larly 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."

"Not a bit of it," said the master. "Why, in those very passages of
arms, how can you thoroughly appreciate them unless you are master of
the weapons? and the weapons are the language, which you, Brown, have
never half worked at; and so, as I say, you must have lost all the
delicate shades of meaning which make the best part of the fun."

"Oh! well played--bravo, Johnson!" shouted Arthur, dropping his bat and
clapping furiously, and Tom joined in with a "Bravo, Johnson!" which
might have been heard at the chapel.

"Eh! what was it? I didn't see," inquired the master; "they only got one
run, I thought?"

"No, but such a ball, three-quarters length and coming straight for his
leg bail. Nothing but that turn of the wrist could have saved him, and
he drew it away to leg for a safe one. Bravo, Johnson!"

"How well