Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Thirteen.The Play-Box and its Contents—A School Supper—Digby learns French, and Wishes that he did not—Digby rises in his schoolfellows’ estimation.Digby’s first half-holiday had been full of stirring events. As the evening drew on, his hunger reminded him of the contents of his play-box. He had not entirely lost his taste for jam and honey since the days when he had made free with Mrs Carter’s preserve pots; and it was with some anticipation of pleasure that he proposed to Paul Newland to examine his treasures.Paul was a thorough schoolboy, so he willingly agreed; but suggested that it would be wise to keep the jam till after tea, when they might have bread to eat with it. “I have two bottles, and we will pour our tea into them,” observed Newland. “Cold tea is very nice, you know; and we will stow away as much bread as we can in our pockets. I have some gingerbread and a bottle of ginger-beer remaining; and we shall have a good supply for a feast.”“But I dare say that I have plenty of things more, for I did not see what was put up; only I know that the housekeeper was told to fill my box as full as it could be,” answered Digby. “And do you know, I should like to ask some other fellows to join us. Farnham, certainly, and all those who came to my help when that bully attacked me; or, if you like, all who were playing with us just now. I can easily get some more pots of jam, if I want them, I dare say.”“Capital, capital!” exclaimed Paul. “But I don’t think it will do to have as many fellows as you propose. I’ll just ask those I think you would really like; but would it not be wiser to see what you have got first. I have known boxes broken open, and when the owners have gone to them, they have found only lumps of paper instead of cake, and empty jam and honey pots.”Digby’s heart sank somewhat on hearing this; and with no little trepidation and doubt he accompanied Paul to the play-room.It was a good-sized place, and had been originally used as a schoolroom; a passage led to it from one end of the present schoolroom. A fire was always lighted there on half-holidays in the winter, so that it was a very favourite resort in the evenings, especially in bad weather. It was not the thing to read there, nor were running games allowed. An exception was made in favour of high-cock-o’-lorum and leap-frog, which might be played at the end furthest from the fireplace. There were tables, and benches, and a few strong wooden chairs and stools; and shelves all round on which the boys might keep their boxes, and other treasures, boats, or little theatres, or museums, or anything they were making.Digby found his box standing by itself, on a spare shelf. The lock looked all right; he produced the key, and opened it—nothing had been touched.“All right, then,” exclaimed Paul. “We ought to get Farnham and two or three other fellows to stand by as guards, or we shall have Scarborough pouncing down on us like a hawk, or Spiller insinuating himself like an eel, and carrying off the spoil, as they will call it. I have seen those two fellows, before now, half clear out the box of a fellow who had just come from home before he has been able to give anything to his friends. There they both come; I thought so. Shut it again, and hide the key in your pocket.”“I say, though, don’t you think we might ask Bouverie to come to the feast?” exclaimed Digby, as Paul was running off. “Is he above that sort of thing?”Paul stopped, and considered.“He likes jam and cake, I dare say; but I don’t think he would take yours, lest it should be said he helped you for the sake of what you have got,” he answered. “I’ll ask him in your name, though; there can be no harm in doing that.”When Newland was gone, Digby sat down near his box. Scarborough stood at one end of the room, eyeing him, and considering whether or not it would be worth while to indulge himself in the satisfaction of attacking him, and compelling him to give up some of the contents of his box.Spiller, meantime, also, was playing with a ball, while he reflected how he might most easily obtain the object of his wishes, and get hold of the eatables he doubted not the new boy had brought. Still, as he felt sure that Newland must have warned Digby against him, he knew that he must exert the utmost circumspection and caution. Once more he glided up to Digby, and sat down near him, taking out his knife, and shaping a piece of soft pine into a boat.“You are not fond of this sort of thing?—it is too sedentary for you, I have no doubt,” he observed. “It suits me, as I am not fond of games. I shall be glad to make you a little vessel some day. Perhaps you have got some tools, now, in your box. I could do it much better with them than with a knife.”Digby very nearly laughed in Spiller’s face. As to tools, he had never even possessed a hammer; and besides, his eyes having been opened to his companion’s character, the object of his remarks were perfectly evident, and he had resolved not to be humbugged by him. However, he said, “Thank you;” for Digby never forgot to be polite even when he lost his temper, which was not often. “But, to tell you the truth, I do not care much about models and little things. I like sailing in a real vessel, or pulling in a real boat, or swimming, or riding; and, therefore, any such thing would be thrown away on me. Still, if you do anything for me when I ask you, I shall be very glad to repay you with a piece of cake, or some jam, or anything I may have which suits your fancy.”This was plain speaking; but Spiller was in no way offended. His wages had been settled, and now he had to consider how he might most conveniently win them. Still his mouth watered for the sweet things; and he wished that he could get paid beforehand.Digby felt inclined to go to his box, to cut a piece of cake, and to throw it to him, as people sometimes do a penny to an importunate beggar, whom, in their hearts, they believe to be an impostor; but he restrained himself.Just then, Paul Newland, Farnham, and three or four more boys, of whom, though they were younger than himself, Spiller had an especial dread, made their appearance at the door of the play-room. He knew that his chance of getting anything just then out of Digby was gone, so he sneaked away to a distance, where he sat down to watch their proceedings.“I have arranged everything,” said Newland. “I first gave your message to Bouverie. He is much obliged, but cannot join our party. Then I got Farnham and the other fellows to keep guard while you open your box: and Bouverie told me that if anybody interferes with you, one of us is to run and let him know, and that he will come to your assistance.”“He is a right capital fellow, then,” exclaimed Digby. “It is all the better that there should be a few bullies and blackguards, that the good qualities of others may be the better discovered.”Paul answered that he thought Digby’s philosophy was very good in theory; but that practically, he would rather dispense both with bullies and blackguards, as he was constantly a sufferer from them.At length, all arrangements being made, Digby’s box of treasures was opened, and found to contain even more good things than even he or any of his friends had anticipated. Everybody at Bloxholme who could think of what boys liked best, had made some suggestion which had been adopted, and the wonder was, that so much had been stowed away in so small a space. Every crevice had been filled with little and big pots of jam, and marmalade, and honey, a tongue, a Dutch cheese, chocolate-paste, anchovies, a pie without gravy, and a fine plum-cake were only some of the eatables,—then there was a hammer and nails, and gimlets, and screws, and a hasp-knife, and a writing-case, and a number of other useful things; enough, as Paul declared, to enable him to set up house by himself, if he wished.They had only time to put back about two-thirds of the things, which were all they could get into the box, the rest having to be distributed between Newland’s and Farnham’s boxes, before the bell rang for tea.One of the party, William Ranger, Digby heard him called, was easily persuaded to stay away from tea, to watch that no burglary was attempted during their absence.Tea was quickly over; the bottles were filled, and the bread-and-butter stowed away in their pockets, and then, more hungry than ever, they hurried back to the play-room.Ranger told them that he had placed himself on a bench, pretending to be fast asleep, and that scarcely had they gone, than Spiller glided into the room, and went up to the well-filled box. He had begun to work away at the lock, when up he had jumped and sung out—“You had better not.”Without making any answer to this, Spiller had sneaked away again. In another minute, who should come in but the bully Scarborough, with a hammer in his hand. He walked straight up to the box, and finding that it was locked, was about to strike it with all his might, when Ranger, though trembling for the consequences to his bones, again cried—“You had better not.”The words acted like magic, even on the notorious bully, and he betook himself out of the room as fast as he could, having also, probably, lost his share of the provisions in the tea-room.The supper-party were now able to assemble in peace and tolerable quiet; and a very merry party they were. The supper service was not exactly uniform, for each person had brought his own plate; some were of wood, and others of earthenware, or iron, or tin, while cups differed as much as did knives, and forks, and spoons. The pie, and the tongue, and the cheese, and the cake, and the jams, were all pronounced excellent, and though all the party eat as much as they wanted, helped out with their own bread-and-butter, it was agreed that there was enough for two or three more feasts, helped out a little, perhaps, with some of the contents of the cake-man’s basket. The beverages were, however, of a nature almost too simple for dishes so highly flavoured; the strongest was ginger-beer, the others were lemonade, cold tea, milk-and-water, and water alone. It were well if none of them had ever indulged in anything stronger.It would be absurd to say that the way in which Digby dispersed the eatables in his box did not contribute to make him popular; at the same time, they would not have done so unless his own personal qualities had been calculated to win the regard of his schoolfellows. Ever cheerful, honest and upright, and bold and fearless, he quickly gained the kindly feeling of all the better boys in the school. With the others, he almost instinctively avoided associating. One of his greatest annoyances was Tommy Bray, who seemed never to lose an opportunity of trying to put him out of temper.Digby, as he had promised, wrote very frequently to Kate. He had not altogether a satisfactory account to give of the school; still, he was happy—very jolly, he described himself—and there were plenty of fellows he liked, more or less, and he was learning a number of new games, and he was getting on very fairly with his lessons. Kate wrote even oftener to him, and told him all she was doing. Among other things, she said that she was learning French, and it would be so nice to be able to talk with him, and that she had persuaded papa to let him learn if he wished it, and so that he must, and she had enclosed the necessary written permission.Digby had seldom differed with Kate in any of her propositions, so, in a fatal moment for his peace, he took up the order, and was at once placed in Monsieur Guillaume’s junior class.The French master was highly pleased, and complimented him much on the wisdom of his resolution. All went very well at first; he managed to get through the rudiments about as well as the ordinary run of boys, but his advance after this was very slow, as Newland used to tell him, it was all goose-step with him. Somehow or other he could not manage to twist his thoroughly English mouth, so as properly to pronounce the French words. In vain the master made him repeat them over and over again. He knew the meaning of a good number of phrases and words, but when he came to express himself, Monsieur Guillaume vowed that he could not understand a word he said.“That is because he speaks in one way, and I speak in another, I suppose,” observed Digby. “But I don’t see why my way is not the best; it is the English way, and I should be ashamed of myself if I did not consider everything English better than anything French.”There was a twinkle in Digby’s eyes as he said this which showed that he was not altogether very serious.“You remind me, Heathcote, of a story my father tells,” observed Newland. “An old shipmate of his, a Master in the Navy, was taken prisoner by the French early in the war, and had to remain at Verdun for several years. At last he was liberated, and was very soon again afloat. It was necessary, on the occasion of some expedition being dispatched, to send an officer who could speak French. The Captain knowing that the worthy Master had been many years in France, sent for him to take the command of it, explaining the reason why he had done so.“‘I speak French, do you say, sir?’ he exclaimed. ‘No, sir; I am thankful to say that I never learned a word more of their lingo than I could possibly help. I, a true-born, patriotic Englishman! I should have felt that I was disgracing myself if I had.’”“I am not so bad as that,” said Digby. “I should like to learn if I could; but I have no aptitude for languages, I suppose.”Monsieur Guillaume had, however, resolved that his boys should not only learn, but speak French; and all his pupils were ordered to speak French at certain hours, either in the playground or anywhere else, except when they were up saying their lessons. To compel the boys to talk, several marks were distributed to those who spoke best; and they were to give them to whatever boys they found speaking English. Those who had them at the end of the day had a task of several lines of French poetry to learn by heart, an occupation Digby especially hated. Still the decree had gone forth, and Digby was continually having an odious piece of wood, with “French Mark” burnt on it, slipped quietly into his hands. Nine times out of ten, Tommy Bray was the person to give it him. How Tommy so often became possessed of it seemed a mystery, for he spoke French with more ease than most of the rest, and was not likely to have been caught, thoughtlessly, talking English.Paul at length found that he would go up to a fellow he knew had got the mark, and address him in English, when, of course, it was given to him. He would then not try to pass it till the evening, when he would continually hover about Digby till he found him tripping. At last Digby, in desperation, would get hold of one of the marks early in the day, and keeping it in his pocket, give, as he said, free play to his native tongue. Of course, the system did not increase his affection for French, or for Monsieur Guillaume, or Tommy Bray, in particular; yet, after all, it was a less annoyance than many to which he and some of the best boys were subjected by the masters.Mr Sanford’s illness increased, till he was unable to appear at all in the schoolroom; and yet, as he still retained his post as head-master, points were supposed to be referred to him which never were so referred; and various grievances which sprung up remained, day after day, unredressed.Mr Yates became more pompous and dictatorial than ever, and not only took to caning, but assumed the power of flogging, which even Mr Sanford had long disused.Mr Tugman, too, bullied more than ever; he pulled and boxed the boys’ ears, and hit them over the shoulders and knuckles with a cane, which he always kept by his side.Monsieur Guillaume imitated his example; and Mr Moore, the second master, was the only one who continued to treat the boys in the quiet, gentlemanly way he had always done.One of the punishments Mr Yates had invented was to lock up a culprit in a dark room for several hours together, without food. This was especially hated; and some of the boys declared that they would sooner leave than submit to it. As it proved, it was calculated to produce very bad effects in the school. These punishments, and the unusual harshness of the masters, instead of introducing more order and regularity into the school, had a very different effect, and never had it been so disorganised and in so unsatisfactory a condition.This state of things had begun to grow up before Digby’s arrival. He, of course, did not, at first, discover it, and was not of a disposition to trouble himself much about the politics either of the school or of the nation at large. In a few months he found himself holding not only a good position in the school, but looked upon as a leader in many games, and in all expeditions and amusements.Spring was advancing, and, as the days were long, the boys were allowed, according to an established custom, to go out after dinner, on half-holidays, and to make excursions to a distance. They were obliged, however, to say where they were going, and to report themselves on their return, when they were expected to give an account of their proceedings. In the summer, when cricket had come in, the privilege was seldom taken advantage of, as most of the boys spent their time in the cricket-field. Several, however, even then, who did not care about cricket, would get away from it; some to fish, others, who had a fancy for the study of natural history, to collect insects and other creatures; and some, unhappily, and the number was increasing, to assemble in spots where they were not likely to be observed; then they brought from the nearest public-house pipes, and tobacco, and beer, and often spirits, and they would spend the whole afternoon smoking, and drinking, and talking, as they called it, like men. Often, miserable, ignorant fools, they talked on subjects which no gentleman, no Christian man, worthy of the name, would even touch on.Digby knew of these assemblings, and of the orgies which took place at them, but had resisted all the invitations he received to join them. Of course, he scarcely saw the evil in its true light, likely to result from them; health injured; habits of intemperance gained; the mind contaminated and debased with vicious ideas; and time, which ought to be spent either in health and strength-gaining exercise, or in study and preparation for the real business of life, squandered.Bouverie, whose good opinion Digby had gained, spoke to him on the subject.“I tall you this, Heathcote,” he said, “when I was a little chap, I knew of a good number of big fellows who carried on much as these are doing. They thought themselves very fine fellows, and so did I. Had I not had a friend, who warned me to keep free from them, I might have done the same. There were about a dozen of them; the youngest was only two or three years older than I was. They all grew up; some went into the navy, others the army, and others abroad, in different capacities. Out of the whole number, four only are now alive; and of those four, one was dismissed from the navy, and another from the army, for drunkenness, and conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman; a third is a confirmed invalid, with a broken constitution; and one only, whom I meet occasionally, has given up his bad practices; and he never fails to say, that he hopes I do not imitate the bad example he set me, as I may be sure that the momentary satisfaction, I may fancy I should obtain, would make but a poor amends for all the suffering and wretchedness of mind and body I should be sure to reap in the end, and which he had gone through. It never occurred to me that a little smoking and drinking, and merely loose conversation, could do a fellow much harm. One might, I thought, easily give up the first, and, of course, with grave people and with ladies, one wouldn’t talk loosely. But from what my friend told me, and from what I found out myself, I now know the consequences are sure to be bad. With regard to drinking, I tell you how it is. Beer, spirits, and wine are stimulants, and excite the lining of the stomach into which they are poured. Nothing so quickly acquires a bad habit as the stomach, because it has not got reason to guide it, and is, besides, full of sensitive organs. When once it is stimulated—that is, excited—it wants to be excited again; and so one says, I must give it a little more drink. If it has been excited by brandy, or rum, or gin, it generally longs for the same thing. It acts on the mind, remember, much more powerfully than the mind acts on it. If it gave pain at once, people would not drink; but it excites in a pleasant way, and the excitement goes on increasing till the brain is confused, and a person does not know what he is about. When the excitement goes off, while the nerves are returning to nearly their former state, then comes the pain. These nerves, understand, run all the way from the coats of the stomach up into the brain. They do not return quite to their former state, at all events, for a long time, and so have a longing for more excitement; and thus if a person can get spirits, or wine, or beer, he pours some down his throat to gratify them. The more these sensitive nerves are excited, the more stimulating liquid they desire; and thus, acting through the brain, the more they make their owner wish for. So he goes on increasing the frequency of the times in which he gratifies them, and the quantity of liquor he pours down, because that which at first gratified them will do so no longer. This goes on till a man becomes what is called a confirmed drunkard. The younger a person is, the more sensitive are all his organs, and therefore the more likely he is to establish an irritable state of stomach, if he stimulates it in any way. Now, these fellows don’t actually get drunk, but their stomachs will not long be content with the quantity of liquor they pour into them; and so they will go on increasing till they not only get drunk, but become miserable drunkards, on whom no one will depend, and who will very soon sink into early graves, loathed and despised by those who once cared most for them. There, Heathcote, I have told you something I know about the subject, not in a very learned way, but it is the truth. I might tell you a great deal more. Smoking, I own, is not nearly so bad; but common tobacco irritates the lining or coats of the stomach, and makes it wish for drink; and so I object to it. And I’ll tell you what, also, bad conversation, such as those fellows indulge in, irritates and excites the mind, and so acting on the body, excites all the lower and grosser passions, and keeps out pure and ennobling thoughts. You must understand, Digby, that the mind cannot stand still. I am afraid that it has a tendency to becoming debased; and it requires all a person’s resolution, energy, ay, and prayers too, my boy, to soar upwards to the condition it is capable of enjoying. The only safe course is to keep out all bad thoughts, or even light thoughts, and to resist every bad propensity from the very first, and to keep away from all temptations, from all examples, from everything, indeed, which may encourage them. I can tell you that so pernicious, so terrible are the results of the habits in which those fellows indulge, that I would far rather see my younger brother in his grave than know that he had become their companion, and was running the risk of being contaminated by them. There, Heathcote, I will not talk any more about the matter now. Perhaps I have said even more now than you can understand. Trust me, however, that it is the advice I would give my youngest brother, or any boy in whom I might feel a deep interest.”These remarks, whether entirely understood or not at the time, did make a deep impression on Digby’s mind; and he thanked Bouverie for speaking so unreservedly to him. “But how did the other fellows, of whom you were speaking, die?” asked Digby. “Perhaps they had reformed, or would have reformed, had they lived.”“What they might have done no mortal can venture to say,” answered Bouverie, gravely. “They had not reformed, but, on the contrary, had become worse and worse, and one and all of them died miserably. The deaths of some were laid to the climates to which they went; but had their constitutions not been completely weakened, they might easily have withstood the attacks of the climate. Two died from excessive drinking, another was killed in a drunken brawl, and a fourth broke his neck when unconscious of what he was about, while two more died miserably, horribly. I need not tell you now; but they had their own vicious propensities alone to blame.”“I believe all you have told me, and how I wish that you would speak to others in the way you have done to me,” exclaimed Digby. “What shall we do when you go, Bouverie?” As he spoke, the tears came into his eyes.“Remember what I have said to you; and let the right-thinking boys keep as much as possible to themselves,” answered Bouverie (he was going at the end of the half). “I will let you know where I am, and you must write to me and let me know how things go on, and I will write to you, and give you my advice. I shall depend a good deal upon you, remember. Already many fellows look to you as a leader; you must do your best to keep that position, not only by your daring and activity, but by your moral conduct, by your steadiness and general good behaviour. As a proof of it, Farnham and others have been arranging a game of ‘Follow-my-leader’ for to-morrow, across the country somewhere; and, after discussing a number of fellows to act as leader, some much older than you are, they unanimously fixed on you.”Digby could not be but pleased at this, especially from the importance Bouverie attached to the circumstance. That very evening, Farnham, Newland, Ranger, and several other fellows came up to him.“Heathcote, the weather is still cool, and we have all been talking of a grand Follow-my-leader run;” began Newland.“Sibley, who was one of our best leaders, is lame, and can’t run, and Cooper won’t, and the fellows say that Hume, and Freeland, and Rolls, and Elmore don’t give sport enough, and funk to go over difficult places, and can’t jump half the brooks about us, and so it was agreed that the chances are you would make a better leader than any of them.”“That’s not exactly it, Newland,” interposed Farnham; “you know that when some one asked you to lead, you said, that from the way Heathcote had followed the last time we had a run, and from the capital manner in which he plays all the games he learns, that you were certain that he would prove about the best and most plucky leader we have had in our time. Then, Heathcote, say you will accept the office, and settle the matter.”“I can’t make a speech, but I will undertake to do my best; and all I ask is, that if I tumble into a ditch and can’t get out by myself, somebody will help me,” answered Digby. “How many will join, do you think?”“Twenty, at least,” said Farnham. “Good sport is expected; because they all say a plucky fellow like you is certain to lead into new and difficult places.”“As I said before, I’ll do my best, and just think over to-night the line of country I will take,” said Digby. “I know it pretty well by this time, but I will consult you two fellows about it when I have formed a plan, and see if you approve of it.”So it was settled.“We’ll just take care, though,” he added, “lest that little sneak, Tommy Bray, does not manage to slip his vile French mark into my hand the last thing. The only safe plan will be to hold my tongue altogether; then he can’t say I am talking English or bad French.”The rest undertook to keep a watch over Tommy, and to draw him away should he be found near Digby.The precaution was not useless, for he was very soon afterwards seen hovering about, his little sharp eyes twinkling with malice, as if he had made sure of his victim. The rest, however, sung out “Johnny Jackass, Johnny Jackass,”—a name which had lately been bestowed on him, while others “he-hawed—he-hawed” in concert, and in a way which prevented him from fixing on any of the party with whom, from their being in the French class, he could leave the mark. Besides, had he given it to one of them, he would have been prevented handing it to Digby, which it was his object to do. First one addressed him—not in very good French, certainly,—then another; and the others pretended to be talking English a little way off; but by the time he got up to them they were either making dumb show, or chattering away in what was considered French. Then he would suddenly turn back to Digby, but would find him poring over a book, and as dumb as an adder. Thus the evening slipped away; and after the bell rang for prayers, the mark could not be passed. It was known that Bray did not really get any imposition for having the mark, and thus all escaped.Digby, very naturally, could scarcely sleep at first going to bed for thinking of what he would do the next day. He resolved, at all events, that he would show he was worthy of the honour done him. Each boy was furnished with a strong ash leaping-pole, about ten feet long, and this added very much to the excitement and interest of the sport, because by their means wide and deep streams could easily be crossed, walls scaled, and difficult hedges got through. At last Digby recollected having taken a walk over a wildish part of the country, three or four weeks before this; and on thinking over the impediments to a direct course across it, he resolved that that should be the line he would follow. This done, he fell asleep.

Digby’s first half-holiday had been full of stirring events. As the evening drew on, his hunger reminded him of the contents of his play-box. He had not entirely lost his taste for jam and honey since the days when he had made free with Mrs Carter’s preserve pots; and it was with some anticipation of pleasure that he proposed to Paul Newland to examine his treasures.

Paul was a thorough schoolboy, so he willingly agreed; but suggested that it would be wise to keep the jam till after tea, when they might have bread to eat with it. “I have two bottles, and we will pour our tea into them,” observed Newland. “Cold tea is very nice, you know; and we will stow away as much bread as we can in our pockets. I have some gingerbread and a bottle of ginger-beer remaining; and we shall have a good supply for a feast.”

“But I dare say that I have plenty of things more, for I did not see what was put up; only I know that the housekeeper was told to fill my box as full as it could be,” answered Digby. “And do you know, I should like to ask some other fellows to join us. Farnham, certainly, and all those who came to my help when that bully attacked me; or, if you like, all who were playing with us just now. I can easily get some more pots of jam, if I want them, I dare say.”

“Capital, capital!” exclaimed Paul. “But I don’t think it will do to have as many fellows as you propose. I’ll just ask those I think you would really like; but would it not be wiser to see what you have got first. I have known boxes broken open, and when the owners have gone to them, they have found only lumps of paper instead of cake, and empty jam and honey pots.”

Digby’s heart sank somewhat on hearing this; and with no little trepidation and doubt he accompanied Paul to the play-room.

It was a good-sized place, and had been originally used as a schoolroom; a passage led to it from one end of the present schoolroom. A fire was always lighted there on half-holidays in the winter, so that it was a very favourite resort in the evenings, especially in bad weather. It was not the thing to read there, nor were running games allowed. An exception was made in favour of high-cock-o’-lorum and leap-frog, which might be played at the end furthest from the fireplace. There were tables, and benches, and a few strong wooden chairs and stools; and shelves all round on which the boys might keep their boxes, and other treasures, boats, or little theatres, or museums, or anything they were making.

Digby found his box standing by itself, on a spare shelf. The lock looked all right; he produced the key, and opened it—nothing had been touched.

“All right, then,” exclaimed Paul. “We ought to get Farnham and two or three other fellows to stand by as guards, or we shall have Scarborough pouncing down on us like a hawk, or Spiller insinuating himself like an eel, and carrying off the spoil, as they will call it. I have seen those two fellows, before now, half clear out the box of a fellow who had just come from home before he has been able to give anything to his friends. There they both come; I thought so. Shut it again, and hide the key in your pocket.”

“I say, though, don’t you think we might ask Bouverie to come to the feast?” exclaimed Digby, as Paul was running off. “Is he above that sort of thing?”

Paul stopped, and considered.

“He likes jam and cake, I dare say; but I don’t think he would take yours, lest it should be said he helped you for the sake of what you have got,” he answered. “I’ll ask him in your name, though; there can be no harm in doing that.”

When Newland was gone, Digby sat down near his box. Scarborough stood at one end of the room, eyeing him, and considering whether or not it would be worth while to indulge himself in the satisfaction of attacking him, and compelling him to give up some of the contents of his box.

Spiller, meantime, also, was playing with a ball, while he reflected how he might most easily obtain the object of his wishes, and get hold of the eatables he doubted not the new boy had brought. Still, as he felt sure that Newland must have warned Digby against him, he knew that he must exert the utmost circumspection and caution. Once more he glided up to Digby, and sat down near him, taking out his knife, and shaping a piece of soft pine into a boat.

“You are not fond of this sort of thing?—it is too sedentary for you, I have no doubt,” he observed. “It suits me, as I am not fond of games. I shall be glad to make you a little vessel some day. Perhaps you have got some tools, now, in your box. I could do it much better with them than with a knife.”

Digby very nearly laughed in Spiller’s face. As to tools, he had never even possessed a hammer; and besides, his eyes having been opened to his companion’s character, the object of his remarks were perfectly evident, and he had resolved not to be humbugged by him. However, he said, “Thank you;” for Digby never forgot to be polite even when he lost his temper, which was not often. “But, to tell you the truth, I do not care much about models and little things. I like sailing in a real vessel, or pulling in a real boat, or swimming, or riding; and, therefore, any such thing would be thrown away on me. Still, if you do anything for me when I ask you, I shall be very glad to repay you with a piece of cake, or some jam, or anything I may have which suits your fancy.”

This was plain speaking; but Spiller was in no way offended. His wages had been settled, and now he had to consider how he might most conveniently win them. Still his mouth watered for the sweet things; and he wished that he could get paid beforehand.

Digby felt inclined to go to his box, to cut a piece of cake, and to throw it to him, as people sometimes do a penny to an importunate beggar, whom, in their hearts, they believe to be an impostor; but he restrained himself.

Just then, Paul Newland, Farnham, and three or four more boys, of whom, though they were younger than himself, Spiller had an especial dread, made their appearance at the door of the play-room. He knew that his chance of getting anything just then out of Digby was gone, so he sneaked away to a distance, where he sat down to watch their proceedings.

“I have arranged everything,” said Newland. “I first gave your message to Bouverie. He is much obliged, but cannot join our party. Then I got Farnham and the other fellows to keep guard while you open your box: and Bouverie told me that if anybody interferes with you, one of us is to run and let him know, and that he will come to your assistance.”

“He is a right capital fellow, then,” exclaimed Digby. “It is all the better that there should be a few bullies and blackguards, that the good qualities of others may be the better discovered.”

Paul answered that he thought Digby’s philosophy was very good in theory; but that practically, he would rather dispense both with bullies and blackguards, as he was constantly a sufferer from them.

At length, all arrangements being made, Digby’s box of treasures was opened, and found to contain even more good things than even he or any of his friends had anticipated. Everybody at Bloxholme who could think of what boys liked best, had made some suggestion which had been adopted, and the wonder was, that so much had been stowed away in so small a space. Every crevice had been filled with little and big pots of jam, and marmalade, and honey, a tongue, a Dutch cheese, chocolate-paste, anchovies, a pie without gravy, and a fine plum-cake were only some of the eatables,—then there was a hammer and nails, and gimlets, and screws, and a hasp-knife, and a writing-case, and a number of other useful things; enough, as Paul declared, to enable him to set up house by himself, if he wished.

They had only time to put back about two-thirds of the things, which were all they could get into the box, the rest having to be distributed between Newland’s and Farnham’s boxes, before the bell rang for tea.

One of the party, William Ranger, Digby heard him called, was easily persuaded to stay away from tea, to watch that no burglary was attempted during their absence.

Tea was quickly over; the bottles were filled, and the bread-and-butter stowed away in their pockets, and then, more hungry than ever, they hurried back to the play-room.

Ranger told them that he had placed himself on a bench, pretending to be fast asleep, and that scarcely had they gone, than Spiller glided into the room, and went up to the well-filled box. He had begun to work away at the lock, when up he had jumped and sung out—

“You had better not.”

Without making any answer to this, Spiller had sneaked away again. In another minute, who should come in but the bully Scarborough, with a hammer in his hand. He walked straight up to the box, and finding that it was locked, was about to strike it with all his might, when Ranger, though trembling for the consequences to his bones, again cried—

“You had better not.”

The words acted like magic, even on the notorious bully, and he betook himself out of the room as fast as he could, having also, probably, lost his share of the provisions in the tea-room.

The supper-party were now able to assemble in peace and tolerable quiet; and a very merry party they were. The supper service was not exactly uniform, for each person had brought his own plate; some were of wood, and others of earthenware, or iron, or tin, while cups differed as much as did knives, and forks, and spoons. The pie, and the tongue, and the cheese, and the cake, and the jams, were all pronounced excellent, and though all the party eat as much as they wanted, helped out with their own bread-and-butter, it was agreed that there was enough for two or three more feasts, helped out a little, perhaps, with some of the contents of the cake-man’s basket. The beverages were, however, of a nature almost too simple for dishes so highly flavoured; the strongest was ginger-beer, the others were lemonade, cold tea, milk-and-water, and water alone. It were well if none of them had ever indulged in anything stronger.

It would be absurd to say that the way in which Digby dispersed the eatables in his box did not contribute to make him popular; at the same time, they would not have done so unless his own personal qualities had been calculated to win the regard of his schoolfellows. Ever cheerful, honest and upright, and bold and fearless, he quickly gained the kindly feeling of all the better boys in the school. With the others, he almost instinctively avoided associating. One of his greatest annoyances was Tommy Bray, who seemed never to lose an opportunity of trying to put him out of temper.

Digby, as he had promised, wrote very frequently to Kate. He had not altogether a satisfactory account to give of the school; still, he was happy—very jolly, he described himself—and there were plenty of fellows he liked, more or less, and he was learning a number of new games, and he was getting on very fairly with his lessons. Kate wrote even oftener to him, and told him all she was doing. Among other things, she said that she was learning French, and it would be so nice to be able to talk with him, and that she had persuaded papa to let him learn if he wished it, and so that he must, and she had enclosed the necessary written permission.

Digby had seldom differed with Kate in any of her propositions, so, in a fatal moment for his peace, he took up the order, and was at once placed in Monsieur Guillaume’s junior class.

The French master was highly pleased, and complimented him much on the wisdom of his resolution. All went very well at first; he managed to get through the rudiments about as well as the ordinary run of boys, but his advance after this was very slow, as Newland used to tell him, it was all goose-step with him. Somehow or other he could not manage to twist his thoroughly English mouth, so as properly to pronounce the French words. In vain the master made him repeat them over and over again. He knew the meaning of a good number of phrases and words, but when he came to express himself, Monsieur Guillaume vowed that he could not understand a word he said.

“That is because he speaks in one way, and I speak in another, I suppose,” observed Digby. “But I don’t see why my way is not the best; it is the English way, and I should be ashamed of myself if I did not consider everything English better than anything French.”

There was a twinkle in Digby’s eyes as he said this which showed that he was not altogether very serious.

“You remind me, Heathcote, of a story my father tells,” observed Newland. “An old shipmate of his, a Master in the Navy, was taken prisoner by the French early in the war, and had to remain at Verdun for several years. At last he was liberated, and was very soon again afloat. It was necessary, on the occasion of some expedition being dispatched, to send an officer who could speak French. The Captain knowing that the worthy Master had been many years in France, sent for him to take the command of it, explaining the reason why he had done so.

“‘I speak French, do you say, sir?’ he exclaimed. ‘No, sir; I am thankful to say that I never learned a word more of their lingo than I could possibly help. I, a true-born, patriotic Englishman! I should have felt that I was disgracing myself if I had.’”

“I am not so bad as that,” said Digby. “I should like to learn if I could; but I have no aptitude for languages, I suppose.”

Monsieur Guillaume had, however, resolved that his boys should not only learn, but speak French; and all his pupils were ordered to speak French at certain hours, either in the playground or anywhere else, except when they were up saying their lessons. To compel the boys to talk, several marks were distributed to those who spoke best; and they were to give them to whatever boys they found speaking English. Those who had them at the end of the day had a task of several lines of French poetry to learn by heart, an occupation Digby especially hated. Still the decree had gone forth, and Digby was continually having an odious piece of wood, with “French Mark” burnt on it, slipped quietly into his hands. Nine times out of ten, Tommy Bray was the person to give it him. How Tommy so often became possessed of it seemed a mystery, for he spoke French with more ease than most of the rest, and was not likely to have been caught, thoughtlessly, talking English.

Paul at length found that he would go up to a fellow he knew had got the mark, and address him in English, when, of course, it was given to him. He would then not try to pass it till the evening, when he would continually hover about Digby till he found him tripping. At last Digby, in desperation, would get hold of one of the marks early in the day, and keeping it in his pocket, give, as he said, free play to his native tongue. Of course, the system did not increase his affection for French, or for Monsieur Guillaume, or Tommy Bray, in particular; yet, after all, it was a less annoyance than many to which he and some of the best boys were subjected by the masters.

Mr Sanford’s illness increased, till he was unable to appear at all in the schoolroom; and yet, as he still retained his post as head-master, points were supposed to be referred to him which never were so referred; and various grievances which sprung up remained, day after day, unredressed.

Mr Yates became more pompous and dictatorial than ever, and not only took to caning, but assumed the power of flogging, which even Mr Sanford had long disused.

Mr Tugman, too, bullied more than ever; he pulled and boxed the boys’ ears, and hit them over the shoulders and knuckles with a cane, which he always kept by his side.

Monsieur Guillaume imitated his example; and Mr Moore, the second master, was the only one who continued to treat the boys in the quiet, gentlemanly way he had always done.

One of the punishments Mr Yates had invented was to lock up a culprit in a dark room for several hours together, without food. This was especially hated; and some of the boys declared that they would sooner leave than submit to it. As it proved, it was calculated to produce very bad effects in the school. These punishments, and the unusual harshness of the masters, instead of introducing more order and regularity into the school, had a very different effect, and never had it been so disorganised and in so unsatisfactory a condition.

This state of things had begun to grow up before Digby’s arrival. He, of course, did not, at first, discover it, and was not of a disposition to trouble himself much about the politics either of the school or of the nation at large. In a few months he found himself holding not only a good position in the school, but looked upon as a leader in many games, and in all expeditions and amusements.

Spring was advancing, and, as the days were long, the boys were allowed, according to an established custom, to go out after dinner, on half-holidays, and to make excursions to a distance. They were obliged, however, to say where they were going, and to report themselves on their return, when they were expected to give an account of their proceedings. In the summer, when cricket had come in, the privilege was seldom taken advantage of, as most of the boys spent their time in the cricket-field. Several, however, even then, who did not care about cricket, would get away from it; some to fish, others, who had a fancy for the study of natural history, to collect insects and other creatures; and some, unhappily, and the number was increasing, to assemble in spots where they were not likely to be observed; then they brought from the nearest public-house pipes, and tobacco, and beer, and often spirits, and they would spend the whole afternoon smoking, and drinking, and talking, as they called it, like men. Often, miserable, ignorant fools, they talked on subjects which no gentleman, no Christian man, worthy of the name, would even touch on.

Digby knew of these assemblings, and of the orgies which took place at them, but had resisted all the invitations he received to join them. Of course, he scarcely saw the evil in its true light, likely to result from them; health injured; habits of intemperance gained; the mind contaminated and debased with vicious ideas; and time, which ought to be spent either in health and strength-gaining exercise, or in study and preparation for the real business of life, squandered.

Bouverie, whose good opinion Digby had gained, spoke to him on the subject.

“I tall you this, Heathcote,” he said, “when I was a little chap, I knew of a good number of big fellows who carried on much as these are doing. They thought themselves very fine fellows, and so did I. Had I not had a friend, who warned me to keep free from them, I might have done the same. There were about a dozen of them; the youngest was only two or three years older than I was. They all grew up; some went into the navy, others the army, and others abroad, in different capacities. Out of the whole number, four only are now alive; and of those four, one was dismissed from the navy, and another from the army, for drunkenness, and conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman; a third is a confirmed invalid, with a broken constitution; and one only, whom I meet occasionally, has given up his bad practices; and he never fails to say, that he hopes I do not imitate the bad example he set me, as I may be sure that the momentary satisfaction, I may fancy I should obtain, would make but a poor amends for all the suffering and wretchedness of mind and body I should be sure to reap in the end, and which he had gone through. It never occurred to me that a little smoking and drinking, and merely loose conversation, could do a fellow much harm. One might, I thought, easily give up the first, and, of course, with grave people and with ladies, one wouldn’t talk loosely. But from what my friend told me, and from what I found out myself, I now know the consequences are sure to be bad. With regard to drinking, I tell you how it is. Beer, spirits, and wine are stimulants, and excite the lining of the stomach into which they are poured. Nothing so quickly acquires a bad habit as the stomach, because it has not got reason to guide it, and is, besides, full of sensitive organs. When once it is stimulated—that is, excited—it wants to be excited again; and so one says, I must give it a little more drink. If it has been excited by brandy, or rum, or gin, it generally longs for the same thing. It acts on the mind, remember, much more powerfully than the mind acts on it. If it gave pain at once, people would not drink; but it excites in a pleasant way, and the excitement goes on increasing till the brain is confused, and a person does not know what he is about. When the excitement goes off, while the nerves are returning to nearly their former state, then comes the pain. These nerves, understand, run all the way from the coats of the stomach up into the brain. They do not return quite to their former state, at all events, for a long time, and so have a longing for more excitement; and thus if a person can get spirits, or wine, or beer, he pours some down his throat to gratify them. The more these sensitive nerves are excited, the more stimulating liquid they desire; and thus, acting through the brain, the more they make their owner wish for. So he goes on increasing the frequency of the times in which he gratifies them, and the quantity of liquor he pours down, because that which at first gratified them will do so no longer. This goes on till a man becomes what is called a confirmed drunkard. The younger a person is, the more sensitive are all his organs, and therefore the more likely he is to establish an irritable state of stomach, if he stimulates it in any way. Now, these fellows don’t actually get drunk, but their stomachs will not long be content with the quantity of liquor they pour into them; and so they will go on increasing till they not only get drunk, but become miserable drunkards, on whom no one will depend, and who will very soon sink into early graves, loathed and despised by those who once cared most for them. There, Heathcote, I have told you something I know about the subject, not in a very learned way, but it is the truth. I might tell you a great deal more. Smoking, I own, is not nearly so bad; but common tobacco irritates the lining or coats of the stomach, and makes it wish for drink; and so I object to it. And I’ll tell you what, also, bad conversation, such as those fellows indulge in, irritates and excites the mind, and so acting on the body, excites all the lower and grosser passions, and keeps out pure and ennobling thoughts. You must understand, Digby, that the mind cannot stand still. I am afraid that it has a tendency to becoming debased; and it requires all a person’s resolution, energy, ay, and prayers too, my boy, to soar upwards to the condition it is capable of enjoying. The only safe course is to keep out all bad thoughts, or even light thoughts, and to resist every bad propensity from the very first, and to keep away from all temptations, from all examples, from everything, indeed, which may encourage them. I can tell you that so pernicious, so terrible are the results of the habits in which those fellows indulge, that I would far rather see my younger brother in his grave than know that he had become their companion, and was running the risk of being contaminated by them. There, Heathcote, I will not talk any more about the matter now. Perhaps I have said even more now than you can understand. Trust me, however, that it is the advice I would give my youngest brother, or any boy in whom I might feel a deep interest.”

These remarks, whether entirely understood or not at the time, did make a deep impression on Digby’s mind; and he thanked Bouverie for speaking so unreservedly to him. “But how did the other fellows, of whom you were speaking, die?” asked Digby. “Perhaps they had reformed, or would have reformed, had they lived.”

“What they might have done no mortal can venture to say,” answered Bouverie, gravely. “They had not reformed, but, on the contrary, had become worse and worse, and one and all of them died miserably. The deaths of some were laid to the climates to which they went; but had their constitutions not been completely weakened, they might easily have withstood the attacks of the climate. Two died from excessive drinking, another was killed in a drunken brawl, and a fourth broke his neck when unconscious of what he was about, while two more died miserably, horribly. I need not tell you now; but they had their own vicious propensities alone to blame.”

“I believe all you have told me, and how I wish that you would speak to others in the way you have done to me,” exclaimed Digby. “What shall we do when you go, Bouverie?” As he spoke, the tears came into his eyes.

“Remember what I have said to you; and let the right-thinking boys keep as much as possible to themselves,” answered Bouverie (he was going at the end of the half). “I will let you know where I am, and you must write to me and let me know how things go on, and I will write to you, and give you my advice. I shall depend a good deal upon you, remember. Already many fellows look to you as a leader; you must do your best to keep that position, not only by your daring and activity, but by your moral conduct, by your steadiness and general good behaviour. As a proof of it, Farnham and others have been arranging a game of ‘Follow-my-leader’ for to-morrow, across the country somewhere; and, after discussing a number of fellows to act as leader, some much older than you are, they unanimously fixed on you.”

Digby could not be but pleased at this, especially from the importance Bouverie attached to the circumstance. That very evening, Farnham, Newland, Ranger, and several other fellows came up to him.

“Heathcote, the weather is still cool, and we have all been talking of a grand Follow-my-leader run;” began Newland.

“Sibley, who was one of our best leaders, is lame, and can’t run, and Cooper won’t, and the fellows say that Hume, and Freeland, and Rolls, and Elmore don’t give sport enough, and funk to go over difficult places, and can’t jump half the brooks about us, and so it was agreed that the chances are you would make a better leader than any of them.”

“That’s not exactly it, Newland,” interposed Farnham; “you know that when some one asked you to lead, you said, that from the way Heathcote had followed the last time we had a run, and from the capital manner in which he plays all the games he learns, that you were certain that he would prove about the best and most plucky leader we have had in our time. Then, Heathcote, say you will accept the office, and settle the matter.”

“I can’t make a speech, but I will undertake to do my best; and all I ask is, that if I tumble into a ditch and can’t get out by myself, somebody will help me,” answered Digby. “How many will join, do you think?”

“Twenty, at least,” said Farnham. “Good sport is expected; because they all say a plucky fellow like you is certain to lead into new and difficult places.”

“As I said before, I’ll do my best, and just think over to-night the line of country I will take,” said Digby. “I know it pretty well by this time, but I will consult you two fellows about it when I have formed a plan, and see if you approve of it.”

So it was settled.

“We’ll just take care, though,” he added, “lest that little sneak, Tommy Bray, does not manage to slip his vile French mark into my hand the last thing. The only safe plan will be to hold my tongue altogether; then he can’t say I am talking English or bad French.”

The rest undertook to keep a watch over Tommy, and to draw him away should he be found near Digby.

The precaution was not useless, for he was very soon afterwards seen hovering about, his little sharp eyes twinkling with malice, as if he had made sure of his victim. The rest, however, sung out “Johnny Jackass, Johnny Jackass,”—a name which had lately been bestowed on him, while others “he-hawed—he-hawed” in concert, and in a way which prevented him from fixing on any of the party with whom, from their being in the French class, he could leave the mark. Besides, had he given it to one of them, he would have been prevented handing it to Digby, which it was his object to do. First one addressed him—not in very good French, certainly,—then another; and the others pretended to be talking English a little way off; but by the time he got up to them they were either making dumb show, or chattering away in what was considered French. Then he would suddenly turn back to Digby, but would find him poring over a book, and as dumb as an adder. Thus the evening slipped away; and after the bell rang for prayers, the mark could not be passed. It was known that Bray did not really get any imposition for having the mark, and thus all escaped.

Digby, very naturally, could scarcely sleep at first going to bed for thinking of what he would do the next day. He resolved, at all events, that he would show he was worthy of the honour done him. Each boy was furnished with a strong ash leaping-pole, about ten feet long, and this added very much to the excitement and interest of the sport, because by their means wide and deep streams could easily be crossed, walls scaled, and difficult hedges got through. At last Digby recollected having taken a walk over a wildish part of the country, three or four weeks before this; and on thinking over the impediments to a direct course across it, he resolved that that should be the line he would follow. This done, he fell asleep.

Chapter Fourteen.A Grand Game of “Follow my Leader”—Digby Leader—Farmer Growler proves far better than he looks—Arrival of Julian Langley—a conspiracy hatched.The next morning broke with the promise of a very fine day, and as the sun rose, the weather improved. Digby was early on foot, and set to work at once on his lessons, that he might run no chance of being turned back, and having to keep in to do any task which might be set him, and which he fancied Monsieur Guillaume or Mr Tugman would be too happy to impose. Both tried hard to find him tripping, but entirely failed. School was over. Dinner was rapidly got through, and Digby and his followers hurried out to prepare for their adventures. They all had on their cricketing dresses of white flannel, with dark blue jackets over them—light blue ribbons were on their hats, and short streamers of the same colour at the upper end of their poles. Altogether they looked very neat and fit for work. As they were dressed in flannel, and all their clothes would wash, they did not dread the consequences of a tumble into a muddy ditch or a deep stream. Digby was distinguished as leader by having a red and white ribbon added to the blue streamer at the end of his pole. They all assembled in the playground ready for the start. Scarborough looked at them with an envious eye, and would have liked to have spoiled their sport—so would Spiller, for no one had asked him to join; but the appearance of Bouverie, who had come to see the start, prevented them from indulging in their bad feelings.“All ready,” shouted Digby. “Well, then, away we go.”A gate in the side wall of the playground led into some fields. Out of this they all filed, Digby leading and flourishing his pole above his head. From the moment his followers got outside the gate they were bound to do exactly as he did. Now he planted his pole in the ground and leaped as far as it would carry him—now he took a hop, skip, and a jump—now an eccentric turn on one side or the other—now he bolted through a hedge, and ran at full speed along a road till a practicable gap appeared in another hedge with a field on the right: into this he leaped, and made his way towards a high mound whence a fine view could be obtained of all the country round. A broad ditch intervened—that everybody knew. There was a plank bridge some way down, and it was a question whether he was going to make for it, but he had no such intention. He reached its sedgy margin, and planting his pole firmly in the centre, he sprang forward and cleared it with a couple of feet to spare on the other side. One after the other followed. Some, the bigger boys especially, leaped as far as he did. Paul Newland cleared it, and a very good leap he made for a boy of his size. One little fellow, however, John Nott, who always wanted to do things, but seldom found his nerves in a proper condition when it came to the point, planted his pole, began the leap, but trembled when half way over, and before his feet had touched the bank down he slipped, and into the soft mud he went. William Ranger, who had purposely brought up the rear that he might help any who got into scrapes, though he said that he did so to whip up stragglers, saw what had happened, and leaping across somewhat out of his turn, hauled up the mud-bespattered little fellow to the green turf.“There, roll yourself on the turf, Notty, and then, on your legs once more, follow the rest.” He exclaimed when he had performed this act of kindnesss, “Tally ho! tally ho!”Away all the party went once more, till they all stood on the high mound, flourishing their poles and enjoying the balmy coolness of the early spring air, scented with numberless flowers of summer. Snowdrops and daffodils had disappeared, but primroses, cowslips, and violets covered the grassy fields and meadows in rich profusion. Wood anemones were carpeting with their delicate and white pink blossoms the leaf-covered ground in every wood and sheltered copse; and the delicate blossoms of the stellaria were shining forth, amid herbage of every description on all the banks and hedges, like stars in the dark sky. The glossy blossoms of the celandine, too, in every damper spot enamelled the turf; and the bright yellow flowers of the large water ranunculus garnished the sides of the streams and rivulets which flowed below them. Sweetly, too, and cheerfully the birds sang on every bush and tree-top with many varied notes. The cuckoo sent forth his unmistakeable sounds, also, from many a neighbouring hedge, always calling loudly, and yet seeming to be so far off,—while high above their heads was heard the joyous note of the skylark, as he rose upwards into the blue sky, as if never intending to return again to earth. Varied, likewise, was the landscape. There were hills and downs in the distance—wide fields, sloping here and there, in which the corn was just springing up—rich green meadows, on which the cattle was enjoying the most luxurious of repasts. There were woods, too, and hazel copses on the hill-sides; and sparkling streams and ponds which looked as if they must be full of fish, and wide ditches full of tall sedges and flowering rushes, and many other water-plants, some few of which were already coming into bloom. Here and there might be seen small villages or hamlets, farmhouses, and neat cottages with rustic porches, over which the honeysuckle or clematis had been taught to climb; pretty little gardens—every inch of them cultivated—though the habitations only of the poorest labourers. The boys stood some time looking at it, and almost unconsciously drinking in its beauties. Digby had a feeling that he loved such a scene dearly—perhaps he scarcely knew why it was. He had no inclination for some minutes to dart down again into the valley to proceed on the course he had marked out. No one seemed to wish to hurry him either. He looked and looked—gazing round on every side.“Yes, this is England, dear old England,” he cried. “Old England for ever. Wherever we go, boys, never let us forget Old England, or what she is like.”“No; nor that we are Englishmen,” added Ranger.“Old England against the world in arms! Old England for ever!” shouted Digby.And that shout was repeated loudly, enthusiastically by all those true English boys, as they stood on that hill-top; and never were those words, thus spoken in season, forgotten, nor did the sound of that hearty shout ever die away altogether on the ears of those who repeated and heard it. Had there been thousands and thousands of other English boys within hearing, they, too, would have repeated it with equal good-will. Oh, may English boys never forget those lines of our immortal poet:—“Come the three corners of the world in arms,And we shall shock them: nought shall make us rueIf England to itself do rest but true.”King John.“After all, I am sure there is no place like the country, and no country like England,” cried Digby, waving his pole. “But away we go once more, boys, with just another jolly shout for the land we all love—Hurra! hurra! hurra!”All repeated the words, and down the hill dashed Digby, followed closely by his companions, and in another moment he was forcing his way up a steep bank, and through a hedge which few would have thought of attempting. He got through it, though, and the rest followed more easily. Probably the farmer who owned the field would rather they had taken a longer way round; but certainly it did not occur to any of them that they were doing any harm; hedges are so evidently made to be got through, somehow or other, by boys, if not by cows. On they went, along the edge of the field—for wheat was coming up in it, and Digby knew that they might do harm by trampling over that. There was, of course, a gate by which they might have got out of the field, but Digby scorned gates, and it was not in the direction he was taking. There was another bank, though, with a still thicker hedge on the top of it than that they had previously passed through. Up the bank dashed Digby; but, even with the aid of his pole, he could scarcely find footing; to get over the hedge seemed impossible. Strenuous were the efforts he made, though, and numerous the times he and his followers had to jump down the bank again. Foiled he was determined not to be. Casting his eyes on either side, they fell on a young beech tree, one of whose glossy branches hung, he fancied, within reach of the top of the bank. Along the bottom of the bank he ran; he climbed up it once more, but though he sprung as high as he could, he could not reach the branch; in an instant his pole was planted firmly against the branch; up it he swarmed, and sat perched in the tree. The pole was now hauled up, and the end placed on the opposite side of the hedge; down it he went, and found himself on the side of a wide piece of moorland, yellow with the bloom of the fern, or furze. The shouts of his followers showed him how much they appreciated the feat. A broad trench was still to be crossed, full of water.“Not very deep, though,” he thought to himself. “Never mind; here goes.”Down the bank he slid, and, feeling with his pole, attempted to cross; but the water would, he found, even then, be up to his mouth, and perhaps deeper still further on. The weather was not yet warm enough to make a swim pleasant; so he had to scramble along by the side of the bank. At last, he came to the end of the water, and then he managed to get up the perpendicular side of a gravel bank, and, hurrying on, reached a high gravel mound.Paul Newland had closely followed him; he made up by resolution and sagacity for what he wanted in strength.The two stood together watching the rest getting over. Some very nearly tumbled into the pool; and they had to shout to warn them of their danger. Farnham soon came up to the mound; but they did not begin to move till Ranger shouted out that all were safely over. Then Digby once more set off among the heather, and furze, and scattered pine-trees. The unevenness of the ground afforded an abundant variety in the run. Sometimes they came to deep gravel-pits, down which Digby plunged, skirting along the pools which filled their bottoms, and then climbing up their crumbling banks on the opposite side. The piece of common was soon passed; and then a copse-wood, filled with brakes and briars, had to be passed through. Dauntlessly, in spite of thorns and the numberless scratches they inflicted, Digby led the way. Shrieks and shouts of laughter burst from the boys as they rushed on, thrusting the boughs aside, and often letting them spring back in the face of those who followed. All was taken in good part; they were in too good spirits to lose their tempers. Once more they were in a cultivated field; it was in a sheltered position, and the wheat was much advanced.“Look out, Heathcote; old Growler’s farm is not far off, and I shouldn’t be surprised but what the field belongs to him,” shouted Farnham.Digby was keeping along the extreme border of the field, where no wheat was growing, so he knew that they could do no harm; and he had no intention of cutting across it. On he went, therefore, till he saw under the hedge a leafy arch over a drain, and he thought that he could pass through it.“The sooner we are out of old Growler’s property, perhaps, the better,” he shouted; “follow me.”As he spoke, trailing his pole, he darted through the hole. It was a somewhat difficult feat; and he did not exactly know where he should find himself when he was through. He popped up his head, and found a heavy hand clapped on his shoulder.“Hillo, young one; what have you been after?” said the man who had captured him, with a gruff voice. “Why, how many on you are there?” he added, as he watched one boy after the other emerge from the hole. “When will there be an end of you? You seems for all the world like young ferrets. Pretty mischief you’ve been doing, I doubt not, in my field of young corn. Oh, you think you’re going on, do you? Stop, stop, my young masters. I’m going to give you a sound good hiding, every one on you, or else you clubs together, and pays for the damage you have done my field.”“We have done no damage whatever,” answered Digby. “We went in at a gap, we kept along the edge on the grass, and we came out at this hole, as you have seen.”“I don’t believe thee, young ’un,” growled the farmer, angrily. “Don’t you tell me that you didn’t go straight across the young corn. I know what boys is made of, I should think.”“I say that I would not tell you a falsehood to save myself from a dozen such thrashings as you would venture to give me,” exclaimed Digby, looking up boldly in his face. “Strike away, if you like; but, remember, you do it at your peril. I have told you the truth.”The stout old farmer held him at arm’s-length, and gazed at him attentively.“I do believe if I ever seed an honest English face thee has got it, and I believes every word thee says,” exclaimed the farmer, in quite a different tone to that in which he had before spoken. “There, now, I only wanted to frighten thee all a bit; for I thought thee had been doing a careless thing, and been trampling down my corn; but I sees I was mistaken—so just come all on you to my farm, it’s just close at hand here, and there’s a glass of home-made beer and some bread and cheese, or a cup of sweet milk and some cake, I’ll warrant my missus has got, for each of you.”“We are playing follow-my-leader, Mr Growler; so if he goes we all must go, remember,” cried one of the boys.“That’s just what I wants, young ’un,” answered the farmer, good-naturedly. “So come along, master—you’ll not repent it.”So once more seizing Digby by the shoulder he hauled him off, without any vehement opposition, towards a comfortable looking farmhouse, a few fields away from where they then were. The farmer was better than his word, and bread and cheese and cake, and honey and preserves, and fresh milk and cider, and beer and gooseberry wine, all, as the farmer’s wife assured them, made by herself at home, were placed in abundance before them. They did justice to the provisions, but to their credit they drank very slightly of the fermented liquors. The farmer and his wife pressed them to partake of everything set before them. Really it was, as the good dame observed, a pleasant sight to see the twenty boys, all in health and spirits, their cheeks glowing with the exercise they had been taking, sitting round the large well-scrubbed oak table in the farmhouse kitchen, and the huge cheeses and equally large loaves of pure home-made bread, not sickly white, but with an honest brown tinge, showing that all the best part of the flour was there, and no admixture of alum or bone-dust. Then how the beer frothed, and smelt of honest malt and hops. The profusion of honest food was pleasant, and still pleasanter the hearty good-will with which it was given. The dame wanted to do some rashers of bacon and to poach them some eggs, but they all declined her kindness, assuring her that if they eat more they could never get through the work they had before them.“Remember, my boys, I shall be main glad to see any of you whenever you comes this way, and can give me a look in,” said Farmer Growler, as they rose to continue their run, and Digby was offering to shake hands with him.The farmer took his hand and wrung it heartily.“I wasn’t inclined to think over well of the youngsters of Grangewood there; but since I have seen you, I tell you frankly, I likes some on you very much. Good-bye, good-bye.”“We might have said the same of our new friend,” observed Digby, as they got beyond hearing. “After having known that honest, good-natured fellow, rough as his outside seemed, I shall be inclined to think better of some of the farmers I know, whom I’ve always fancied to be rather sulky, bearish fellows. We won’t forget to pay him a visit another day, and it will be pleasant if we can think of something to carry to him or his wife. But we must make up for lost time, and go ahead faster than before, or we shall not get back till dark.”Away they all went; their meal—for neither was it luncheon, dinner, nor tea—in no way impeded their progress. On they ran faster than ever; nothing stopped them. At last they came out near a village. Right through it they went, much to the astonishment of the inhabitants, who hurried out of their cottages, to see the young gentlemen running like mad down the street. A meadow was on one side. Over a paling and a widish ditch Digby jumped, and along the meadow he ran, knowing full well that a broadish stream was to be found at the bottom of it. By this time a number of spectators had collected.“It must be done,” thought Digby; “follow who can.”He planted his pole in the middle of the stream and cleared it with a bound—shouts from the villagers showing their admiration of the feat.Most of the rest went over in good style. Poor little Notty very nearly tumbled in, but generous Ranger went over first and stood by to catch him; and on they all went once more in line, and were soon out of sight of the village and its vociferous inhabitants, as Newland called them. Other streams were in their course. They came to some swampy ground, and Digby very nearly let them into a quagmire, where they would all have stuck, when he espied some stones to his left, and landed on a causeway which led across it. That stream-leaping was a fine exercise for the nerves and strength, and agility too, and required no little practice. A hill now appeared before them. They breasted it boldly, as some of them did years afterwards other hills when crowned with fierce enemies, showering down bullets and round-shot on their heads. The parish church, with a lofty and beautiful tower, stood there. It had been all along Digby’s aim to reach it. The view from the summit he knew was beautiful—no more extensive prospect was to be found in all the country round. The tower was undergoing repair, so the door was open. In went Digby, and up the steps he ran—round and round and round he went, as he ascended the well-worn circular stair—the voices of his followers sounding in various tones behind him. Near the top was a window—from it hung a stout rope, which his quick eye saw was well secured. He reached the top, where there was a platform large enough, for the tower was square, to contain all the party. Soon they all assembled there. If the view from the hill was sufficient to inspirit them, this was still more calculated to do so. It did, and such a cheer was raised as perhaps had not been heard from the old tower top for many a year. There is good hope for England when her boys can cheer right lustily and honestly, as did Digby Heathcote and his friends. For some time they stood there drinking in unconsciously the beauty of the scene, not troubling themselves with details however, and imbibing, too, greater love than ever for their native land. Suddenly Digby recollected that he ought to be moving.“On, on,” he shouted, and down the steps he dashed—not altogether, though. He stopped at the belfry and sprang to the window, from which hung the rope he had observed. Heaving down his pole, he grasped the rope, and, to the surprise and almost horror of his companions, he threw his legs over and down he glided; not very rapidly, though, but quietly, as if it was a matter of every-day occurrence, looking up and trying out, “Let those only follow who are certain they can do it. I forgive those who cannot.”Farnham, Ranger, Newland, and others looked over, and doubted whether or not they would follow. They had a regard for their necks—it would not be pleasant to break them, and yet Digby performed the feat so easily, and it would be a disgrace if no one attempted it. Ranger did not hesitate long—he only waited till Digby reached the ground in safety, to grasp the rope and to follow him down. The rest shouted when they saw him gliding down. He was, as he deserved to be, a general favourite. Soon he was seen standing alongside Digby. Farnham and then Newland came, and three more; but the remainder could not bring themselves to make the venture. Indeed, Digby and Ranger entreated them not to do so; for though they stood underneath to catch any who might fall, they all felt that the risk was great. Digby, more especially, had scarcely reached the ground than he regretted having tempted others to follow his example.“If any of them should be killed, or seriously hurt themselves, how dreadful it would be. I should never forgive myself,” he observed to Ranger.All were at length assembled at the foot of the tower; and Digby having flourished his pole, once more started off as leader of the party, on their return towards home. He had arranged a different route to that by which they had come, away to the right; a portion of it being over a high chalky ridge. They had a steep hill-side to climb, but well and actively they did it; and, at the top, they were rewarded by the fresh health-inspiring breeze they met in their faces. For a mile or more Digby kept the summit of the ridge—a smooth, green surface, which appeared to afford but little variety to the leader’s movements; but here Digby equally showed his talent for his office, never for a minute together was he in the same attitude. Now his pole was poised on high as an Indian dart, or javelin; now it was held as a lance; now he was flourishing it round his head; now he made a sudden leap forward with it; now he hopped; now he skipped; now he went round and round, spinning, but yet advancing. All these, and a variety of other eccentric movements were seen from the valley below, and created the greatest astonishment, and, in some instances, consternation, for the figures of the boys, seen against the evening sky, as they followed one after the other, in regular succession, appeared magnified to a considerable degree; and many wondered what extraordinary beings they could be. They were very much amused, some days afterwards, on hearing of the strange sights the people had seen on the ridge on that very evening, and how they passed by. The remainder of the leaps they took, the streams they crossed, and the duckings some of them got, need not further be described. They got back in time for tea, which on Saturdays, in summer, was always later than at other times.Digby got very much complimented for the way in which he had led.“It’s the best run we have ever had, old fellow,” exclaimed Ranger and others. “Yes, indeed it was; and the plucky way in which you got down from the top of Whitcombe Church tower was very fine. It’s not surprising some of us funked to follow. We must have another run like it next week, and we must get you to be leader again. Remember, you think over what course you will take, so as to give us plenty of sport.”Digby, naturally gratified at all these compliments, promised that he would prepare for another run on the following Saturday.The authorities, however, it appeared, had taken a different view of the sport to that which those had who had engaged in it. The descent from the top of Whitcombe tower was looked upon with unmitigated horror; and it was proposed to take steps for the prevention of any such dangerous adventures in future. Little, however, was poor Mr Sanford aware of how much worse proceedings were taking place much nearer home, and of the far greater dangers to which many of the boys were exposed during those long spring evenings, when they were allowed to wander forth beyond the supervision of their masters.The Monday after this noted run, Digby was passing through the hall, when the front-door bell rang, and Susan went to open it, just as she had done the day of his arrival. He likewise stopped at the end of the passage to see who was coming. A fly was at the door, and in front of it stood Rubbins, the fat butler at Milford Priory, who was at that moment helping out of it no less a person than Julian Langley.Julian was looking very sheepish and downcast, and very much inclined to cry; but the moment he saw Digby, who could not help coming forward, his countenance brightened up.“Ah, Digby, this is pleasant, to have a friend to meet one, and to tell one all about the school,” he exclaimed. “I did not know I was coming to your school. Now I don’t mind. What sort of a place is it? Many fast fellows, eh? Any fun to be had? Tell me all about it; come, quick. You look jolly enough, let me tell you. Why, you are nearly as big as I am.” So Julian ran on, much in his old style.Although Digby knew perfectly well what he had been, and how much mischief he had led him into, yet he could not help looking upon him as an old friend and companion, and as such he received him, feeling really very glad to see him. They had not much time to talk then, for Rubbins having got all his luggage and things out of the fly, and shaken hands with him in a somewhat familiar and patronising manner, delivered him over formally to Susan, to be carried before Mr Sanford.“Won’t you wish to see master, sir?” asked Susan, who did not understand exactly who Mr Rubbins was.“Oh, no; no, thank you,” answered that gentleman, with a slight sneer in the tone of his voice. “The young one knows well enough how to take care of himself, I guess.”Susan, from these words, at once understood who Mr Rubbins was, and formed a tolerably correct opinion of the character of the young gentleman, which she did not fail to express to Mrs Pike.Digby had to leave Julian, who was now taken before Mr Sanford; but he promised to wait for him at the end of the passage.Mr Sanford was not altogether satisfied with his new pupil. Julian spoke in an off-hand way of his former career, and the education he had received; and then forthwith mentioned his friendship with Digby Heathcote.“He will show me all about the school, sir, and put me up to its ways. All I want is to know them, and I dare say that I shall get on very well with the other fellows,” said Julian, with consummate assurance. “Digby and I, you see, sir, are like brothers almost—we have been so much together, and think so exactly alike.”Now Mr Sanford, from what he had heard of Digby, had formed a favourable opinion of him; and therefore, taking Julian at his word, he was bound to form the same of him. He knew enough, however, of the world to be aware that the very worst way of judging of persons is to take them at their own estimate; and so Julian did not find himself quite so highly esteemed as he might have wished. Mr Sanford, however, rang the bell, and desired that Master Heathcote might be sent to him.Digby very quickly made his appearance; and Mr Sanford was at once inclined to doubt Julian’s assertion that they were acquainted, till Digby explained that they had just before met.“Very well, Heathcote, introduce him to the other boys; and I hope I shall hear a good account of him from the masters,” said Mr Sanford. “But remember, by the by, that you do not run the risk of breaking your own neck, and that of your companions, by slipping down from the top of church towers. I must take measures to prevent such a proceeding in future; and have begged Mrs Pike and Mr Yates to see to it. Now go, and be good boys.”Away ran Digby and Julian. The boys were in the playground, so Digby at once took his old friend there to introduce him. He was resolved to give him the chance of a good start; so he took him up only to the best fellows, intending to warn him of the characters of the others. This ought to have been a very great advantage to Julian.Farnham, Ranger, Newland, received him, for Digby’s sake, very kindly and cordially; and even Bouverie showed that he wished to be civil to him, and did not address him in the bantering way in which big fellows are apt to speak to those younger than themselves.Julian, however, took it into his head that all this was owing to his own merits, and was not proportionably grateful to Digby. Although warned by Digby, from the first, of the characters of Spiller, Johnny Bray, Scarborough, and others, he at once showed that he had a hankering to become acquainted with them. Spiller, consequent, very soon got round him, and became the possessor of various articles in his box, as well as of some slices of his cake, and a pot or two of jam. Scarborough was not long in falling foul of him.Digby was about to rush to his rescue, and calling on Ranger and Farnham to assist; when what was his surprise to hear Julian say—“Please don’t hit me, Scarborough, and I will give you a pot of jam and some marmalade, and will send home for some more, if you want it.”“Well, hand out the grub, young one, and I will let you off this time,” answered the bully. “Remember, though, I won’t stand any nonsense. You’ve promised to get me what I want, and I intend to keep you up to your word.”Julian sneaked off to his play-box, to get the eatables; and Digby turned away with disgust.“The idea of buying off a thrashing from a big bully,” he exclaimed, stamping with his feet in very vexation. “It is a thoroughly un-English, cowardly proceeding. Besides, it will only make the bully attack him more readily when he wants anything out of him. As he looks upon him as my friend, he wants to revenge himself on him, as he dares not attack me again while Bouverie remains.”Boys at school very soon find their own level. Julian rapidly sunk to his. He would have had a better chance of retaining the friendship of Farnham, Ranger, and the good set, had he been sent to sleep in their room; but, unfortunately, there was no vacant bed there, and he, consequently, was put into a room with Spiller, and some of the worst fellows. All the advantage, therefore, which he gained in the day, from associating with Digby and his friends, was undone in the evening by the loose conversation of his bedroom companions.“I wanted to have had a jolly feast, such as you had, Digby, the fellows tell me, and which, it seems, gained you so many first-rate friends,” said Julian, one day soon after his arrival, in a melancholy tone. “But do you know, what with that brute, Scarborough, and that sneaky chap, Spiller, and a host of others, I haven’t got a single thing left. I don’t think you benefited much by me, either.”“Oh, never mind that; but I did not suppose my feasts gave me friends,” answered Digby. “Perhaps it might have been so; but then, when I think of it, Bouverie would accept nothing, and some of the best fellows took very little, and indeed, generally put in their own share of grub.”“Ah, still they knew that you were a fellow who was always likely to have plenty of good things,” argued Julian. “I must see about getting some more things from the Priory; it won’t do to be looking down in the world.”Poor, miserable Julian had evidently no notion of any other bond of union between people; it should not be called friendship, though he so called it, but interest, what one may get from the other. He was to be pitied certainly; but not for a moment exonerated. He had been miserably instructed at the first, there was no doubt about that; but then he had gone to Mr Nugent’s, where he had every opportunity of learning what was right. The truth, the right was set clearly before him, but he deliberately refused to accept it. The laws of God and man, his duties in life, were clearly explained to him; he had a good example set him; he was kept as much as possible out of temptation to do wrong; still, as has been seen, he contrived to do it. Now he came where he had evidently the choice between good companions and bad, and he deliberately chose the bad.So it will be with all those whose eyes may fall on these pages. If they abandon the straight and narrow, and perhaps difficult, path of right, and enter into the broad, and seemingly easy, course of evil, they do so with their eyes open, in spite of warnings, in spite of the whisperings of conscience, in spite of thousands of examples of the destructive results of the life they are pursuing; and they will in the end be unable to offer the slightest excuse for themselves; they will have to acknowledge they brought down all their misery and wretchedness on their own heads, that their punishment was just.The next Saturday came, and when lessons were over, Mr Yates ascended the head-master’s desk, and informed the school that leave to go out was stopped, in consequence of certain proceedings which had come to Mr Sanford’s knowledge; but more than that he did not consider it just then necessary to explain.This announcement, though received in silence, created the greatest vexation, and anger, and indignation among all the boys. Some thought the prohibition arose from one cause, some from another. Digby and his friends, who had played the game of Follow-my-leader on the previous Saturday, thought that it was owing to something they had done on that occasion. Some farmer, less good-natured than Mr Growler, might have complained about them; perhaps it was owing to their exploit in the church tower; others thought that it was owing to something which had occurred in the village; others, owing to a fight which had taken place between one of their boys and a country lad; and perhaps Scarborough, and Spiller, and their set might have suspected that their half-holiday practices were known, and that all the school was being punished on that account. One thing was clear, on comparing notes, that a very considerable number of misdemeanours were committed every Saturday; and that, altogether, they were not punished without cause. Those, however, as is usually the case, who were the most guilty, were the most furious.Scarborough declared loudly that he would pot stand it; that, in spite of all the masters, he for one would go out as usual; so said a number of other fellows of his stamp.Digby, and Farnham, and Newland did not like it; they thought themselves very unjustly treated; and of course that made them indignant. They talked of doing all sorts of things: they would scale the walls; they would take their usual expedition, with leave or without leave.“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” exclaimed Farnham, who was always rather vehement when he fancied himself unjustly treated, “I’ll write home, and beg to be taken away altogether, unless we have our proper liberty. After dinner, I’ll go straight up to Mr Sanford, and ask him why we are all kept in because some other fellows have done what is wrong; and then I’ll undertake to guarantee that if he will allow them to go out, they will all behave as he could wish in every way. If he still refuses, then I will frankly tell him that I will write home, and complain, and that others are determined to do the same.”Farnham’s proposal was very much applauded by nearly all the moderate party, a few only advocating a quiet run through the country for an hour or so, just to show that they would maintain their rights.The dinner-bell rang. They all went in; and no one ate a worse dinner in consequence of the perturbed state of their minds. They still, however, continued, in low voices, talking the matter over; and the masters and Mrs Pike saw that something was evidently wrong. The weather, however, summarily settled the matter for them. The sky had been for some time clouding over, and before they had left the dinner-table, the rain began to descend in torrents, so that it was impossible for any one of them to make any complaint of not being allowed to go out on that day. Harder and harder came down the rain, till it was evident that it was going to be a settled pouring afternoon. Although, in one respect, this was an advantage, as it enabled the better disposed to calm their spirits, and to think quietly over what they had proposed to do, yet it, at the same time, allowed the rest to brood over their fancied wrongs, and to concoct a variety of schemes of vengeance.Julian Langley was one of the most indignant, and most ready to join any of the plans of the extreme party. He had come to a school where he understood there was plenty of liberty and gentlemanly treatment, and he found, he said, neither one nor the other. He had read of some fellows at a large school getting up a grand rebellion, barring out the masters, and standing a siege of several days, till their terms were complied with. The idea was caught up by others. It was grand in the extreme, if not novel. Scarborough and some of the bigger fellows were delighted with it. Julian undertook to win over Heathcote and his set.“They must not be left out, certainly,” observed Scarborough. “They are plucky fellows, and would be powerful allies; but I suspect that you will have some difficulty in managing them.”“Let me alone for that,” answered Julian, with a self-satisfied tone. “I know how to touch up my old friend, Digby Heathcote, in the right place. He is well primed already, and only wants the spark to set him off.”There was certainly far less noise and disturbance that Saturday afternoon than there had been for a long time. On the Sunday, also, and the following days, the masters observed that the boys behaved even better than usual. An event which proved to be of considerable importance occurred on Monday. Bouverie, who had been counselling patience and submission, was suddenly summoned home to attend the sick bed of his father: he had time only to pack up and be off. He sent, however, for Farnham, and urged him not to do anything rashly, though he could not enlighten him as to the reason of the prohibition so much complained of. Strange to say, Digby was more pleased with Julian for two or three days than he had been since he came to the school—he was constantly with him, submitting to his opinion, and speaking so very sensibly on many matters.“I’ll tell you what it is, Digby,” said Julian at last, “if all the fellows will sink their quarrels and disputes and unite heart and hand, we shall carry the day and gain our rights. For my own part, I do not care much about the matter; I am not going to be here long, so I argue for the sake of others more than for myself. Just, therefore, come and hear what Knowles and that clever fellow, Blake, has got to say. Depend on it they will show you that they are in the right.”In a fatal moment Digby consented to join a conference of those who called themselves the leaders of the school, to decide what should be done in case they were still denied the liberty they demanded.

The next morning broke with the promise of a very fine day, and as the sun rose, the weather improved. Digby was early on foot, and set to work at once on his lessons, that he might run no chance of being turned back, and having to keep in to do any task which might be set him, and which he fancied Monsieur Guillaume or Mr Tugman would be too happy to impose. Both tried hard to find him tripping, but entirely failed. School was over. Dinner was rapidly got through, and Digby and his followers hurried out to prepare for their adventures. They all had on their cricketing dresses of white flannel, with dark blue jackets over them—light blue ribbons were on their hats, and short streamers of the same colour at the upper end of their poles. Altogether they looked very neat and fit for work. As they were dressed in flannel, and all their clothes would wash, they did not dread the consequences of a tumble into a muddy ditch or a deep stream. Digby was distinguished as leader by having a red and white ribbon added to the blue streamer at the end of his pole. They all assembled in the playground ready for the start. Scarborough looked at them with an envious eye, and would have liked to have spoiled their sport—so would Spiller, for no one had asked him to join; but the appearance of Bouverie, who had come to see the start, prevented them from indulging in their bad feelings.

“All ready,” shouted Digby. “Well, then, away we go.”

A gate in the side wall of the playground led into some fields. Out of this they all filed, Digby leading and flourishing his pole above his head. From the moment his followers got outside the gate they were bound to do exactly as he did. Now he planted his pole in the ground and leaped as far as it would carry him—now he took a hop, skip, and a jump—now an eccentric turn on one side or the other—now he bolted through a hedge, and ran at full speed along a road till a practicable gap appeared in another hedge with a field on the right: into this he leaped, and made his way towards a high mound whence a fine view could be obtained of all the country round. A broad ditch intervened—that everybody knew. There was a plank bridge some way down, and it was a question whether he was going to make for it, but he had no such intention. He reached its sedgy margin, and planting his pole firmly in the centre, he sprang forward and cleared it with a couple of feet to spare on the other side. One after the other followed. Some, the bigger boys especially, leaped as far as he did. Paul Newland cleared it, and a very good leap he made for a boy of his size. One little fellow, however, John Nott, who always wanted to do things, but seldom found his nerves in a proper condition when it came to the point, planted his pole, began the leap, but trembled when half way over, and before his feet had touched the bank down he slipped, and into the soft mud he went. William Ranger, who had purposely brought up the rear that he might help any who got into scrapes, though he said that he did so to whip up stragglers, saw what had happened, and leaping across somewhat out of his turn, hauled up the mud-bespattered little fellow to the green turf.

“There, roll yourself on the turf, Notty, and then, on your legs once more, follow the rest.” He exclaimed when he had performed this act of kindnesss, “Tally ho! tally ho!”

Away all the party went once more, till they all stood on the high mound, flourishing their poles and enjoying the balmy coolness of the early spring air, scented with numberless flowers of summer. Snowdrops and daffodils had disappeared, but primroses, cowslips, and violets covered the grassy fields and meadows in rich profusion. Wood anemones were carpeting with their delicate and white pink blossoms the leaf-covered ground in every wood and sheltered copse; and the delicate blossoms of the stellaria were shining forth, amid herbage of every description on all the banks and hedges, like stars in the dark sky. The glossy blossoms of the celandine, too, in every damper spot enamelled the turf; and the bright yellow flowers of the large water ranunculus garnished the sides of the streams and rivulets which flowed below them. Sweetly, too, and cheerfully the birds sang on every bush and tree-top with many varied notes. The cuckoo sent forth his unmistakeable sounds, also, from many a neighbouring hedge, always calling loudly, and yet seeming to be so far off,—while high above their heads was heard the joyous note of the skylark, as he rose upwards into the blue sky, as if never intending to return again to earth. Varied, likewise, was the landscape. There were hills and downs in the distance—wide fields, sloping here and there, in which the corn was just springing up—rich green meadows, on which the cattle was enjoying the most luxurious of repasts. There were woods, too, and hazel copses on the hill-sides; and sparkling streams and ponds which looked as if they must be full of fish, and wide ditches full of tall sedges and flowering rushes, and many other water-plants, some few of which were already coming into bloom. Here and there might be seen small villages or hamlets, farmhouses, and neat cottages with rustic porches, over which the honeysuckle or clematis had been taught to climb; pretty little gardens—every inch of them cultivated—though the habitations only of the poorest labourers. The boys stood some time looking at it, and almost unconsciously drinking in its beauties. Digby had a feeling that he loved such a scene dearly—perhaps he scarcely knew why it was. He had no inclination for some minutes to dart down again into the valley to proceed on the course he had marked out. No one seemed to wish to hurry him either. He looked and looked—gazing round on every side.

“Yes, this is England, dear old England,” he cried. “Old England for ever. Wherever we go, boys, never let us forget Old England, or what she is like.”

“No; nor that we are Englishmen,” added Ranger.

“Old England against the world in arms! Old England for ever!” shouted Digby.

And that shout was repeated loudly, enthusiastically by all those true English boys, as they stood on that hill-top; and never were those words, thus spoken in season, forgotten, nor did the sound of that hearty shout ever die away altogether on the ears of those who repeated and heard it. Had there been thousands and thousands of other English boys within hearing, they, too, would have repeated it with equal good-will. Oh, may English boys never forget those lines of our immortal poet:—

“Come the three corners of the world in arms,And we shall shock them: nought shall make us rueIf England to itself do rest but true.”King John.

“Come the three corners of the world in arms,And we shall shock them: nought shall make us rueIf England to itself do rest but true.”King John.

“After all, I am sure there is no place like the country, and no country like England,” cried Digby, waving his pole. “But away we go once more, boys, with just another jolly shout for the land we all love—Hurra! hurra! hurra!”

All repeated the words, and down the hill dashed Digby, followed closely by his companions, and in another moment he was forcing his way up a steep bank, and through a hedge which few would have thought of attempting. He got through it, though, and the rest followed more easily. Probably the farmer who owned the field would rather they had taken a longer way round; but certainly it did not occur to any of them that they were doing any harm; hedges are so evidently made to be got through, somehow or other, by boys, if not by cows. On they went, along the edge of the field—for wheat was coming up in it, and Digby knew that they might do harm by trampling over that. There was, of course, a gate by which they might have got out of the field, but Digby scorned gates, and it was not in the direction he was taking. There was another bank, though, with a still thicker hedge on the top of it than that they had previously passed through. Up the bank dashed Digby; but, even with the aid of his pole, he could scarcely find footing; to get over the hedge seemed impossible. Strenuous were the efforts he made, though, and numerous the times he and his followers had to jump down the bank again. Foiled he was determined not to be. Casting his eyes on either side, they fell on a young beech tree, one of whose glossy branches hung, he fancied, within reach of the top of the bank. Along the bottom of the bank he ran; he climbed up it once more, but though he sprung as high as he could, he could not reach the branch; in an instant his pole was planted firmly against the branch; up it he swarmed, and sat perched in the tree. The pole was now hauled up, and the end placed on the opposite side of the hedge; down it he went, and found himself on the side of a wide piece of moorland, yellow with the bloom of the fern, or furze. The shouts of his followers showed him how much they appreciated the feat. A broad trench was still to be crossed, full of water.

“Not very deep, though,” he thought to himself. “Never mind; here goes.”

Down the bank he slid, and, feeling with his pole, attempted to cross; but the water would, he found, even then, be up to his mouth, and perhaps deeper still further on. The weather was not yet warm enough to make a swim pleasant; so he had to scramble along by the side of the bank. At last, he came to the end of the water, and then he managed to get up the perpendicular side of a gravel bank, and, hurrying on, reached a high gravel mound.

Paul Newland had closely followed him; he made up by resolution and sagacity for what he wanted in strength.

The two stood together watching the rest getting over. Some very nearly tumbled into the pool; and they had to shout to warn them of their danger. Farnham soon came up to the mound; but they did not begin to move till Ranger shouted out that all were safely over. Then Digby once more set off among the heather, and furze, and scattered pine-trees. The unevenness of the ground afforded an abundant variety in the run. Sometimes they came to deep gravel-pits, down which Digby plunged, skirting along the pools which filled their bottoms, and then climbing up their crumbling banks on the opposite side. The piece of common was soon passed; and then a copse-wood, filled with brakes and briars, had to be passed through. Dauntlessly, in spite of thorns and the numberless scratches they inflicted, Digby led the way. Shrieks and shouts of laughter burst from the boys as they rushed on, thrusting the boughs aside, and often letting them spring back in the face of those who followed. All was taken in good part; they were in too good spirits to lose their tempers. Once more they were in a cultivated field; it was in a sheltered position, and the wheat was much advanced.

“Look out, Heathcote; old Growler’s farm is not far off, and I shouldn’t be surprised but what the field belongs to him,” shouted Farnham.

Digby was keeping along the extreme border of the field, where no wheat was growing, so he knew that they could do no harm; and he had no intention of cutting across it. On he went, therefore, till he saw under the hedge a leafy arch over a drain, and he thought that he could pass through it.

“The sooner we are out of old Growler’s property, perhaps, the better,” he shouted; “follow me.”

As he spoke, trailing his pole, he darted through the hole. It was a somewhat difficult feat; and he did not exactly know where he should find himself when he was through. He popped up his head, and found a heavy hand clapped on his shoulder.

“Hillo, young one; what have you been after?” said the man who had captured him, with a gruff voice. “Why, how many on you are there?” he added, as he watched one boy after the other emerge from the hole. “When will there be an end of you? You seems for all the world like young ferrets. Pretty mischief you’ve been doing, I doubt not, in my field of young corn. Oh, you think you’re going on, do you? Stop, stop, my young masters. I’m going to give you a sound good hiding, every one on you, or else you clubs together, and pays for the damage you have done my field.”

“We have done no damage whatever,” answered Digby. “We went in at a gap, we kept along the edge on the grass, and we came out at this hole, as you have seen.”

“I don’t believe thee, young ’un,” growled the farmer, angrily. “Don’t you tell me that you didn’t go straight across the young corn. I know what boys is made of, I should think.”

“I say that I would not tell you a falsehood to save myself from a dozen such thrashings as you would venture to give me,” exclaimed Digby, looking up boldly in his face. “Strike away, if you like; but, remember, you do it at your peril. I have told you the truth.”

The stout old farmer held him at arm’s-length, and gazed at him attentively.

“I do believe if I ever seed an honest English face thee has got it, and I believes every word thee says,” exclaimed the farmer, in quite a different tone to that in which he had before spoken. “There, now, I only wanted to frighten thee all a bit; for I thought thee had been doing a careless thing, and been trampling down my corn; but I sees I was mistaken—so just come all on you to my farm, it’s just close at hand here, and there’s a glass of home-made beer and some bread and cheese, or a cup of sweet milk and some cake, I’ll warrant my missus has got, for each of you.”

“We are playing follow-my-leader, Mr Growler; so if he goes we all must go, remember,” cried one of the boys.

“That’s just what I wants, young ’un,” answered the farmer, good-naturedly. “So come along, master—you’ll not repent it.”

So once more seizing Digby by the shoulder he hauled him off, without any vehement opposition, towards a comfortable looking farmhouse, a few fields away from where they then were. The farmer was better than his word, and bread and cheese and cake, and honey and preserves, and fresh milk and cider, and beer and gooseberry wine, all, as the farmer’s wife assured them, made by herself at home, were placed in abundance before them. They did justice to the provisions, but to their credit they drank very slightly of the fermented liquors. The farmer and his wife pressed them to partake of everything set before them. Really it was, as the good dame observed, a pleasant sight to see the twenty boys, all in health and spirits, their cheeks glowing with the exercise they had been taking, sitting round the large well-scrubbed oak table in the farmhouse kitchen, and the huge cheeses and equally large loaves of pure home-made bread, not sickly white, but with an honest brown tinge, showing that all the best part of the flour was there, and no admixture of alum or bone-dust. Then how the beer frothed, and smelt of honest malt and hops. The profusion of honest food was pleasant, and still pleasanter the hearty good-will with which it was given. The dame wanted to do some rashers of bacon and to poach them some eggs, but they all declined her kindness, assuring her that if they eat more they could never get through the work they had before them.

“Remember, my boys, I shall be main glad to see any of you whenever you comes this way, and can give me a look in,” said Farmer Growler, as they rose to continue their run, and Digby was offering to shake hands with him.

The farmer took his hand and wrung it heartily.

“I wasn’t inclined to think over well of the youngsters of Grangewood there; but since I have seen you, I tell you frankly, I likes some on you very much. Good-bye, good-bye.”

“We might have said the same of our new friend,” observed Digby, as they got beyond hearing. “After having known that honest, good-natured fellow, rough as his outside seemed, I shall be inclined to think better of some of the farmers I know, whom I’ve always fancied to be rather sulky, bearish fellows. We won’t forget to pay him a visit another day, and it will be pleasant if we can think of something to carry to him or his wife. But we must make up for lost time, and go ahead faster than before, or we shall not get back till dark.”

Away they all went; their meal—for neither was it luncheon, dinner, nor tea—in no way impeded their progress. On they ran faster than ever; nothing stopped them. At last they came out near a village. Right through it they went, much to the astonishment of the inhabitants, who hurried out of their cottages, to see the young gentlemen running like mad down the street. A meadow was on one side. Over a paling and a widish ditch Digby jumped, and along the meadow he ran, knowing full well that a broadish stream was to be found at the bottom of it. By this time a number of spectators had collected.

“It must be done,” thought Digby; “follow who can.”

He planted his pole in the middle of the stream and cleared it with a bound—shouts from the villagers showing their admiration of the feat.

Most of the rest went over in good style. Poor little Notty very nearly tumbled in, but generous Ranger went over first and stood by to catch him; and on they all went once more in line, and were soon out of sight of the village and its vociferous inhabitants, as Newland called them. Other streams were in their course. They came to some swampy ground, and Digby very nearly let them into a quagmire, where they would all have stuck, when he espied some stones to his left, and landed on a causeway which led across it. That stream-leaping was a fine exercise for the nerves and strength, and agility too, and required no little practice. A hill now appeared before them. They breasted it boldly, as some of them did years afterwards other hills when crowned with fierce enemies, showering down bullets and round-shot on their heads. The parish church, with a lofty and beautiful tower, stood there. It had been all along Digby’s aim to reach it. The view from the summit he knew was beautiful—no more extensive prospect was to be found in all the country round. The tower was undergoing repair, so the door was open. In went Digby, and up the steps he ran—round and round and round he went, as he ascended the well-worn circular stair—the voices of his followers sounding in various tones behind him. Near the top was a window—from it hung a stout rope, which his quick eye saw was well secured. He reached the top, where there was a platform large enough, for the tower was square, to contain all the party. Soon they all assembled there. If the view from the hill was sufficient to inspirit them, this was still more calculated to do so. It did, and such a cheer was raised as perhaps had not been heard from the old tower top for many a year. There is good hope for England when her boys can cheer right lustily and honestly, as did Digby Heathcote and his friends. For some time they stood there drinking in unconsciously the beauty of the scene, not troubling themselves with details however, and imbibing, too, greater love than ever for their native land. Suddenly Digby recollected that he ought to be moving.

“On, on,” he shouted, and down the steps he dashed—not altogether, though. He stopped at the belfry and sprang to the window, from which hung the rope he had observed. Heaving down his pole, he grasped the rope, and, to the surprise and almost horror of his companions, he threw his legs over and down he glided; not very rapidly, though, but quietly, as if it was a matter of every-day occurrence, looking up and trying out, “Let those only follow who are certain they can do it. I forgive those who cannot.”

Farnham, Ranger, Newland, and others looked over, and doubted whether or not they would follow. They had a regard for their necks—it would not be pleasant to break them, and yet Digby performed the feat so easily, and it would be a disgrace if no one attempted it. Ranger did not hesitate long—he only waited till Digby reached the ground in safety, to grasp the rope and to follow him down. The rest shouted when they saw him gliding down. He was, as he deserved to be, a general favourite. Soon he was seen standing alongside Digby. Farnham and then Newland came, and three more; but the remainder could not bring themselves to make the venture. Indeed, Digby and Ranger entreated them not to do so; for though they stood underneath to catch any who might fall, they all felt that the risk was great. Digby, more especially, had scarcely reached the ground than he regretted having tempted others to follow his example.

“If any of them should be killed, or seriously hurt themselves, how dreadful it would be. I should never forgive myself,” he observed to Ranger.

All were at length assembled at the foot of the tower; and Digby having flourished his pole, once more started off as leader of the party, on their return towards home. He had arranged a different route to that by which they had come, away to the right; a portion of it being over a high chalky ridge. They had a steep hill-side to climb, but well and actively they did it; and, at the top, they were rewarded by the fresh health-inspiring breeze they met in their faces. For a mile or more Digby kept the summit of the ridge—a smooth, green surface, which appeared to afford but little variety to the leader’s movements; but here Digby equally showed his talent for his office, never for a minute together was he in the same attitude. Now his pole was poised on high as an Indian dart, or javelin; now it was held as a lance; now he was flourishing it round his head; now he made a sudden leap forward with it; now he hopped; now he skipped; now he went round and round, spinning, but yet advancing. All these, and a variety of other eccentric movements were seen from the valley below, and created the greatest astonishment, and, in some instances, consternation, for the figures of the boys, seen against the evening sky, as they followed one after the other, in regular succession, appeared magnified to a considerable degree; and many wondered what extraordinary beings they could be. They were very much amused, some days afterwards, on hearing of the strange sights the people had seen on the ridge on that very evening, and how they passed by. The remainder of the leaps they took, the streams they crossed, and the duckings some of them got, need not further be described. They got back in time for tea, which on Saturdays, in summer, was always later than at other times.

Digby got very much complimented for the way in which he had led.

“It’s the best run we have ever had, old fellow,” exclaimed Ranger and others. “Yes, indeed it was; and the plucky way in which you got down from the top of Whitcombe Church tower was very fine. It’s not surprising some of us funked to follow. We must have another run like it next week, and we must get you to be leader again. Remember, you think over what course you will take, so as to give us plenty of sport.”

Digby, naturally gratified at all these compliments, promised that he would prepare for another run on the following Saturday.

The authorities, however, it appeared, had taken a different view of the sport to that which those had who had engaged in it. The descent from the top of Whitcombe tower was looked upon with unmitigated horror; and it was proposed to take steps for the prevention of any such dangerous adventures in future. Little, however, was poor Mr Sanford aware of how much worse proceedings were taking place much nearer home, and of the far greater dangers to which many of the boys were exposed during those long spring evenings, when they were allowed to wander forth beyond the supervision of their masters.

The Monday after this noted run, Digby was passing through the hall, when the front-door bell rang, and Susan went to open it, just as she had done the day of his arrival. He likewise stopped at the end of the passage to see who was coming. A fly was at the door, and in front of it stood Rubbins, the fat butler at Milford Priory, who was at that moment helping out of it no less a person than Julian Langley.

Julian was looking very sheepish and downcast, and very much inclined to cry; but the moment he saw Digby, who could not help coming forward, his countenance brightened up.

“Ah, Digby, this is pleasant, to have a friend to meet one, and to tell one all about the school,” he exclaimed. “I did not know I was coming to your school. Now I don’t mind. What sort of a place is it? Many fast fellows, eh? Any fun to be had? Tell me all about it; come, quick. You look jolly enough, let me tell you. Why, you are nearly as big as I am.” So Julian ran on, much in his old style.

Although Digby knew perfectly well what he had been, and how much mischief he had led him into, yet he could not help looking upon him as an old friend and companion, and as such he received him, feeling really very glad to see him. They had not much time to talk then, for Rubbins having got all his luggage and things out of the fly, and shaken hands with him in a somewhat familiar and patronising manner, delivered him over formally to Susan, to be carried before Mr Sanford.

“Won’t you wish to see master, sir?” asked Susan, who did not understand exactly who Mr Rubbins was.

“Oh, no; no, thank you,” answered that gentleman, with a slight sneer in the tone of his voice. “The young one knows well enough how to take care of himself, I guess.”

Susan, from these words, at once understood who Mr Rubbins was, and formed a tolerably correct opinion of the character of the young gentleman, which she did not fail to express to Mrs Pike.

Digby had to leave Julian, who was now taken before Mr Sanford; but he promised to wait for him at the end of the passage.

Mr Sanford was not altogether satisfied with his new pupil. Julian spoke in an off-hand way of his former career, and the education he had received; and then forthwith mentioned his friendship with Digby Heathcote.

“He will show me all about the school, sir, and put me up to its ways. All I want is to know them, and I dare say that I shall get on very well with the other fellows,” said Julian, with consummate assurance. “Digby and I, you see, sir, are like brothers almost—we have been so much together, and think so exactly alike.”

Now Mr Sanford, from what he had heard of Digby, had formed a favourable opinion of him; and therefore, taking Julian at his word, he was bound to form the same of him. He knew enough, however, of the world to be aware that the very worst way of judging of persons is to take them at their own estimate; and so Julian did not find himself quite so highly esteemed as he might have wished. Mr Sanford, however, rang the bell, and desired that Master Heathcote might be sent to him.

Digby very quickly made his appearance; and Mr Sanford was at once inclined to doubt Julian’s assertion that they were acquainted, till Digby explained that they had just before met.

“Very well, Heathcote, introduce him to the other boys; and I hope I shall hear a good account of him from the masters,” said Mr Sanford. “But remember, by the by, that you do not run the risk of breaking your own neck, and that of your companions, by slipping down from the top of church towers. I must take measures to prevent such a proceeding in future; and have begged Mrs Pike and Mr Yates to see to it. Now go, and be good boys.”

Away ran Digby and Julian. The boys were in the playground, so Digby at once took his old friend there to introduce him. He was resolved to give him the chance of a good start; so he took him up only to the best fellows, intending to warn him of the characters of the others. This ought to have been a very great advantage to Julian.

Farnham, Ranger, Newland, received him, for Digby’s sake, very kindly and cordially; and even Bouverie showed that he wished to be civil to him, and did not address him in the bantering way in which big fellows are apt to speak to those younger than themselves.

Julian, however, took it into his head that all this was owing to his own merits, and was not proportionably grateful to Digby. Although warned by Digby, from the first, of the characters of Spiller, Johnny Bray, Scarborough, and others, he at once showed that he had a hankering to become acquainted with them. Spiller, consequent, very soon got round him, and became the possessor of various articles in his box, as well as of some slices of his cake, and a pot or two of jam. Scarborough was not long in falling foul of him.

Digby was about to rush to his rescue, and calling on Ranger and Farnham to assist; when what was his surprise to hear Julian say—

“Please don’t hit me, Scarborough, and I will give you a pot of jam and some marmalade, and will send home for some more, if you want it.”

“Well, hand out the grub, young one, and I will let you off this time,” answered the bully. “Remember, though, I won’t stand any nonsense. You’ve promised to get me what I want, and I intend to keep you up to your word.”

Julian sneaked off to his play-box, to get the eatables; and Digby turned away with disgust.

“The idea of buying off a thrashing from a big bully,” he exclaimed, stamping with his feet in very vexation. “It is a thoroughly un-English, cowardly proceeding. Besides, it will only make the bully attack him more readily when he wants anything out of him. As he looks upon him as my friend, he wants to revenge himself on him, as he dares not attack me again while Bouverie remains.”

Boys at school very soon find their own level. Julian rapidly sunk to his. He would have had a better chance of retaining the friendship of Farnham, Ranger, and the good set, had he been sent to sleep in their room; but, unfortunately, there was no vacant bed there, and he, consequently, was put into a room with Spiller, and some of the worst fellows. All the advantage, therefore, which he gained in the day, from associating with Digby and his friends, was undone in the evening by the loose conversation of his bedroom companions.

“I wanted to have had a jolly feast, such as you had, Digby, the fellows tell me, and which, it seems, gained you so many first-rate friends,” said Julian, one day soon after his arrival, in a melancholy tone. “But do you know, what with that brute, Scarborough, and that sneaky chap, Spiller, and a host of others, I haven’t got a single thing left. I don’t think you benefited much by me, either.”

“Oh, never mind that; but I did not suppose my feasts gave me friends,” answered Digby. “Perhaps it might have been so; but then, when I think of it, Bouverie would accept nothing, and some of the best fellows took very little, and indeed, generally put in their own share of grub.”

“Ah, still they knew that you were a fellow who was always likely to have plenty of good things,” argued Julian. “I must see about getting some more things from the Priory; it won’t do to be looking down in the world.”

Poor, miserable Julian had evidently no notion of any other bond of union between people; it should not be called friendship, though he so called it, but interest, what one may get from the other. He was to be pitied certainly; but not for a moment exonerated. He had been miserably instructed at the first, there was no doubt about that; but then he had gone to Mr Nugent’s, where he had every opportunity of learning what was right. The truth, the right was set clearly before him, but he deliberately refused to accept it. The laws of God and man, his duties in life, were clearly explained to him; he had a good example set him; he was kept as much as possible out of temptation to do wrong; still, as has been seen, he contrived to do it. Now he came where he had evidently the choice between good companions and bad, and he deliberately chose the bad.

So it will be with all those whose eyes may fall on these pages. If they abandon the straight and narrow, and perhaps difficult, path of right, and enter into the broad, and seemingly easy, course of evil, they do so with their eyes open, in spite of warnings, in spite of the whisperings of conscience, in spite of thousands of examples of the destructive results of the life they are pursuing; and they will in the end be unable to offer the slightest excuse for themselves; they will have to acknowledge they brought down all their misery and wretchedness on their own heads, that their punishment was just.

The next Saturday came, and when lessons were over, Mr Yates ascended the head-master’s desk, and informed the school that leave to go out was stopped, in consequence of certain proceedings which had come to Mr Sanford’s knowledge; but more than that he did not consider it just then necessary to explain.

This announcement, though received in silence, created the greatest vexation, and anger, and indignation among all the boys. Some thought the prohibition arose from one cause, some from another. Digby and his friends, who had played the game of Follow-my-leader on the previous Saturday, thought that it was owing to something they had done on that occasion. Some farmer, less good-natured than Mr Growler, might have complained about them; perhaps it was owing to their exploit in the church tower; others thought that it was owing to something which had occurred in the village; others, owing to a fight which had taken place between one of their boys and a country lad; and perhaps Scarborough, and Spiller, and their set might have suspected that their half-holiday practices were known, and that all the school was being punished on that account. One thing was clear, on comparing notes, that a very considerable number of misdemeanours were committed every Saturday; and that, altogether, they were not punished without cause. Those, however, as is usually the case, who were the most guilty, were the most furious.

Scarborough declared loudly that he would pot stand it; that, in spite of all the masters, he for one would go out as usual; so said a number of other fellows of his stamp.

Digby, and Farnham, and Newland did not like it; they thought themselves very unjustly treated; and of course that made them indignant. They talked of doing all sorts of things: they would scale the walls; they would take their usual expedition, with leave or without leave.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” exclaimed Farnham, who was always rather vehement when he fancied himself unjustly treated, “I’ll write home, and beg to be taken away altogether, unless we have our proper liberty. After dinner, I’ll go straight up to Mr Sanford, and ask him why we are all kept in because some other fellows have done what is wrong; and then I’ll undertake to guarantee that if he will allow them to go out, they will all behave as he could wish in every way. If he still refuses, then I will frankly tell him that I will write home, and complain, and that others are determined to do the same.”

Farnham’s proposal was very much applauded by nearly all the moderate party, a few only advocating a quiet run through the country for an hour or so, just to show that they would maintain their rights.

The dinner-bell rang. They all went in; and no one ate a worse dinner in consequence of the perturbed state of their minds. They still, however, continued, in low voices, talking the matter over; and the masters and Mrs Pike saw that something was evidently wrong. The weather, however, summarily settled the matter for them. The sky had been for some time clouding over, and before they had left the dinner-table, the rain began to descend in torrents, so that it was impossible for any one of them to make any complaint of not being allowed to go out on that day. Harder and harder came down the rain, till it was evident that it was going to be a settled pouring afternoon. Although, in one respect, this was an advantage, as it enabled the better disposed to calm their spirits, and to think quietly over what they had proposed to do, yet it, at the same time, allowed the rest to brood over their fancied wrongs, and to concoct a variety of schemes of vengeance.

Julian Langley was one of the most indignant, and most ready to join any of the plans of the extreme party. He had come to a school where he understood there was plenty of liberty and gentlemanly treatment, and he found, he said, neither one nor the other. He had read of some fellows at a large school getting up a grand rebellion, barring out the masters, and standing a siege of several days, till their terms were complied with. The idea was caught up by others. It was grand in the extreme, if not novel. Scarborough and some of the bigger fellows were delighted with it. Julian undertook to win over Heathcote and his set.

“They must not be left out, certainly,” observed Scarborough. “They are plucky fellows, and would be powerful allies; but I suspect that you will have some difficulty in managing them.”

“Let me alone for that,” answered Julian, with a self-satisfied tone. “I know how to touch up my old friend, Digby Heathcote, in the right place. He is well primed already, and only wants the spark to set him off.”

There was certainly far less noise and disturbance that Saturday afternoon than there had been for a long time. On the Sunday, also, and the following days, the masters observed that the boys behaved even better than usual. An event which proved to be of considerable importance occurred on Monday. Bouverie, who had been counselling patience and submission, was suddenly summoned home to attend the sick bed of his father: he had time only to pack up and be off. He sent, however, for Farnham, and urged him not to do anything rashly, though he could not enlighten him as to the reason of the prohibition so much complained of. Strange to say, Digby was more pleased with Julian for two or three days than he had been since he came to the school—he was constantly with him, submitting to his opinion, and speaking so very sensibly on many matters.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Digby,” said Julian at last, “if all the fellows will sink their quarrels and disputes and unite heart and hand, we shall carry the day and gain our rights. For my own part, I do not care much about the matter; I am not going to be here long, so I argue for the sake of others more than for myself. Just, therefore, come and hear what Knowles and that clever fellow, Blake, has got to say. Depend on it they will show you that they are in the right.”

In a fatal moment Digby consented to join a conference of those who called themselves the leaders of the school, to decide what should be done in case they were still denied the liberty they demanded.

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