To condense the Squire's meditation, it was somewhat as follows: "I
won't tell him to read his Bible, and love and serve God; if he don't do
that for his mother's sake and teaching, he won't for mine. Shall I go
into the sort of temptations he'll meet with? No, I can't do that.
Never do for an old fellow to go into such things with a boy. He won't
understand me. Do him more harm than good, ten to one. Shall I tell him
to mind his work, and say he's sent to school to make himself a good
scholar? Well, but he isn't sent to school for that--at any rate,
not for that mainly. I don't care a straw for Greek particles, or the
digamma; no more does his mother. What is he sent to school for? Well,
partly because he wanted so to go. If he'll only turn out a brave,
helpful, truth-telling Englishman, and a gentleman, and a Christian,
that's all I want," thought the Squire; and upon this view of the case
he framed his last words of advice to Tom, which were well enough suited
to his purpose.
For they were Tom's first thoughts as he tumbled out of bed at the
summons of boots, and proceeded rapidly to wash and dress himself. At
ten minutes to three he was down in the coffee-room in his stockings,
carrying his hat-box, coat, and comforter in his hand; and there he
found his father nursing a bright fire, and a cup of hot coffee and a
hard biscuit on the table.
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