er coolly.

"Been waiting for you this half hour."

"Have you?"

"Yes; ain't you rather late?"

"No; I have plenty of time, though none to spare," answered Bobby; and
this was a hint that he must not detain him too long.

"Come along then."

"Where are you going, Tom?" asked Bobby, a little surprised at these
words.

"To Boston."

"Are you?"

"I am; that's a fact. You know I spoke to you about going into the
book business."

"Not lately."

"But I have been thinking about it all the time."

"What do your father and mother say?"

"O, they are all right."

"Have you asked them?"

"Certainly I have; they are willing I should go with _you_."

"Why didn't you speak of it then?"

"I thought I wouldn't say anything till the time came. You know you
fought shy when I spoke about it before."

And Bobby, notwithstanding the interest he felt in his companion, was
a little disposed to "fight shy" now. Tom had reformed, or had
pretended to do so; but he was still a raw recruit, and our hero was
somewhat fearful that he would run at the first fire.

To the good and true man life is a constant battle. Temptation assails
him at almost every point; perils and snares beset him at every step
of his mortal pilgrimage, so that every day he is called upon to gird
on his armor and fight the good fight.

Bobby was no poet; but he had a good idea of this every-day strife
with the foes of error and sin that crossed his path. It was a
practical conception, but it was truly expressed under the similitude
of a battle. There was to be resistance, and he could comprehend that,
for his bump of combativeness took cognizance of the suggestion. He
was to fight; and that was an idea that stood him in better stead than
a whole library of ethical subtilties.

Judging Tom by his own standard, he was afraid he would run--that he
wouldn't "stand fire." He had not been drilled. Heretofore, when
temptation beset him, he had yielded without even a struggle, and fled
from the field without firing a gun. To go out into the great world
was a trying event for the raw recruit. He lacked, too, that prestige
of success which is worth more than numbers on the field of battle.

Tom had chosen for himself, and he could not send him back. He had
taken up the line of march, let it lead him where it might.

"March on! in legions death and sin
Impatient wait thy conquering hand;
The foe without, the foe within--
Thy youthful arm must