n everything, the hardest thing in
the world for a Brown to bear. He got quite angry sometimes, as they sat
together of a night in their study, at this provoking habit of
agreement, and was on the point of breaking out a dozen times with a
lecture upon the propriety of a fellow having a will of his own and
speaking out; but managed to restrain himself by the thought that it
might only frighten Arthur, and the remembrance of the lesson he had
learnt from him on his first night at Number 4. Then he would resolve to
sit still, and not say a word till Arthur began; but he was always beat
at that game, and had presently to begin talking in despair, fearing
lest Arthur might think he was vexed at something if he didn't, and
dog-tired of sitting tongue-tied.

It was hard work! But Tom had taken it up, and meant to stick to it, and
go through with it, so as to satisfy himself; in which resolution he was
much assisted by the chaffing of East and his other old friends, who
began to call him "dry-nurse," and otherwise to break their small wit on
him. But when they took other ground, as they did every now and then,
Tom was sorely puzzled.

"Tell you what, Tommy," East would say, "you'll spoil young Hopeful with
too much coddling. Why can't you let him go about by himself and find
his own level? He'll never be worth a button, if you go on keeping him
under your skirts."

"Well, but he ain't fit to fight his own way yet; I'm trying to get him
to it every day--but he's very odd. Poor little beggar! I can't make him
out a bit. He ain't a bit like anything I've ever seen or heard of--he
seems all over nerves; anything you say seems to hurt him like a cut or
a blow."

"That sort of boy's no use here," said East, "he'll only spoil. Now,
I'll tell you what to do, Tommy. Go and get a nice large band-box made,
and put him in with plenty of cotton wool, and a pap-bottle, labelled
'With care--this side up,' and send him back to mamma."

"I think I shall make a hand of him though," said Tom, smiling, "say
what you will. There's something about him, every now and then, which
shows me he's got pluck somewhere in him. That's the only thing after
all that'll wash, ain't it, old Scud? But how to get at it and bring it
out?"

Tom took one hand out of his breeches-pocket and stuck it in his back
hair for a scratch, giving his hat a tilt over his nose, his one method
of invoking wisdom. He stared at the ground with a ludicrously puzzled
look, a