“Yes, perhaps they do,” said East; “there’s a new set you see, mostly, who don’t feel sure of themselves yet. They don’t want to fight till they know the ground.”

“I don’t think it’s only that,” said Tom. “And then the Doctor, he does treat one so openly, and like a gentleman, and as if one was working with him.”

“Well, so he does,” said East; “he’s a splendid fellow, and when I get into the sixth I shall act accordingly. Only you know he has nothing to do with our lessons now, except examining us. I say, though,” looking at his watch, “it’s just the quarter. Come along.”

As they walked out they got a message, to say “that Arthur was just starting, and would like to say good- bye;” so they went down to the private entrance of the School-house, and found an open carriage, with Arthur propped up with pillows in it, looking already better, Tom thought.

They jumped up on to the steps to shake hands with him, and Tom mumbled thanks for the presents he had found in his study, and looked round anxiously for Arthur’s mother.

East, who had fallen back into his usual humour, looked quaintly at Arthur, and said—

“So you’ve been at it again, through that hot-headed convert of yours there. He’s been making our lives a burden to us all the morning about using cribs. I shall get floored to a certainty at second lesson, if I’m called up.”

Arthur blushed and looked down. Tom struck in—

“Oh, it’s all right. He’s converted already; he always comes through the mud after us, grumbling and sputtering.”

The clock struck, and they had to go off to school, wishing Arthur a pleasant holiday; Tom lingering behind a moment to send his thanks and love to Arthur’s mother.

Tom renewed the discussion after second lesson, and succeeded so far as to get East to promise to give the new plan a fair trial.

Encouraged by his success, in the evening, when they were sitting alone in the large study, where East lived now almost, “vice Arthur on leave,” after examining the new fishing-rod, which both pronounced to be the genuine article (“play enough to throw a midge tied on a single hair against the wind, and strength enough to hold a grampus”), they naturally began talking about Arthur. Tom, who was still bubbling over with last night’s scene and all the thoughts of the last week, and wanting to clinch and fix the whole in his own mind, which he could never do without first going through the process of belabouring somebody else with it all, suddenly rushed into the subject of Arthur’s illness, and what he had said about death.

East had given him the desired opening; after a seriocomic grumble, “that life wasn’t worth having now they were tied to a young beggar who was always ‘raising his standard’; and that he, East, was like a prophet’s donkey, who was obliged to struggle on after the donkey-man who went after the prophet; that he had none of the pleasure of starting the new crotchets, and didn’t half understand them, but had to take the kicks and carry the luggage as if he had all the fun,”—he threw his legs up on to the sofa, and put his hands behind his head, and said—

“Well, after all, he’s the most wonderful little fellow I ever came across. There ain’t such a meek, humble boy in the school. Hanged if I don’t think now, really, Tom, that he believes himself a much worse fellow than you or I, and that he don’t think he has more influence in the house than Dot Bowles, who came last quarter and isn’t ten yet. But he turns you and me round his little finger, old boy—there’s no mistake about that.” And East nodded at Tom sagaciously.