Part 1, Chapter 4 of Tom Brown's School Days. Let the steam-pot hiss till it's hot. Give me the speed of the Tantive Trot. Coaching Song by R. E. E. Warburton, Esquire. Now, sir, time to get up, if you please. Tally-O coach Alester will be round in half an hour, and don't wait for nobody. So spake the boots of the Peacock Inn, Islington, at half-past two o'clock on the morning of a day in the early part of November, 1830-something, giving Tom at the same time a shake by the shoulder, and then putting down a candle and carrying off his shoes to clean. Tom and his father arrived in town from Berkshire the day before, and finding, on enquiry, that the Birmingham coaches which ran from the city did not pass through Rugby, but deposited their passengers at Dunchurch, a village three miles distant on the main road, where said passengers had to wait for the Oxford and Leicester coach in the evening, or to take a post-chase, had resolved that Tom should travel down by the Tally-O, which diverged from the main road and passed through Rugby itself. And as the Tally-O was an early coach, they had driven out to the Peacock to be on the road. Tom had never been in London, and would have liked to have stopped at the Bell Savage, where they had been put down by the star just at dusk that he might have gone roving about those endless, mysterious, gaslit streets which, with their glare and hum and moving crowds, excited him so that he couldn't talk even. But as soon as he found that the Peacock arrangement would get him to Rugby by twelve o'clock in the day, whereas otherwise he wouldn't be there till the evening, all other plans melted away, his one absorbing aim to become a public schoolboy as fast as possible, and six hours sooner or later seeming to him of the most alarming importance. Tom and his father had alighted at the Peacock at about seven in the evening, and having heard with unfaigned joy the paternal order at the bar of steaks and oyster sauce for supper in half an hour, and seen his father seated cosily by the bright fire in the coffee-room with the paper in his hand, Tom had run out to see about him, had wondered at all the vehicles passing and repassing, and had fraternised with the boots and hustler from whom he ascertained that the tally-hoe was a tip-top goer, ten miles an hour including stoppages, and so punctual that all the roads set their clocks by her. Then, being summoned to supper, he had regaled himself in one of the bright little boxes of the Peacock coffee-room on the beef-steak and unlimited oyster sauce and brown stout, tasted then for the first time a day to be marked forever by Tom with a white stone. Had at first attended to the excellent advice which his father was bestowing on him from over his glass of steaming brandy and water, and then began nodding, from the united effects of the stout, the fire, and the lecture, till the squire, observing Tom's state and remembering that it was nearly nine o'clock, and that the tally-hoe left at three, sent the little fellow off to the chambermaid with a shake of the hand, Tom having stipulated in the morning before starting that kissing should now cease between them, and a few parting words. And now, Tom, my boy, said the squire, remember you are going, at your own earnest request, to be chucked into this great school like a young bear with all your troubles before you, earlier than we should have sent you perhaps. If schools are what they were in my time, you'll see a great many cruel, blaggard things done, and hear a deal of foul, bad talk. But never fear.  The allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather chokey, and he would have liked to have hugged his father well if it hadn't been for the recent stipulation. As it was, he only squeezed his father's hand and looked bravely up and said, I'll try, father. I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe? Yes, said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure. And your keys? said the squire. All right, said Tom, diving into the other pocket. Well, then, good night. God bless you.  Tom was carried off by the chambermaid in a brown study, from which he was roused in a clean little attic by that buxom person calling him a little darling and kissing him as she left the room, which in dignity he was too much surprised to resent. And still thinking of his father's last words, and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and prayed that, come what might, he might never bring shame or sorrow on the dear folk at home. Indeed, the squire's last words deserved to have their effect, for they had been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London he had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting advice—something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. By way of assisting meditation he had even gone the length of taking out his flint and steel and tinder, and hammering away for a quarter of an hour till he had manufactured a light for a long trichinopoly charoute, which he had silently puffed, to the no small wonder of Coach E., who was an old friend and an institution on the bath-road, and who always expected a talk on the prospects and doings, agricultural and social, of the whole country when he carried the squire. To condense the squire's meditation it was somewhat as follows. I won't tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God. If he don't do that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go into all sorts of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that. Never do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won't understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him to mind his work, and say he's sent to school to make himself a good scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for that, at any rate, not for that, mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the digamma, no more does his mother. What is he sent to school for? Well, partly because he wanted so to go. If he'll only turn out a brave, helpful, truth-telling Englishman, and a gentleman, and a Christian, that's all I want, thought the squire, and upon this view of the case he framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited to his purpose. For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the summons of boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At ten minutes to three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings, carrying his hat-box, coat, and comforter in his hand, and there he found his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee, and a hard biscuit on the table. Now, then, Tom, give us your things here, and drink this. There's nothing like starting warm, old fellow. Tom addressed himself to the coffee, and prattled away while he worked himself into his shoes and his great-coat well warmed through, a Petersham-coat with velvet collar made tight after the abominable fashion of those days. And just as he is swallowing his last mouthful, winding his comforter round his throat, and tucking the ends into the breast of his coat, the horn sounds. Boots looks in and says, Tally-o, sir, and they hear the ring and the rattle of the four fast trotters and the town-made drag as it dashes up to the peacock. Anything for us, Bob? says the burly guard, dropping down from behind and slapping himself across the chest. Young gentleman, rugby. Three parcels, Leicester. Emperor of game, rugby, answers Hossler. Tell young gent to look alive, says guard, opening the hind-boot, and shooting in the parcels after examining them by the lamp. Here, above the portmanteau, up atop, all fast and impresently.  Good-bye, father, my love at home. A last shake of the hand. Up goes Tom, the guard catching his hat-box, and holding on with one hand, while with the other he claps the horn to his mouth. The Hosslers let go their heads, the four bays plunge at the collar, and away goes the Tally-o into the darkness. Forty-five seconds from the time they pulled up. Hossler, Boots, and the squire stand looking after them under the peacock lamp. Sharp work, says the squire, and goes in again to his bed, the coach being well out of sight and hearing. Tom stands up on the coach and looks back at his father's figure as long as he can see it, and then the guard, having disposed of his luggage, comes to an anchor, and finishes his buttonings and other preparations for facing the three hours before dawn. No joke for those who minded cold on a fast coach in November, in the rain of his late majesty.  At any rate, you're much more comfortable travellers, for I see every one of you with his rug or plaid, and other dodges for preserving the caloric, and most of you going in those fuzzy, dusty, padded, first-class carriages. It was another affair altogether, a dark ride on top of the Tally-o, I can tell you, in a tight Petersham coat and your feet dangling six inches from the floor. Then you knew what cold was, and what it was to be without legs, for not a bit of feeling had you in them after the first half hour. But it had its pleasures, the old dark ride. First there was the consciousness of silent endurance, so dear to every Englishman, of standing out against something and not giving in. Then there was the music of the rattling harness, and the ring of the horse's feet on the hard road, and the glare of the too bright lamp through the steaming whore-frost over the leader's ears into the darkness, and the cheery toot of the guard's horn to warn some drowsy pikemen or the hostler at the next change, and looking forward to daylight, and last, but not least, the delight of returning sensation in your toes. Then the break of dawn and the sunrise, where can they ever be seen in perfection but from a coach-roof? You want motion and change and music to see them in their glory, not the music of singing men and singing women, but good silent music, which sets itself in your own head, the accompaniment of work and getting over the ground. The tally-hoe is past St. Albans, and Tom is enjoying the ride, though half-frozen. The guard, who is alone with him on the back of the coach, is silent, but has muffled Tom's feet up in straw, and put the end of an oatsack over his knees. The darkness has driven him inwards, and he has gone over his little past life, and thought of all his doings and promises, and of his mother and sister, and his father's last words, and has made fifty good resolutions, and means to bear himself like a brave brown as he is, though a young one. Then he has been forward into the mysterious boy future, speculating as to what sort of place Rugby is, and what they do there, and calling up all the stories of public schools which he has heard from big boys in the holidays. He is chokeful of hope and life, not withstanding the cold, and kicks his heels against the backboard, and would like to sing, only he doesn't know how his friend the silent guard might take it. And now the dawn breaks at the end of the fourth stage, and the coach pulls up at a little roadside in, with huge stables behind. There is a bright fire gleaming through the red curtains of the bar window, and the door is open. The coachman catches his whip into a double thong, and throws it to the hostler. The steam of the horses rises straight up into the air. He has put them along over the last two miles, and is two minutes before his time. He rolls down from the box and into the inn. The guard rolls off behind. Now, sir, as he did to Tom, you just jump down, and I'll give you a drop of something to keep the cold out. Tom finds a difficulty in jumping, or indeed finding the top of the wheel with his feet, which may be in the next world for all he feels. So the guard picks him off the coach top, and sets him on his legs, and they stump off into the bar, and join the coachman and the other outside passengers. Here a fresh-looking barmaid serves them each with a glass of early pearl as they stand before the fire, coachman and guard exchanging business remarks. The pearl warms the cockles of Tom's heart, and makes him cough. Rare tackle that, sir, of a cold morning, says the coachman, smiling. Time's up. They are out again and up, coachy the last, gathering the reins into his hand, and talking to Jem the hostler about the mare's shoulder, and then swinging himself up onto the box, the horse is dashing off in a canter before he falls into his seat. Do-do-do-do-do goes the horn, and away they are again. Five and thirty miles on their road, nearly half-way to Rugby, thinks Tom, and the prospect of breakfast at the end of the stage. And now they begin to see, and the early life of the countryside comes out. A market cart or two, men in smock-frocks going to their work pipe in mouth, a whiff of which is no bad smell this bright morning. The sun gets up, and the mist shines like silver gauze. They pass the hounds jogging along to a distant meat at the heels of the huntsman's back, whose face is about the colour of the tails of his old pink, as he exchanges greetings with the coachman and guard. Now they pull up at a lodge, and take on board a well-muffled-up sportsman, with his gun-case and carpet-bag. An early up-coach meets them, and the coachmen gather up their horses, and pass one another with the accustomed lift of the elbow, each team doing eleven miles an hour, with a mile to spare behind if necessary. And here comes breakfast. Twenty minutes here, gentlemen, says the coachman, as they pull up at half-past seven at the indoor. Have we not endured nobly this morning, and is this not a worthy reward for much endurance? There is the low, dark, wainscotted room hung with sporting-prints, the hat stand, with a whip or two standing up in it, belonging to bagmen who are still snug in bed by the door, the blazing fire with the quaint old glass over the mantelpiece, in which is stuck a large card with the list of the meats for the week of the county hounds, the table covered with the whitest of cloths and of china, and bearing a pigeon pie, ham, round of cold-boiled beef cut from a mammoth ox, and the great loaf of household bread on a wooden trencher. And here comes in the stout head-waiter, puffing under a tray of hot viands, kidneys and a steak, transparent rashes and poached eggs, buttered toast and muffins, coffee and tea, all smoking hot. The table can never hold it all, the cold meats are removed to the sideboard, they were only put on for show, and to give us an appetite. And now fall on, gentlemen all, it is a well-known sporting-house, and the breakfasts are famous. Two or three men in pink, on their way to the meat, drop in and are very jovial and sharp-set, as indeed we all are. Tea or coffee, sir, says the head-waiter, coming round to Tom.  Coffee is a treat to him, tea is not. Our coachman, I perceive, who breakfasts with us, is a cold beef man. He also eschews hot potations, and addicts himself to a tankard of ale, which is brought him by the barmaid. Sportsman looks on approvingly, and orders a ditto for himself. Tom has eaten kidney and pigeon-pie, and imbibed coffee, till his little skin is as tight as a drum, and then has the further pleasure of paying head-waiter out of his own purse in a dignified manner, and walks out before the indoor to see the horses put to. This is done leisurely, and in a highly finished manner by the hostlers, as if they enjoyed the not being hurried. Coachman comes out with his way-bill, and puffing a fat cigar which the sportsman has given him. Guard emerges from the tap, where he prefers breakfasting, licking round a tough-looking doubtful charoute which you might tie round your finger, and three whiffs of which would knock anyone else out of time. The pinks stand about the indoor, lighting cigars, and waiting to see a start, while their hacks are led up and down the marketplace on which the inn looks. They all know our sportsman, and we feel a reflected credit when we see him chatting and laughing with them.  The guard is locking up the hind-boot. A good run to you, says the sportsman to the pinks, and is by the coachman's side in no time. Let him go, Dick! The hostlers fly back, drawing off the cloths from their glossy loins, and away we go through the marketplace and down the high street, looking in all the first-floor windows and seeing several worthy burgesses shaving there at. While all the shop boys who are cleaning the windows, and housemaids who are doing the steps, stop and look pleased as we rattle past, as if we were part of their legitimate morning's amusement. We clear the town and are well out between the hedgerows again as the town clock strikes eight. The sun shines almost warmly, and breakfast has oiled all springs and loosened all tongues. Tom is encouraged by a remarkable tour of the guards between the puffs of his oily charoute, and besides is getting tired of not talking. He is too full of his destination to talk about anything else, and so asks the guard if he knows rugby.  What sort of place is it, please? says Tom. Guard looks at him with a comical expression. Wary out of the way, place, sir. No paving to the streets, nor no lighting. Amazing big horse and cattle fair in autumn. Lasts a week. Just over now. Takes town a week to get clean after it. Fairish hunting-country. But slow place, sir. Slow pace. Off the main road, you see. Only three coaches a day, and one on them a two-oss one.  Regulator. Comes from Oxford. Young gentleman at school calls her a pig and whistle, and goes up to college by her. Six miles an hour, when they goes to enter. Belong to school, sir? Yes, says Tom. Not unwilling, for a moment, that the guard should think him an old boy. But then, having some qualms as to the truth of the assertion, and seeing that if he were to assume the character of an old boy, he couldn't go on asking the questions he wanted, added, That is to say, I'm on my way there. I'm a new boy. The guard looked as if he knew this quite as well as Tom. You're very late, sir, says the guard, only six weeks a day to the end of the half. Tom assented. We take up fine loads this day, six weeks, and Monday and Tuesday after. Hopes we shall have the pleasure of carrying you back.  It pays uncommon, certainly, continues the guard, very free with their caches, the young gentleman. But, Lord, bless you, we get into such rows all along the road, what with their pea-shooters, and long whips, and hollering, and upset in every one as comes by. I'd a sight sooner carry one or two on them, sir, as I may be a carrying of you now, than a coach load. What do they do with the pea-shooters? inquires Tom. Do we them? Why, peppers every one's faces as we comes near, set the young gals, and breaks windows we them too, some of them shoot so hard. Now, it was just here last June, as we was a driving up the first day, boys. They was mending a quarter mile a road, and there was a lot of Irish chaps, regular ruffs, of breaking stones. As we comes up, now, boys, says a young gent on the box, smart young fellow, and desperate reckless. Here's fun. Let the pats have it about the ears. God's sake, sir, says Bob. That's my mate, the coachman. Don't go for to shoot at him. They'll knock us off the coach. Dammy, coachy, says young my lord. You ain't afraid. Hoorah, boys! Let him have it. Hoorah, sings out the others, and fill their mouths, choked full of peas, to laugh the whole line. Bob, seen as twist come, knocks his at over his eyes, hollers to his ossies, and shakes him up, and away we goes up to the line on them. Twenty miles an hour. The pats begin to hoorah, too, thinking it was a runaway, and the first lot on them stands grinning and waving their old hats as we comes abreast on them, and then you'd a laugh to see how took a back and choking savage they looked when they get the peas a sting in all over them. But bless you, the laugh weren't all of our side, sir, by a long way. We was going so fast, and they was so took a back that they didn't take what was up till we was halfway up the line. Then it was, look out all, surely. They howls all down the line, fit to frighten you. Some of them runs after us, and tries to clamber up behind.  One has, as added very sharp, actually runs at the leaders, as though he'd catch them by the heads. Only luckily for him he misses his tip, and comes over a heap of stones first. The rest picks up stones, and gives it us right away till we gets out a shot. The young gents holding out weary manful with the pea-shooters and such stones as lodged on us, and a pretty many there was too. Then Bob picks himself up again, and looks at the young gents on the box where he saw them. Bob had had a rummin' in the ribs, which had liked her and knocked him off the box, or made him drop the reins. Young gents on the box picks himself up, and so does we all, and looks round to count damage.  Now the young gents hat gone, mine knocked him at the side, and not one on us wasn't black and blue somewhere or another, most on him all over. Two pound ten to pay for damage to paint, which they subscribed for there and then, and give Bob and me an extra half-sovereign each. But I wouldn't go down that line again not for twenty half-sovereigns. And the guard shook his head slowly, and got up and blew a clear brisk toot-toot. What fun, said Tom, who could scarcely contain his pride at this exploit of his future school-fellows. He longed already for the end of the half that he might join them. Take such good fun, though, sir, for the focus meets the coach, nor for we who has to go back with it next day. Them Irishers last summer had all got stones ready for us, and was all but letting drive, and we got two reverend gents aboard, too. We pulled up at the beginning of the line, and pacified them, and we're never going to carry no more pea-shooters, unless they promise is not to fire when there's a line of Irish chaps of stone-breaking. The guard stopped, and pulled away at his cheroot, regarding Tom benignantly the while. Oh, don't stop! Tell us something more about the pea-shooting. Well, they'd like to have been a pretty piece of work over it at Bister a while back. We were six miles from the town, when we meet an old square-edded grey-haired yeoman chap, a jogging along quite quiet. He looks up at the coach, and just then a pea hits him on the nose, and some catches his cob behind, and makes him dance up on his eyed legs. I see the old boy's face flush, and look plaguey awkward, and I thought we was in for something nasty. He turns his cob's head, and rides quietly after us, just out of shot. How that ear-cob did step! We never shook him off, not a dozen yards in the six miles. At first the young gents was wary lively on him, but before we got in, seeing how steady the old chap comes on, they was quite quiet, and laid their heads together with what they should do. Some was for fighting, some for axing his pardon. He rides into the town close after us, comes up when we stop, and says the two shot at him must come before a magistrate, and a great crowd comes round, and we couldn't get the Aussies too. But the young ends they all stand by one another, and says all or none must go, and is how they'd fight it out, and have to be carried. Just as it was getting serious, and the old boy and the mob was going to pull him off the coach, one little fellow jumps up and says, ear, I'll stay. I'm only going three miles farther. My father's name is Davis. He's known about ear, and I'll go before the magistrate with this gentleman. What? Be thee Parson Davis's son, says the old boy. Yes, says the youngen. Well, I'd be mortal sorry to see thee in such company, but for thy father's sake, and thine, for thee best brave young chap, I'll say no more about it. Didn't the boys cheer him, and the mob cheered the young chap, and then one of the biggest gets down, and begs his pardon wary gentlemanly for all the rest, saying as they all have been plaguey vex from the first, but they didn't like to axe his pardon till then, cos they felt like they hadn't ought to shirk the consequences of their joke. And then they all got down, and shook hands with the old boy, and asked him to all parts of the country, to their homes, and we drives off twenty minutes behind time, with cheering and honouring as if we were country members. But Lord bless you, sir, says the guard, smacking his hand down on his knee, and looking full into Tom's face. Ten minutes after, they was as bad as ever. Tom showed such undisguised and open-mouthed interest in his narrations that the old guard rubbed up his memory, and launched out into a graphic history of all the performances of the boys on the roads for the last twenty years. Off the road he couldn't go, the exploit must have been connected with horses or vehicles to hang in the old fellow's head. Tom tried him off his own ground once or twice, but found he knew nothing beyond, and so let him have his head, and the rest of the road bowled easily away. For old Blowhard, as the boys called him, was a dry old file, with much kindness and humour, and a capital spinner of a yarn when he had broken the neck of his day's work, and got plenty of ale under his belt. What struck Tom's youthful imagination most was the desperate and lawless character of most of the stories. Was the guard hoaxing him? He couldn't help hoping that they were true. It's very odd how almost all English boys love danger. You can get ten to join a game or climb a tree or swim a stream when there's a chance of breaking their limbs or getting drowned, for one who'll stay on level ground, or in his death, or play coits or bowls. The guard had just finished an account of a desperate fight which had happened at one of the fairs between the drovers and the farmers with their whips and the boys with cricket bats and wickets, which arose out of a playful but objectionable practice of the boys going round to the public houses and taking the linchpins out of the wheels of the gigs, and was moralizing upon the way in which the doctor, a terrible stern man, Eder Tell, had come down upon several of the performers, sending three of them off next morning in a pochet with a parish constable. When they turned a corner and neared the milestone, the third from rugby, by the stone two boys stood, their jackets buttoned tight, waiting for the coach. Look here, sir, says the guard, after giving a sharp toot-toot. There's two on them, out and out runners, they be. They comes out about twice or three times a week and spurts a mile alongside of us. And as they came up, sure enough, away went two boys along the footpath, keeping up with the horses, the first a light, clean-made fellow, going on springs, the other stout and round-shouldered, laboring in his pace, but going as dogged as a bull terrier. Old Blowhard looked on admiringly. See how beautiful that therean holds his self together, and goes from his ips, sir, says he. He's amazing fine runner. Now many coachmen as Drive's first-rate team had put it on, and try and pass him. But Bob, sir, bless you, he's tender-hearted. He'd sooner pull in a bit if he seen him getting beat. I do believe, too, as that therean had sooner break his heart than let us go buy him before the next milestone. At the second milestone, the boys pulled up short, and waved their hats to the guard, who had his watch out and shouted, four fifty-six, thereby indicating that the mile had been done in four seconds under the five minutes. They passed several more parties of boys, all of them objects of the deepest interest to Tom, and came in sight of the town at ten minutes before twelve. Tom fetched a long breath, and thought he had never spent a pleasant a day. Before he went to bed he had quite settled that it must be the greatest day he should ever spend, and didn't alter his opinion for many a long year, if he has yet. End of Part One, Chapter Four Part One, Chapter Five, 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 School Days by Thomas Hughes Part One, Chapter Five Rugby and Football Football and I Opposed in Dubious Strife Scott And so is Rugby, sir, at last, and you'll be in plenty of time for dinner at the schoolhouse, as I told you, said the old guard, pulling his horn out of its case and tootle-tooing away, while the coachman shook up his horses and carried them along the side of the school close, round dead man's corner, past the school gates, and down the high street to the spread eagle, the wheelers in a spanking trot and leaders cantering, in a style which would not have disgraced Cherry Bob, ramping, stamping, tearing, swearing Billy Harwood, or any of the other old coaching heroes. Tom's heart beat quick as he passed the great school field, or close, with its noble elms, in which several games at football were going on, and tried to take in at once the long line of grey buildings, beginning with the chapel and ending with the schoolhouse, the residence of the headmaster, where the great flag was lazily waving from the highest round tower, and he began already to be proud of being a rugby boy as he passed their school gate, with the aural window above, and saw the boys standing there, looking as if the town belonged to them, and nodding in a familiar manner to the coachman, as if any one of them would be quite equal to getting on the box and working the team down street as well as he. One of the young heroes, however, ran out from the rest, and scrambled up behind, where, having righted himself, and nodded to the guard, with, how do, Jem? He turned short round to Tom, and after looking him over for a minute began, I say, you fellow, is your name Brown? Yes, said Tom, in considerable astonishment. Glad, however, to have lighted on someone already who seemed to know him. Ah! I thought so. You know my old aunt, Miss East. She lived somewhere down your way in Berkshire. She wrote to me that you were coming to-day, and asked me to give you a lift. Tom was somewhat inclined to resent the patronising air of his new friend, a boy of just about his own height and age, but gifted with the most transcendent coolness and assurance, which Tom felt to be aggravating and hard to bear, but couldn't for the life of him help admiring and envying, especially when young my lord begins hectoring two or three long loafing fellows, half porter, half stableman, with a strong touch of the black-guard, and in the end arranges with one of them, nicknamed Cooey, to carry Tom's luggage up to the school-house for sixpence. And hark ye, Cooey, it must be up in ten minutes or no more jobs from me. Come along, Brown! And away swagger's the young potentate, with his hands in his pockets and Tom at his side. All right, sir, says Cooey, touching his hat, with a leer and a wink at his companions. Hello, though, says East, pulling up and taking another look at Tom. This'll never do. Haven't you got a hat? We never wear caps here. Only the louts wear caps. Bless you. If you were to go into the quadrangle with that thing on, I don't know what had happened. The very idea was quite beyond young master East, and he looked unutterable things. Tom thought his cap a very knowing affair, but confessed that he had a hat in his hat-box, which was accordingly at once extracted from the hind-boot, and Tom equipped in his go-to-meeting roof, as his new friend called it. But this didn't quite suit his fastidious taste in another minute, being too shiny. So, as they walk up the town, they dive into Nixon's the Hatter's, and Tom is arrayed to his utter astonishment, and without paying for it, in a regulation cat-skin at seven and sixpence. Nixon undertaking to send the best hat up to the matron's room, school-house, in half an hour. You can send in a note for a tile on Monday, and make it all right, you know, said Mentor. We're allowed two seven and sixes a half, besides what we bring from home. Tom, by this time, began to be conscious of his new social position and dignities, and to luxuriate in the realized ambition of being a public schoolboy at last, with a vested right of spoiling two seven and sixes in half a year. You see, said his friend, as they strolled up towards the school gates, in explanation of his conduct, a great deal depends on how a fellow cuts up at first. If he's got nothing odd about him, and answers straightforward, and holds his head up, he gets on. Now, you'll do very well as to rig, all but that cap. You see, I'm doing the handsome thing by you, because my father knows yours. Besides, I want to please the old lady. She gave me half a soft this half, and perhaps I'll double it next, if I keep in her good books. There's nothing for candour like a lower schoolboy, and East was a genuine specimen, Frank, hearty, and good-natured, well satisfied with himself and his position, and chokeful of life and spirits, and all the rugby prejudices and traditions which he had been able to get together in the long course of one half year, during which he had been at the schoolhouse. And Tom, notwithstanding his bumptiousness, felt friends with him at once, and began sucking in all his ways and prejudices as fast as he could understand them. East was great in the character of Cicceroni. He carried Tom through the great gates, where were only two or three boys. These satisfied themselves with the stock question. You fellow, what's your name? Where do you come from? How old are you? Where do you board? And what form are you in? And so they passed on through the quadrangle and a small courtyard, upon which looked down a lot of little windows, belonging as his guide informed him to some of the schoolhouse studies, into the matron's room, where East introduced Tom to that dignitary, made him give up the key of his trunk that the matron might unpack his linen, and told the story of the hat and of his own presence of mind, upon the relation whereof the matron laughingly scolded him for the coolest new boy in the house. And East, indignant at the accusation of newness, marched Tom off into the quadrangle and began showing him the schools, and examining him as to his literary attainments, the result of which was a prophecy that they would be in the same form, and could do their lessons together. And now come in and see my study. We shall have just time before dinner, and afterwards, before calling over, we'll do the close. Tom followed his guide through the schoolhouse hall, which opens into the quadrangle. It is a great room, thirty feet long, and eighteen high, or thereabouts, with two great tables running the whole length, and two large fireplaces at the side, with blazing fires in them, at one of which some dozen boys were standing and lounging, some of whom shouted to East to stop, but he shot through with his convoy, and landed him in the long dark passages, with a large fire at the end of each, upon which the studies opened. Into one of these, in the bottom passage, East bolted with our hero, slamming and bolting the door behind them, in case of pursuit from the hall, and Tom was for the first time in a rugby boy's citadel. He hadn't been prepared for separate studies, and was not a little astonished and delighted with the palace in question. It wasn't very large, certainly, being about six feet long by four broad. It couldn't be called light, as there were bars and a grating on the window, which little precautions were necessary in the studies on the ground floor looking out into the close, to prevent the exit of small boys after locking up, and the entrance of contraband articles. But it was uncommonly comfortable to look at, Tom thought. The space under the window, at the farther end, was occupied by a square table covered with a reasonably clean and whole red and blue Czech tablecloth. A hard-seated sofa covered with red stuff occupied one side, running up to the end, and making a seat for one, or by sitting close, for two, at the table, and a good stout wooden chair afforded a seat to another boy, so that three could sit and work together. The walls were wainscotted half way up, the wainscote being covered with green bays, the remainder with a bright patterned paper, on which hung three or four prints of dog's heads, Grimaldi winning the Aylesbury Steeplechase, Amy Robbsart the reigning waverly beauty of the day, and Tom Crib in a posture of defence which did no credit to the science of that hero if truly represented. Over the door were a row of hat pegs, and on each side bookcases with cupboards at the bottom, shelves and cupboards being filled indiscriminately with schoolbooks, a cup or two, a mousetrap and candlesticks, leather straps, a fustion bag, and some curious looking articles which puzzled Tom not a little, until his friend explained that they were climbing irons and showed their use. A cricket bat and small fishing rod stood up in one corner. This was the residence of East and another boy in the same form, and had more interest for Tom than Windsor Castle or any other residence in the British Isles, for was he not about to become the joint owner of a similar home, the first place he could call his own? One's own. What a charm there is in the words. How long it takes boy and man to find out their worth. How fast most of us hold onto them, the faster and more jealously the nearer we are to that general home into which we can take nothing, but must go naked as we came into the world. When shall we learn that he who multiplies possessions multiplies troubles, and that the one single use of things which we call our own, is that they may be his who hath need of them? And shall I have a study like this, too? said Tom. Yes, of course. You'll be chummed with some fellow on Monday, and you can sit here till then. What nice places! They're well enough, answered East patronizingly. Only uncommon cold at night sometimes. Gower, that's my chum, and I, make a fire with paper on the floor after supper generally. Only that makes it so smoky. But there's a big fire out in the passage, said Tom.  Jones, the proposter, has the study at the fire end, and he has rigged up an iron rod and green base curtain across the passage, which he draws at night, and sits there with his door open, so he gets all the fire, and hears if we come out of our studies after eight, or make a noise. However, he's taken to sitting in the fifth form room lately, so we do get a bit of fire now sometimes, only to keep a sharp look out that he don't catch you behind his curtain when he comes down. That's all. A quarter-past one now struck, and the bell began tolling for dinner, so they went into the hall and took their places. Tom at the very bottom of the second table, next to the proposter, who sat at the end to keep order there, and East a few places higher. And now Tom for the first time saw his future school fellows in a body. In they came, some hot and ruddy from football or long walks, some pale and chilly from hard reading in their studies, some from loitering over the fire at the pastry-cooks, dainty mortals bringing with them pickles and sauce-bottles to help them with their dinners. And a great big-bearded man, whom Tom took for a master, began calling over the names, while the great joints were being rapidly carved on the third table in the corner by the old verger and the housekeeper. Tom's turn came at last, and meanwhile he was all eyes, looking first with awe at the great man who sat close to him, and was helped first, and who read a hard-looking book all the time he was eating. And when he got up and walked off to the fire, at the small boys round him, some of whom were reading, and the rest talking in whispers to one another, or stealing one another's bread, or shooting pellets, or digging their forks through the table-cloth. However, notwithstanding his curiosity, he managed to make capital dinner by the time the big man called, Stand Up! and said Grace. As soon as dinner was over, and Tom had been questioned by such of his neighbours, as were curious as to his birth, parentage, education, and other like-matters, East, who evidently enjoyed his new dignity of patron and mentor, proposed having a look at the close, which Tom, a thirst for knowledge, gladly assented to, and they went out through the quadrangle and passed the Big Fives Court into the great playground. There's the chapel, you see, said East, and there, just behind it, is the place for fights. You see it's most out of the way of the masters, who all live on the other side, and don't come by here after first lesson or callings over. That's when the fights come off. And all this part where we are is the little side-ground, right up to the trees, and on the other side of the trees is the big side-ground where the great matches are played. And there's the island in the farthest corner. You'll know that well enough next half when there's island-fagging. I say, it's horrid cold. Let's have a run across. And away went East, Tom, close behind him. East was evidently putting his best foot foremost, and Tom, who was mighty proud of his running, and not a little anxious to show his friend that, although a new boy, he was no milk-sob, laid himself down to work in his very best style. Right across the close they went, each doing all he knew, and there wasn't a yard between them when they pulled up at the island moat. I say, said East, as soon as he got his wind, looking with much increased respect at Tom, you ain't a bad scud, not by no means. Well, I'm as warm as toast now. But why do you wear white trousers in November? said Tom. He had been struck by this peculiarity in the costume of almost all the schoolhouse boys. Why, bless us, don't you know? No, I forgot. Why, today's the schoolhouse match. Our house plays the whole of the school at football, and we all wear white trousers to show him we don't care for hacks. You're in luck to come today. You just will see a match, and Brooke's going to let me play in quarters. That's more than he'll do for any other lower schoolboy, except James, and he's fourteen. Who's Brooke? Why, that big fellow who called over at dinner to be sure. He's cock of the school, and head of the schoolhouse side, and the best kick and charger in rugby. Oh, but do show me where they play, and tell me about it. I love football so, and have played all my life. Won't Brooke let me play? Not he, said East, with some indignation. Why, you don't know the rules. You'll be a month learning them. And then it's no joke playing up in a match, I can tell you, quite another thing from your private school games. Why, there's been two collarbones broken this half, and half a dozen fellows lame'd, and last year a fellow had his leg broken. Tom listened with the profoundest respect to this chapter of accidents, and followed East across the level ground till they came to a sort of gigantic gallows of two poles, eighteen feet high, fixed upright in the ground some fourteen feet apart, with a crossbar running from one to the other at the height of ten feet or thereabouts. This is one of the goals, said East, and you see the other across there, right opposite, under the doctor's wall. Well, the match is for the best of three goals. Whichever side kicks two goals wins, and it won't do, you see, just to kick the ball through these posts. It must go over the crossbar, any height'll do, so long as it's between the posts. You'll have to stay in goal to touch the ball when it rolls behind the posts, because if the other side touch it, they have a triad goal. Then we follow's in quarters. We play just about in front of goal here, and have to turn the ball and kick it back before the big fellows on the other side can follow it up.  Tom's respect increased as he struggled to make out his friend's technicalities, and the other set to work to explain the mysteries of off your side, drop kicks, punts, places, and the other intricacies of the great science of football. But how do you keep the ball between the goals? said he. I can't see why it mightn't go right down to the chapel. Why, that's out of play, aunts at least. You see this gravel walk running down all along this side of the playing ground, and the line of elms opposite on the other. Well, they're the bounds. As soon as the ball gets past them it's in touch, and out of play. And then whoever first touches it has to knock it straight out among the players up, who make two lines with the space between them, every fellow going on his own side. Ain't there just fine scrummages then. And the three trees you see here, which come out into the play, that's a tremendous place when the ball hangs there, for you get thrown against the trees, and that's worse than any hack. Tom wondered within himself, as they strolled back again towards the Fivescourt, whether the matches were really such breakneck affairs as East represented, and whether, if they were, he should ever get to like them and play up well. He hadn't long to wonder, however, for next minute East cried out, Harrah! Here's the punt about! Come along and try your hand at a kick. The punt about is the practice ball, which is just brought out and kicked about anyhow from one boy to another before callings over and dinner, and at other odd times. They joined the boys who had brought it out, all small schoolhouse fellows, friends of East, and Tom had the pleasure of trying his skill, and performed very creditably, after first driving his foot three inches into the ground, and then nearly kicking his leg into the air in vigorous efforts to accomplish a drop-kick after the manner of East.  The crowd thickened as three o'clock approached, and when the hour struck one hundred and fifty boys were hard at work.  I may come in, main tie, said Tom, catching East by the arm and longing to feel one of them. Yes, come along, nobody'll say anything, you won't be so eager to get into calling over after a month, replied his friend, and they marched into the big school together, and up to the farther end, where that illustrious form, the lower fourth, which had the honor of East patronage for the time being, stood. The master mounted into the high desk by the door, and one of the preposterous of the week stood by him on the steps, the other three marching up and down the middle of the school with their canes, calling out, Silence! Silence! The sixth form stood close by the door on the left, some thirty in number, mostly great big grown men, as Tom thought, surveying them from a distance with awe. The fifth form behind them, twice their number, and not quite so big. These on the left, and on the right the lower fifth, shell, and all the other junior forms in order, while up the middle marched the three preposters. Then the preposter, who stands by the master, calls out the names, beginning with the sixth form, and as he calls, each boy answers, here, to his name, and walks out. Some of the sixth stop at the door to turn the whole string of boys into the close. It is a great match day, and every boy in the school, will he, nil he, must be there. The rest of the sixth go forwards into the close, to see that no one escapes by any of the side gates. Today, however, being the schoolhouse match, none of the schoolhouse preposters stay by the door to watch for truance of their side. There is carte blanche to the schoolhouse fags to go where they like. They trust to our honour, as East proudly informs Tom. They know very well that no schoolhouse boy would cut the match. If he did, we'd very soon cut him, I can tell you. The master of the week, being short-sighted, and the preposters of the week small and not well up to their work, the lower school boys employ the ten minutes which elapsed before their names are called, in pelting one another vigorously with acorns, which fly about in all directions. The small preposters dash in every now and then, and generally chastise some quiet timid boy who is equally afraid of acorns and canes, while the principal performers get dexterously out of the way. And so, calling over rolls on somehow, much like the big world, punishments lighting on wrong shoulders and matters going generally in a queer cross-grained way, but the end coming somehow, which is after all the great point. And now the master of the week has finished, and locked up the big school, and the preposters of the week come out, sweeping the last remnant of the school fags, who had been loafing about the corners by the Fives Court in hopes of a chance of bolting, before them, into the close. Hold the punt about! To the goals! other cries, and all stray balls are impounded by the authorities, and the whole mass of boys moves up towards the two goals, dividing as they go into three bodies. That little band on the left, consisting of from fifteen to twenty boys, Tom amongst them, who are making for the goal under the schoolhouse wall, are the schoolhouse boys who are not to play up, and have to stay in goal. The larger body moving to the island goal are the schoolboys in a like predicament. The great mass in the middle are the players up, both sides mingled together, they are hanging their jackets, and all who mean real work, their hats, waistcoats, neck handkerchiefs, and braces, on the railings around the small trees, and there they go by twos and threes up to their respective grounds. There is none of the colour and tastiness of get-up you will perceive which lends such a life to the present game at rugby, making the dullest and worst-fought match a pretty sight. Now each house has its own uniform cap and jersey of some lively colour. But at the time we are speaking of, plush caps have not yet come in, or uniforms of any sort, except the schoolhouse white trousers, which are abominably cold to-day. Let us get to work, bare-headed and girded with our plain leather straps, but we mean business, gentlemen. And now that the two sides are fairly sundered, and each occupies its own ground, and we get a good look at them, what absurdity is this? You don't mean to say that those fifty or sixty boys in white trousers, many of them quite small, are going to play that huge mass opposite? Indeed I do, gentlemen. They are going to try at any rate, and won't make such a bad fight of it, either, mark my word, for hasn't Old Brook won the toss, with his lucky hipney, and got choice of goals and kick-off? The new ball you may see lie there quite by itself, in the middle, pointing towards the school or island goal. In another minute it will be well on its way there. Use that minute in remarking how the schoolhouse side is drilled. You will see, in the first place, that the sixth-form boy, who has the charge of the goal, has spread his force, the goal-keepers, so as to occupy the whole space behind the goal-posts, at distances of about five yards apart. A safe and well-kept goal is the foundation of all good play. Old Brook is talking to the captain of quarters, and now he moves away. See how that youngster spreads his men, the light brigade, carefully over the ground, halfway between their own goal and the body of their own players up, the heavy brigade. These again play in several bodies. There is young Brook and the bulldogs. Mark them well. They are the fighting brigade, the die-hards, larking about at Leapfrog to keep themselves warm, and playing tricks on one another. And on each side of Old Brook, who is now standing in the middle of the ground and just going to kick off, you see a separate wing of players up, each with a boy of acknowledged prowess to look to. Here Warner, and their hedge. But overall is Old Brook, absolute as he of Russia, but wisely and bravely ruling over willing and worshipping subjects, a true football king. His face is earnest and careful as he glances a last time over his array, but full of pluck and hope, the sort of look I hope to see in my general when I go out to fight. The school side is not organized in the same way. The goalkeepers are all in lumps, anyhow and know-how. You can't distinguish between the players up and the boys in quarters, and there is divided leadership. But with such odds in strength and weight, it must take more than that to hinder them from winning. And so their leaders seem to think, for they let the players up manage themselves. But now, look, there is a slight move forward of the schoolhouse wings, a shout of, Are you ready? And loud affirmative reply. Old Brook takes half a dozen quick steps and away goes the ball, spinning towards the school goal, seventy yards before it touches ground, and at no point above twelve or fifteen feet high. A model kick-off, and the schoolhouse cheer and rush on. The ball is returned, and they meet it and drive it back among the masses of the school already in motion. Then the two sides close, and you can see nothing for minutes but a swaying crowd of boys at one point violently agitated. That is where the ball is, and there are the keen players to be met, and the glory and the hard knocks to be got. You hear the dull thud of the ball, and the shout of, Off your side! Down with him! Put him over! Bravo! This is what we shall call a scrummage, gentlemen, and the first scrummage in a schoolhouse match was no joke in the consulship of Plancus. But see, it is broken. The ball is driven out on the schoolhouse side, and a rush of the school carries it past the schoolhouse players up. Look out in quarters! Brooks and twenty other voices ring out. No need to call, though. The schoolhouse captain of quarters has caught it on the bound, dodges the foremost schoolboys who are heading the rush, and sends it back with a good dropkick well into the enemy's country. And then follows rush upon rush, and scrummage upon scrummage. The ball now driven through into the schoolhouse quarters, and now into the school goal, for the schoolhouse have not lost the advantage which the kick-off and a slight wind gave them at the outset, and are slightly penning their adversaries. You say you don't see much in it at all, nothing but a struggling mass of boys, and a leather ball which seems to excite them all to great fury as a red rag does a ball.  But a battle would be worth your looking at for all that, and so is a football match. You can't be expected to appreciate the delicate strokes of play, the turns by which a game is lost and won. It takes an old player to do that. But the broad philosophy of football you can understand, if you will. Come along with me a little nearer, and let us consider it together. The ball has just fallen again where the two sides are thickest, and they close rapidly around it in a scrummage. It must be driven through now by force or skill, till it flies out on one side or the other. Look how differently the boys face it. Here come two of the bulldogs bursting through the outsiders. In they go, straight to the heart of the scrummage, bent on driving that ball out on the opposite side. That is what they mean to do. My sons, my sons, you are too hot, you have gone past the ball, and must struggle now right through the scrummage, and get round and back again to your own side, before you can be of any further use. Here comes Youngbrook. He goes in as straight as you, but keeps his head and backs and bends, holding himself still behind the ball and driving it furiously when he gets the chance. Take a leaf out of his book, you young chargers. Here comes Speedycut and Flashman, the schoolhouse bully, with shouts and great action. Won't you two come up to Youngbrook after locking up by the schoolhouse fire with, old fellow, wasn't that just a splendid scrummage by the three trees? But he knows you and so do we. You don't really want to drive that ball through the scrummage, chanting all hurt for the glory of the schoolhouse. But to make us think that's what you want, a vastly different thing, and fellows of your kidney will never go through more than the skirts of a scrummage, where it's all push and no kicking. We respect boys who keep out of it and don't sham going in. But you, we had rather not say what we think of you. Then the boys who are bending and watching on the outside, mark them, they are most useful players, the dodgers who seize on the ball the moment it rolls out from amongst the chargers, and away with it across to the opposite goal. They seldom go into the scrummage, but must have more coolness than the chargers. As endless as our boys' characters, so are their ways of facing or not facing a scrummage at football. Three quarters of an hour are gone. First winds are failing, and weight and numbers beginning to tell. Yard by yard the schoolhouse have been driven back, contesting every inch of ground. The bulldogs are the colour of Mother Earth from shoulder to ankle, except Youngbrook, who has a marvellous knack of keeping his legs. The schoolhouse are being penned in their turn, and now the ball is behind their goal under the doctor's wall. The doctor and some of his family are there looking on, and seem as anxious as any boy for the success of the schoolhouse. We get a minute's breathing time before Oldbrook kicks out, and he gives the word to play strongly for touch by the three trees. Away goes the ball, and the bulldogs after it, and in another minute there is a shout of, in touch, our ball! Now's your time, Oldbrook, while your men are still fresh. He stands with the ball in his hand, while the two sides form in deep lines opposite one another. He must strike it straight out between them. The lines are thickest close to him, but Youngbrook and two or three of his men are shifting up farther, where the opposite line is weak. Oldbrook strikes it out straight and strong, and it falls opposite his brother. Hurrah! That rush has taken it right through the school line, and away past the three trees, far into their quarters, and Youngbrook and the bulldogs are close upon it. The school leaders rush back shouting, Look out in goal! and strain every nerve to catch him, but they are after the fleetiest foot in rugby. There they go, straight for the school goalposts, quarters scattering before them. One after another the bulldogs go down, but Youngbrook holds on. He's down! No, a long stagger, but the danger is past. That was the shock of crew, the most dangerous of Dodgers. And now he is close to the school goal, the ball not three yards before him. There is a hurried rush of the school fags to the spot, but no one throws himself upon the ball the only chance, and Youngbrook has touched it right under the school goalposts. The school leaders come up furious and administer toco to the wretched fags nearest at hand. They may well be angry, for it is all Lombard Street, to a china orange, that the schoolhouse kicker goal with the ball touched in such a good place. Old Brook, of course, will kick it out, but who shall catch and place it? Call Crab Jones. Here he comes, sauntering along with a straw in his mouth, the queerest, coolest fish in rugby. If he were tumbled into the moon this minute, he would just pick himself up without taking his hands out of his pockets or turning a hair. But it is a moment when the boldest charge's heart beats quick. Old Brook stands with the ball under his arm, motioning the school back. He will not kick out till they are all in goal behind the posts. They are all edging forwards inch by inch to get nearer for the rush at Crab Jones, who stands there in front of Old Brook to catch the ball. If they can reach and destroy him before he catches, the danger is over, and with one and the same rush they will carry it right away to the schoolhouse goal. Fond Hope. It is kipped out and caught beautifully. Crab strikes his heel into the ground to mark the spot where the ball was caught, beyond which the school line may not advance. But there they stand, five deep, ready to rush the moment the ball touches the ground. Take plenty of time. Don't give the rush a chance of reaching you. Place it true and steady. Trust Crab Jones. He has made a small hole with his heel for the ball to lie on, by which he is resting on one knee with his eye on Old Brook. Now! Crab places the ball at the word. Old Brook kicks, and it rises slowly and truly as the school rush forward. Then a moment's pause, while both sides look up at the spinning ball. There it flies, straight between the two posts, some five feet above the crossbar, an unquestioned goal, and a shout of real, genuine joy rings out from the schoolhouse players up, and a faint echo of it comes over the close from the goalkeepers under the doctor's wall. A goal in the first hour such a thing hasn't been done in the schoolhouse match these five years. Over! is the cry. The two sides change goals, and the schoolhouse goalkeepers come threading their way across through the masses of the school, the most openly triumphant of them, amongst whom is Tom, a schoolhouse boy of two hours standing, getting their ears boxed in the transit. Tom indeed is excited beyond measure, and it is all the sixth form boy, kindest and safest of goalkeepers, has been able to do to keep him from rushing out whenever the ball has been near their goal, so he holds him by his side and instructs him in the science of touching. At this moment Griffith, the itinerant vendor of oranges from Hill Morton, enters the close with his heavy baskets. There is a rush of small boys upon the little pale-faced man, the two sides mingling together, subdued by the great goddess Thirst, like the English and French by the streams in the Pyrenees. The leaders are past oranges and apples, but some of them visit their coats and apply innocent-looking ginger-beer bottles to their mouths. It is no ginger-beer, though, I fear, and will do you no good. One short mad rush, and then a stitch in the side, and no more honest play. That's what becomes of those bottles. But now Griffith's baskets are empty. The ball is placed again midway, and the school are going to kick off. Their leaders have sent their lumber into goal, and rated the rest soundly, and one hundred and twenty picked players upper there, bent on retrieving the game. They are to keep the ball in front of the schoolhouse goal, and then to drive it in by sheer strength and weight. They mean heavy play and no mistake, and so old Brooke sees, and places crab-jones in quarters just before the goal, with four or five picked players who are to keep the ball away to the sides, where a triet goal, if obtained, will be less dangerous than in front. He himself, and Warner and Hedge, who have saved themselves till now, will lead the charges. Are you ready? Yes. And away comes the ball, kicked high in the air, to give the school time to rush on and catch it as it falls. And here they are amongst us. Meet them like Englishmen, you schoolhouse boys, and charge them home. Now is the time to show what metal is in you, and there shall be a warm seat by the whole fire, and honour, and lots of bottled beer tonight for him who does his duty in the next half-hour. And they are well met. Again and again the cloud of their players up gathers before our goal, and comes threatening on, and Warner, or Hedge, with young Brooke and the relics of the bulldogs, break through and carry the ball back, and old Brooke ranges the field like Job's war-horse. The thickest scrummage parts a sunder before his rush, like the waves before a clipper's boughs. His cheery voice rings out over the field, and his eye is everywhere. And if these miss the ball, and it rolls dangerously in front of our goal, Crab Jones and his men have seized it, and sent it away towards the sides with the unerring drop-kick. This is worth living for. The whole sum of schoolboy existence gathered up into one straining, struggling half-hour, a half-hour worth a year of common life. The quarter to five has struck, and the play slackens for a minute before goal. But there is crew, the artful dodger, driving the ball in behind our goal, on the island side, where our quarters are weakest. Is there no one to meet him? Yes, look at little East. The ball is just at equal distances between the two, and they rush together, the young man of 17, and the boy of 12, and kick at it the same moment. Crew passes on without a stagger. East is hurled forward by the shock, and plunges on his shoulder, as if he would bury himself in the ground. But the ball rises straight into the air, and falls behind Crew's back, while the brav-o's of the schoolhouse attest to the pluckiest charge of all that hard-fought day. Warner picks East up lame and half-stunned, and he hobbles back into goal, conscious of having played the man. And now the last minutes are come, and the school gather for their last rush, every boy of the 120 who has a run left in him. Reckless of the defence of their own goal, on they come across the level big-side ground, the ball well down amongst them, straight for our goal, like the column of the old guard up the slope at Waterloo. All former charges have been child's play to this. Warner and Hedge have met them, but still, on they come. The bull-dogs rush in for the last time. They are hurled over, or carried back, striving hand, foot, and eyelids. Old Brook comes sweeping round the skirts of the play, and turning short round picks out the very heart of the scrummage, and plunges in. It wavers for a moment. He has the ball. No! It has passed him, and his voice rings out clear over the advancing tide. Look out in goal! Crab Jones catches it for a moment, but before he can kick, the rush is upon him, and passes over him. And he picks himself up behind them, with his straw in his mouth, a little dirtier, but as cool as ever.  There stands the schoolhouse preposter, safest of goalkeepers, and Tom Brown by his side, who has learned his trade by this time. Now is your time, Tom. The blood of all the Browns is up, and the two rush in together, and throw themselves on the ball, under the very feet of the advancing column. The preposter on his hands and knees, arching his back, and Tom all along on his face. Over them topple the leaders of the rush, shooting over the back of the preposter, but falling flat on Tom, and knocking all the wind out of his small carcass. Our ball, says the preposter, rising with his prize, but get up there, there's a little fellow under you. They are hauled and roll off him, and Tom is discovered, a motionless body. Old Brooke picks him up. Stand back, give him air, he says, and then feeling his limbs adds, no bones broken. How do you feel, young'un? Ah, gasps Tom as his wind comes back. Pretty well, thank you. All right. Who is he? says Brooke. Oh, it's Brown. He's a new boy. I know him, says East, coming up. Well, he is a plucky youngster, and will make a player, says Brooke. And five o'clock strikes. No side is called, and the first day of the schoolhouse match is over. End of part one, chapter five. Part one, chapter six 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 one, chapter six. After the match. Some food we had. Shakespeare. As the boys scattered away from the ground, and East, leaning on Tom's arm, and limping along, was beginning to consider what luxury they should go and buy for tea to celebrate that glorious victory, the two Brooks came striding by. Old Brooke caught sight of East, and stopped, put his hand kindly on his shoulder, and said, Bravo, youngster, you played famously. Not much the matter, I hope. No, nothing at all, said East, only a little twist from that charge. Well, mind and get all right for next Saturday. And the leader passed on, leaving East better for those few words than all the oppadel-dock in England would have made him, and Tom ready to give one of his ears for as much notice. Ah, light words of those whom we love and honour, what a power ye are, and how carelessly wielded by those who can use you. Surely for these things also God will ask an account. Teased directly after locking up, you see, said East, hobbling along as fast as he could. So you could come along down to Sally Harrow Wells. That's our schoolhouse tuck-shop. She-pakes such stunning murphys will have a peneth each for tea. Come along, or they'll all be gone. Tom's new person to money burnt in his pockets. He wondered, as they toddled through the quadrangle and along the street, whether East would be insulted if he suggested further extravagance, as he had not sufficient faith in a penny-worth of potatoes. At last he blurted out, I say, East, can't we get something else besides potatoes? I've got lots of money, you know. Bless us, yes, I forgot, said East. You've only just come. You see, all my tin's been gone this twelve weeks. It hardly ever lasts beyond the first fortnight, and our allowances were all stopped this morning for broken windows, so I haven't got a penny. I've got a tick at Sally's, of course, but then I hate running it high, you see, towards the end of a half, because one has to shell out for it all directly when comes back, and that's a bore. Tom didn't understand much of this talk, but seized on the fact that East had no money, and was denying himself some little pet luxury in consequence. Well, what shall I buy? said he. I'm uncommon hungry. I say, said East, stopping to look at him and rest his leg.  I'll do the same by you next half. Let's have a pound of sausages, then. That's the best grub for tea I know of. Very well, said Tom, as pleased as possible. Where do they sell them? Oh, over here, just opposite. And they crossed the street and walked into the cleanest little front room of a small house, half parlor, half shop, and bought a pound of most particular sausages, East talking pleasantly to Mrs. Porter while she put them in paper, and Tom doing the paying part. From Porter's they adjourned to Sally Harrowwell's, where they found a lot of schoolhouse boys waiting for the roast potatoes and relating their own exploits in the day's match at the top of their voices. The street opened at once into Sally's kitchen, a low brick flawed room, with large recess for fire and chimney-corner seats. Poor little Sally, the most good-natured and much enduring of womankind, was bustling about, with a napkin in her hand, from her own oven to those of the neighbour's cottages up the yard at the back of the house. Stumps, her husband, a short easy-going shoemaker with a beery humorous eye and ponderous calves, who lived mostly on his wife's earnings, stood in a corner of the room, exchanging shots of the roughest description of repartee with every boy in turn. Stumps, you lout, you've had too much beer again today. Twasn't of your pain for, then? Stumps's calves are running down into his ankles they want to get to grass. Better be doing that than gone altogether like yours. Very poor stuff it was, but it served to make the time pass, and every now and then Sally arrived in the middle with a smoking tin of potatoes, which was cleared off in a few seconds, each boy as he seized his lot running off to the house with, Put me down two penneth, Sally. Put down three penneth between me and Davis. Etc. How she ever kept the account so straight as she did, in her head and on her slate, was a perfect wonder. East and Tom got served at last, and started back for the schoolhouse, just as the locking up bell began to ring, east on the way recounting the life and adventures of Stumps, who was a character. Amongst his other small avocations he was the hind carrier of a sedan chair, the last of its race, in which the rugby-lady still went out to tea, and in which, when he was fairly harnessed and carrying a load, it was the delight of small and mischievous boys to follow him and whip his calves. This was too much for the temper even of Stumps, and he would pursue his tormentors in a vindictive and apoplectic manner when released, but was easily pacified by tuppants to buy beer with. The lower school boys of the schoolhouse, some fifteen in number, had tea in the lower fifth school, and were presided over by the old verger or head porter. Each boy had a quarter of a loaf of bread and a pat of butter, and as much tea as he pleased, and there was scarcely one who didn't add to this some further luxury, such as baked potatoes, a herring, sprouts, or something of the sort. But few at this period of the half-year could live up to a pound of porter's sausages, and east was in great magnificence upon the strength of theirs. He had produced a toasting-fork from his study, and set Tom to toast the sausages while he mounted guard over their butter and potatoes.  So Tom, in the midst of three or four more urchins similarly employed, toasted his face and the sausages at the same time before the huge fire till the latter cracked, when east from his watchtower shouted that they were done, and then the feast proceeded, and the festive cups of tea were filled and emptied, and Tom imparted of the sausages in small bits to many neighbours, and thought he had never tasted such good potatoes or seen such jolly boys. They on their parts waved all ceremony and pegged away at the sausages and potatoes, and remembering Tom's performance in goal voted east's new crony a brick. After tea, and while the things were being cleared away, they gathered round the fire, and the talk on the match still went on, and those who had them to show pulled up their trousers and showed the hacks they had received in the good cause. They were soon, however, all turned out of the school, and east conducted Tom up to his bedroom, that he might get on clean things and wash himself before singing.  Well, you are jolly green, answered his friend from a neighbouring basin. Why, the last six Saturdays of every half we sing, of course, and this is the first of them. No first lesson to do, you know, and lie in bed to-morrow morning. But who sings? Why, every body, of course, you'll see soon enough. We begin directly after supper and sing till bedtime. It ain't such good fun now, though, as in the summer half, cos then we sing in the little fidescourt under the library, you know. We take out tables, and the big boys sit round and drink beer, double allowance on Saturday nights, and we cut about the quadrangle between the songs, and it looks like a lot of robbers in a cave, and the louts come and pound at the great gates, and we pound back again and shout at them. But this half we only sing in the hall. Come along down to my study. Their principal employment in the study was to clear out East's table, removing the drawers and ornaments and tablecloth, for he lived in the bottom passage, and his table was in requisition for the singing. Supper came in due course at seven o'clock, consisting of bread and cheese and beer, which was all saved for the singing, and directly afterwards the fags went to work to prepare the hall. The schoolhouse hall, as has been said, is a great long high room, with two large fires on one side, and two large iron-bound tables, one running down the middle, and the other along the wall opposite the fireplaces. Around the upper fire the fags placed the tables in the form of a horseshoe, and upon them the jugs with the Saturday night's allowance of beer. Then the big boys used to drop in and take their seats, bringing with them bottled beer and song books, for although they all knew the songs by heart, it was the thing to have an old manuscript book descended from some departed hero in which they were all carefully written out. The sixth-warm boys had not yet appeared, so to fill up the gap an interesting and time-honoured ceremony was gone through. Each new boy was placed on the table in turn, and made to sing a solo, under the penalty of drinking a large mug of salt and water if he resisted, or broke down. However the new boys all sing like nightingales to-night, and the salt water is not in requisition. Tom, as his part, performing the old West Country song of the Leather Bottle, with considerable applause. And at the half-hour down come the sixth and fifth-form boys, and take their places at the tables, which are filled up by the next biggest boys, the rest for whom there is no room at the table, standing round outside. The glasses and mugs are filled, and then the Fugleman strikes up the old sea-song, a wet sheet and a flowing sea and a wind that follows fast, etc., which is the invariable first song in the schoolhouse, and all the seventy voices join in, not mindful of harmony, but bent on noise, which they attain decidedly, but the general effect isn't bad. And then follow the British Grenadiers, Billy Taylor, the Siege of Serangipatam, three jolly post-boys, and other vociferous songs in rapid succession, including The Chesapeake and Shannon, a song lately introduced in honour of old Brooke, and when they come to the words, Brave Brooke, he waved his sword, crying, Now my lads aboard, and will stop their playing Yankee Doodle Dandio. You expect the roof to come down. The sixth and fifth know that Brave Brooke of the Shannon was no sort of relation to our old Brooke. The fourth form are uncertain in their belief, but for the most part hold that old Brooke was a midshipman then, on board his uncle's ship. And the lower school never doubt for a moment that it was our old Brooke who led the borders in what capacity they care not a straw. During the pauses the bottled beer-corks fly rapidly, and the talk is fast and merry, and the big boys, at least all of them who have a fellow feeling for dry throats, hand their mugs over their shoulders to be emptied by the small ones who stand round behind.  Then silence being made, Warner reminds them of the old schoolhouse custom of drinking the health, on the first night of singing, of those who are going to leave at the end of the half. He sees that they know what he is going to say already. Loud cheers, and so won't keep them, but only ask them to treat the toast as it deserves. It is the head of the eleven, the head of Big Side Football, their leader on this glorious day, Peter Brooke. And away goes the pounding and cheering again, becoming deafening when old Brooke gets on his legs, till a table having broken down, and a gallon or so of beer being upset, and all throats getting dry, silence ensues, and the hero speaks, leaning his hands on the table and bending a little forwards. No action, no tricks of oratory, plain, strong and straight, like his play. Gentlemen of the schoolhouse, I am very proud of the way in which you have received my name, and I wish I could say all I should like in return, but I know I shan't. However, I'll do the best I can to say what seems to me ought to be said by a fellow who's just going to leave, and who has spent a good slice of his life here. Eight years it is, and eight such years as I can never hope to have again. So now I hope you'll all listen to me. Loud cheers, of that we will. For I'm going to talk seriously. You're bound to listen to me for what's the use of calling me Peter and all that, if you don't mind what I say. And I'm going to talk seriously, because I feel so. It's a jolly time, too, getting to the end of the half, and a goal kicked by us first day. Tremendous applause! After one of the hardest and fiercest days play I can remember in eight years, frantic shoutings. The school played splendidly, too, I will say, and kept it up to the last. That last charge of theirs would have carried away a house. I never thought to see anything of old crab there, except little pieces, when I saw him tumbled over by it. Laughter and shouting, and great slapping on the back of Jones by the boys nearest him. Well, but we beat him. Cheers! I—but why did we beat him? Answer me that.  Nonsense! It wasn't the wind and kick off either. That wouldn't do it. It wasn't because we've half a dozen of the best players in the school, as we have. I wouldn't change Warner and Hedge and Crab and the young'n for any six on their side. Violent cheers! But half a dozen fellows can't keep it up for two hours against two hundred. Why is it then? I'll tell you what I think. It's because we've more reliance on one another, more of a house feeling, more fellowship than the school can have. Each of us knows and can depend on his next hand man better. That's why we beat him today. We've union, they've division. There's the secret. Cheers! But how's this to be kept up? How's it to be improved? That's the question. For I take it we're all in earnest about beating the school whatever else we care about. I know I'd sooner win two schoolhouse matches running than get the Balliol scholarship any day. Frantic cheers! Now I'm as proud of the house as anyone. I believe it's the best house in the school, out and out. Cheers! But it's a long way from what I want to see it. First there's a deal of bullying going on. I know it well. I don't pry about and interfere, that only makes it more underhand, and encourages the small boys to come to us with their fingers in their eyes telling tales, and so we should be worse off than ever. It's very little kindness for the sixth to meddle generally. You youngsters mind that. You'll be all the better football players for learning to stand it and to take your own parts and fight it through. But depend on it. There's nothing breaks up a house like bullying. Bullies are cowards, and one coward makes many. So goodbye to the schoolhouse match if bullying gets ahead here. Loud applause from the small boys who look meaningly at flashmen and other boys at the tables. Then this fuddling about in the public house and drinking bad spirits and punch and such rotgut stuff. That won't make good drop kicks or charges of you. Take my word for it. You get plenty of good beer here, and that's enough for you. And drinking isn't fine or manly, whatever some of you may think about it. One other thing I must have a word about. A lot of you think and say, for I've heard you, there's this new doctor hasn't been here so long as some of us, and he's changing all the old customs. Rugby and the schoolhouse especially are going to the dogs. Stand up for the good old ways and down with the doctor. Now I'm as fond of old rugby customs and ways as any of you, and I've been here longer than any of you, and I'll give you a word of advice in time, for I shouldn't like to see any of you getting sacked. Down with the doctors, easier said than done. You'll find him pretty tight on his perch, I take it, and an awkwardish customer to handle in that line. Besides now, what customs has he put down? There was the good old custom of taking the linchpins out of the farmers and bagman's gigs at the fairs, and a cowardly black-odd custom it was. We all know what came of it, and no wonder the doctor objected to it. But come now, any of you, name a custom that he has put down. The hounds, calls out a fifth-form boy, clad in a green cutaway with brass buttons and cord trousers, the leader of the sporting interest, and reputed a great rider and keen hand generally. Well, we had six or seven mangy harriers and beagles belonging to the house, I'll allow, and had had them for years, and that the doctor put them down. But what good ever came of them! Only rouse with all the keepers for ten miles round, and a big-side hare and hounds is better fun ten times over. What else? No answer. Well, I won't go on. Think it over for yourselves. You'll find, I believe, that he don't meddle with any one that's worth keeping. And mind now, I say again, look out for squalls if you will go your own way, and that way ain't the doctors, for it'll lead to grief. You all know that I'm not the fellow to back a master through thick and thin. If I saw him stopping football, or cricket, or bathing, or sparring, I'd be as ready as any fellow to stand up about it. But he don't. He encourages them. Didn't you see him out today for half an hour watching us? Loud cheers for the doctor. And he's a strong, true man, and a wise one too, and a public schoolman too. Cheers. And so let's stick to him, and talk no more rot, and drink his health as the head of the house. Loud cheers. And now I've done blowing up, and very glad I am to have done. But it's a solemn thing to be thinking of, leaving a place which one has lived in, and loved for eight years. And if one can say a word for the good of the old house at such a time, why, it should be said, whether bitter or sweet.  And now let's get to singing. But before I sit down, I must give you a toast to be drunk with three times three, and all the honours. It's a toast which I hope every one of us, wherever he may go hereafter, will never fail to drink when he thinks of the brave, bright days of his boyhood. It's a toast which should bind us all together, and to those who've gone before, and who'll come after us here. It is the dear old schoolhouse, the best house of the best school in England. My dear boys, old and young, you who have belonged, or do belong, to other schools and other houses, don't begin throwing my poor little book about the room, and abusing me and it, and vowing you'll read no more when you get to this point.  You know you wouldn't. Then don't object to me cracking up the old schoolhouse rugby. Haven't I a right to do it, when I'm taking all the trouble of writing this true history for all your benefits? If you ain't satisfied, go and write the history of your own houses, in your own times, and say all you know for your own schools and houses, provided it's true, and I'll read it without abusing you. The last few words hit the audience in their weakest place. They had not been altogether enthusiastic at several parts of Old Brook's speech, but the best house of the best school in England was too much for them all, and carried even the sporting and drinking interests off their legs into rapturous applause. And, it is to be hoped, resolutions to lead a new life and remember Old Brook's words. Which, however, they didn't altogether do, as will appear hereafter. But it required all Old Brook's popularity to carry down parts of his speech, especially that relating to the Doctor. For there are no such bigoted holders by established forms and customs, be they never so foolish or meaningless, as English schoolboys. At least, as the schoolboys of our generation. We magnified into heroes every boy who had left, and looked upon him with awe and reverence when he revisited the place a year or so afterwards, on his way to or from Oxford or Cambridge, and happy was the boy who remembered him, and sure of an audience as he expounded what he used to do and say, though it was sad enough stuff to make angels, not to say headmasters weep. We looked upon every trumpery little custom and habit which had obtained in the school as though it had been a law of the Meads and Persians, and regarded the infringement or variation of it as a sort of sacrilege. And the Doctor, than whom no man or boy had a stronger liking for old schooled customs which were good and sensible, had, as has already been hinted, come into most decided collision with several which were neither the one nor the other. And as Old Brook had said, when he came into collision with boys or customs, there was nothing for them but to give in or take themselves off. Because what he said had to be done and no mistake about it. And this was beginning to be pretty clearly understood. The boys felt that there was a strong man over them who would have things his own way, and hadn't yet learnt that he was a wise and loving man also. His personal character and influence had not had time to make itself felt, except by a very few of the bigger boys with whom he came more directly into contact. And he was looked upon with great fear and dislike by the great majority even of his own house, for he had found school and schoolhouse in a state of monstrous license and misrule, and was still employed in the necessary but unpopular work of setting up order with a strong hand. However, as has been said, Old Brook triumphed, and the boys cheered him and then the Doctor, and then more songs came and the health of the other boys about to leave, who each made a speech, one flowery, one maudlin, a third prosy, and so on, which are not necessary to be here recorded. Half-past nine struck in the middle of the performance of Old Langzine, a most obstreperous proceeding, during which there was an immense amount of standing with one foot on the table, knocking mugs together and shaking hands, without which accompaniments it seems impossible for the youths of Britain to take part in that famous old song. The underporter of the schoolhouse entered during the performance, bearing five or six long wooden candlesticks with lighted dips in them, which he proceeded to stick into their holes in such part of the great tables as he could get at, and then stood outside the ring till the end of the song when he was hailed with shouts, Bill, you old muff, the half-hour hasn't struck. Here, Bill, drink some cocktail. Sing us a song, old boy. Don't you wish you may get the table? Bill drank the proffered cocktail, not unwillingly, and putting down the empty glass, remonstrated. Now, gentlemen, there's only ten minutes to prayers, and we must get the hall straight. Shouts of no, no, and a violent effort to strike up Billy Taylor for the third time. Bill looked appealingly to old Brooke, who got up and stopped the noise.  Clear away the jugs and glasses. Bill's right. Open the windows, Warner. The boy addressed, who sat by the long ropes, proceeded to pull up the great windows, and let in a clear, fresh rush of night air, which made the candles flicker and gutter, and the fires roar. The circle broke up, each collaring his own jug, glass, and song-book. Bill pounced on the big table, and began to rattle it away to its place outside the buttery door. The lower passage-boys carried off their small tables, aided by their friends, while above all, standing on the great hall-table, a knot of untiring sons of harmony made night-dolful by a prolonged performance of God Save the King. His Majesty, King William IV, then reigned over us. A monarch deservedly popular amongst the boys addicted to melody, to whom he was chiefly known from the beginning of that excellent, if slightly vulgar, song in which they much delighted. Come, neighbours all, both great and small, perform your duties here, and loudly sing, live Billy our King, for baiting the tax upon Veer. Others of the more learned in songs also celebrated his praises in a sort of ballad, which I take to have been written by some Irish loyalist. I have forgotten all but the chorus, which ran. God Save Our Good King William, be his name for ever blessed. He's the father of all his people, and the guardian of all the rest. In truth we were loyal subjects in those days, in a rough way. I trust that our successors make as much of her present majesty, and having regard to the greater refinement of the times, have adopted or written other songs equally hearty, but more civilised, in her honour. Then the quarter to ten struck, and the prayer bell rang. The sixth and fifth form boys ranged themselves in their school order along the wall, on either side of the great fires, the middle fifth and upper school boys around the long table in the middle of the hall, and the lower school boys round the upper part of the second long table, which ran down the side of the hall farthest from the fires. Here Tom found himself at the bottom of all, in a state of mind and body, not at all fit for prayers, as he thought, and so tried hard to make himself serious, but couldn't, for the life of him, do anything but repeat in his head the choruses of some of the songs, and stare at all the boys opposite, wondering at the brilliancy of their waistcoats, and speculating what sort of fellows they were. The steps of the head-porter are heard on the stairs, and a light gleams at the door. Hush! from the fifth form boys who stand there, and then in strides the doctor, cap on head, booking one hand and gathering up his gown in the other. He walks up the middle and takes his post by Warner, who begins calling over the names. The doctor takes no notice of anything, but quietly turns over his book and finds the place, and then stands cap in hand and finger in book, looking straight before his nose. He knows better than anyone when to look and when to see nothing. Tonight is singing night, and there's been lots of noise and no harm done, nothing but beer drunk, and nobody the worse for it, though some of them do look hot and excited. So the doctor sees nothing, but fascinates Tom in a horrible manner as he stands there, and reads out the psalm in that deep, ringing, searching voice of his. Prayers are over, and Tom still stares open-mouthed after the doctor's retiring figure, when he feels a pull at his sleeve and turning round sees East. I say, were you ever tossed in a blanket? No, said Tom, why? Because they'll be tossing to-night, most likely, before the sixth comes up to bed.  Were you ever tossed? Does it hurt? inquired Tom.  It don't hurt unless you fall on the floor, but most fellows don't like it. They stopped at the fireplace in the top passage, where were a crowd of small boys whispering together, and evidently unwilling to go up to the bedrooms. In a minute, however, a study door opened, and a sixth form boy came out, and off they all scuttled up the stairs, and then noiselessly dispersed to their different rooms. Tom's heart beat rather quick as he and East reached their room, but he had made up his mind. I shan't hide, East, said he. Very well, old fellow, replied East, evidently pleased. No more shall I, they'll be here for us directly. The room was a great big one, with a dozen beds in it, but not a boy that Tom could see except East and himself. East pulled off his coat and waistcoat, and then sat on the bottom of his bed, whistling and pulling off his boots. Tom followed his example. A noise and steps are heard in the passage. The door opens, and in rush four or five great fifth form boys headed by Flashman in his glory. Tom and East slept in the farther corner of the room, and were not seen at first. Gone to ground, eh? roared Flashman. Push him out, then, boys. Look under the beds. And he pulled up the little white curtain of the one nearest him. Whoa! he roared, pulling away at the leg of a small boy, who held on tight to the leg of the bed, and sang out lustily for mercy. Here, lend a hand, one of you, and help me pull out this young howling brute.  Oh, please, Flashman, please! Walker, don't toss me.  I'll do anything. Only don't toss me. You be hanged, said Flashman, lugging the wretched boy along. Don't hurt you. You! Come along, boys. Here he is. I say, Flashy, sang out another of the big boys, drop that. You heard what old Peter Brook said tonight. I'll be hanged if we'll toss anyone against their will. No more bullying. Let him go, I say. Flashman, with an oath and a kick, released his prey, who rushed headlong under his bed again, for fear they should change their minds, and crept along underneath the other beds, till he got under that of the sixth-form boy, which he knew they'd dared to disturb. There's plenty of youngsters don't care about it, said Walker. Here, here's Skud East. You'll be tossed, won't you, young'un? Skud was East's nickname, or Black, as we called it, gained by his fleetness of foot. Yes, said East, if you like, only mind my foot. And here's another who didn't hide. Hello, new boy. What's your name, sir? Brown. Well, mighty Brown, you don't mind being tossed? No, said Tom, setting his teeth. Come along, then, boys, sang out Walker, and away they all went, carrying along Tom and East, to the intense relief of four or five other small boys, who crept out from under the beds and behind them. What a Trump Skud is, said one. They won't come back here now. And that new boy, too, he must be a good Pluckton. Ah, wait till he has been tossed on the floor. See how he likes it, Ben. Meantime the procession went down the passage to Number Seven, the largest room, and the scene of the tossing, in the middle of which was a great open space. Here they joined other parties of the bigger boys, each with a captive or two, some willing to be tossed, some sullen, and some frightened to death. At Walker's suggestion all who were afraid were let off, in honor of Peter Brooke's speech. Then a dozen big boys cease hold of a blanket, dragged from one of the beds. In with Skud, quick, there's no time to lose. East was chucked into the blanket, once, twice, thrice, and away. Up he went, like a shuttlecock, but not quite up to the ceiling. Now, boys, with a will, cried Walker, once, twice, thrice, and away. This time he went clean up, and kept himself from touching the ceiling with his hand, and so again a third time, when he was turned out, and up went another boy, and then came Tom's turn. He lay quite still by East's advice, and didn't dislike the once, twice, thrice, but the away wasn't so pleasant. They were in good wind now, and sent him slap up to the ceiling first time, against which his knees came rather sharply. But the moment's pause before descending was the rub, the feeling of utter helplessness, and of leaving his whole inside behind him, sticking to the ceiling. Tom was very near shouting to be set down, when he found himself back in the blanket, but thought of East, and didn't, and so took his three tosses without a kick or a cry, and was called a young trump for his pains. He and East, having earned it, stood now looking on. No catastrophe happened, as all the captives were cool hands and didn't struggle. This didn't suit Flashman. What your real bully likes in tossing is when boys kick and struggle, or hold on to the side of the blanket, and so get pitched bodily onto the floor. It's no fun to him when no one is hurt or frightened. Let's toss two of them together, Walker, suggested he.  And so now two boys were tossed together, the peculiar hardship of which is that it's too much for human nature to lie still and share troubles, and so the wretched pair of small boys struggle in the air which shall fall atop in the descent, to the no small risk of both falling out of the blanket, and the huge delight of brutes like Flashman. But now there's a cry that the preposter of the room is coming, so the tossing stops and all scatter to their different rooms, and Tom is left to turn in, with the first day's experience of a public school to meditate upon. End of part one, chapter six.