But, like the tea, the "good quiet time" he hoped for was not so easy to secure. Scarcely had he settled down when the voices of two men in loud conversation rose, immediately under his window. Now, when one is in the agony of trying to understand how it comes that a certain number of angles in one figure are equal to a certain number of angles in another, it is, to say the least of it, confusing to have to listen to a spirited account of a boxing-match between Jack Straight and the Hon. Wilfred Dodge; and when that account manages to get interwoven inextricably with the problem in hand the effect is likely to be distracting; for instance:—

"Since the solid angle at B is contained by three plane angles, BAF, FAC, and CAB, then—"

"Jack let out and got in sweetly under his man's guard," and so on.

"Therefore," persevered George, "the angles ABC and ABF—"

"Rounded on him grandly, and—"

"The angles ABC and ABF are together greater than the angle CBF; and, similarly—"

Here the conversation was continued in language far more worthy of the disgraceful prize-ring than a college, until George could bear it no longer. He leapt from his seat and sprang to the window, which he opened. Leaning out, he surveyed the two disturbers of his peace with very little affection, but controlled himself sufficiently to say politely,—

"Would you mind not talking just here? I'm reading."

One of the two scowled up at him, and replied,—

"What business is it of yours where we talk?"

"Come on, Fisher," said the other, taking his arm; "let the man read if he wants; I suppose that's the poor beggar who's come to the 'trap.'"

"He's got a cool cheek of his own, whoever he is," retorted the indignant Fisher.

George was too relieved to be rid of their clatter under his window to trouble himself as to their sentiments towards himself, and he therefore once again settled down to work.

But now a new interruption occurred.

There arose a sudden rush of feet outside his door, a laughing and a cheering, in the midst of which he caught the following confused utterances:

"George's has bumped Corpus!" cried a voice.

[See Note 1.]

"Hurrah!" yelled half a dozen voices.

"It was the finest bit of rowing ever you saw," continued the first speaker. "Bailey put it on from the very first stroke, and was on the top of them before the Point."

And then the three cheers and yells rose again.

"You can fancy how black and blue Corpus looked—it's the biggest sell they've had for a long time."

Once more the shouts.

"And what do you think?" resumed the first speaker. "Old Bailey vows he won't come to the supper to-night. Did ever you hear of such an old bear?"

"He'll have to come," cried the rest; "let's waylay him here and carry him off."

"All serene," said the leader; "he's sure to come here—let's hang about on the stairs."

Oh, horrors! here were six noisy men going to establish themselves on the stairs over poor George's head, and remain there until their victim arrived, when, unless college traditions were utterly false, there would certainly be a battle royal. It was impossible, with the cheering and stamping and shouting and laughing, and scuffling overhead, to do a stroke of work, and yet George did his best. He pulled his table into the corner of the room farthest away from the noise, and, burying his head in his hands, struggled desperately to abstract himself from the disturbance. But as sure as he succeeded for a minute, a clamour louder than ever would drive every idea out of his head. It was vain to attempt expostulation—what would these jubilant revellers care for a poor new man like him!—and he had nowhere else to go to escape them there was nothing for it but to be patient. In due time the victorious and unsuspecting Bailey, accompanied by four of his friends, appeared on the scene, and their approach was the immediate signal for action. With a cheer and a howl the ambush sprang upon their victims; and, with equal vehemence, these, having rapidly taken in the state of affairs, prepared to defend themselves. Poor George might as well have been sitting under Niagara. Step by step, the new-comers strove to force a passage up to Bailey's rooms, and step by step the opposing force strove to repulse them. The balustrades creaked, the ceiling of George's room quaked, and the walls thundered with the weight of conflicting bodies. The occupants of every room on the staircase turned out to see the fun, and on hearing of Bailey's contumacy, joined with his persecutors in refusing him the shelter of his own sanctuary. Bailey's party, on the other hand, was joined by reinforcements from without, who stormed up the stairs with the noise of an earthquake. The opposing forces soon became so great that the press of battle raged even to the door of George's study, which creaked and rattled as if every moment it were about to yield and admit the whole tide of conflict.

For half an hour the tumult roared and the battle swayed, and neither party gained nor yielded a foot.

Then suddenly from the confines of the battle rose and spread a cry of "Cave canem!" on which, as if by magic, the action was suspended, and retreating footsteps betokened a panic. A rally was sounded by Bailey's foes, but too late; the hero of the day had taken advantage of the momentary pause to dash past his persecutors and gain his study, and once there no force could dislodge him. The vanquished ones stormed and raged outside his door for another ten minutes, threatening all sorts of vengeance; then with three mighty cheers they struck camp and retired, leaving the staircase in peace.

Thus ended the famous battle of Bailey's Staircase, at the end of which George, with sunken spirits but indomitable resolution, sat down again to work.

For half an hour he made good progress, without let or hindrance, when— ah, cruel fate!—a wretch calling himself a man, in a neighbouring apartment, began to practise on the ophicleide! At the first note George bounded from his seat as if he had been shot, and literally tore his hair. This was worse than all that had gone before. To one of his musical inspiration, the human voice divine in conversation was, endurable, and the roar of battle might even be tolerable, but to hear a creature attempt to play one of the "songs without words" on an instrument he knew as little of as the music he was parodying, was beyond all bearing! Then, if ever, did my wretched master dig his fingers into his ears, and writhe and shiver and groan at each discord produced by that inhuman performer. He retreated into the innermost recess of his bedroom; he even hid his unhappy head beneath the clothes, if haply he might escape the agony of this torture. But it was hopeless. The shrieks and groans of that brutal ophicleide would have penetrated the walls of the Tower of London.

It lasted, I should not like to say how long; and when it was over, the recollection of its horrors was almost as bad as their endurance. When George set himself again to work, it was with nerves unstrung and unutterable forebodings, yet still unconquered.

"At any rate," said he to himself, with a sigh, "there can't be anything worse than that—unless, indeed, he invites a friend like himself to practise duets with him!"

Happily this climax was not reached, and for one evening the worst of George Reader's persecutions had been suffered—but not the last.

By the time the last wail of the ophicleide had wriggled away into silence it was getting late, and the college was meditating retirement to rest. This operation was not got through, as may be imagined, without a good deal of clamour and a good deal of scuffling on the staircase, and a good deal of dialogue outside the window; but in due time silence reigned, and George congratulated himself that he had a quiet time at last before him.

Unlucky boast! Not an hour had passed, the lights in the windows round the courtyard had vanished, the distant shouts had ceased, and the footsteps on the pavement without had died away, when George was startled by a sound that seemed like the boring of a hole under his fireplace. The noise grew, and other similar noises rose in different parts. What was it? Surely the gay students of Saint George's were not about to effect an amateur burglary on the friendless owner of the "Mouse-trap?"

Nearer and nearer came the sounds, and George's heart beat loud. He closed his book and pushed his chair back from the table, ready to defend himself, on an emergency, to the bitter end. Then, under the hearth, there was a sound of scraping and grating, then a rushing noise, and then George saw—two enormous rats!

Loud and long laughed my master to himself at the discovery. What cared he for rats? He pulled his chair back to the table, and buried himself in his book for the next three hours, until his lamp began to burn low, and the letters on the pages grew blurred and dim, and the rats had scuffled back by the way they came, and my flagging hands pointed to four o'clock.

Then George Reader, after kneeling in silent prayer, went to bed.

————————————————————————————————————

Note 1. At the college races at Cambridge the boats start one behind the other at fixed distances, and any boat overtaking and "bumping" the one in front of it moves up a place nearer to the "Head of the River."



CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

HOW MY MASTER FARED AT SAINT GEORGE'S COLLEGE AND MET AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE OF THE READER'S THERE.

It is not my intention in these pages to give a full and particular account of George Reader's college life. It would neither be on the whole interesting, nor would it be found to have much bearing on my own career, which is the ostensible theme of the present veracious history.

Stories of college life have furnished amusing material for many a book before now, to which the reader must turn, should his curiosity in that direction require to be satisfied. The life of a hard—a too hard- working student in his cell under the college staircase is neither amusing nor sensational, and it is quite enough to say that, after his first eventful evening, George Reader pursued his studies with unflagging ardour, though with greater precaution than ever.

He soon discovered which hours of the day and night were most favourable for uninterrupted work.

He made a point of taking his constitutional during the hour made hideous by the ill-starred aspirant on the ophicleide. He invested in a trap for the rats, which, with the aid of his mother's cheese, yielded him a nightly harvest of victims, and he arranged with Benson, the "gyp," not to interrupt him, preferring rather to wait on himself—nay, even to dust out his own room—than have to sacrifice precious time while the same offices were being performed by another, especially by such an overpowering and awe-inspiring person as Benson.

So he set himself to work, attending lectures by day, reading every night into the small hours, spending scarcely anything, shrinking from all acquaintanceships, taking only a minimum of recreation, and living almost the life of a hermit, until I could see his cheeks grow pale, and his eyes dark round the rims, and feared for his health.

He treated me uniformly well. Of course, as the gift of his fellow- villagers, he prized me highly, but by no means consigned me to the stately repose of a purely ornamental treasure. I lay nightly beside his elbow on the table, and counted for him the hours as they sped from night to morning. I lay beneath his pillow at night, and helped him to rise betimes. I insured his punctual attendance at lectures, and drove him home from his scanty walks in the fresh air more quickly than I myself would have cared to do if I could have helped it. In short, I found myself in the satisfactory position of one thoroughly useful in his sphere of life, and on the whole, though my first young master returned constantly to my thoughts, I contrived to be very happy in my new capacity.

Two events, however, both of a pleasant nature, served to vary the monotony of George's second term at college. The first of these was a visit from his friend and patron, Dr Wilkins, the rector of Muggerbridge.

George was sitting at his modest breakfast one morning, when his door suddenly opened, and the well-known and beloved face of his old tutor lit up the apartment.

My master sprang to his feet, and with unaffected joy rushed forward to welcome his guest, before it had do much as occurred to him into what uninviting quarters he was receiving him.

"How good of you to come, sir!" he cried. "I never expected such happiness."

"You don't suppose I should go through Cambridge and never beat up your quarters, my boy! But, dear me, how ill you are looking!"

"Am I? I don't feel ill."

"Humph! you're overdoing it. But aren't you going to offer me some breakfast?"

George coloured, and his spirits sank as his eyes fell on the scanty fare of which he himself had been partaking.

"It's only bread-and-butter," he said.

"And what better?" said Dr Wilkins, sitting down; "and I warrant the butter's good if it's your mother's making."

"So it is," said George, beginning to recover his spirits. "And how did you leave them at home, sir?"

"First-rate, my boy;—looking much better than you are. And so this is your den? Well, it's—"

"Nothing very grand," put in George.

"Exactly, nothing very grand; but I dare say you find it as good a place to read in as a drawing-room, eh? Now tell me all about yourself, my boy, while I drink this good tea of yours."

And George, with light heart and beaming face, told his good friend of all his doings, his hardships, his difficulties, his triumphs, and his ambitions.

And Dr Wilkins sat and listened with pride and thankfulness at heart, to find his young protege the same earnest, unaffected boy he had parted with from Muggerbridge six months before. They talked for a long time that morning. The tutor and boy passed in review all the work hitherto accomplished and discussed the programme of future study. Many were the wholesome counsels the elder gave to the younger, and many were the new hopes and resolutions which filled the lad's heart as he opened all his soul to his good friend.

"And now," said Dr Wilkins, "I want you to take me to see your college and chapel."

George looked perplexed. Who was he to conduct a Doctor of Divinity over his college. Such a hermit's life had he led that he hardly knew the ins and outs of the place himself, and there was not a single man in the college to whom he was not a stranger.

"I'm afraid you've chosen a bad guide," faltered he. "I don't know any of the men, and very little of the place."

"Oh, never mind that," said the doctor; "it will be all the more interesting to make a tour of discovery, so come along!"

George put on his cap and gown and obeyed. For a moment he wished the gown had been long enough to conceal the patch on the knee of his trousers, but the next he laughed at himself for his vanity.

"There's nothing to be ashamed of," thought he, "and if it is patched—well, it is."

And thus consoling himself, he accompanied the doctor across the quadrangle.

Men certainly did stare at him as he passed, and some of them deemed him a queer "specimen," and others wondered what Saint George's was coming to. But my master, if he noticed their looks, disregarded them, and as for Dr Wilkins, he smiled to himself to think how prone mankind is to judge by appearances.

"Unless I mistake," mused he to himself, "these young sparks of Saint George's will some day think fit to be proud of their poor fellow- collegian."

The two made the tour of the college, and finished up with the grand old Gothic chapel. It was easy to guess why George's face lit up as he approached the place. The deep notes of an organ were sounding across the quadrangle, and as they entered the door a flood of harmony swept towards them down the long aisles. Dr Wilkins could feel the boy's arm tremble, and heard the sigh of delight which escaped his lips. Without a word they sat in the nearest stalls, and listened while the music went on. How it rose and fell, how it trembled in the oak arches of the roof, and swept through the choir down to where they sat! It was only an ordinary organist's practice; but to George, after his hard work, and with the memories of home revived by the presence of his dear tutor, it came as a breath from heaven. Daily, nearly, had he heard that organ since his coming to Cambridge, but never had it delighted him as it did now.

"Can we see the organ?" he said, when the last chord had died away.

"Let us try," said the doctor.

The gallery door was open, and ascending the stairs to the organ loft, they found the organist preparing to depart.

"We have been a clandestine audience," said the doctor, "and couldn't help coming to thank you for the treat you have given us. My young friend here is music mad."

The organist smiled.

"You took me at a disadvantage," he said, "I was only amusing myself."

"Whatever you were doing for yourself, you delighted us," said the doctor.

"Would you like to try the organ?" presently said the organist to George.

Oh, what a bound of delight I could feel in my master's breast at the invitation.

"May I?" he exclaimed.

"Certainly, if you like—and if you can," added the other, hesitatingly, as if not sure whether the lad's skill would be equal to his enthusiasm.

George sat down on the bench, and laid his fingers lovingly on the keys. But he withdrew them before he had sounded a note. "I would rather you did not watch me too closely," he said, nervously, "for I am only a beginner."

"Let us go and sit down stairs," suggested the doctor.

The organist looked still more doubtful than before, and began to repent his offer. However, he retired with the doctor, and made up his mind to be excruciated. They sat down in two of the stalls and waited.

And then George began to play. What he played I cannot tell. It began first in a faint whisper of music which swelled onward into a pure choral melody. Then suddenly the grand old roof trembled with the clash of a martial movement, strong and steady, which carried the listener onward till he was, with the sound, lost in the far distance. Then, in wailing minor numbers the music returned, slowly working itself up into the tumult and fury of a pent-up agony, and finally sweeping all before it in a wild hurricane of bitterness. Then a pause, and then sweetly and in the far distance once more rose the quiet hymn, and after that all was silence.

After the first few notes the organist had uttered a startled ejaculation, and drawn the doctor to another seat farther down the nave, where, till all was over, he sat motionless as a statue. But the moment the music had ceased he ran up the stairs with a face full of pleasure and admiration, and actually seized George by the hand.

"You're a genius, sir. That was not at all bad, I can tell you."

A happy smile was all the answer George could give.

"Not at all bad," repeated the organist. "I was telling your friend," added he to Dr Wilkins, who had returned more slowly to the organ, "that was not at all bad. He must come here often."

"Nothing, I am sure, would delight him more," said the doctor. "Eh, my boy?"

"Nothing, indeed," said George, "but—"

"But your reading, I suppose."

"Never mind your reading, sir!" exclaimed the organist. "What's that to music? Take my advice, and go in for music."

Poor George! for a moment he felt tempted to abandon all his ambitions and resolutions at the prospect of a career so delightful and congenial.

But he was made of firmer stuff than Tom Drift, and replied,—

"I cannot do that, sir; but if I may come now and then—"

"Come whenever you like," said the organist; and so saying he shook George and his friend by the hand, and hurried from the chapel.

This was the event which of all others brightened George Reader's first year at college.

Instead of aimless walks, he now stole at every spare moment (without cutting into his ordinary work) to the organ, and there revelled in music.

His acquaintance with the college organist increased and developed into a friendship, of which mutual admiration formed a large element, and one happy Sunday, a year after his arrival at Cambridge, he received, for the first time, the much coveted permission to preside at the organ during a college service, a task of which he acquitted himself so well— nay, so remarkably well—that not only did he frequently find himself again in the same position, but his playing came to be a matter of remark among the musical set of Saint George's.

"Who is the fellow who played to-day?" a man inquired one day of the organist; "is he a pupil of yours?"

"No. I might be a pupil of his in some things. He's a boy, and, mark my words, if he goes on as he's begun he'll be heard of some day."

"What's his name, do you know?" inquired the youth.

"I don't even know that, I never— Here he comes!"

"Introduce me, will you?"

"With pleasure. Allow me to introduce Mr Halliday," said the organist to George.

Halliday! Wasn't that a familiar name to me? Was it possible? This fine fellow, then, was no other than Jim Halliday, whom I had last seen as a boy on the steps of Randlebury, with his chum Charlie Newcome, waving farewell to Tom Drift.

Ah, how my heart beat at being thus once more brought back into the light of those happy days by this unexpected meeting!

My master by no means shared my delight at the incident. He had always shrunk from acquaintanceships among his fellow-collegians. With none, hitherto, but the organist had he become familiar, and that only by virtue of an irresistible common interest. His poverty and humble station forbade him to intrude his fellowship on the clannish gentry of Saint George's, and certainly his cravings for hard study led him, so far from considering the exclusion as a hardship, to look upon it as a mercy, and few things he desired more devoutly than that this satisfactory state of affairs might continue.

I do not say George was right in this. Sociability is, to a certain extent, a duty, and one that ought not without the soundest reason to be shirked. George may have carried his reserve rather too far, but at any rate you will allow he erred on the right side, if he erred at all, and carried his purpose through with more honesty and success than poor Tom Drift had displayed in a very similar situation.

Now, however, his hermitage was in peril of a siege, and he quailed as he acknowledged the introduction offered him.

"How are you?" said Halliday, with all his own downrightness. "I and a lot of fellows have liked your playing, and I don't see why I shouldn't tell you so. How are you?"

"I'm quite well, thank you," faltered George.

"You're a freshman, I suppose?" asked Jim.

"No, I'm in my second year."

"Are you? I thought I knew all the men in the college; but perhaps you live in the town?"

"No, I live in college."

"Where are your rooms?" asked the astonished Jim.

"In, or rather under, H staircase," replied George. "Perhaps you would know the place best as the 'Mouse-trap.'"

Jim could not resist a whistle of surprise and a rapid scrutiny of his new acquaintance.

"The 'Mouse-trap'! That's an awful hole, isn't it?"

"Yes," said George, his candour coming to his rescue to deliver him from this cross-examination, "but it's cheap—"

Jim looked as afflicted as if he had been seized with a sudden toothache.

"What a blundering jackass I am! Please excuse my rudeness; I never meant to annoy you."

"You have not done so. You are not the sort of man I should mind knowing I was poor—"

"Of course not; so am I poor; but don't let's talk of that. Will you come to my rooms?"

George hesitated, and then answered,—

"I'd rather not, please. I'm reading hard, and, besides—"

"Besides what?"

"I've no right to expect you to associate with me."

"Why ever not?"

"I may as well tell you straight out. My father is a gamekeeper, and I am a gamekeeper's son."

Jim laughed pleasantly.

"Well, really your logic is perfect, but I can't say as much for your sense. Bless you, man, aren't we all of us lineal descendants of a gardener? Come along!"

"Please excuse me," again faltered George; "you are very kind, but your friends may not thank you for—"

"My friends!—oh, yes!" blurted out Jim. "What on earth business have they to put their noses into my affairs. Like their impudence, all of them!"

Jim, you will see, was still a boy, though he had whiskers.

"Don't blame them till they have offended. Anyhow, Mr Halliday, please excuse me. I want to read, and have made a rule never to go out."

"Look here—what's your name?" began Jim.

"Reader," replied my master.

"Reader! Are you the fellow who's in for the Wigram Scholarship?" cried Jim, in astonishment.

"Yes," replied George; "how did you know?"

"Only that some of the fellows are backing you for winner."

George laughed. "They'll be disappointed," he said.

"I hope not," said Jim, "for if you get it you'll be free of the college, and get into rather better quarters than the 'Mouse-trap.' But look here, Reader, do come to my rooms, there's a good fellow; if you don't want any friends, don't prevent my having one."

This was irresistible, and George had nothing for it but to yield, and with many misgivings to accompany his new friend.



CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

HOW MY MASTER AND I WENT OUT TO BREAKFAST, AND WHOM WE MET.

Jim Halliday—now a strapping youth of nineteen—was a good representative of the "steady set" at Saint George's College. Indeed, as he was intending to become a clergyman in due time, it would have been a deplorable thing if this had not been the case. He worked hard, and though not a clever fellow, had already taken a good position in the examination lists of his college. He was also an ardent superintendent at a certain ragged-school in the town conducted by University men; and was further becoming a well-known figure in the debates at the Union—on all which accounts his friends were not a little satisfied. But on one point Jim and his friends did not hit it. Ever since his Randlebury days he had kept up his passion for athletic sports, and if he had now been famous for nothing else at his college, he would at least have been noted as a good bat, a famous boxer, a desperate man in a football scrimmage, and a splendid oar. It was on this subject that Jim and his relations were at variance. When I speak of "relations" I refer, by the way, to a certain old-fashioned uncle and aunt in Cornwall, who since Jim's father's death had assumed the guardianship of that youth and his brothers and sisters. This good uncle and aunt were horribly shocked that one destined for so solemn a sphere in life as the ministry should profane himself with athletic sports. The matter formed the theme for many serious remonstrances, and long letters addressed to the depraved Jim, who, on his part, maintained his side of the argument with characteristic vehemence. He actually spent a whole day in the college library, making out a list of all the athletic divines in history since the creation of the world, the which he hurled triumphantly at his good relations' heads as an unanswerable challenge. But, however satisfactory it may have been to Jim, it failed to convince them, and neither party being disposed to give in, the feud in this particular had become chronic.

All this Jim contrived to impart to George (for lack of better conversation) in the course of a short walk previous to the breakfast in his rooms, to which he was leading his new acquaintance a captive.

"I suppose we shall have it all opened again now," he remarked, "for you may have seen that my name is down to play in the football-match against Sandhurst."

"I never read the athletic intelligence in the papers," said George.

"Well, my uncle and aunt do. The names were actually printed in the Times, and I shall be greatly surprised if I don't find a letter or telegram when I get back to my rooms. We may as well beat to quarters, though, or the fellows will be waiting."

"You didn't tell me anyone else was to be there," said George reproachfully, suddenly stopping short, "I can't come!"

"Stuff and nonsense," said Jim; "they won't eat you!"

"Halliday," said George, hurriedly, "I'm much obliged to you for asking me, but I have made a rule, as I tell you, never to go out, and I've told you the reason."

"An utterly rubbishing reason!" put in Jim.

"I promised to come with you because I thought there would be only us two; but I really can't come if there are more."

"My dear fellow," said Jim good-humouredly, "anyone else would be offended with you. Why, you're a regular bear."

"I know it's very rude of me," said George, feeling and looking very uncomfortable, "and I don't want to be that."

"Of course you don't; so come along. Why, my dear fellow, one would think my friends were all as abandoned wretches as I am, by the manner in which you shrink from the notion of meeting them, but they aren't."

"Do let me off," put in George, in despair.

"Not a bit of it. But I tell you what, if you don't like them or me—"

"It's not that, you know, but I've no right to associ—"

"Associate with your grandmother! Come this once, and I'll never ask you again unless you like, there!"

"Who are the fellows?" asked George.

"Two of them are College men—very nice men, in my humble opinion; and, now I come to think of it, one of them, Clarke, is in against you for the 'Wigram,' but everyone says you're safe; and the third is an old particular school chum, who is playing in Sandhurst team against us, and whom it is therefore my interest to incapacitate by a howling breakfast."

George laughed.

"I wish you'd let him eat my share as well."

"I dare say he would be equal to the occasion. Newcome was always a good trencherman."

At the name I bounded nearly out of my master's pocket. Newcome! an old school chum of Jim Halliday's. It must be my old master! And—yes—now I remembered, he had spoken in one of his letters to Tom Drift of going to Sandhurst Military College. It must be he. How I longed for my master to make up his mind and go to the breakfast!

"But I wouldn't have you miss seeing him," said Jim, "for I'm no end proud of him; and when you've once seen him, you'll have seen the best fellow going. That is," added he, "present company of course excepted."

"I'm sure he's a nice man."

"Nice! Of course, and therefore fit company for you and me; so come along, old man. I never had such hard work inviting a man to breakfast in all my life."

"I'm certain I'm ill-mannered," said George, "but I won't hold out any more. You will—"

"Hurrah, that's settled, and here we are, too!"

With that he led the way up a staircase, on the second floor of which he opened a door, and ushered George into his rooms. No one was there yet, and there was consequently time to look about. Jim's rooms were nothing very grand, but they were palatial compared with the "Mouse-trap." Cheerful and well-lighted, with a pleasant look-out into the old quadrangle, comfortably furnished, further enlivened with all those adornments in the shape of swords, fencing-sticks, dumb-bells, etcetera, without which no model undergraduate's rooms would be complete.

George could hardly help sighing as his thoughts flew back to his own dingy cell under "H" staircase.

"Lay another plate, Smith," said Jim, addressing his "gyp"; "and now, old man, make yourself comfortable."

And then the host, in a business-like way, devoted himself to the mysteries of coffee-making and egg-boiling, in the midst of which occupation Clarke and the other Saint George's man arrived.

George felt very miserable on being introduced and devoutly hoped the fellows would have sufficient to converse about among themselves, without it being needful for him to come under observation. This reserve, however, he was not destined to maintain for very long.

"Halliday," said Clarke, "were you in chapel this morning?"

"Yes."

"Well, did you ever hear the organ so grandly played?"

George blushed deeply, half with pleasure at this genuine compliment, and half with nervousness at the turn the talk was taking.

"And it wasn't the regular organist," said Clarke's friend, "for I saw him downstairs."

"No, it's some fellow—plough-boy or stable-boy; or somebody he's got hold of, so I heard. Whoever he is, he knows how to play."

At this point Jim was as red in the face as George, and equally embarrassed.

"Is the fellow at college, do you know?" asked Clarke's friend.

"I believe so, in fact—"

"In fact," broke out Jim, in fear of further awkwardness, "in fact the gentleman you are speaking of is my friend here."

If Clarke and his friend had suddenly been confronted by a tribe of wild Indians they could not have been more taken aback than they were at this announcement. In fact, it was an awkward moment for everybody. Nobody knew exactly what to say, or which way to look. But a welcome interruption arrived.

My heart beat suddenly as I heard at the bottom of the stairs a sound. Some one was coming up two steps at a time. Nearer and nearer the light feet came, and my agitation told me whom they brought.

There was a rap at the door, a click on the latch, and then, after all these years, I saw once more my dear first master, Charlie Newcome. Little he guessed I was so near him!

He had spent the previous day with Jim, and was therefore no stranger in his rooms; indeed, from the moment he entered them, he appeared as much at home there as their own master. He greeted the visitors pleasantly, and then, in the old Randlebury style, demanded if breakfast was anywhere near ready, as he was starving.

He had the beginnings of a fierce moustache, he stood six feet high in his boots, and there was a look of power about him which exceeded even the promise of his Randlebury days. Otherwise he was the same. He had the same clear, honest eyes, the same frank smile, the same merry laugh, for which everyone had loved him then; and as I looked at him and rejoiced, I felt I would give the world to be back in my old place in his pocket.

Jim, as he himself had said, was proud enough of his friend, and no wonder. His arrival, too, at the instant when it occurred, was most opportune, and made him a specially welcome addition to our party, which, including my master, was very soon on the best of terms round the hospitable Jim's table.

"It's not often," said that worthy, "one gets two pairs of deadly enemies eating out of the same dish."

"What's the fellow talking about?" asked Charlie, passing up his plate for more steak.

"Well," said Jim, "you and I are, or shall be, deadly enemies to-day, old man."

"Rather," responded Charlie; "so much the worse for you. But where's the other pair?"

"Why, Clarke and Reader."

"I?" exclaimed Clarke, in an alarmed tone. "I hope Mr Reader and I are not at enmity?"

"Oh, yes, you are; don't you know Reader's the fellow in against you for the 'Wigram'?" said Jim.

Clarke was astonished. He had been told there was another candidate for the scholarship, who in some quarters was considered a formidable opponent, but he had never fairly realised the fact till now.

"I'm very glad to meet you," said he, courteously, to George, "though I can hardly wish you as much success in your exam, as I dare say you wish yourself."

"I hope I shall not break my heart if I lose," replied George. "Are we the only two in for it?"

And then they fell to talking about their approaching struggle, during which I gave heed to a hurried talk between Charlie and Jim.

"Do you remember Tom Drift?" asked Jim.

Charlie's face at once became serious as he replied, "How could I forget him? What about him?"

"Why," said Jim, "I had a letter from my brother Joe the other day, and he says Tom has altogether gone to the bad. He met him drunk coming out of some slum in Holborn, and followed him for a long time in hopes of being able to speak to him, but the fellow couldn't, or wouldn't recognise him, and only swore. He is living at some disreputable lodging-house—"

"Where?" exclaimed Charlie, excitedly.

"I don't know. Why! what's the matter?"

"Can you find out his address?" asked Charlie.

"I dare say. Why do you want it?"

"Because I must go and see him. Could you find out to-day by telegram?"

"I'll try." Presently he added, "I could never make out why you stuck to the fellow as you did, old man, especially when he turned against you. You're a better man than ever I shall be."

"Nonsense! I promised once to be his friend, that's all. Do send the telegram soon. And now tell me who's the pale man talking to Clarke?"

"A fellow called Reader—one of the cleverest men we've got."

"He looks half-starved!"

"Yes; I'm afraid he's—I mean, I don't think he takes proper care of himself."

"Pity," said Charlie. "I say, old man, this is rare steak! Give us a bit more. What time does the match begin?"

"At two. You old beggar! see if I don't pay off some old scores before the day's over."

"I thought you told me once your people didn't fancy your going in for athletics?"

"No more they do. I expect a stinger by this post; but I shall not open it till after the match. What matches we used to have at Randlebury!"

"Didn't we!"

"And do you remember what an ass you used to make of yourself over that precious silver watch of yours?"

It did one good to hear the laugh with which Charlie greeted this reminder.

"I'd give my repeater, and a ten-pound note besides, to get back that old watch," said he. (If he had but known!) "But there's no knowing where it is now; poor Tom Drift must have parted with it years ago."

With such talk the meal proceeded, and presently the conversation grew more general, and branched out on to all sorts of topics. George, having got over the first strangeness of finding himself in society, found it not so bad after all; and, indeed, he very soon amazed himself by the amount he talked. It was a new world to him, the hermit of the "Mouse-trap," to find himself exchanging ideas with men of his own intellectual standing; and he certainly forgave Jim his persistency in compelling his company this morning. He forgot the patches in his clothes among such gentlemen as Clarke and Charlie, and for the first time in his life felt himself superior to his natural diffidence and reserve. Who could help being at his ease where Charlie was? He kept up a running fire of chaff at his old schoolfellow, for which occasionally the others came in; and if it be true that laughter is a good digestive, Jim Halliday's breakfast that morning must have agreed with the five who partook of it.

"Who's this coming?" suddenly exclaimed the latter, as there came a sound of footsteps slowly ascending the stairs.

"Two of them!" said Charlie. "Perhaps it's your tailor and your hatter with their little bills."

"Whoever it is, they're blowing hard," said Clarke.

"They don't enjoy my 'Gradus at Parnassum,'" said Jim. "Come in, all of you!" he shouted.

The door opened slowly, and there appeared to the astonished eyes of Jim and his party a grave middle-aged gentleman and still more grave and middle-aged lady.

"Oh, my prophetic soul! my uncle and aunt!" groaned Jim.



CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

HOW JIM'S UNCLE AND AUNT SPENT A DIFFERENT SORT OF DAY FROM THAT WHICH THEY HAD EXPECTED.

The apparition was indeed none other than Jim Halliday's dreaded uncle and aunt, and the object of their visit was easy to guess. They had, in fact, taken the long journey from Cornwall as fast as express trains could bring them, in order to remonstrate personally with their depraved nephew on the error of his ways.

They were evidently as astonished to find Jim's room full of visitors, as Jim on his part was to see them, and they looked so taken aback and disconcerted that the party at once rose, and offered to take their leave. Clarke and his friend actually did depart, but Jim still had presence of mind enough left to groan out an entreaty to Charlie and my master that they would remain—an appeal so pathetic that there was no resisting it.

Charlie politely handed the good people to chairs, while Jim, under cover of preparing a second edition of breakfast, hastily arranged his plan of defence.

"Reader," he whispered to my master, "whatever you do, keep the talk going, old man, or it's all U P." Then turning to his relatives, he broke out,—

"This is a surprise! How are you both? Upon my word, you're looking grandly. How kind to come and see me up here! Will you allow me to introduce my two friends, Ensign Newcome and Mr Reader? My uncle and aunt, gentlemen."

The uncle and aunt bowed gravely, and in a frightened sort of way, in acknowledgment of the courteous greeting of the two young men. It was clear they had expected to find Jim alone, and over a quiet cup of cocoa to reduce him to a sense of his wickedness. It put them out of their reckoning, quite, to find that, if they were to open fire at once, it would have to be in the presence of these two gentlemanly and rather imposing strangers. However, they were too full of their mission to delay, and so the uncle began,—

"It will be as well, James, that I should state to you—"

"Not a word now, till you've had some breakfast," interrupted the wary Jim. "My poor dear aunt must be simply fagged to death. Do take your bonnet off, and come and sit here in the easy-chair. Let me make you some cocoa; I know the way you take it, exactly. Try those chops in front of you, sir, they are prime, as Charlie will tell you. Reader, old man, draw in and keep us company. Well, I declare, this is a jolly family party! And what's the news down in your part of the world? Have you had a good harvest? My uncle comes from Cornwall, Charlie."

And he gave his friend a lugubrious wink, as much as to say, "Keep it up."

"Do you live near the sea?" thereupon began Charlie.

"Pretty near, that is, about twenty miles off," said the uncle, looking at Charlie under his spectacles.

"My love, the gentleman will laugh at you," said his good lady. "I call twenty miles a long way."

"I perfectly agree with you, ma'am," said Charlie, "Twenty miles is a good distance in this little island of ours. But it's curious how little they make of such a distance in a big country like India, for instance, where I am going. There, I am told, it is quite a common thing for a man to be twenty miles from his next-door neighbour, and yet be on constant visiting terms."

"Dear me!" said the uncle.

"You don't know India, I suppose, sir?" inquired Charlie.

"No; that is—"

"He's only read about it in books," again put in the aunt; "and so, my love, you'd better say at once you don't know anything about it."

"Well," said Charlie, "it depends a good deal on the books. Some books of travel are so vivid one almost seems to be in the country they describe.

"Er—what did you say, Reader?"

Reader was quick enough to take this broad hint, and keep up the talk.

"To my mind, the most interesting books are those which describe, not so much places, as people and their manners. There are a great many books of this kind about India. One I lately read was specially interesting."

And then, to Jim's unbounded delight and gratitude, George began calmly to give a review a quarter of an hour long of the work in question for the benefit of the two old people, who, as they listened, became more and more impressed with the importance of their nephew's friend, and of the impossibility of obtruding their special grievance on the party at the present time. Indeed, the aunt had almost forgotten the speech with which she had come prepared, in her pleasure at hearing the young men talk, and she even joined in the conversation in a manner which showed how she enjoyed it. The uncle was still gloomy, and appeared to be waiting the first favourable opportunity for "coming to the point."

The opportunity, however, never occurred. After a long and lively talk on all sorts of matters, Jim adroitly turned the conversation on to the subject of athletics by appealing to his uncle to add his voice to that of Reader's other friends in rebuking him for never taking any exercise.

"Look at his pale face!" he exclaimed; "isn't it a disgrace?"

George bore this attack good-naturedly, and began to excuse himself; but the uncle, who had not before noticed his looks, interrupted him by saying,—

"Pardon me, sir, but I quite agree with James. If is very wrong to cultivate the brain at the expense of the body."

This observation brought down Charlie's hearty approval, who forthwith launched into a rhapsody on athletic sports—particularly football— appealing in every sentence to the uncle, who now found himself fairly in the toils.

"If it were for nothing more than the moral training it gives a man," said Charlie—"for the pluck, manliness, and endurance it puts into him—we couldn't over-estimate the value of athletics; could we, sir?"

"No—er—that is to say—"

"Why, look at Jim, here! Upon my word, sir, if you'll excuse me saying it, it does you the greatest credit the way he has been brought up to value healthy exercise. Why, there are some parents and guardians who, instead of encouraging that sort of thing, would positively so far wrong their sons as to forbid it. I can't make out that sort of training, can you?"

"Eh? Well, possibly not," faltered the uncle, turning very red.

"Of course not, and you'll have your reward in seeing Jim turn out a far better clergyman than your mollycoddles, who don't know the way to look their fellow-men straight in the face. Jim, old man, you've had my cup up there ten minutes; hand it up."

Jim filled it to overflowing, as a token, perhaps, of the gratitude of his heart towards his champion, and forthwith handed it up.

"And a propos of that," pursued Charlie, having gulped down his coffee, "you are just come up here in the nick of time, for there's a glorious football-match on to-day—"

The uncle groaned and the aunt fidgeted.

"In which Jim is playing, and no one deserves the honour better. You must come and see it by all means. Eh, Jim?"

"Rather," said Jim; "it would never do to miss it, especially as Newcome is playing against us. The worst of it is, as we are both engaged, there will be no one to pilot you about."

"I shall be very glad," said Reader—though, if truth must be told, his politeness cost him an effort—"if your uncle and aunt will let me. I'm almost as great a stranger, though, in the town as they are."

"You are very kind, sir," said Jim's aunt, who had been long since gained over by the enemy. "We shall be most pleased to have your escort. Eh, my love? Besides, we shall help to keep you out in the fresh air for once. But, James," she said, "I can't get over you and Mr Newcome being opponents in this match and yet such friends."

Every one laughed at this, and Charlie confided to the good lady his fixed determination of breaking her nephew's legs before the day was out—a purpose which, from the speaker's point of view, she could not help admitting was a laudable one.

Thus the breakfast ended very satisfactorily for everyone except the uncle, who had at last discovered the trap into which he had let himself fall, from which, however, he could not with grace free himself.

Three hours later the two worthies, having seen many of the sights of Cambridge with the advantage of Reader's escort, found themselves with some hundreds of other spectators on the field in which the notable football-match of Cambridge versus Sandhurst was immediately about to begin.

Jim Halliday's uncle and aunt could hardly have denied that the thirty young men, half of them in blue jerseys and half in red, who were now strolling out onto the ground, were as fine a body of youths as one could easily encounter in the course of a long day's march. The picture of health and physique, they seemed almost like some of those heroes of old beside whom poor everyday man was wont to shrink into insignificance. Among the blues towered Jim, among the reds Charlie, two by no means the least noble-looking of the company.

"How well James looks in that dress, my love!" said the aunt.

"My love" could hardly dispute the fact, so he said nothing; but in his secret heart he began to doubt whether he had not taken an exaggerated view of the demoralising nature of athletic sports.

Play was soon ordered, and then amidst breathless silence the ball shot upward, propelled by the vigorous kick of the Sandhurst captain.

It is not my purpose to follow in all its details the famous match of which I was that day spectator. My muse has other things to sing of besides rallies and charges, scrimmages and drop kicks, touch-downs and passings. To me the game was chiefly interesting as it was interesting to Jim Halliday and Charlie Newcome; but as during the first part of the match both these worthies were what they would call "out of it"—that is, on outpost duty—I found the company I was in better worth studying than the ups and downs of the football.

When the game first began the two good people gazed in silent astonishment. It always takes some time to understand the humour of a football-match from outside, and Jim's uncle and aunt consequently for a time could make nothing out of the constant succession of charges and scrimmages of which they were witnesses. Presently, however, with the aid of their own observation and the remarks of people around them, they came to appreciate the sport better, and grew proportionately interested. After a time the interest grew to excitement and excitement found relief in speech.

"There's that little red-haired fellow got it again!" exclaimed the aunt; "see how he runs!"

"Wait a bit!" cried the uncle; "that fellow there will catch him—no, he hasn't—just look at him; there's smartness for you! Ah! he's down!"

"But another of the blues has got the ball!" cried the aunt, starting on tiptoe. "Well, to be sure! five onto one! what a shame!"

And so they kept up a running commentary on the fortunes of the game, much to George's amusement and that of those near us. Now and then the uncle appeared suddenly to recollect himself, and would come out with a grunt of disapproval. Once, for instance, when by a sort of common impulse the whole of the players engaged in one of the scrimmages fell to the ground, he was hardy enough to ejaculate—

"Disgraceful!"

"Hold your tongue, my love," broke in his wife; "you know very well you'd like to be in it yourself if you were a boy. I would!"

After that the uncle, whatever he thought, said nothing.

The sides appeared to be very evenly matched; so much so, that when "half-time" was called neither had gained the least advantage.

Just as the sides were changing over, preparing to renew the contest, a man came running up to where our party stood and called out,—

"Will anyone lend me a watch? Mine has stopped." This man was the timekeeper for Cambridge, and indeed was no other than Clarke's friend, one of the breakfast-party that morning.

"Here is one!" cried George, recognising him and unfastening me from his ribbon-chain. The next moment I was hurrying towards the goals in my borrower's hands.

I had now nothing for it but to attend closely to the game, for the old gentleman and lady were too far away for me to be able to observe them any further.

The ball was started again, and I had the satisfaction of seeing that both Jim and Charlie were in new posts, which promised a better chance of sport.

And so it happened.

Hardly had the first scrimmage been formed when Jim was seen slipping out of it with the ball under his arm, making straight for the Sandhurst goal. He was quickly stopped, however, and after a desperate encounter the ball got free and rolled out of the crush towards where Charlie stood.

He, not waiting to pick it up, went at it with a flying kick. Up flew the ball, amid cheers and shouts, right over the heads of the players, and had it not been for the promptitude of the Cambridge "backs" it might have got behind their goal. And now, as if every one knew the time was getting short, the play became harder than ever. Many a time did I catch sight of my two Randlebury friends in the thick of the fight, sometimes hand to hand, sometimes separated by a living wall of humanity, but always doing their work, and straining for the one object. The time went on. The man who held me looked at me now oftener than he had done hitherto; and presently, when I pointed to five minutes to four, he cried out to a player near him, "Five minutes more."

That player was Charlie Newcome, and I saw his face flush as of old, and knew he at any rate intended to make the most of the brief time remaining.

But two of the minutes were gone before his chance came. Then there was a cry, and all eyes turned towards him, for there came the ball flying straight to where he stood. In a moment he had it, and started to run. It was a desperate chance, but Charlie was ready for desperate deeds. Shout rose on shout, and cheer on cheer, as first one, then another of the enemy was overturned or dodged. The more he achieved, the less his enemies ventured against him, and he dashed through their "forwards" and between their "quarter-backs." Next moment, with a mighty swoop, their "half-back" fell to the earth.

And now there are but two men to pass, and one of these is Jim Halliday. The avenging host follows in hot haste behind, but the issue of the fight lies with these two. See the grin of joy on Jim's face as he throws away his cap, and watches his dear enemy advance! It was as if a trumpet-call had suddenly sounded in the ears of two old chargers, and to them that moment the world was all contained in the space which severed them. Straight as an arrow rushed Charlie, firm as a rock waited Jim. Nor had he long to wait. With a bound and a howl his enemy leapt at him, and next moment the two were locked in an embrace the shock of which even I could distinctly hear. Oh, shades of Randlebury I did your school every turn out two finer men than this pair of struggling, straining, rival friends! The collision occurred close to the goal-line, and a moment afterwards a cry of "Maul!" proclaimed that they had in their struggle crossed the line, and that consequently (in accordance with the law of the game) the contest for the ball must be decided by these two alone, without aid or hindrance from the breathless friends and foes who stood round. A fair field and no favour! A ring was formed, and as my heart beat rapidly on towards the critical moment, these two strained every nerve to get the advantage for his side before "time" should be called.

"Bravo, our man!" cried one. "Stick to it, Newcome!" shouted others. "Now you have it, Halliday!" called out a third. Never was duel before the walls of Troy more desperate. The crowd burst in onto the field and thronged round, foremost among whom Jim's aunt's voice was heard crying out shrilly,—

"Well, I never, it's James and Mr Newcome, my love. How hot they are!"

It was evident the contest in which the two youths were engaged was one not destined to end before time was up. I pointed to within half a minute of the fated hour—and it would take far longer than that for even so powerful a champion as Jim to wrest the ball from Charlie's defiant grasp. The timekeeper turned away from the rivals and held me up. On went my hand, and on went the struggle.

"Now, Newcome; one tug more?"

"Bravo, our man! You'll do it yet!"

"Time's up! No side!"

Then rose those two from the earth, and immediately the astonished Jim felt himself embraced before the whole multitude by his aunt.

"Well, James, and how do you feel after it all?"

"Hungry," replied Jim.

So ended the famous match. After that Jim had no more trouble from his uncle and aunt on the subject of athletics, which they were fain to admit were a branch of science beyond their comprehension.

Charlie started that same night for London, with the intention of making one more effort to help Tom Drift at all hazards. I, meanwhile, was restored to the possession of my lawful owner, who returned to his studies in the "Mouse-trap"; sitting up all night, I am sorry to say, to make up for the loss of the day.



CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

HOW GEORGE READER WENT UP FOR HIS FINAL EXAMINATION AND LEFT ME BEHIND HIM.

"Old man, you're overdoing it!"

These words were uttered by Jim Halliday, one evening two years after the events related in our last chapter, to his friend George Reader, as the two sat together in Jim's rooms at Saint George's.

Time had wrought changes with both. My master had secured the scholarship for which he had worked so hard during his first year's residence, and no longer inhabited the "Mouse-trap." His present quarters were the rooms immediately above those in which he was at this moment sitting, and it is hardly necessary to say that the two friends were constantly in one another's society. George, though still retaining much of his shyness, had made many acquaintances at his college, but Jim was his only friend. The two had their meals together, attended lectures together, worked together, and, though a greater contrast in all respects could hardly have been possible, were fairly inseparable.

At the present moment they were both working hard for the grand Tripos examination which was to close their college career. Every one said George would stand high in this, and Jim (since he had taken to hard reading) was expected to pass too, though how, none of his friends cared to prophesy.

They were working hard on the evening in question, when Jim, suddenly shutting up his books and pushing back his chair, exclaimed,—

"Old man, you're overdoing it!"

George looked up from his work, surprised at the interruption. Alas! his pale face and sunken eyes testified only too forcibly to his friend's protest. I, who knew him best, and saw him at all times, had watched with grief the steady and persistent undermining of his health, at no times robust, and dreaded to think what might be the result of this protracted strain on his constitution.

"I tell you, you're overdoing it, old man, and you must pull up!"

"Suppose we talk of that afterwards," said George.

"Not at all," retorted the dogged Jim; "just shut up your books, Reader, and listen to me."

"I'll listen to you, Jim, but don't make me shut up my books. What have you got to say?"

"Just this; you're doing too much. I can see it. Everybody can see it. Do you think I can't see your eyes and your cheeks? Do you think I can't hear you blowing like—"

"Really—" began George.

"Listen to me!" went on Jim—"blowing like an old broken-winded horse? Yes, you may laugh, but I mean it. Do you think I don't know you've never been out of doors ten minutes that you could help for six months? and that you have even given up the organ?"

"That's true," groaned George, leaning back in his chair.

"Of course it's true, and it's equally true that you'll smash up altogether if this goes on much longer. Then what will be the use of all your achievements? What will be the good of them to your father and mother, for instance, when you are knocked up?"

"I must work up to the Tripos now," pleaded George, "it's only a fortnight."

"My dear fellow, how you talk! As if you weren't certain of a first class even if you were not to look at another book between now and then."

"I'm not at all certain," said George, anxiously.

"Yes you are, and if you hadn't worked yourself into an unhealthy, morbid state you would know it. No, old fellow, we've never quarrelled yet, and don't let us begin."

"Certainly not. Why should we?"

"We shall if I don't get my way. Now tell me, what time did you go to bed last night?"

"Three, I believe."

"No, it wasn't, it was four, for I heard you over head; and the night before it was three; and the night before that, if I mistake not, you didn't go to bed at all. Eh?"

George smiled, but said nothing.

"Well," said Jim, putting down his foot, "this must be stopped. You may work till ten every night, but then you must go to bed, or you and I will fall out."

Jim looked so grave as he said this that George was bound to take it in the earnest way in which it was meant. A long argument ensued. George pleaded, Jim bullied, and at last my master was obliged to promise to give over work at twelve every night for the next fortnight. But more he would not promise. No persuasions could tempt him out of doors for more than a hurried five minutes' walk, or induce him to yield to the fascinations of the organ. As the days went on, too, he grew more and more despondent about his own chances, and implored more than once to be released from his promise. But Jim was inflexible, and held him grimly to his engagement.

"You're certain to be among the first three," he said, over and over again, "and if you'll only give yourself two days' rest you may be first."

"Yes, of the third class," mournfully replied my master. "I tell you what, Jim, it isn't fair to bind me down to a promise I made almost under compulsion, and for fear of making you angry."

"It's quite fair, and you would make me angry if you didn't stick to it. Why, my dear fellow, has it ever occurred to you I'm in for the same Tripos as you, and I'm not behaving as ridiculously as you?"

"You are safe to be in the second class," said George.

"I wish I were as safe of a second as you are of a first; but I wouldn't kill myself to be senior classic."

"You forget how important it is for me to take a good place."

"It is far more important to retain your health."

"Think what a difference it would make at home if I got a fellowship."

"What a difference it would make if you had to go to a hospital."

"What a pity, when I have the chance, not to use it."

"What a pity, when you have the chance, to throw it away by knocking yourself up."

"Surely four days can't make any difference."

"Then why not stop work now and take a rest?"

It was plain to see these two would never agree, and so the time went on until the date of the examination arrived.

The night before the two friends met in George's room. George was in low spirits, nervous and fretful. It was plain to see his friend's protest had come too late to be of much use, for he had grown more and more worn every day; and the additional hours spent in bed had only been a source of worry and vexation. Jim, on the other hand, was doing his best to keep up, not his own spirits only, but those of his friend. His chances of a second class were as momentous to him (though he would not admit it) as his friend's of a first, and he too was experiencing, though in a less degree, that heart-sinking which so often characterises the eve of an examination.

"You are not going to work to-night?" said he to my master.

"I think I must," said George, wearily, and putting his hand to his forehead.

"It can't be any earthly good now," said Jim, "so let's forget all about it for a bit and talk of something else."

Forget all about it! George smiled in a melancholy way at the words; but nevertheless he was not well enough to contest the point. "And by the way," added Jim, cheerily, "I've got a letter from Newcome (you remember Newcome, George, the man who played for Sandhurst against us two years ago) I think you'll like to hear."

There was one in the room, whether George liked it or not, who was dying to hear it!

"He's just gone out to India, you know, to join his regiment."

"Here's his letter," he said, producing it and nervously glancing at George to see if he appeared interested. "Shall I read it?"

"Yes, please," said George, slowly.

"It's not a long one. 'Dear Jim,' he says, 'I wish you were out here with all my heart. I should at least have one fellow to talk to among all these strangers. I had a decent enough passage. Father Ocean was on his good behaviour, and the vessel was a snug one. We came in for rough weather in the Persian Gulf, but it didn't afflict me much, and I landed here two days ago, safe and sound. I reported myself to our colonel yesterday and was introduced to my fellow-officers. Some of them are decent fellows, though perhaps hardly in your and my line. I had been told the officers of our regiment were a rackety lot, but I don't see much sign of that yet. It's awfully dull here, and I would give a lot to be up in your rooms at George's, sprawling in your easy- chair and talking over Randlebury days. I suppose you will soon be in for your final. Good luck be with you, my boy! Remember me in your will if you get made a Fellow. I suppose the man I met in your rooms once—Read I believe his name was—will be first. Talking of that day, have you heard lately of Tom Drift? I shall always be glad I went up to town that night and found him out, though I lost him again so soon. I inquired everywhere when I was last in town, but nothing was known of him, except that he was supposed to have been engaged in some—' But that's all about an old schoolfellow and won't interest you. 'We expect to be ordered up-country pretty soon now, and meanwhile have liberty to amuse ourselves pretty much as we like, but, as far as I can see, cards unfortunately seem the only recreation in which the officers indulge. However, I shall be kept busy with drill, and being junior officer expect I shall be for some time fag of the regiment. Mind you write as soon as ever you get this, and a regular yarn. I have had to write this in a hurry, and in a room where a noise is going on. By next mail you shall get a full, true, and particular account of all the doings, sayings, and adventures of yours as ever, C.N.'

"I'm afraid," said Jim, as he folded up the letter, "it will be rather dull out there, for—hullo!"

This ejaculation was caused by seeing that George was sitting motionless with his elbows on the table and his face buried in his hands.

"What's the matter?" he said, getting up and laying his hand on his friend's arm.

George looked up suddenly with a scared face, which frightened Jim.

"Old man, aren't you well?" said the latter anxiously.

"Eh?—oh, yes! I'm all right. Why—why do you ask? But I say, Jim, this room is close. Let's go out and take a turn in the big court."

Jim, in sore perplexity, complied, and for an hour those two paced the flags round the great quadrangle. George was himself again, much to Jim's relief, and suffered himself to be sent uncomplainingly to bed at ten. To bed, but not to sleep. All night long I heard him toss to and fro, vainly endeavouring to recall Greek and Latin lines or some other fragment of his studies. At about six he dozed fitfully for an hour, and then came the knock at the door which summoned him from his bed to the first day of his ordeal.

I would rather not dwell on those examination days, for I could tell, if no one else could, that my master was really ill, and was only prevented by sheer excitement from succumbing at any moment. As day by day passed I could see the effort becoming more and more difficult. The nights were worse than the days—sleepless, feverish, distracted. It was evident this could not go on for long.

The last day of the examination arrived, and my master was in his usual place in the Senate House. His pen flew swiftly all the morning along the paper, and one by one, a triumphant tick was set against the printed questions before him. I could see no one as well employed as he. Jim, at a distant desk, was biting the end of his pen and looking up at the ceiling; other men sat back in their seats and stared with knitted brows at the paper before them; others buried their fingers in their hair and looked the picture of despair. But still my master wrote on. It wanted half an hour to the time of closing when he reached the last question on the paper. I saw his lips curl into a smile as he dashed his pen into the ink and began to write. Then suddenly it dropped from his fingers, and his hands were clasped to his forehead. He made no motion and uttered no cry; men went on with their work on each side of him, and professors at their desks never turned his way. I looked wildly towards Jim; he sat there, biting the end of his pen and scowling at the question before him, but for a long time never looked our way. At last his head turned, and in an instant he was at his friend's side. Others came round too and offered help. Among them my poor master was borne from the hall and carried to his rooms, and that evening it was known all over the University that Reader, of George's, had been taken ill during the Tripos examination, and now lay delirious in his rooms in college.

Every one believed the attack was but a slight one, but I feared the worst; I knew how systematically and fatally my master's constitution had been undermined by the work of the last three years, and felt sure it could never rally from the fierce fever which had laid him low. And it never did. The fever left him in due time, and his mind ceased to wander, but every hour his strength failed him. His parents and Jim, and sometimes his old friend the rector, would constantly be about his bed, and to all of them it soon became evident what little hope there was of his recovery. Indeed, he must have guessed it too!

One day, as Jim sat with him, a faint shout was heard below in the quadrangle.

"What's that?" inquired George.

"I'll see," said Jim, and he went lightly from the room.

Presently he returned with a face almost beaming.

"It's good news," he said; "they were reading the result of the Tripos."

"And where are you?" asked George.

"You are first!" said Jim, proudly.

"Where are you?" repeated George.

"I am twelfth."

"In the first class?"

"Yes."

"That is good news, old fellow!"

"That shout was in your honour, you know; our college is as proud as anything to have the first man."

George smiled feebly, and for a long time both were silent.

Then George said,—

"You were right, Jim, after all. If I had listened to you I should have been wiser."

"Never mind, old man, you'll know better another time."

"I shall never have the chance, Jim."

"Don't say that, George; every one hopes you'll get better."

George smiled again, then said,—

"Jim, you will look after my father and mother, won't you? You know I've got a little money now, and they will be comfortably off, but you'll go and see them now and then?"

Jim laid his hand on the wasted hand of his friend.

"And, Jim, I want you to take my watch when I'm gone. I always valued it as much as anything, and I'd like you to have it."

Poor Jim could say nothing, he only gave another pressure of his friend's hand.

Then presently Mrs Reader returned to the room, and he slipped away.

The end was not long in coming. One afternoon as the four friends he loved most stood round his bed, George opened his eyes, and said,—

"Listen!"

"What is it, lad?" whispered the father.

"An organ—somewhere—open the window."

They opened the window, but the only music out there was the chirping of birds in the trees, and the distant footfalls of passers-by.

"Listen, there it is!" he said again.

"What is it playing?" asked the clergyman.

"A new tune."

And almost as he spoke the words, he closed his eyes for the last time on earth.



CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

HOW I FALL INTO THE HANDS OF AN OLD FRIEND.

Boys may imagine with what astonishment Jim Halliday discovered, on receiving the legacy bequeathed him by his dead friend, that I was the very watch which years before he had known so familiarly as the property of Charlie Newcome. At first he could not believe it, and marvelled how any two watches could be so much alike. Then he discovered the "C.N." scratched long ago inside, which he well remembered. And further inquiries enabling him to trace me back to the Muggerbridge silversmith, and from him to the pawnbroker's sale in London, he had no doubt left that I was actually the watch of which nothing had been heard since Tom Drift owned me.

My new master did not long remain in Cambridge after the death of his friend. He left the University in many respects a more thoughtful and earnest man than he had entered it, and in leaving it set himself honestly and faithfully to the work for which he had prepared, and on which his heart was fixed.

I shall not follow him through all the labours of his first village curacy, which lasted a year, during which time many people learned to love the manly, open-hearted young clergyman, and to bless the day when he had been sent among them.

At the end of a year he was removed to the charge of a church in a distant large seaport, where everything was in strangest contrast with the scenes he had just left. Instead of simple villagers and rustics, his work now lay amongst labourers and artisans of the poorest and lowest class. Instead of fresh country air he had now to breathe the vitiated air of close courts and ill-kept streets; and instead of an atmosphere of repose and innocence, he had now to move in an atmosphere of vice and disorder, from which very often his soul turned with a deep disgust. Still he worked manfully at his post with a bold heart, ready to face any hardship in the service of his Master, and never weary of striving by the Spirit's help to bring into the hard lives around him the elevating joys which they alone know who can call Christ the Saviour theirs. One day an adventure befell him which had a strange bearing on my own fortunes, and the fortunes of more than one of my several masters.

The gaol chaplain at Seatown had recently died, and during the interval necessary for appointing a successor Jim was asked and undertook to add to his other labours that of visiting the prisoners confined there. It was melancholy, and on the whole monotonous work, for the persons whom he thus attended, were mostly stupid, ignorant beings on whose hardened souls it was difficult indeed to make the slightest impression. They listened sulkily to what the chaplain had to say, but to all appearance neither understood nor cared about a single word, and he had the disappointment of noticing, week after week, and month after month, scarcely a sign of good rising out of his labours in the case of any one of them.

One day the governor met him as he was about to pay his customary visits.

"Oh, good-morning, sir. You'll find a new customer to-day."

The gaol governor, you will observe, spoke about his prisoners in a very commercial sort of way.

"Yes, and a queer one too," he added; "he doesn't look like one of our regular customers."

"What is he imprisoned for?"

"He was drunk, and quarrelled with a sailor on the quay, and pushed him into the water, I believe."

"Was the sailor drowned?"

"No, they fished him out, but this gentleman has got six months for it. He seems very down about it, so I'd like you to see him."

"All right; I will make a point of visiting his cell. Good-morning."

And Jim went on his round, thinking very little about the governor's communication.

Presently he came to the gallery in which the new prisoner's cell was, and asked the turnkey to show him the door.

"No use you a-going in there," muttered that functionary.

"Why?" asked Jim.

"He do swear so as I never hear a cove swear afore."

"Ah," said Jim, "and I suppose you've heard a good deal too in your time."

"So you may say, but this here young fellow comes out with it as if he'd skin you alive."

"Well, I must see him. Let me in, please."

When the door was opened the prisoner's back was turned, nor did he alter his position as Jim entered the cell.

There was undoubtedly something unusual about the man. His figure was not that of a labourer or a rough, nor was his attitude one of stolid brutishness, such as the chaplain had grown only too familiar with.

Jim stood a moment irresolute, and then said,—

"May I speak to you, friend?"

The man turned himself, and without raising his eyes from the stone floor, poured out a volley of curses which fully justified the turnkey's description.

Jim started, and uttered a quick exclamation. But it was not at the curses, terrible as they were. No, his amazement was of another kind altogether; for in the face and voice of this unhappy speaker he was forcibly reminded of one he once knew in very different scenes. As the man went on he watched him keenly and earnestly. He heeded not the oaths, or the taunts, or the threats which flowed from his lips; but as word followed word, and gesture gesture, and look look, he became gradually convinced that the resemblance was more than imaginary—that, indeed, this blaspheming convict was one whom he had once known and still remembered.

Walking up to him, and laying his hand on his shoulder, Jim said, quietly,—

"Tom Drift, do you remember me?"

The man started as for an instant he raised his eyes. Then, letting them drop once more, he growled,—

"That's not my name; I don't know you. Let me alone!"

Jim, more convinced than ever, now did the wisest thing he could in leaving the cell without another word.

"Well," said the turnkey, with a half-triumphant grin, as they turned to leave the gallery, "wasn't I right? Didn't he give you half a dozen as pretty bits of language as you ever heard?"

"Do not speak to me about it, please," replied Jim, more tartly than he had been ever known to speak to any one.

He did not return to the gaol for a week; and then the first visit he paid was to the new prisoner's cell.

He entered it anxiously, and not without misgivings. Tom Drift was sitting on his little bench with his head in his hands.

"May I come in?" said Jim, nervously.

Tom neither spoke nor raised his head; and Jim quietly stepped in. It was evident the interview of a week ago had had its effect on Tom Drift. He seemed as he sat there like a man who would fain lose himself if he only knew how. He never once raised his head from his hands or uttered a syllable while Jim sat and talked to him. The latter knew better than to return to the topic which had so startled the prisoner a week ago, and contented himself with mere kindly talk and the reading of a short passage of Scripture. All this Tom suffered without interruption, stirring neither head nor foot all the time.

"Now, good-bye," said Jim, rising; "don't get to think you have no friends."

The man fidgeted impatiently, and next moment Jim was out in the gallery.

"What's that man's name?" he inquired of the turnkey.

"Dykes; and I tell you what, Mr Halliday, he—"

"Open this door, please, my man," interrupted Jim, by way of cutting him short.

During the week which followed Jim was restless and out of spirits. He seemed unable to settle down to anything, and it was evident his heart was ill at ease—why, it was easy to guess. He had found Tom Drift, and there was a chance of rescuing him. But how to do it? How to approach one who was ashamed of his own name, and who repelled with an oath every offer of help?

Long and earnestly did my master think over the matter. He also wrote a long letter to Charlie, telling him all, and promising to do all that could be done for the poor prodigal. During the days that intervened before his next visit, too, he made as careful and full inquiries about Tom as it was possible to do.

The poor fellow had come to Seatown a month before, and very shortly became a familiar loafer on the quays. No one knew where he came from or why he was in Seatown, unless indeed he expected to be able to conceal himself on some vessel going abroad. Jim found out the lodging- house where he he had lived, but was unable to hear anything there to throw light on what he had been doing, or whence he had come. One man said he had found him once down by the water's edge, looking as though he intended to throw himself in—and the man who gave him drink at the public-house remembered him—and the man whom he had assaulted—but that was all.

Wretched enough was the picture it presented of a hopeless, friendless vagabond, weary of life, yet not daring to die, and finding his only solace in deeper degradation.

Tom was walking to and fro in his cell the next time Jim called. It was almost the first time I had been able to get a view of his face. And oh! how changed it was. Not merely that it looked pale and worn, with bloodshot eyes and hectic cheeks, but there was a scared despairing look there which fairly shocked me. Dissipation, and shame, and want, had all set their mark there. Alas! how soon may the likeness of God be degraded and defaced! He continued to walk to and fro as Jim sat down and began to read, but I could see he more than once darted a quick glance from under his clouded eyebrows at my master. I could tell by the beating of the latter's heart that he had made up his mind not to leave this morning without an effort to speak to Tom of old times, and I trembled for the result of his venture.

It seemed impossible to say a word while Tom continued to walk up and down his cell like a caged beast in his den, and Jim saw that every moment his opportunity was becoming less likely.

"Will you stand still and listen to me a moment?" he said at last.

Tom growled out an oath, and halted in front of him.

"Be quick," said he.

"I'm not going to preach," said Jim, "I want you to look at something."

"I want to look at nothing," muttered Tom, beginning to walk again.

"But you must, you shall look at it!" exclaimed Jim, starting at once to his feet.

Tom stopped short, suddenly, and turned upon him like a hunted animal. But Jim neither faltered nor quailed. He walked resolutely up to the poor fellow, and suddenly drawing me from his pocket, held me out towards him, saying,—

"Look at this, Tom Drift!"

Tom knew me at once, and I never saw a man change as he did that moment. The savage scowl vanished from his face, and a sudden pallor came to his hollow cheeks. A trembling seized him as he held out his hand to take me, and but for Jim's support he would hardly have remained standing. My master led him gently to the bench, and putting me into his hand, said,—

"I'll leave it with you till to-morrow, old fellow; good-bye."

I heard the key turn in the door behind him, and counted his retreating footsteps down the gallery, and then became fully conscious where and in whose charge I was.

And now an old familiar sound rang in my ears once more, "Be good to Tom Drift!" Long, long had I ceased to believe it possible that the chance of obeying my dear first master's request would ever again come to me; but here it was. I lay in the prodigal's trembling hands, and looked up into his troubled face, and heard his deep-drawn sigh, and felt that there was still something left for me to do.

No one disturbed Tom Drift and me that night, Jim had explained enough to the governor to gain permission for me to remain in the poor fellow's company till next day, and I need hardly say I never left his hand. Memories of better days, of noble friends, of broken vows, crowded in upon him as he sat bending over me that night.

Daylight faded, but still he never stirred; the governor made his nightly round, but he never took his eyes off me; and when it was too dark to see me he held me clasped between his hands as tenderly as if I had been a child.

I cannot, and would not if I could, describe all that passed through Tom Drift's soul that night. What struggles, what remorse, what penitence. Once he murmured Charlie Newcome's name, and once he whispered to himself, in the words of the parable he had so lately heard, "No more worthy, no more worthy!" Save for this he neither spoke nor moved, till an early streak of dawn shot through the grated window and fell upon us.

Then he turned and knelt, with me still clasped in his hands. And so that night, and with it the crisis of Tom Drift's life, was passed.

There was no more difficulty now for Jim Halliday. Tom even gave me up when he heard how I had come into my master's possession.

Then he asked about Charlie, and Jim told him all he knew. And so the weeks went on, and hope once more lit up Tom Drift's face. How could I help rejoicing in the share I had had in this blessed work of restoration?

Alas! how fleeting is this world's satisfaction!

A short time afterwards, only a week or so before the termination of Tom Drift's imprisonment, my master was returning home from the gaol, tired- out after his day's work. His way lay over a place half brickfield, half common, across which a narrow footpath went. We had got half way over when suddenly a dreadful sensation seized me. I was slipping through the bottom of my pocket! Though I had a watered ribbon attached to me my master always carried me loose in his waistcoat pocket, with never a suspicion of the hole that was there. But now that hole seemed suddenly to expand in order to let me through.

Lower and lower I slipped. I tried to scream, I endeavoured to attract my master's attention. But all in vain. He strode unconsciously on, never giving a thought to me or my peril. I held on as long as I could. Then I dropped. If only I could have fallen on his foot, or struck his knee as I descended! But no. I slid quietly down, scarcely grazing his trousers, and just out of the reach of his boot. For a moment I hoped wildly he would see me as I lay at his feet. Alas! he walked heedlessly on, leaving me on my back on the footpath, powerless to cry after him, and not daring to guess what would become of me.

In fact, reader, I was lost.



CHAPTER TWENTY SIX.

HOW I WAS UNEXPECTEDLY ENLISTED IN A NEW SERVICE, IN COMPANY WITH AN IRISHMAN.

The first thing I was conscious of, after partially recovering from the agony, mental and bodily, of my late accident, was a sharp tugging at my handle.

"Watch! I say, watch!" I heard a voice whisper, "what's to be done?" It was the watered ribbon.

"How should I know?" I growled; "if you had done your duty we should never have been here!"

One is always ready to blame somebody for everything that happens amiss.

"Oh, yes, I dare say," it replied; "if you hadn't poked your nose into that hole we should never have been here."

I did not like being thus talked to by a disreputable piece of watered ribbon, and so kept a dignified silence.

"What's to be done?" presently repeated my companion, giving me another rude tug at the collar.

"Hold your tongues, if we've nothing to say," was my curt reply.

"Oh, but I've a lot to say," went on this irrepressible chatterbox; "in the first place—"

"Will you be silent?" said I, angrily; "isn't it bad enough to be down here, all through your carelessness?"

"But it's not through my carelessness; it was through the hole in the pocket you got down here."

"If you had half the sense of a—"

"Of a nickel watch, let us say," said the watered ribbon, losing his temper; "and that would be precious little. Well?"

"If you had half the sense of a blade of grass, you would have been able to prevent it."

"But you see I hadn't half the sense of a blade of grass, or a quarter, or an eighth, or a sixteenth. If I had I should have known better than to lend my moral support to a good-for-nothing, tarnished, ill- regulated, mendacious piece of Britannia metal, that chooses to call itself a silver watch. Ha, ha! what do you think of that?"

What I thought of that this impudent ribbon was not destined then to hear; for there came at that moment a sound of approaching footsteps across the field, which made us both hold our breaths. Unless the comer, whoever he was, could get sight of us, he was sure to tread right on the top of us! Luckily the moon was out, and with her aid I made myself as bright as possible. The footsteps belonged to a youth, not, certainly, oppressed by melancholy, to judge by the tune he was whistling, or very infirm, to judge by the pace at which he advanced.

He came nearer and nearer, and in another step would have been upon me when suddenly both he and the whistling halted. He stooped, and, with an exclamation of surprise, picked me up.

"Man alive, an' it's a watch! Hout, boys! there's luck for yez!"

So saying he thrust me and the ribbon into a pocket crowded with all sorts of oddments, and walked on more rapidly than ever.

I was too bewildered at first by my narrow escape and the sudden change in my fortunes to pay much heed to my new quarters; but presently that everlasting ribbon jerked my neck roughly, and called out in a loud whisper,—

"I say, watch, he's an Irishman!"

"Oh!" said I, as briefly as I could.

"Yes, and there's a lucifer here tells me he's no better than he ought to be. What do you think of that?"

"I think you and he ought to understand one another, if that's the case," growled I, unable to resist the temptation of a sarcastic reply.

"Ho, ho! that's pretty good for you, watch. However, there are some folk who are not as good as they ought to be, let alone better."

After a brief pause he began once more.

"He's young; only eighteen, I'm told."

As no answer was necessary here, I vouchsafed none.

"And he's trying to get a job on some ship, there's a nice look-out! What a poor figure you'd cut if you went to sea!"

I could not stand this, probably because I knew it was true; so I turned my back, and in self-defence bade good evening to an old pocket-comb which lay near me.

"Whew! good evening! whew!" replied he. He had a curious way, this comb, of giving a sort of half-whistle, half-sigh, between every few words he spoke.

"I suppose you are an older resident here than I am?" I suggested, by way of making myself agreeable.

"No, I'm not, whew! I belong to the other pocket, whew! I don't know why I'm here, whew! but make yourself at home, whew!"

"I hear your master is going to sea," said I.

"Not at all, whew! Who told you that? whew! but I tell you what, whew—"

"What?" I inquired.

At this moment our master stopped still in the middle of the road. I looked out and saw that he was standing face to face with a fine soldierly-looking fellow in uniform, who wore a cockade of ribbons on his shako.