CHAPTER VII--SETTLING TO THE COLLAR.
"Says Giles, ''Tis mortal hard to go,
But if so be's I must
I means to follow arter he
As goes hisself the fust.'"--Ballad.
Everybody, I suppose, knows the dreamy, delicious state in which one
lies, half asleep, half awake, while consciousness begins to return
after a sound night's rest in a new place which we are glad to be in,
following upon a day of unwonted excitement and exertion. There are
few pleasanter pieces of life. The worst of it is that they last such
a short time; for nurse them as you will, by lying perfectly passive
in mind and body, you can't make more than five minutes or so of them.
After which time the stupid, obtrusive, wakeful entity which we call
"I", as impatient as he is stiff-necked, spite of our teeth will force
himself back again, and take possession of us down to our very toes.
It was in this state that Master Tom lay at half-past seven on the
morning following the day of his arrival, and from his clean little
white bed watched the movements of Bogle (the generic name by which the
successive shoeblacks of the School-house were known), as he marched
round from bed to bed, collecting the dirty shoes and boots, and
depositing clean ones in their places.
There he lay, half doubtful as to where exactly in the universe he was,
but conscious that he had made a step in life which he had been anxious
to make.
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