turret which leads to the doctor's library suddenly opens and he steps into the close and makes straight for the ring in which Brown and the slogger both seated on their second's knees for the last time. The doctor! The doctor! shouts some small boy who catches sight of him and the ring melts away in a few seconds, the small boy is tearing off. Tom collaring his jacket and waistcoat and slipping through the little gate by the chapel and round the corner to Harrowells with his backers as lively as need be. Williams and his backers making off not quite so fast across the close. Groove, Rattle and the other bigger fellows trying to combine dignity and prudence in a comical manner and walking off fast enough, they hope, not to be recognized and not fast enough to look like running away. Young Brook alone remains on the ground by the time the doctor gets there and touches his hat not without a slight inward qualm. Ha! Brook! I'm surprised to see you here. Don't you know that I expect the sixth to stop fighting? Brook felt much more uncomfortable than he had expected, but he was rather a favorite with the doctor for his openness and plainness of speech, so blurted out as he walked by the doctor's side, who had already turned back. Yes, sir, generally, but I thought you wished us to exercise a discretion in the matter too, not to interfere too soon. But they have been fighting this half hour and more," said the doctor. Yes, sir, but neither was hurt and they're the sort of boys who will be all the better friends now wouldn't have been if they had been stopped any earlier before it was so equal. Who was fighting with Brown? said the doctor. Williams, sir, of Thompson's. He is bigger than Brown and had the best of it at first, but not when you came up, sir. There's a good deal of jealousy between our house and Thompson's, and there would have been more fights if this hadn't been let go on or if either of them had had much the worst of it. Well, but Brook, said the doctor, you must look a little as if you exercised your discretion by only stopping a fight when the schoolhouse boy is getting the worst of it. Brook, it must be confessed, felt rather graveled. Now, remember," added the doctor, as he stopped at the turret door, this fight is not to go on, you'll see to that, and I expect you to stop all fights in future at once. Very well, sir," said young Brook, touching his hat, and not sorry to see the turret door close behind the doctor's back. Meantime, Tom and the staunchest of his adherents had reached Harrowells, and Sally was bustling about to get them a late tea, while stumps had been sent off to Tew, the butcher, to get a piece of raw beef for Tom's eye, which was to be healed offhand so that he might show well in the morning. He was not a bit the worst, except a slight difficulty in his vision, a singing in his ears, and a sprained thumb which he kept in the village while he drank lots of tea and listened to the babble of voices talking and speculating of nothing but the fight, and how Williams would have given in after another fall, which he didn't in the least believe, and how on earth the doctor could have got to know of it such bad luck. He couldn't help thinking to himself that he was glad he hadn't won, he liked it better as it was and felt very friendly to the slogger, and then poor little Arthur crept in and sat down quietly near him and kept looking at him and the raw beef with such plaintive looks that Tom at last burst out laughing. Don't make such eyes, youngan! said he. There's nothing the matter. Oh, but Tom, are you much hurt? I can't bear thinking it was all for me. Not a bit of it. Don't flatter yourself. We were sure to have had it out sooner or later. Well, but you won't go on, will you? You promise me you won't go on. Can't tell about that. All depends on the houses. We're in the hands of our countrymen, you know. Must fight for the schoolhouse flag, if so be. However, the lovers of the science were doomed to disappointment this time, directly after locking up one of the night-fags knocked at Tom's door. Brown, young Brooke wants you in the sixth form-room. Up went Tom to the summons and found the magnates sitting at their supper. Well, Brown, said young Brooke, nodding to him, how do you feel? Oh, very well, thank you. Only I've sprained my thumb, I think. Sure to do that in a fight. Well, you hadn't the worst of it, I could see. Where did you learn that throw? Down in the country when I was a boy. Hello! Why, what are you now? Well, never mind. You're a plucky fellow. Sit down and have some supper. Tom obeyed, by no means loath, and the fifth-form boy next filled him a tumbler of bottled beer, and he ate and drank, listening to the pleasant talk, and wondering how soon he should be in the fifth in one of that much envied society. As he got up to leave, Brooke said, you must shake hands tomorrow morning, I shall come and see that done after first lesson. And so he did, and Tom and the slogger shook hands with great satisfaction and mutual respect. And for the next year or two, whenever fights were being talked of, the small boys who had been present shook their heads wisely, saying, ah, but you should just have seen the fight between Slogger Williams and Tom Brown. And now, boys all, three words before we quit the subject. I have put in this chapter on fighting of malice-prepence, partly because I want to give you a true picture of what everyday school life was in my time, and not a kid-glove and go-to-meeting-coat picture, and partly because of the cant and twaddle that's talked of boxing and fighting with fists nowadays. Even Thackery has given into it, and only a few weeks ago there was some rampant stuff in The Times on the subject, in an article on field sports. Boys will quarrel, and when they quarrel will sometimes fight. Fighting with fists is the natural and English way for English boys to settle their quarrels. What substitute for it is there or ever was there amongst any nation under the sun? What would you like to see take its place? Learn to box, then, as you learn to play cricket and football. Not one of you will be the worse, but very much the better for learning to box well. Should you never have to use it in earnest, there's no exercise in the world so good for the temper and for the muscles of the back and legs. As to fighting, keep out of it if you can, by all means. When the time comes, if it ever should, that you have to say yes or no to a challenge to fight. Say no if you can. Only take care you make it clear to yourselves why you say no. It's a proof of the highest courage if done from true Christian motives. It's quite right and justifiable if done from a simpler version to physical pain and danger. But don't say no because you fear a licking and say or think it's because you fear God, for that's neither Christian nor honest. And if you do fight, fight it out while you can stand and see. End of Part 2, Chapter 5