up towards the town. It was now July. He had rushed
away from Oxford the moment that term was over, for a fishing ramble in
Scotland with two college friends, and had been for three weeks living
on oatcake, mutton-hams, and whisky, in the wildest parts of Skye. They
had descended one sultry evening on the little inn at Kyle Rhea ferry;
and while Tom and another of the party put their tackle together
and began exploring the stream for a sea-trout for supper, the third
strolled into the house to arrange for their entertainment. Presently he
came out in a loose blouse and slippers, a short pipe in his mouth, and
an old newspaper in his hand, and threw himself on the heathery scrub
which met the shingle, within easy hail of the fishermen. There he lay,
the picture of free-and-easy, loafing, hand-to-mouth young England,
"improving his mind," as he shouted to them, by the perusal of the
fortnight-old weekly paper, soiled with the marks of toddy-glasses and
tobacco-ashes, the legacy of the last traveller, which he had hunted
out from the kitchen of the little hostelry, and, being a youth of
a communicative turn of mind, began imparting the contents to the
fishermen as he went on.

"What a bother they are making about these wretched corn-laws! Here's
three or four columns full of nothing but sliding scales and fixed
duties. Hang this tobacco, it's always going out! Ah, here's something
better--a splendid match between Kent and England, Brown, Kent winning
by three wickets. Felix fifty-six runs without a chance, and not out!"

Tom, intent on a fish which had risen at him twice, answered only with a
grunt.

"Anything about the Goodwood?" called out the third man.

"Rory O'More drawn. Butterfly colt amiss," shouted the student.

"Just my luck," grumbled the inquirer, jerking his flies off the water,
and throwing again with a heavy, sullen splash, and frightening Tom's
fish.

"I say, can't you throw lighter over there? We ain't fishing for
grampuses," shouted Tom across the stream.

"Hullo, Brown! here's something for you," called out the reading man
next moment. "Why, your old master, Arnold of Rugby, is dead."

Tom's hand stopped half-way in his cast, and his line and flies went all
tangling round and round his rod; you might have knocked him over with a
feather. Neither of his companions took any notice of him, luckily; and
with a violent effort he set to work mechanically to disentangle his
line. He felt completely ca