This one was Harry's own particular invention and pet; he
scarcely ever used it except when hard pressed, but then out it came,
and as sure as it did, over went poor Tom. He thought about that fall
at his meals, in his walks, when he lay awake in bed, in his dreams, but
all to no purpose, until Harry one day in his open way suggested to him
how he thought it should be met; and in a week from that time the boys
were equal, save only the slight difference of strength in Harry's
favour, which some extra ten months of age gave. Tom had often
afterwards reason to be thankful for that early drilling, and above all,
for having mastered Harry Winburn's fall.
Besides their home games, on Saturdays the boys would wander all over
the neighbourhood; sometimes to the downs, or up to the camp, where
they cut their initials out in the springy turf, and watched the hawks
soaring, and the "peert" bird, as Harry Winburn called the gray plover,
gorgeous in his wedding feathers; and so home, racing down the Manger
with many a roll among the thistles, or through Uffington Wood to watch
the fox cubs playing in the green rides; sometimes to Rosy Brook, to cut
long whispering reeds which grew there, to make pan-pipes of; sometimes
to Moor Mills, where was a piece of old forest land, with short browsed
turf and tufted brambly thickets stretching under the oaks, amongst
which rumour declared that a raven, last of his race, still lingered;
or to the sand-hills, in vain quest of rabbits; and bird-nesting in the
season, anywhere and everywhere.
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