ten
or a dozen miles from his father's house. The families visit,--that is
to say, the elders go and stay at each other's houses,--but Sandon has
never met this fellow himself, so he could only tell me what he had
heard. One thing he knows for certain, that he has never been at school
before, so he must be a regular muff, don't you see. His father is a
sort of philosopher--brings up his children unlike anybody else; makes
them learn all about insects and flowers, and birds and beasts, and
astronomy, and teaches them to do all sorts of things besides, but
nothing that is of any use in the world that I know of. Now I'll wager
young Hopeful has never played football or cricket in his life, and
couldn't if he was to try. Those sort of fellows, in my opinion, are
only fit to keep tame rabbits and silkworms."

Master Bobby did not exactly define to what sort of character he
alluded; and it is possible he might have been mistaken as to his
opinion of the new boy.

"Well, I agree with you," observed Tommy Bouldon, drawing himself up to
his full height of three feet seven inches, and looking very
consequential. "I hate those home-bred, missy, milk-and-water chaps.
It is a pity they should ever come to school at all. They are more fit
to be turned into nursery-maids, and to look after their little brothers
and sisters."

This sally of wit drew forth a shout of laughter from Bobby Dawson, who
forthwith settled in his mind that he would precious soon take the shine
out of the new boy.

"But, I say, what is the fellow's name?" asked Tommy.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" answered Bobby. "It's Bracebridge; his
Christian name is--let me see, I heard it, I know it's one of your fancy
romantic mamma's pet-boy names--just what young ladies put in little
children's story-books. Oh, I have it now--Ernest--Ernest Bracebridge."

"I don't see that that is so very much out of the way either," observed
Bouldon; "I've known two or three Ernests who were not bad sorts of
fellows. There was Ernest Hyde, who was a capital cricketer, and Ernest
Eastgate, who was one of the best runners I ever met; still from what
you tell me, I fully expect that this Ernest Bracebridge will turn out
no great shakes."

While the lads were speaking, the subject of their remarks returned to
the playground. An unprejudiced person would certainly not have
designated him as a muff. He was an active, well-built boy, of between
twelve and thirteen years old.