“And then the Captain of the eleven!” said the master, “what a post is his in our School-world! almost as hard as the Doctor’s; requiring skill and gentleness and firmness, and I know not what other rare qualities.”

“Which don’t he may wish he may get!” said Tom, laughing; “at any rate he hasn’t got them yet, or he wouldn’t have been such a flat to-night as to let Jack Raggles go in out of his turn.”

“Ah, the Doctor never would have done that,” said Arthur, demurely. “Tom, you’ve a great deal to learn yet in the art of ruling.”

“Well, I wish you’d tell the Doctor so then, and get him to let me stop till I’m twenty. I don’t want to leave, I’m sure.”

“What a sight it is,” broke in the master, “the Doctor as a ruler! Perhaps ours is the only little corner of the British Empire which is thoroughly, wisely, and strongly ruled just now. I’m more and more thankful every day of my life that I came here to be under him.”

“So am I, I’m sure,” said Tom; “and more and more sorry that I’ve got to leave.”

“Every place and thing one sees here reminds one of some wise act of his,” went on the master. “This island now—you remember the time, Brown, when it was laid out in small gardens, and cultivated by frost-bitten fags in February and March?”

“Of course I do,” said Tom; “didn’t I hate spending two hours in the afternoon grubbing in the tough dirt with the stump of a fives’-bat? But turf-cart was good fun enough.”

“I dare say it was, but it was always leading to fights with the townspeople; and then the stealing flowers out of all the gardens in Rugby for the Easter show was abominable.”

“Well, so it was,” said Tom, looking down, “but we fags couldn’t help ourselves. But what has that to do with the Doctor’s ruling?”

“A great deal, I think,” said the master; “what brought island-fagging to an end?”

“Why, the Easter Speeches were put off till Mid-summer,” said Tom, “and the sixth had the gymnastic poles put up here.”

“Well, and who changed the time of the Speeches, and put the idea of gymnastic poles into the heads of their worships the sixth form?” said the master.

“The Doctor, I suppose,” said Tom. “I never thought of that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” said the master, “or else, fag as you were, you would have shouted with the whole school against putting down old customs. And that’s the way that all the Doctor’s reforms have been carried out when he has been left to himself—quietly and naturally, putting a good thing in the place of a bad, and letting the bad die out; no wavering, and no hurry—the best thing that could be done for the time being, and patience for the rest.”

“Just Tom’s own way,” chimed in Arthur, nudging Tom with his elbow, “driving a nail where it will go;” to which allusion Tom answered by a sly kick.

“Exactly so,” said the master, innocent of the allusion and by-play.

Meantime Jack Raggles, with his sleeves tucked up above his great brown elbows, scorning pads and gloves, has presented himself at the wicket; and having run one for a forward drive of Johnson’s, is about to receive his first ball. There are only twenty-four runs to make, and four wickets to go down; a winning match if they play decently steady. The ball is a very swift one, and rises fast, catching Jack on the


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