ed
tone in which Arthur begins construing, and betakes himself to drawing
dogs' heads in his note-book, while the master, evidently enjoying the
change, turns his back on the middle bench and stands before Arthur,
beating a sort of time with his hand and foot, and saying, "Yes, yes,"
"very well," as Arthur goes on.

But as he nears the fatal two lines, Tom catches that falter and again
looks up. He sees that there is something the matter--Arthur can hardly
get on at all. What can it be?

Suddenly at this point Arthur breaks down altogether, and fairly bursts
out crying, and dashes the cuff of his jacket across his eyes, blushing
up to the roots of his hair, and feeling as if he should like to go down
suddenly through the floor. The whole form are taken aback; most of them
stare stupidly at him, while those who are gifted with presence of mind
find their places and look steadily at their books, in hopes of not
catching the master's eye and getting called up in Arthur's place.

The master looks puzzled for a moment, and then seeing, as the fact is,
that the boy is really affected to tears by the most touching thing in
Homer, perhaps in all profane poetry put together, steps up to him and
lays his hand kindly on his shoulder, saying, "Never mind, my little
man, you've construed very well. Stop a minute, there's no hurry."

Now, as luck would have it, there sat next above Tom that day, in the
middle bench of the form, a big boy, by name Williams, generally
supposed to be the cock of the shell, therefore of all the school below
the fifths. The small boys, who are great speculators on the prowess of
their elders, used to hold forth to one another about Williams's great
strength, and to discuss whether East or Brown would take a licking from
him. He was called Slogger Williams, from the force with which it was
supposed he could hit. In the main, he was a rough good-natured fellow
enough, but very much alive to his own dignity. He reckoned himself the
king of the form, and kept up his position with a strong hand,
especially in the matter of forcing boys not to construe more than the
legitimate forty lines, he had already grunted and grumbled to himself,
when Arthur went on reading beyond the forty lines. But now that he had
broken down just in the middle of all the long words, the Slogger's
wrath was fairly roused.

"Sneaking little brute," muttered he, regardless of prudence, "clapping
on the waterworks just in the hardes