more of him
later on--but I must remember him as one of the most wonderful of
friends: always smiling, always ready to join in upon whatever lark was
planning--a bit of a daredevil, very much of a protector when the
bullies of the school were pressing too close for comfort.

During the year, of course, I saw or heard nothing that could remind me
of my Faith. We had to go to church on Sunday mornings. I was given my
choice, and tried accompanying one squad after another. I went to the
Episcopal, the Methodist, the Presbyterian--and it was the last that I
finally selected for good. There was a splendid old pastor there; his
white hair and trumpeting voice gave him venerableness, even when he
spoke of things that seemed to me very childish and obvious.

Once the commandant, twirling his mustaches, asked me whether I should
not like to go to the synagogue on Friday nights (there was a small one
at the edge of the town). I did not care much about the religious
inspiration to be gained from the Hebrew service, but I did think it
would be jolly fun to be allowed to go down into the town at night. And
yet I knew that some of my schoolmates would come to know why I went,
and what sort of services I attended, and--reluctantly--I declined the
opportunity.

I do not know what the bumptious commandant thought of it, but he pulled
his mustaches very, very hard.

VI

MY STEERFORTH

I wish I could write this episode in quite a different tone from all the
others. I wish I could summon all the tenderness of which boyhood
has--and which it loses--and put it into the lines of the recital that
is now due. Because, then, perhaps, you would have some knowledge and
appreciation of what the last few months of my stay at the military
school meant for me.

David Copperfield had his Steerforth. Every boy must have one.
Certainly, _I_ did. And I worshipped him with all the ardor and
unquestioning devotion that could come fresh from a boy-heart which had
never yet given itself to friendship. Steerforth was a villain; but in
David's eye he was always, unalterably, a glorious hero. This is how it
was, perhaps, with Sydney--though he was no villain, I am sure.

I spoke of him in my last chapter: told you that he was a poor student,
much in favor with the commandant for his good services. I have told
you, he was tall, fair-haired, with locks that waved back from his
white forehead (as Steerforth's did, as I remember) and merry, blue
e