"
The allusion to his mother made Tom feel rather choky, and he would have
liked to have hugged his father well, if it hadn't been for the recent
stipulation.
As it was, he only squeezed his father's hand, and looked bravely up and
said, "I'll try, father."
"I know you will, my boy. Is your money all safe?
"Yes," said Tom, diving into one pocket to make sure.
"And your keys?" said the Squire.
"All right," said Tom, diving into the other pocket.
"Well, then, good-night. God bless you! I'll tell boots to call you, and
be up to see you off."
Tom was carried off by the chambermaid in a brown study, from which he
was roused in a clean little attic, by that buxom person calling him a
little darling and kissing him as she left the room; which indignity
he was too much surprised to resent. And still thinking of his father's
last words, and the look with which they were spoken, he knelt down and
prayed that, come what might, he might never bring shame or sorrow on
the dear folk at home.
Indeed, the Squire's last words deserved to have their effect, for they
had been the result of much anxious thought. All the way up to London
he had pondered what he should say to Tom by way of parting
advice--something that the boy could keep in his head ready for use. By
way of assisting meditation, he had even gone the length of taking out
his flint and steel and tinder, and hammering away for a quarter of an
hour till he had manufactured a light for a long Trichinopoli cheroot,
which he silently puffed, to the no small wonder of coachee, who was an
old friend, and an institution on the Bath road, and who always expected
a talk on the prospects and doings, agricultural and social, of the
whole country, when he carried the Squire.
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