They played for penny points, and as Gus and Margetson were partners, it is hardly necessary to say that Drift and his ill-looking friend lost every game.

Before this amiable and congenial quartet separated, Gus had referred again to the scheme of getting Charlie to Gurley races, and got Drift to promise he would secure his victim next day.

Next day, accordingly, as Charlie was in the midst of a desperate game of fives with his friend Jim, a small boy came to him and said that Tom Drift wanted him.

"What for?" demanded Charlie, who, since his talk with the elder Halliday, had felt somewhat "shy" about Tom.

"I don't know," said the boy.

"Your turn, Charlie," called out Jim from the end of the court.

Charlie took his turn while he was revolving on his answer to this mysterious summons.

"What does that child want?" inquired Jim, with all the loftiness of a second-form boy speaking of a first.

"He says Tom Drift wants me."

"Whew!" whistled Jim, who of course knew the whole mystery of the affair between his chum and Tom; "tell him to go to Jericho! Look out for yourself!"

And so saying, he took his turn with the ball.

"That wouldn't do," said Charlie; "I don't want to rile him."

"I'd like to have a chance," retorted the implacable Jim. "Well, then, tell him you can't come. Here, young un, tell Tom Drift Charlie can't come. Do you hear? Cut your sticks!"

But Charlie called the messenger back. "I could, go if I wanted, Jim. Better tell him I'd rather not come. Say that, youngster—I'd rather not."

So off the youngster ran, and Charlie and Jim finished their game. Of coarse, the youthful messenger gave Tom a full, true, and particular account of this conversation in all its details, which rendered that young gentleman rather less eager than ever for his enterprise. However, he had the fear of Gus before his eyes, and strolled out into the playground on the chance of coming across Charlie.

And he did come across him, arm-in-arm with the faithful Jim. Tom worked his face into the ghastly similitude of a friendly smile as he approached, and said, in as genial a voice as he could pretend, "I'm glad I met you, Newcome, because I want to speak to you, if you don't mind taking a turn round the playground."

Charlie, of course, was astonished; he had expected at the very least to be kicked over the wall when he saw Tom approach, and he was utterly at a loss to understand this not unfriendly greeting. Innocent boy! it never occurred to him the demonstration could be anything but real. Jim would have been a tougher subject to deal with. Indeed, as he let go Charlie's arm, and saw him walk off with Tom, he muttered to himself, not caring particularly whether the latter heard him or not.

"Gammon! that's what it is."

Charlie had not long to wait before his companion began the conversation.

"I suppose you wonder why I want you, Newcome?" said he. "The fact is, I've been thinking I wasn't altogether right in being down on you the other day about lending me that watch, especially as you were a new boy; and I'm sorry if I hurt you."

Charlie sprung towards him and caught his arm.

"Oh, Tom Drift, don't say that, please! It was my fault—all my fault, and I have been so sorry ever since. And you will be friends now, won't you? I do so want to be, because I promised your mother—"

Tom gave a quick gesture of impatience, which, if Charlie had understood, he would have known how near receiving a kick he was at that moment.

Tom, however, restrained himself, and said,—

"Oh, yes, for her sake I'd like to be friends, of course, and I hope you'll forget all about that wretched quarrel."

"Indeed I will," cried Charlie; "and don't let us say any more about it. I am ever so much happier now, and it was so good of you to come to me and make it up."

"Well," said Tom loftily, "you know it's no use for two fellows to be at loggerheads when it can be helped, and I dare say we shall get on all the better now. How are you going on in the second?"

Whereupon Charlie launched into a lengthy and animated account of his experiences, to which Tom pretended to listen, but scarcely heard a word.

"So you are fond of fishing?" he said, casually, after the boy had mentioned something on that subject.

"Ain't I, though?" cried Charlie, now quite happy, and his old self again. "I say, Tom Drift, would you like to see the new lance-wood top I've got to my rod? It's a stunner, I can tell you. I'll lend it you, you know, any time you like."

"Have you caught much since you were here!" asked Tom, anxious to get this hateful business over.

"No. You know the brook here isn't a good one for fish, and I don't know anywhere else near."

"Well, I'll tell you what," said Tom, as if the idea had then for the first time occurred to him. "Suppose we go off for a regular good day on Saturday? It's a holiday, you know, and we could go and try up the Sharle, near Gurley. There's lots of trout there, and we are certain to have a good day."

"How jolly!" exclaimed Charlie. "It would be grand. But I say, Tom Drift, are you sure you wouldn't mind coming? It wouldn't be a bother to you, would it?"

"Not a bit. I like a good day's fishing. But, I say, young un, you'd better not say anything about it to any one, or we shall have a swarm of fellows come too, and that will spoil all the sport."

"All right," said Charlie. "I say what a day we shall have! I'll bring my watch and knife, you know, and some grub, and we can picnic there, eh?"

"That'll be splendid. Well, I must go in now, so good-bye, Newcome, and shake hands."

What a grip was that! on one side all trust and fervour, and on the other all fraud and malice!

Tom Drift was not yet utterly bad. Would that he had allowed his conscience to speak and his better self prevail! Half a dozen times in the course of his walk from the playground to the school he repented of the wicked part he was playing in the scheme to injure Charlie. But half a dozen times the thought of Gus and his taunts, and the recollection of his own bruised forehead came to drive out all passing sentiments of pity or remorse.

Charlie rejoined his chum with a beaming face.

"Well," asked Jim, "what has he been saying to humbug you this time?"

"Nothing very particular; and I won't let you call him a humbug. I say, Jim, old boy, he's made it up at last, and we're friends, Tom Drift and I! Hurrah! I was never so glad, isn't it jolly?"

Jim by no means shared his friend's enthusiasm. Like his elder brother, he instinctively disliked Tom Drift, without exactly being able to give a reason.

His reserve, however, had no effect on Charlie's high spirits. At last the wish of his heart had been gained! No longer did he walk with the burden of a broken promise weighting his neck; no longer did the consciousness of having an enemy oppress him.

"Simpleton!" many of my readers will exclaim. Perhaps he was; but even if you laugh at him, I think you will hardly despise him for his simple- mindedness, for who would not rather be such a one than the tempter, Tom Drift?

All that week he was jubilant. Boys looked round in astonishment at the shrillness of his whistle and the ring of his laughter. His corner of the class room was a simple Babel, and the number of apples he bestowed in charity was prodigious.

Something, every one could see, had happened to make him happier than ever. Few knew what that something was, and fewer still knew what it meant.

"What are you up to to-morrow?" asked the elder Halliday of his fag on the Friday evening.

"Fishing," briskly replied the boy.

"You're for ever fishing," said Joe. "I suppose that young brother of mine is going with you?"

"No; Jim's going to play in the match against the Badgers."

The "Badgers," let me explain, was the name of a scratch cricket eleven made up of boys in the first, second and third forms.

"Are you going alone, then?"

Charlie felt uncomfortable as he answered,—

"No."

"Whom are you going with?" pursued the inquiring Joe.

"A fellow in the fifth who asked me to come."

"What's his name?"

Charlie had no help for it now.

"Tom Drift," he faltered.

"Tom Drift! I thought you and he were at loggerheads."

"Oh, don't you know we've made it up? He was awfully kind about it, and said he was sorry, when it was really my fault, and we shook hands, and to-morrow we are going to fish in a place he knows where there's no end of trout."

"Where's that?"

"He didn't want me to tell, for fear everybody should come and spoil the sport; but I suppose I can tell you, though; it's up the Sharle, near Gurley."

"Humph! I've fished there before now. Not such a wonderful lot of fish, either."

"I suppose you won't be there to-morrow?" asked Charlie nervously, afraid of losing the confidence of Tom Drift by attracting strangers to his waters.

"Not if I know it," replied Joe. "I say, youngster, I thought you had given up the notion of making up to that fellow?"

"I didn't make up to him, only I can't be sorry to be friends with him—"

"Well, I hope you won't be sorry now you've done it. Take care what you're about, that's all."

Charlie was again perplexed to understand why Halliday seemed to have such a dislike to poor Tom.

Just as he was going off to bed Joe stopped him and asked,—

"By the way, shall you be using your watch to-morrow?"

"Well, I promised I'd take it, to see how the time went; but I dare say we could do without it, and I would like to lend it to you, Halliday."

"Not a bit of it," replied the other. "I can do without it as well as you. I am going to walk over to Whitstone Woods and back."

"Hullo, that's a long trot," said Charlie. "It must be nearly thirty miles."

"Something like that," said Joe. "Walcot and I are going to make a day of it."

"Which way do you go?"

"Through Gurley, and then over Rushton Common and past Slingcomb."

"Never! I wish I could do thirty miles at a stretch."

"So you will some day. Good-night."

And Charlie went to bed, to dream of the lance-wood top of his rod and the trout in the Sharle.

In the meanwhile the conspirators had had another meeting in Drift's den.

"Well, have you hooked him?" asked Gus.

"Yes; it's all right. He took it all in like a lamb."

"And all the school," said Margetson, "is talking of the great reconciliation, and the gratification which that event will undoubtedly afford to your venerable mother."

"Shut up, will you, Margetson? I've had quite enough of that chaff."

"But I do assure you, Tom—"

"That'll do," said Tom, snappishly; and Margetson did not go the length of saying what it was he was so ready to assure him of.

"Well," said Gus, "we'll meet you and the young cub at the cross roads by Sharle Bridge. The races don't begin till twelve, so we shall have lots of time. I mean to see if we can't get a trap at Gurley, and do the thing in style. What do you say? We could get one for about ten bob."

"All serene," said Margetson. "I'll fork out my share."

"You'll pay for me, Tom," said Shadbolt, "won't you?"

"I'll see," said Tom.

"All right, that's settled; and you are seeing about grub, Tom, aren't you? Don't forget the etceteras. What time have you told young mooney- face?"

"Nine. He's sure to be in time."

"Well, we'll start a little before, you know, and meet you quite by accident, and the young beggar won't smell a rat till we are safe in Gurley."

"And if he turns cantankerous?"

"Then we can put Shaddy to look after him."

"Who's going to win the Gulley Plate, Gus?"

And then the party fell to canvassing the entries for the morrow's races, and making their bets, in which, of course, Tom stood almost bound to lose, whichever horse won.

Long ere they had parted company Charlie was sound asleep and dreaming, with me under his pillow.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

HOW MY MASTER DID NOT CATCH THE FISH HE EXPECTED.

About ten years before the time of my story it had happened that in a famous battle fought between her Majesty's troops and those of a hostile and savage king, the colours of the 300th Regiment were noticed to be in imminent peril of capture. The ensign who carried them was wounded, and already a score of the enemy were rushing forward to seize the prize and carry it off in triumph to their king. Suddenly, however, there dashed up to the spot a young cornet of dragoons, who, seeing the peril of his fellow-officer and the colours he carried, dragged him, flag and all, up nearly into his own saddle, and started off with his precious burden towards a place of shelter from the fire and spears of the savages. Before, however, he had gone twenty yards the poor ensign tumbled to the ground, shot through the heart, yielding with his dying hands his colours to the dragoon. That plucky young soldier, wrapping the torn and stained flag round his body, set his teeth, stooped forward in his saddle, and, digging his spurs into his horse, galloped for his life. He had a terrific gauntlet to run, and grandly he ran it. The friendly trench was in sight, the cheers of his comrades fell like music on his ears, a vision of glory and honour flashed through his mind, and then suddenly he reeled forward in his seat—a malignant shot had found him out at last, and, with the colours round him, he dropped from his horse into his comrades' arms a dead man.

This hero was an old Randlebury boy; and ever since that day, on every anniversary of his glorious death, Randlebury kept, and still keeps, holiday.

All this Charlie was informed of by his faithful chum, Jim Halliday, as the former was dressing himself on the morning of the eventful holiday in question.

What possessed him to get up at six, when he was not to start till nine, I cannot say. He even routed me from under his pillow at five, so fidgety was he, and as soon as ever I pointed to six he bounced out of bed as if he was shot.

"What are you up to, getting up at this time?" growled Jim, who, much to the mutual delight of the boys, slept in the same room with Charlie.

"Oh, you know; I don't want to be behindhand," replied Charlie.

"Behindhand! Why, do you know it's only just six?"

"I know that, and I mean to make the most of my holiday. I say, Jim, what do they want to give us a holiday for, do you know?"

"They don't want to at all; they've got to."

"Got to? What do you mean?" inquired Charlie, dragging on his boots.

And then Jim, with many yawns and growls, told him the story; and, without waiting for his comments thereon, rolled over and went off to sleep again.

Charlie spent his early hour in polishing up things generally. When he had polished up his rod with the lance-wood top, he polished up his green can and his hooks. Then he warmed me up with a piece of wash- leather, and then his many-fanged knife.

By the time these little jobs were accomplished, and Joe's study put in order, the breakfast bell sounded, and he went down with a mouth sore with whistling.

He caught sight of Tom Drift at another table, and nodded and waved his green can to him; he informed every boy within hearing distance that it was certain to be a fine day, whatever it looked like now; and he made the wildest and most indiscriminate promises to entertain his whole acquaintance at no end of a trout supper on the spoils of that day's sport. Twenty times during breakfast did he pull me out and look impatiently at my minute-hand slowly making its way from eight to nine; and as soon as ever the meal was over he rushed upstairs like mad for his rod and bag, and then tore down again four steps at a time, nearly knocking the head master over at the bottom.

"Gently, my man," said that gentleman, recognising in this cannon-ball of a young fellow his little travelling companion. "Why, what's the matter?"

"I beg your pardon, doctor," said Charlie; "did I hurt you?"

"Not a bit. So you are going to fish to-day?"

"Yes, sir," said the beaming Charlie. "I say, sir, do you think it'll be a fine day?"

"I hope so—good-bye. I suppose this can will be full when you come back?"

"Good-bye, sir," said Charlie, secretly resolving that if fortune favoured him he would present the two finest of his trout to the doctor.

He found Drift ready for him when he reached that young gentleman's study.

Besides his rod, Tom had a somewhat cumbersome bag, which, as it carried most of the provisions for the whole party, he was not a little surly about being burdened with.

Charlie, of course, thought it was his and Tom's dinner.

"Is that the grub?" he cried. "Why, Tom Drift, you have been laying in a spread! What a brick you are! Look here, I'd carry it—isn't it a weight, though! If we get all this inside us two we shan't starve!"

And so they started, Charlie lugging along the bag and whistling like a lark.

"Looks cloudy," said Tom, who felt he must say something or other.

"Never mind, all the better for the trout, you know. I say, I wish I had my fly on the water this minute."

As Tom was silent, Charlie kept up the conversation by himself.

"I say, Tom Drift," said he, "if your mother could only see us two chaps going off for a day's fishing she—"

"Look here, draw it mild about my mother, young un. She can take care of herself well enough."

Charlie blushed to the roots of his hair at this rebuke, and for some time the flow of his conversation was arrested.

It was a good four miles from Randlebury to Sharle Bridge; and long ere they reached it Charlie's arm ached with the ponderous bag he was carrying. He did not, however, like to say anything, still less to ask Tom to take a turn at carrying it; so he plodded on, changing hands every few minutes, and buoying himself up with the prospect of the river and the trout.

Presently they came within sight of the signpost which marks the junction of the Gurley and Sharle Bridge roads.

"Here we are at last!" cried Charlie, panting and puffing. "I say, Tom Drift, I don't believe I could have carried this bag any farther if I'd tried."

"It'll be lighter when we go home. Hullo! who are these three?" for at this moment Gus, Margetson, and Shadbolt made their appearance.

"They look like Randlebury fellows by their caps. Oh, I know who one of them is," added Charlie— "Margetson, in the fourth; don't you know him?"

"Rather!" replied Tom; "and the other two are Shaddy and Gus. Who'd have thought of meeting them!" and he gave a whistle, which succeeded in attracting the attention of the worthy trio.

Of course their surprise at meeting Tom and his companion was no less great—in fact, they had to inquire who the youngster was.

"Where are you off to?" demanded Gus.

"We're going to try our luck up the Sharle," said Tom.

"You'll be sold if you do," said Gus. "We were down looking at it, and a pretty state it's in. Old Skinner at the Tannery took it into his head to leave his gates up last night, and his muck has got into the river and poisoned every fish in it—hasn't it, Shad?"

"Rather!" replied Shad. "I was glad enough to get my nose away from the place."

"Here's a go, Charlie!" said Tom, turning to his young companion.

During this short conversation Charlie had passed through all the anguish of a bitter disappointment. It is no light thing to have the hope of days snuffed out all in a moment, and he was ready to cry with vexation. However it couldn't be helped, and he had learned before now how to take a disappointment like a man. So when Tom appealed to him he put a good face on it, and said,—

"Awful hard lines. Never mind, let's go back and see the match with the Badgers, Tom."

"Why don't you come with us?" asked Gus. "We are going to Gurley; have you ever been to Gurley, young un?"

"No," said Charlie.

"Come along, then, we'll show it you. It's a prime town, isn't it, Margetson?"

"Don't ask me," said Margetson; "I'd sooner see about Gurley than catch a seven-pounder, any day."

"And besides," said Tom, "isn't there some good fishing above the lock! Come along, Charlie; we shall not be baulked of our day's sport after all."

Charlie joined the party, although he did not conceive any great admiration for Tom's three friends. His anxiety not to offend his now reconciled enemy, and the possibility of fishing after all, overruled him; and still dragging the bag, he trudged along with the others towards Gurley.

As they approached the town he could not help noticing the number of holiday-makers and vehicles that passed them. There were drags full of gaily-dressed ladies; and gentlemen who wore veils; and there were light jaunty dog-carts with spruce young white-hatted gentlemen perched in them; there were vans in which corks were popping like musketry fires and parties on foot like themselves, hurrying forward with loud laughter and coarse music.

"Surely," thought he, "there's something on at Gurley."

Presently a waggonette, driven by a very loud youth in a check suit, and with an enormous cigar in his mouth, pulled up in passing, and its driver addressed Gus.

"So you've found your way here, have you, my young bantam? Catch you being out of a good thing. Are you going on the grand stand?"

"Don't know," said Gus grandly. "We may pick up a trap in the town."

"Ho, ho! going to do it flash, are you? Well, there's one of you could do with a little spice," added he, glancing at Charlie. "I suppose my trap's not grand enough for you."

"Can you give us a lift, then, Bill?" asked Gus, charmed at the idea.

"Yes, to be sure; I've no company to-day. There's just room. Hop in. I may as well turn an honest penny as not. Here, you young sinner, jump up beside me on the box." And before Charlie knew where he was or whither he was going he found himself on the box of the waggonette beside the flash youth, and his four friends behind him inside.

"Who's your friend, Gus?" he heard Margetson ask.

"Son of Belsham, who keeps the 'Green Tiger' at Randlebury. We're in luck, I can tell you, you fellows."

As Charlie gradually recovered from his bewilderment he felt himself extremely uncomfortable and ill at ease. From what had been said he had gathered that the object of the boys in going to Gurley was something more than to see the town; and he by no means liked Gus's new friend, or approved of his easy familiarity with a low publican's son. It was not long before his dawning suspicions were fully confirmed.

"So you're going to see the races?" asked Mr Belsham.

"No, I'm not," replied Charlie, as curtly as he could, for he had no desire to encourage the conversation of this objectionable person.

"Ain't you? And what are you going to do, then, my young lamb?" And in the course of this brief sentence Mr Belsham succeeded in interjecting at least three oaths.

"I shan't speak to you if you swear," said Charlie; "it's wrong to swear."

"No! is it? Who says that?"

"My father says so," blurted out Charlie, fully satisfied that no better reason could be demanded.

Belsham laughed, and turning to the four inside, said,—

"I say, young gentlemen, this young pippin tells me he's got a father who says it's wrong to swear. What do you think of that?"

"His father must be an amusing man," replied Gus.

"Wait till we get on to the course," said Margetson; "he'll hear something to astonish him there, young prig!"

"I'm not going to the races!" cried my master, starting from his seat, and now fully alive to the fraud of which he had been made the victim. "How could you do this, Tom Drift! Let me down, will you!" and he struggled so desperately with Belsham that that gentleman was obliged to let go the reins in order to hold him.

Of course it was no use his resisting. Amid the shouts and jeers of his schoolfellows he was held on to the box. In vain he pleaded, besought, struggled, threatened; there he was compelled to stay, all through Gurley and out to the racecourse. Here he found himself in the midst of a yelling, blaspheming, drunken multitude, from the sight of whose faces and the sound of whose words his soul revolted so vehemently that it lent new vigour to his exhausted frame, and urged him to one last desperate struggle to free himself and escape from his tormentors.

"Look here," said Belsham to Gus; "if you suppose I'm going to have all my fun spoiled by looking after this cub of yours while you're enjoying yourselves there inside, you're mistaken; here, look after him yourselves."

So saying, he dragged Charlie from his seat and swung him down into the waggonette with such force that he lay there half stunned and incapable of further resistance, and so for the time being saved his persecutors a good deal of trouble.

And indeed had it been otherwise it is hardly likely they would have just then been able to pay him much attention, for at that moment the horses were all drawn up at the starting-post, waiting for the signal to go.

That was a feverish moment for Tom Drift. He had bet all his money on one horse, and if that horse did not win, he would lose every penny of it.

As usual, he had repented a hundred times of that day's business, and the last brutal outrage on poor Charlie had called up even in his seared breast a fleeting feeling of indescribable shame. It was, alas! only fleeting.

Next moment he forgot all but the horses. There they stood in a long restless line. A shout! and they were off. In the first wild scramble he could catch a sight of the colours on which his hopes depended near the front. On they came like the wind. A man near shouted the name of Tom's horse—"It's winning," and Tom's head swam at the sound. On still nearer, and now they have passed. In the retreating, straggling crowd he can see his horse still, but it seems to be going back instead of forward. Like a torrent the others overhaul and pass it. Then a louder shout than usual proclaims the race over, and the favourite beaten, and Tom staggers down to his seat sick and half stupid.

"Never mind, old man," he heard Gus say, "luck's against you this time; you'll have your turn some day. Take some of this, man, and never say die."

And Tom, reckless in his misery, took the proffered bottle, and drank deeply.

It was late in the afternoon before Belsham thought of turning his horse's head homeward, and by that time Charlie, on the floor of the waggonette, was slowly beginning to recover consciousness.



CHAPTER NINE.

HOW MY MASTER AND I HAD QUITE AS MUCH EXCITEMENT IN ONE AFTERNOON AS WAS GOOD FOR US.

Just as they were turning to go, a sudden shout and rush of people arrested them. The crowd on the course had been immense, and of the roughest and lowest description: sharpers, thieves, and roughs were there by the hundred, attracted from the neighbouring villages by the opportunity of plunder and riot which Gurley races always afforded. As soon as the serious business of the racing was over, this low mob naturally sought excitement of their own making, and increasing in disorder and intemperance as the day wore on, had become beyond control just about the time when Mr Belsham, junior, took it into his muddled head to make a start in the direction of home. The shout which kept him where he was, was occasioned by that spectacle dear to the eyes of all blackguards, a fight. Round the two blood and dust-stained combatants, the mob surged and yelled. Every moment it grew denser and wilder; and every moment it swayed nearer and nearer to the spot where the Randlebury boys stood in their waggonette; and before they could move or get clear, they found themselves in the very centre of the mob. Shouts, shrieks, and wild laughter rose on every side of them; some of the crowd scrambled up onto their wheels to get a glimpse of the pugilists; some abused and swore at them for getting in the way; some tried to invade their waggonette, and struck at them when they resisted.

In the midst of all, Belsham's horse took fright. There was a wild plunge, a shriek from the crowd in front, and next moment the five boys were thrown down among the crowd, while the horse, with the shattered and overturned vehicle behind him, forced for himself a ghastly lane through the mob.

Of Gus and his three friends, Charlie, whom the shock roused to sudden consciousness, could see nothing. He tried to rise, but the crowd pressed too wildly to give him the chance. For some moments he lay among a host of crowding, struggling feet, expecting every moment to be stunned, if not killed. But by a wonderful providence he escaped the peril. The crowd gave a sudden swing in a new direction, and he was left unhurt, though stupefied and almost unable to stir.

Presently he was conscious of a man standing in front of him.

"Oh, help me!" gasped my poor master.

The man seized him roughly by the arm and raised him to his feet.

"That's worth a tip," he growled; "come, hand over."

Charlie put his hand in his pocket and drew out a shilling.

The man scowled.

"Do you suppose I'll take a dirty shilling? Come, young swell, empty out them pockets. Look sharp, I've no time to waste on the like of you."

Tremblingly Charlie obeyed, and gave the man all the little stock of money he possessed.

But he was not yet to escape. From under his jacket the greedy eye of the thief had caught a glimpse of a chain. With a rough hand he tore open the coat. "What, a ticker? Here's luck; out with it, come."

"Oh," cried Charlie, "take anything but that! Take my chain and my knife, but not my watch?"

Hardly and brutally laughed the man as he snatched me out of the poor boy's hand, and administering a parting cuff on the head of his victim, turned to walk off with me in the recesses of one of his filthy pockets.

Scarcely, however, had he turned, when three men appeared in front of him, coming in the direction of Charlie. The boy saw them, and imagine his joy when in one of the party he recognised his old acquaintance, the cabman Jim! With a sudden bound and cry of delight he rushed towards him, shouting and pointing to the robber. "Oh, Jim, he's taken my watch; get my watch back, Jim."

Jim took in the state of affairs in an instant, and calling on his two companions to follow him, rushed upon and secured the thief before the latter was even aware of their intention. It was vain for one man to resist three. He was forced to disgorge first me, then the knife, and then the money. Charlie indeed pleaded that they should leave him the money, or some of it, but this proposal Jim scouted, and in his zeal relieved the robber of a good deal more than he had stolen from Charlie. Then with kicks and blows they drove the wretch away as fast as his legs could carry him.

This done, Jim the cabman had an opportunity of renewing his acquaintance with my master.

"Well," said he, "who'd have thought of seeing you here? And what a nice mess you're in. You look as if—"

"Oh, don't," cried Charlie, holding him by the arm; "it's bad enough as it is, without you thinking ill of me."

And then he told him as well as he could how he had been decoyed to these vile races; how he had been kept there by main force; how he had been made senseless by their rough treatment, and how, but for Jim's timely help, he would now have been robbed and helpless.

Jim listened in astonishment, not unmingled with many an ejaculation of indignation at the poor boy's persecutors.

"And where are they now?" he asked, when Charlie had done.

"I don't know. We were all thrown out, you know, among the crowd. I only hope they've not been killed."

"Well, if I was you," said the downright cabman, "I wouldn't break my heart over them. I know I'd like to have a chance of a quiet talk with the young swells; I'd give them something to take home with them, I would."

Charlie said nothing, but gratefully put himself under the protection of his deliverer, who, making a considerable round to avoid the crush, led him safely to Gurley.

"There's no trap to be got for love or money, so you'll just have to walk if you want to get back to Randlebury to-night."

Anything to get away from that odious crowd. If the distance had been twice as far, Charlie would have undertaken it.

It was long enough, however, before they got away from the crowd. The road from Gurley to Sharle Bridge was alive for a mile and more with vehicles, drunken men and women, beggars and pickpockets. On either side of the road were jugglers, and thimble-riggers, and card-sharpers, who each attracted their crowd of simpletons. Many were the fights and riots that attended these eager assemblages. As they passed one booth, the headquarters of a blustering card-sharper, a sudden disturbance arose which threatened to block the entire road. The man had offered a sovereign to any one of his audience who could tell which of three cards he held uppermost in his hand. One voice called out a number. The man shuffled his cards, and by some slip on his part the guess of the speculator turned out correct. Instantly that youth demanded his sovereign, which the man refused, vowing and calling others to witness that another number had been guessed.

"I'll bring the police," cried the voice, and instantly there was a movement in the group as of some one endeavouring to force his way out.

"Knock him over!" some one cried; "he's only one of them donkey schoolboys. What business have they here at all?" And at the signal two or three of the juggler's accomplices made a dash at the retreating youth and seized him.

"Souse him in the river!" cried somebody else.

"Sit on him!" shouted a third.

In the midst of these contradictory advices the roughs lifted their struggling victim from his feet, and proceeded to carry him in the direction of the bridge.

In the momentary glimpse which Charlie got of the wretched object of this persecution, he recognised, to his horror and astonishment, Tom Drift, livid with terror, frantic with rage, and yelling with pain.

"Jim," cried Charlie, "that's Tom Drift! Oh! can't we help him? Will you try, Jim! Poor Tom!"

"Is he one of them four as brought you here?" asked Jim, not offering to move.

"Yes; but never mind that; they will drown him; see how furious they are! Will you help him, Jim?"

"Not a bit of me," replied the stubborn Jim, who was well content to see the tables turned on one who had so brutally ill-treated his young companion.

"Then I must try myself;" and so saying, the boy of thirteen rushed in among the crowd, and wildly tried to make his way to where his schoolfellow was being dragged by his persecutors.

Of course Jim had nothing for it but to back him up, and in a moment he was beside my young master.

"Let the boy be!" he shouted to those who carried Drift, in a voice so loud that for a moment the rabble stood quiet to hear.

In the midst of this silence Charlie shouted,—

"Hold on, Tom Drift, we'll help you if we can."

Instantly the crowd took up the name.

"Tom Drift! Yah! Souse Tom Drift! Roll Tom Drift in the mud! Yah! Tom Drift!"

And sure enough Tom Drift would have suffered the penalty prepared for him, despite Charlie's attempt at rescue, had not help come at that moment from a most unexpected quarter.

It will be remembered that Joe Halliday and his friend Walcot had planned a long walk on this holiday to Whitstone Woods, some ten miles beyond Gurley.

This plan they had duly carried out, and were now making the best of their way back to Randlebury along the crowded highway, when the sudden cry of a schoolfellow's name startled them.

"Tom Drift! Yah! Beggarly schoolboy!"

"I say, Joe, that's one of our fellows! What's happening?"

Joe accosted a passer-by.

"What's going on?" he inquired.

"They're only going to souse a young chap in the river."

"What for?"

"I don't know; 'cause he don't think the same as old Shuffle, the three- card chap."

"We must do something, Joe," said Walcot.

"I wish it were any other chap; but come on, we're in for it now," said Joe.

And with that these two broad-shouldered, tall fellows dashed into the thick of the fray.

Tom's bearers were now at the bridge, which was a low one, and were turning down towards the water's edge, when a new cry arrested them.

"Now, Randlebury! Put it on, Randlebury! Who backs up Randlebury?"

It was the old familiar cry of the football field, and at the sound of the well-known voices, Charlie's heart leapt for joy.

"I do!" he shouted, with all his might. "Here you are, Randlebury!"

And Jim's gruff voice took up the cry too.

A panic set in among the blackguards. To them it seemed that the school was come in force to rescue their comrade, for on either side the cry rose, and fighting towards them they could, see at any rate two stalwart figures, who, they concluded, were but the leaders of following force. One of the men was hardy enough to turn at bay at the moment Walcot had cleared his way at last up to the front. Big bully though he was, he was no match for the well-conditioned, active athlete who faced him, and Walcot punished him in a manner that made him glad enough to take to his heels as fast as he could.

This exploit turned the day. Dropping Tom—how and where they did not stay to consider—they followed their retreating companion with all the speed they were capable of, and left the enemy without another blow masters of the situation.

But if, as a victory, this charge of the Randlebury boys had been successful, as a rescue it had failed; for Tom Drift, being literally dropped from the shoulders of his executioners, had fallen first on to the parapet of the bridge, and then with a heavy shock into the stony stream beneath. When Walcot, Joe, Charlie, and Jim among them, went to pull him out, he was senseless. At first they thought him merely stunned by the fall (the stream was only a few inches deep), but presently when they began to lift him, they found that his right arm, on which he had fallen, was broken.

Bandaging the limb as well as they could, and bathing his forehead with water, they succeeded in restoring Tom to consciousness, and then, between them, carried him as gently as possible to the nearest house, when they managed, with some difficulty, to get a vehicle to convey them the rest of their journey. It was a sad, silent journey. To Tom, the pain caused by every jolt was excruciating. They did their best to ease him, holding him lying across their knees, while Jim drove along the level footpath; but by the time the school was reached the sufferer was again insensible, and so he remained till the surgeon had set his arm.

Thus ended the eventful holiday.

Before Charlie went to bed, the doctor sent for him to his study, and there required to know the true history of that day's doings. And Charlie told him all. I need hardly say that, according to his version, the case against the four culprits was far lighter than had their impeachment been in other hands. He took to himself whatever blame he could, and dwelt as little as possible on the plot that had been laid to get him to Gurley, and on the means which had been used to keep him when once there. He finished up with a very warm and pathetic appeal for Tom Drift.

"Don't, please, expel Tom Drift," he said, in all the boldness of generosity; "he was led on by the others, sir, and he's punished badly enough as it is. Oh! sir, if you'd seen his mother cry, when she only spoke of him, you couldn't do it."

"You must leave that to me," said the doctor sternly, "I hope I shall do nothing that is unjust or unkind. And now go to bed, and thank God for the care He has taken of you to-day."

And Charlie went.

Tom Drift was not expelled. For weeks he lay ill, and during that time no nurse was more devoted, and no companion more constant, than Charlie Newcome. A friendship sprang up between the two, strangely in contrast with the old footing on which they had stood. No longer was Tom the vain, hectoring patron, but the docile penitent, over whose spirit Charlie's character began from that time to exercise an influence which, if in the time to come it could always have worked as it did now, would have gone far to save Tom Drift from many a bitter fall and experience.

When Tom, a week before the Christmas holidays, left the sick-room and took his place once more in his class, Gus, Margetson, and Shadbolt were no longer inmates of Randlebury School.



CHAPTER TEN.

HOW I CHANGED HANDS AND QUITTED RANDLEBURY.

And now, dear reader, we must take a leap together of three years. For remember, I am not setting myself to record the life of any one person, or the events which happened at any one place. I am writing my own life—or those parts of it which are most memorable—and therefore it behoves me not to dwell unduly on times and scenes in which I was not personally interested.

I had a very close connection with the events that rendered Charlie's first term at school so exciting, but after that, for three years, I pursued the even tenor of my way, performing some twenty-six thousand two hundred and eighty revolutions, unmarked by any incident, either in my own life or that of my master worthy of notice.

By the end of those three years, however, things were greatly changed at Randlebury. Charlie, not far from his sixteenth birthday, was now a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, lording it in the Upper Fifth, and the hero of the cricket field of which he himself had once been a cadet. In face he was not greatly altered. Still the old curly head and bright eyes. He was noticed occasionally to stroke his chin abstractedly; and some envious detractors went so far as to rumour that, in the lowest recesses of his trunk he had a razor, wherewith on divers occasions, in dread secret, he operated with slashing effect. Be this as it might, Charlie was growing up. He had a fag of his own, who alternately quaked and rejoiced beneath his eye; he wore a fearful and wonderful stick-up collar on Sundays, and, above all, he treated me with a careless indifference which contrasted wonderfully with his former enthusiasm, and betokened only too significantly the advance of years on his young head.

True, he wound me up regularly; but he often left me half the day under his pillow; and though once in a fit of artistic zeal he set himself to hew out a C.N. in startling characters on my back, with the point of a bodkin, he never polished me now as he was once wont to do.

All this was painful to me, especially the operation with the bodkin, but I still rejoiced to call him master, and to know that though years had changed his looks, and sobered his childish exuberance, the same true heart still beat close to mine, and remained still as warm and guileless as when little Charlie Newcome, with me in his pocket, first put his foot forth into the world.

There were two besides myself who could bear witness at the end of these three years that time had not changed the boy's heart. These two, I need hardly say, were Tom Drift and Jim Halliday.

To Tom, Charlie had become increasingly a friend of the true kind. Ever since the day at Gurley races, the influence of the younger boy had grown and overshadowed the elder, confirming his unstable resolutions, animating his sluggish mind with worthy ambitions, and giving to his pliant character a tone coloured by his own honesty and uprightness. Just as a pilot will safely steer the ship amid shoals and rocks out into the deeper waters, so Charlie, by his quiet influence, had given Tom's life a new direction towards honour and usefulness.

Once, and once only, during those three years had he shown a disposition to hark back on his old discreditable ways, and that was the result of a casual meeting with Gus one summer during the holidays, with whom, he afterwards confessed to Charlie, he was induced to forget for a time his better resolutions in the snares of a billiard-room. But the backsliding was repented of almost as soon as committed, and, to Charlie's anxious eyes, appeared to leave behind no bad result.

Jim was the same downright outspoken boy as ever. He had yielded, surlily at first, to the admission of Tom Drift into the confidence and friendship of himself and his chum, but by degrees, moved by Charlie's example, he had become more hearty, and now these three boys were the firmest friends in Randlebury.

One day, as Charlie was sitting in his study attempting, with many groans, to make sense out of a very obscure passage in Cicero, his fag entered and said,—

"Newcome, there's a parcel for you down at Trotter's."

"Why didn't you bring it up, you young muff?" inquired his lord.

"Because it's got to be signed for, and he wouldn't let me do that for you."

"Like your cheek to think of such a thing. What's it like?"

"Oh, it's in a little box. I say, Newcome, shall we go and get it?"

"I can't go at present; it'll wait, I suppose," said Charlie, with the air of a man who was daily in the habit of receiving little boxes by the carrier.

But for all that he could not wholly conceal his curiosity.

"What size box?" he asked presently.

"About the size of a good big pill-box."

"All that? I dare say I can fetch that up by myself," said Charlie.

Size of a large pill-box! It could not be anything so very important after all. So he turned again to his Cicero, and sent the fag about his business.

Presently, however, that youth returned with a letter for Charlie. It ran thus:

"Dear Young Scamp,

"People always say bachelor uncles are fools, and I think they are right. I've sent you a proof of my folly in a little box, which ought to reach you about the same time as this letter. You've done nothing to deserve a present from me, and a box on the ears would be much better bestowed. Never mind. Take care of this little gift for me, in memory of the jolly Christmas you and I last spent together, and when you are not kicking up a row with your cronies at Randlebury or have nothing better to do, think of your affectionate

"Uncle Ralph."

Much to the fag's astonishment, Charlie, having perused this letter, slammed up Cicero, and seizing the cap from off his (the fag's) head, as being most ready to hand, dashed out of school in the direction of the village.

"Trot!" he exclaimed, as he reached the establishment of that familiar merchant, "hand up that little box, you old villain! Do you hear?"

The long-suffering Trotter, to whom this address was comparatively polite in its phraseology, was not long in producing the parcel, in acknowledgment of which Charlie gave his sign manual in lordly characters upon the receipt; and then, burning with impatience, yet trying hard to appear unconcerned, walked swiftly back to the school.

The fag was hanging about his study, scarcely less curious than himself.

"Hook it!" cried his master, putting the parcel down on the table and taking out his penknife to cut the string.

Still the inquisitive fag lingered. Whereupon Charlie, taking him kindly yet firmly by the collar of his coat, conveyed him to the open window, whence he gently dropped him a distance of six feet to the earth.

Privacy being thus secured, he turned again to his parcel and opened it. Imagine his delight and my agony when there came to light a splendid gold watch and chain! I turned faint with jealousy, and when a second glance showed me that the interloper was no other than the identical gold repeater whom I had known and dreaded in my infancy, I was ready to break my mainspring with vexation. To me the surprise had brought nothing but foreboding and despair, and already I felt myself discarded for my rival; but to Charlie it brought a rapture of delight which expressed itself in a whoop which could be heard half over the school.

"What on earth's the row?" said a head looking in at the door; "caught cold, or what?"

"Come here, Jim, this moment; look at this!"

And Jim came and looked, and as he looked his eyes sparkled with admiration.

"My eye, Charlie, what a beauty!" said he, taking up the treasure in his hand. His thumb happened to touch the spring on the handle, and instantly there came a low melodious note from inside the repeater—One, two, three, and then a double tinkle twice repeated.

"That's striking," observed Jim, who was occasionally guilty of a pun. "Why, it's a repeater!"

"So it is! Did you ever know such a brick as that uncle of mine?"

"It's a pity your people can't think of anything else but watches for presents. Why, what a donkey you made of yourself about that silver turnip when you first had it! Don't you remember? What's to become of it, by the by?"

"How do I know? I say, Jim, this one wasn't got for nothing." And then the boys together investigated the wonders of the new watch, peeping at its works and making it strike, till I was quite sick of hearing it. But then I was jealous. There was no more Cicero for Charlie that day. He was almost as ridiculous, though not so rough, with his new treasure as he had been with me. He turned me out of my pocket to make room for it; and then half a dozen times a minute pulled it out and gloated over it. At night he put us both under his pillow, little dreaming of the sorrow and disappointment that filled my breast.

Where were all the old days now? Who would admire or value me, a poor, commonplace silver drudge, now that this grand, showy rival had come and taken my place? In my anger and excitement my heart beat fast and loud, so loud that presently I heard a voice beside me saying,—

"Gently, there, if you please; no one can hear himself speak with that noise."

"I've more right to be here than you," I growled.

"That is as our mutual master decides; but surely I have heard your voice before! Let me look at you."

And he edged himself up, so as to get a peep at my shabby face.

"To be sure—my young friend the three-guinea silver watch? How do you do, my little man?"

This patronage was intolerable, and I had no words to reply.

"Ah! you find it difficult to converse. You must indeed be almost worn out after the work you have had. I am indeed astonished to see you alive at all. I am sure, in my master's name, I may be allowed to thank you for your praiseworthy exertions in his service. We are both much obliged to you, and hope we shall show ourselves not unmindful of your—"

"Brute!" was all I could shriek, so mad was I, Whether my rival would have pursued his discourse I cannot say, but at that instant a hand came fumbling under the pillow. It passed me by, and sought the repeater, and next moment the tinkling chimes sounded half-past eleven.

It was as much as I could endure to be thus slighted and triumphed over.

"Contemptible creature!" I exclaimed; "you may think you've a fine voice, but, like a simpering schoolgirl, you can't sing till you're pressed!" I had him there, surely!

"Better that than having no voice at all, like some people, or using it when no one wants to hear it, like others." I suppose he thought he had me there, the puppy!

He went on chiming at intervals during the night, and of course my master had very little rest in consequence.

The next day Charlie and Jim had a solemn confabulation as to the disposal of me.

"It's no use wasting it, you know," said Jim. "Pity you haven't got a young brother to pass it on to."

"Suppose you take it," said the generous Charlie.

"No, old man, I don't want it. I'm not so mad about tickers as you. But, I tell you what, Charlie, you might like Tom to have it. He's leaving, you know, and it would be a nice reminder of Randlebury."

"Just what I thought directly the new one came," exclaimed Charlie, "only then I remembered we had a row about this very watch three years ago, and I'm afraid he wouldn't like it."

"Try. Old Tom would be quite set up with a watch."

Charlie proceeded that same day in quest of Tom, whom he found packing up his books and chemicals in a large trunk.

To him my master exhibited his new treasure, greatly to Drift's delight.

"Why, Charlie," he said, "I don't know much about watches, but I'm certain that's worth twenty pounds."

"No!" exclaimed Charlie; "you don't mean that."

"Yes, I do; but, for all that, I'll back your old turnip to keep as good time as it."

"It's always gone well, the old one. I'm glad you like it, Tom."

"I always liked it, you know."

"Why?"

"Well, I've known it as long as I've known you, and if it hadn't been for it things might have been different."

"Yes," said Charlie, "it was the cause of all the row three years ago."

"And if it hadn't been for that row I should have gone to the bad long ago. That was a lucky row for me, Charlie, thanks to you."

"Don't say that, old man, because it's a cram."

"I say, Tom," added Charlie nervously, coming to his point, "will you do me a favour?"

"Anything in the world. What is it?"

"Take my old watch, Tom. It's not worth much, you know, but it may be useful, and it will help to remind you of old days. Will you, Tom?"

Tom's lips quivered as he took me from Charlie's outstretched hand.

"Old boy," said he, "I'd sooner have this than anything else in the world. Somehow I feel I can't go wrong as long as I have it."

Charlie was beyond measure delighted to find his present accepted with so little difficulty.

"Oh, Tom," he said, "I am glad to think you'll have it, and I know you'll think of me when you use it."

"Won't I?" said Tom. "I say, Charlie, I wish you were coming to London with me."

"So do I. Never mind, we'll often write, and you'll promise to let me know how you are getting on, won't you?"

"Yes."

"And you'll call and see my father pretty often, won't you?"

"Yes."

"And you'll keep yourself free for a week's jaunt at Easter?"

"Yes."

They had much more talk that evening, which lasted till late. What they talked about it is not for me to repeat, and if it were it would probably not interest my reader. He would perhaps be disappointed to find that a considerable part of it related to a new suit of Tom's, just arrived from the tailor's, and that another part had reference to Tom's intention to prevail on his landlady in London to allow him to support a bull-dog puppy on her premises. These subjects, deeply interesting to the two friends, would not improve with repetition; and neither would the rest of their talk, which was chiefly a going over of old times, and a laying of many a wondrous scheme for the future. Suffice it to say, on this last evening the two boys unbosomed themselves to one another, and if Tom Drift went off to bed in a sober and serious frame of mind, it was because he and Charlie both had thought and felt a great deal more than they had spoken during the interview. The packing went on at the same time as the talk, and then the two friends separated, only to meet once more on the morrow for a hurried farewell.

"Let's have a last look at him," said Charlie, as Tom was getting into the cab to go.

Tom took me out and handed me to him. Long and tenderly my dear young master looked at me, then, patting me gently with his hand as if I were a child, he said,—

"Good-bye, and be good to Tom Drift; do you hear?"

If a tick could express anything, my reply at that moment must have satisfied him his parting wish would not be forgotten. Then returning me to my new master, he said,—

"Good-bye, old boy; joy go with you. We'll hear of you at the head of your profession before Jim and I have left school."

"Not quite so soon," replied Tom, laughing.

Then came a last good-bye, and the cab drove off. As it turned the corner of the drive Tom leaned out of the window and held me out in his hand.

Long shall I remember that parting glimpse. He was standing on the steps with Jim waving his hands. The sun shone full on him, lighting up his bright face and curly head. I thought as I looked, "Where could one find his equal?"—Sans peur et sans reproche—"matchless for gentleness, honesty, and courage," and felt, as the vision faded from me, that I should never see another like him. And I never did.

Little, however, did I dream in what strange way I was next to meet Charlie Newcome.



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

HOW TOM DRIFT MADE ONE START IN LONDON, AND PREPARED TO MAKE ANOTHER.

The two months that followed my departure from Randlebury were melancholy and tedious.

It was hard for me, after the boisterous surroundings of a public school, to settle down to the heavy monotony of a dull lodging in a back street of London; and it was harder still, after being the pride and favourite of a boy like Charlie Newcome, to find myself the property of Tom Drift.

Not that Tom used me badly at first. He wound me up regularly, and for the sake of his absent friend honoured me with a considerable share of his affection.

Indeed, for the first week or so he was quite gushing, scarcely letting me out of his sight, and sometimes even dropping a tear over me. And I, remembering Charlie's last words, "Be good to Tom Drift," felt glad to be able to remind my new master of old times, and keep fresh the hopes and resolutions with which Charlie had done so much to inspire him. But Tom Drift, I could not help feeling, was not a safe man.

There was something lacking in him, and that something was ballast. No one, perhaps, ever had a greater theoretical desire to be all that was right and good, but that was not in itself enough.

In quiet, easy times, and with a guiding friend to help him, Tom Drift did well enough; but left to himself amid currents and storms he could hardly fail to come to grief, as we shall presently see.

For the first two months he stuck hard to his work he was regular at lectures, and attentive when there; he spent his spare time well in study bearing upon the profession for which he was preparing; he wrote and heard once a week from Charlie; he kept clear of the more rackety of his fellow-students; he spent his Sundays at Mr Newcome's house, and he took plenty of healthy exercise both for body and mind.

With many examples about him of industry and success he determined to make the most of his time as a student, and spoke of the life and sphere of a country doctor, for which he was training, with the enthusiasm of one whose heart is in his work.

"The more I think of it," he once wrote to his mother, who was residing abroad for her health, "the more I take to it. A good doctor is the best-liked man in his parish. Everybody comes to him in their trouble. He gets into the best society, and yet makes himself loved by the poorest. In four or five years at least I ought to get through my course here, and then there is nothing to prevent my settling down at once. By that time I hope you'll be well enough to come and keep house for me, for all country doctors, you know, are bachelors," and so on.

All this was very well, and, as one of Tom's friends, I rejoiced to see him thus setting himself in earnest to the duties of his calling. But I rejoiced with trembling. Although he kept clear, for the most part, of his fellow-students, choosing his friends charily and shyly, I could yet see that he had no objection to contemplate from a distance the humours and festivities of his more high-spirited companions. He was not one of those impulsive fellows who shut their eyes and take a header into the midst of a new good-fellowship, only to discover too late their error, and repent their rashness at leisure.

No, Tom had his eyes open. He saw the evil as well as the good, and, alas for him, having seen it, he looked still!

The students of Saint Elizabeth's Hospital were not on the whole a bad set. On Tom's arrival in London, however, he had the firm impression in his mind that all medical students were bad characters, and this foolish notion did him much harm. If two or three of them were to go off for a spree, his imagination would at once picture them in scenes and places such as no respectable man would like to frequent, whereas, if the truth were known, these misjudged young men had committed no greater crime than that of taking a boat up the river, or a drive in a dog-cart. If a group of them should be seen by him laughing and talking, he instinctively concluded their topic must be ribaldry, whereas they would perhaps be only joking at the expense of some eccentric professor, or else chaffing one of their own number. And so it happened that Tom failed in time to distinguish between the really bad and such as he only imagined to be bad; and from his habit of looking on at them and their doings from a studied distance, their presence began gradually and insensibly to exercise a very considerable influence over his mind.

"After all," he would sometimes say to himself, "these fellows get on. They pass their exams, they pay their bills, they gain the confidence of their professors, and at the same time they manage to enjoy themselves. Perhaps I am a fool to take so much pains about the first three of these things, and to deny myself the fourth. Perhaps, after all, these fellows are not so bad as I have fancied, or perhaps I am prudish."

And then the silly fellow, having once inclined to admit there was something to be said for medical students, and having before considered all bad alike, became tolerant all round, more particularly of the really bad set, who appeared to him to enjoy themselves the most.

As his companions became more attractive to him, his work became less interesting.

"Why should I grind and plod here," he said, "while every one else is enjoying himself? If young Charlie were here, I'm pretty sure he'd be in for some of their sprees, and laugh at me for wearing my eyes out as I'm doing."

And then he leaned back in his chair and took to wondering what the six fellows who started that afternoon for Richmond were doing. Smashing the windows of the "Star and Garter," perhaps, or fighting the bargees on the river, or capturing a four-in-hand drag, or disporting themselves in some such genial and truly English manner. And as Tom conjured up the picture he half envied them their sport.

So he gradually became restless and discontented. The days were weary and the evenings intolerably dull. The visits to Mr Newcome were of course pleasant enough, but it was slow being cooped up an entire Sunday with two old people. On the whole, life in London was becoming stupid.

One of the first symptoms of his altered frame of mind was the occasional neglect of his regular letter to Charlie. That ever-faithful young man wrote as punctually as clockwork. Every Thursday morning a letter lay on Tom's plate at breakfast-time, addressed in the well-known hand, and bearing the Randlebury post-mark. And jolly lively letters they were.

I remembered one of them well. It came after two weeks' omission on Tom's part, and ran thus:—

"Dear Tom,

"A pretty fellow you are to correspond with! Here am I, piping to you with all my might, but I can't get you to dance. I know what you'll tell me, you old humbug—'awfully hard grind'—'exam coming on'—'lectures day and night,' and rubbish like that. All very well, but look here, Thomas, don't fancy that your diligence in cutting off legs and arms can be an excuse for cutting yours truly in this heartless manner. Not having a letter of yours to answer, I don't know how I shall scrape up material enough for a yarn. There was a big football-match on Saturday, and Jim and I were in it. You should have seen me turning somersaults, and butting my head into the fellows' stomachs. Jim and I got shoulder to shoulder once in the game. You know old Howe? Well, he was running with the ball to wards our goal, and Jim and I were in front of him.

I was nearest, and charged, and over I went like a ninepin; then Jim was on him, and over he went too. However, I was up again in time to jump on Howe's back; but he shook me off on to the ground on my nose. Then Jim, having recovered, took his fling, and a rare fling it was, for Howe dodged him just as he was at the top of a kangaroo leap, and left him looking very foolish in a sitting posture on the ground. However, in dodging, Howe had allowed me time to extricate my nose from the earth and make my third attempt. This time was more successful, for I got my hands round the ball; but I shouldn't have kept them there if Jim hadn't taken the opportunity of executing another astounding buck-jump, which landed him safe on his man's shoulders, where he stuck like a scared cat on the back of a somnambulist. So between us we brought our quarry to earth and gained no end of applause. Wasn't it prime?

That's about all the news here, except that Willoughby is going to Trinity at Midsummer, and that Salter is laid up from the effects of an explosion of crackers in his trousers pockets.

"I've taken a turn at reading hard, which may astonish you. The doctor told me, if I really thought of some day arraying my manly form in a scarlet jacket and wearing a sword, I ought to put it on with my mathematics, which are not my forte, you know. So now I'm drawing circles and triangles at every available moment, and my logarithm tables are thumbed almost to death. Don't imagine you're the only burner of midnight oil.

"I had a letter from home to-day. They were saying they hadn't seen you lately. I hope you'll go up when you can; it would be a charity to the dear old folk; besides, they are very fond of you—queer taste! How's the ticker? Give it a cuff from me for not reminding you to write the last two weeks.

The repeater goes on all serene. It has already gained some notoriety, as I was publicly requested, before the whole Fifth, the other day, to abstain from evoking its musical talents in the course of the Latin prose lesson. Now I must shut up. Seriously, old man, don't overwork yourself, and don't bother to write unless you've time; but you know how welcome your letters are to

"Your affectionate chum,

"C.N."

Of course Tom sat down and answered this letter at once, much reproaching himself for his past neglect.

With the vision of Charlie before his eyes, and with the sound of his voice again in his ears, all his old resolutions and impulses returned that morning. He worked hard, and flung the trashy novel, over which he had been wasting his time the day before, into the fire; he went off to lectures with something like his old eagerness, and discharged his duties in the wards with interest and thoroughness; he refused to allow his mind to be distracted by the proceedings of his fellow-students, and he resolved to spend that very evening at Mr Newcome's.

Tom Drift would probably have laughed at the idea that this sudden change was due entirely to Charlie's letter. To him it seemed like a spontaneous reassertion of its natural self by his mind, and a matter for such self-congratulation and satisfaction, that it at once covered the multitude of past omissions.

Indeed, Tom felt very virtuous as he returned that afternoon to his lodgings; and so felt no need to look away from self to Him who alone can keep us from falling.

He read Charlie's letter over again, and smiled at the idea of his getting up mathematics in his spare time.

"He's not the sort of fellow to stick to work of that sort," said Tom to himself, secretly comparing his own remarkable powers of application with those of his Randlebury friend.

Then he sat down, and more than ever admiring and wondering at his own greediness for hard work, read till it was time to start for Mr Newcome's.

It was a good long way, but being a fine evening, Tom determined to walk. He felt that after his work the fresh air would do him good, and besides, as he was in plenty of time, he could indulge himself in that very cheap and harmless luxury, an inspection of the shop windows as he went along. He therefore selected a longer and more crowded route than perhaps he need have done, and certainly, as far as the shops went, was rewarded for his pains.

However, Tom seemed to me to have as much interest in watching the people who passed to and fro as in the shops. He amused himself by wondering where this one was going and what that one was doing. With his usual tendency, he chose to imagine they were all bent on mischief or folly, and because they happened to be in a certain street, and because in that street he had frequently heard some of his fellow- students speak of a low theatre, he jumped to the conclusion that every one he saw was bound for this place. Something impelled him to go himself and take an exterior survey of this mysterious and much-spoken- of building. He found it; and, as he expected, he found people thronging in, though not in the numbers he had anticipated. He stood and watched them for some time, and wondered what they were going to see.

He went up and read the playbill. He read the name of the play, the titles of its acts, and the names of its actors. He wondered if the man who just then drove up in a hansom was one of the heroes of the piece, or whether he was one of the performers in the farce announced to follow the play. Still the people streamed in. There was no one he knew, and no one knew him.

"Strange," thought he, "there are so many places in London where one could go and no one ever know it."

He wished he could see what the place was like inside; it must surely be crowded by this time.

Thus he dawdled for some time; then with a sigh and an effort he tore himself away and walked quickly on to the Newcomes' house. Their welcome was most cordial.

"We were afraid," said Mr Newcome, "you had quite deserted us. Come in, it is pleasant to see you. We had a letter from Charlie only to- day, telling us to see you did not overwork yourself, and to make you come up here whether you would or not. Of course we could hardly follow such instructions literally."

Tom spent a pleasant evening with the two good people.

He always had found Mr Newcome a clever and very entertaining man—a man whom one feels all the better for talking to, and who naturally sets every guest in his house at ease. They talked much about Charlie and his prospects. They even consulted Tom as to the wisdom of yielding to the boy's desire for a military career, and Tom strongly supported the idea.

Then Tom's own prospects were canvassed and highly approved of by both Mr, and Mrs Newcome.

Tom already pictured himself settled down in his country practice, enjoying himself, doing good to others, and laying by a comfortable competency for future years. On the whole, he felt, as he quitted the hospitable roof of his genial friends, that he had rarely spent a more pleasant or profitable evening.

People were thronging out of the theatre as he returned, and he could not resist the desire to stand and watch them; for a little. He wondered what they had seen, and whether those he saw had waited for the "farce," or was that still going on?—and he wondered if any people ever went into a theatre at so late an hour as eleven.

Ah, Tom! he did not go in that night, or the next, but he was getting himself ready for the first step.

Reader, do not mistake Tom's weakness and folly. He was not trying to persuade himself this place was a good one for him to enter; he was not thoughtlessly going in to discover too late that he had better have stayed out. No, Tom—rightly or wrongly—had made up his own mind that this theatre was a bad place, and yet he had a desire to enter in!



CHAPTER TWELVE.

HOW TOM DRIFT BEGINS TO GO DOWNHILL.

Time went on, and Tom Drift advanced inch by inch nearer the brink. He slipped, not without many an effort to recover himself, many a pang of self-reproach, many a vague hope of deliverance.

"Be good to Tom Drift!" was ever ringing in my ears. But what could I do? He often neglected me for days. All I could do was to watch and tremble for what was coming.

You who are so ready to call Tom a fool, and hug yourselves that you have more strength of character and resolution than he had, try to realise what were his perils and what were his temptations at that time, before you pass judgment.

The dulness of those lodgings in Grime Street was often almost unbearable. When his work was done, and Tom looked out of the window and saw nothing but carts and cabs and tradesmen, and the dismal houses opposite, what wonder if he sometimes felt miserable? When he heard nothing but pattering footsteps down the pavement, the rumble of wheels and the street cries under his window, what wonder if he felt lonely and friendless? No footsteps stopped at his door, no friendly face lightened his dull study, no cheery laughter brought music to his life. What wonder, I say, if he moped and felt discontented?

What wonder if his thoughts wandered to scenes and places that contrasted forcibly with his dead-alive occupation? What wonder if he hankered after a "little excitement," to break the monotony of lectures, hard reading, and stupid evenings?

"Ah," I hear you say, "there are plenty of things he might have done. It was his own fault if he was dull in London. I would have gone to the museums, the libraries, the concerts, the parks, the river, the picture galleries, and other harmless and delightful places of amusement. Why, I could not be dull in London if I tried. Tom Drift was an idiot."

My dear friend, what a pity Tom Drift had not the advantage of your acquaintance when he was in London! But he had not. He had no friends, as I have said, except the Newcomes, whom he only visited occasionally, and as a matter chiefly of duty, and his anxiety to keep right at first had led him to reject and fight shy of friendships with his fellow- students. Doubtless it was his own fault to a large extent that he allowed himself to get into this dull, dissatisfied condition. If he had had a healthy mind like you, friend, it would not have happened. But instead of utterly scouting him as an idiot, rather thank God you have been spared all his weaknesses and all his temptations.

Was Tom never to learn that there was a way—"The Way, the Truth, and the Life"—better than any he had yet tried, which would lead him straight through the tangled mazes of his London life? Was he never to discover that Friend, truer than all earthly friends, at Whose side he might brave each trial and overcome each temptation?

Poor Tom! he walked in a way of his own? and trusted in no one better than himself; and that was why he fell.

As I have said, he did not fall without an effort. I have known him one day buy a bad, trashy book, and the same evening, in a fit of repentance—for God's Spirit wonderfully strives with men—take and burn it to ashes in his grate. But I have also known him to buy the same book again the next day. I have known him to walk a mile out of his way to avoid a place of temptation; and yet, before his walk was done, find himself, after all, under the glare of its lamps. The moth hovers in wide circles round the candle before it ventures its wings in the flame. And so it was with Tom; but the catastrophe came at last.

One evening about three weeks before the time fixed for the Easter trip with Charlie, Tom felt in tolerably dull. He had been neglecting his work during several days for novels of the lowest and most sensational type. Over these he had dawdled till his brain had become muddled with their unreal incidents and impure suggestions, and now that they were done he felt fit for nothing. He could not settle down to work, he had no friends to turn to, and so he put his hat on his head and sallied out into the streets to seek there the variety he could not find indoors.

As usual, his steps led him to the low theatre about which he was so curious, and of which he heard so much from his fellow-students. It was half-past seven, and people were beginning to crowd round the door, waiting for it to open. Tom, standing on the other side of the pavement, watched them with a painful fascination.

"Shall I go for once?" he asked himself. Then he strolled up to the playbill and read it.

As he was doing so some one slapped him on the shoulder, and, turning quickly round, he found himself face to face with his old acquaintance Gus Burke and another youth.

Gus, who was still small of stature, though fully nineteen years of age, was arrayed in the height of the fashion. As Tom regarded him he felt his own coat become more shabby and his hat older, and he wished he had brought his dogskin gloves and cane. Gus was smoking, too, a cigarette, and very distinguished and gentlemanly Tom thought it looked. He felt, as he regarded his brilliant and unexpected acquaintance, that he was rather glad those people who were standing at the theatre door should see him accosted in so familiar a way by such a hero. And Gus's friend was no less imposing—more so, indeed, for he wore an eyeglass.

Tom was so astonished at this unexpected meeting that he had noticed all this long before he found words to return his old schoolfellow's salutation.

Gus, however, relieved him of his embarrassment.

"Tom Drift, upon my honour! How are you, old horse, and how's your mother? Who'd have thought of running up against you like this?"

Tom tried to look as much at his ease as he could as he replied,—

"Why, Gus, old man, where did you spring from? I didn't know you were in London."

"Ain't I, though!" replied Gus, tapping the end of his cigarette on his cane. "But what are you up to, Tom?—you're not going in here, are you?" pointing over his shoulder to the theatre.

"Well, no," said Tom; "that is," added he, with as much of a swagger as he could assume on the spur of the moment, "I had been half thinking of just seeing what it was like. Some of our fellows, you know, fancy the place."

How suddenly and easily he was, under the eyes of these two "swells," casting off the few slender cords that still held him moored to the shore.

"Oh, don't go in there," said Gus, with a look of disgust; "it's the slowest place in London—nothing on but that old fool Shakespeare's plays, or somebody's equally stupid. You come along with us, Tom, we'll take you to a place where you'll get your money's worth and no mistake. Won't we, Jack?"

The youth appealed to as Jack answered with a most affected drawl, and with an effort which appeared to cause him no little fatigue, "Wathah."

"Come along," said Gus, lighting a fresh cigarette.

Tom was uncomfortable. He would not for worlds seem unwilling to go, and yet he wished he could get out of it somehow.

"Very kind of you," he said, "I'd like it awfully; but I must get back to do some work, you know, I've an exam coming on. It's an awful nuisance!"

"Why, I thought you were going in here, in any case!" said Gus.

"Ah—well—yes, so I was, just for a little, to see what sort of affair it was; but I meant to be home by nine."

"Well, just have a squint in at our place; and if you must go, you must. Come along, old man; cut work for one evening, can't you? You've become an awfully reformed character all of a sudden; you usen't to be so hot on your books."

Tom had no ambition before these two to figure in the light of a reformed character, and he therefore abandoned further protest, and proceeded to accompany Gus and his friend down the street.

"Have a weed?" asked Gus.

"Thanks, I hardly ever smoke," said Tom.

"They're very mild," said Gus, with a sneer.

Tom took the proffered cigar without another word, and did his best first to light and then to smoke it as if he were an experienced smoker.

"Who's your fwend?" inquired Gus's languid acquaintance.

"By the way," said that young man, "I've never introduced you two. Mortimer, allow me to introduce you to my friend Tom Drift."

Mr Mortimer gave a nod which Tom felt he would like greatly to have at his command, there was something so very knowing and familiar about it.

"It was Tom got up that little race party I was telling you of, Jack, you know. He's a regular sporting card. By the way, what's become of that little mooney-face prig we took with us that day; eh, Tom?"

Tom was out in midstream now, floating fast out to sea.

"Who—oh, young Newcome?" said he; "he's still at Randlebury."

"Young puppy! You never knew such a spree as that was, Jack," said Gus; and then he launched forth into a highly-spiced account of the eventful expedition to Gurley races, contriving to represent Tom as the hero of the day, greatly to that youth's discomfort and confusion, and no less to the amusement of Mr Mortimer.

"Here we are at last," said Gus, as the trio arrived at a gorgeously illuminated and decorated restaurant.

Tom's heart sunk within him. More than ever did he wish himself back in his dull lodgings, never again to set foot abroad, if only he could have got out of this fix. But there was no drawing back.

"Shall we go in yet, or knock the balls about for a bit?" said Gus. "This fellow Tom's a regular swell at billiards. Do you remember thrashing me last time we met, Tom—the summer after I'd left Randlebury?"

Tom could not deny he had beaten Gus on the occasion referred to, and felt it was useless for him to protest—what was the case—that he was only a very indifferent player. He agreed to the idea of a game, however, as he hoped he might at its close be able to make his escape without accompanying his two companions to the music-hall attached to the restaurant, and which he already knew by reputation as one of the lowest entertainments in London. "You two play," said Gus, "and I'll mark. You'll have to give Jack points, Tom, you know, you're such a dab."

It was vain for Tom to disclaim the distinction, and the game began.

"Hold hard!" said Gus, after the first stroke; "what are you playing for?"

"Weally, I don't know; thillingth, I thuppothe," lisped Mr Mortimer.

"All serene! Go on."

And they went on, and Mr Mortimer made no end of misses, so that, in spite of the points he had received, Tom beat him easily. In the two games which followed the same success attended him, and he won all the stakes.

"Didn't I tell you he was a swell?" said Gus. "Upon my word, Tom, I don't know how you do it!"

"It's just the sort of table I like to play on," said Tom, elated with his success, and unwilling to own that half his lucky shots had been "flukes."

"I tell you what," said Gus; "you owe me my revenge, you know, from last time. I'll play you to-morrow for half-crowns, if you'll give me the same points as you did to Jack."

Tom was fast nearing the breakers now. He had nothing for it but to accept the challenge, and the table was consequently engaged for the next evening.

"I must be off now, you fellows!" he said.

"Nonsense! Why, you haven't yet seen the fun below. You must stay for that."

"I wish I could," faltered Tom; "but I really must do some reading to- night."

"So you can; the thing only lasts an hour, and you're not obliged to go to bed at eleven, are you?"

Still Tom hesitated.

"You don't mean to say you are squeamish about it?" said Gus, in astonishment. "I could fancy that young friend of your mother's turning up his eyes at it, but a fellow like you wouldn't be so particular, I reckon; eh, Jack?"

And Mr John Mortimer, thus appealed to, laughed an amused laugh at the bare notion.

That laugh and the term, "a fellow like you," destroyed the last of Tom's wavering objections, and he yielded.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

HOW TOM DRIFT, STILL GOING DOWNHILL, MET MY OLD MASTER.

When Tom reached his lodgings that night he found a jubilant letter from Charlie awaiting him.

"Just fancy," he said, "it's only three weeks more, old man, and then to Jericho with books, and test-tubes, and anatomy! I'll drag you out of your study by the scruff of your neck, see if I don't; I'll clap a knapsack on your back, and haul you by sheer force down into Kent. There you shall snuff the ozone, and hold your hat on your head with both hands on the cliff top. I'll hound you through old castles, and worry you up hills. If I catch so much as a leaflet on chemistry in your hands, I'll tear it up and send it flying after the sea-gulls. In short, I shouldn't like to say what I won't do, I'm so wild at the prospect of a week with you. Of course, the dear old people growl at me for leaving them in the lurch; but they are glad for us to get the blow; indeed, my pater insists on paying the piper, which is handsome of him. I expect I shall get a day in London on my way, either going or returning; and if you can put me up at your diggings for the night, we'll have a jolly evening, and you can show me all your haunts."

Tom gasped as he got so far; and well he might.

"I'll tell you all the news when I come. I suppose, by your not writing, you are saving yours up for me. Ta, ta, old boy, and au revoir in twenty-one days! Hurrah! Yours ever,—C.N."

Tom, in his misery, crushed the letter up in his fingers and flung it from him. If a passing pang shot through his breast, it was followed almost instantly by other feelings of vexation and shame. One moment he was ready to sink to the floor in a passion of penitence and remorse— the next, he was ready to resent Charlie's influence over him even at a distance, and to sneer, as Gus and his friend had done, at the boy's expense. His brain was too muddled with the excitement and the strange emotions of that evening to reason with himself; his head ached, and his mind was poisoned.

"What right has the fellow always to be following me up in this way?" he asked. "I'm a fool to stand it. Why can't I do as I choose without his pulling a long face?"

Thus Tom questioned, and thus he proved that it was Charlie's influence more than his letter that worried him; for what had the latter said, either in the way of exhortation or reproof?

Then he threw himself on the bed, and lay with the wild memory of the evening crowding on his feverish mind. He rose, and, lighting a candle, endeavoured to read; but even his novel was flat and stupid, and in the midst of it he fell asleep, to dream of Gus and his friend all night long. Long ere he awoke my senses had left me, for he had neglected to wind me up. Next morning he went to lectures as usual. To his fellow- students he appeared the same shy, quiet youth he had always seemed; to Mr