of before, but his face has
gained a great deal since we last came across him.

And by his side, in white flannel shirt and trousers, straw hat, the
captain's belt, and the untanned yellow cricket shoes which all the
eleven wear, sits a strapping figure, near six feet high, with ruddy,
tanned face and whiskers, curly brown hair, and a laughing, dancing eye.
He is leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees, and dandling
his favourite bat, with which he has made thirty or forty runs to-day,
in his strong brown hands. It is Tom Brown, grown into a young man
nineteen years old, a prepostor and captain of the eleven, spending
his last day as a Rugby boy, and, let us hope, as much wiser as he is
bigger, since we last had the pleasure of coming across him.

And at their feet on the warm, dry ground, similarly dressed, sits
Arthur, Turkish fashion, with his bat across his knees. He too is no
longer a boy--less of a boy, in fact, than Tom, if one may judge from
the thoughtfulness of his face, which is somewhat paler, too, than one
could wish; but his figure, though slight, is well knit and active, and
all his old timidity has disappeared, and is replaced by silent, quaint
fun, with which his face twinkles all over, as he listens to the broken
talk between the other two, in which he joins every now and then.

All three are watching the game eagerly, and joining in the cheering
which follows every good hit. It is pleasing to see the easy, friendly
footing which the pupils are on with their master, perfectly respectful,
yet with no reserve and nothing forced in their intercourse. Tom has
clearly abandoned the old theory of "natural enemies" in this case at
any rate.

But it is time to listen to what they are saying, and see what we can
gather out of it.

"I don't object to your theory," says the master, "and I allow you have
made a fair case for yourself. But now, in such books as Aristophanes,
for instance, you've been reading a play this half with the Doctor,
haven't you?"

"Yes, the Knights," answered Tom.

"Well, I'm sure you would have enjoyed the wonderful humour of it twice
as much if you had taken more pains with your scholarship."

"Well, sir, I don't believe any boy in the form enjoyed the sets-to
between Cleon and the Sausage-seller more than I did--eh, Arthur?" said
Tom, giving him a stir with his foot.

"Yes, I must say he did," said Arthur. "I think, sir, you've hit upon
the wrong book there."