Ill fares it now with our youngsters, that they are School-house boys,
and so follow young Brooke, for he takes the wide casts round to the
left, conscious of his own powers, and loving the hard work. For if you
would consider for a moment, you small boys, you would remember that the
Cock, where the run ends and the good ale will be going, lies far out to
the right on the Dunchurch road, so that every cast you take to the left
is so much extra work. And at this stage of the run, when the evening is
closing in already, no one remarks whether you run a little cunning or
not; so you should stick to those crafty hounds who keep edging away to
the right, and not follow a prodigal like young Brooke, whose legs are
twice as long as yours and of cast-iron, wholly indifferent to one or
two miles more or less. However, they struggle after him, sobbing and
plunging along, Tom and East pretty close, and Tadpole, whose big head
begins to pull him down, some thirty yards behind.
Now comes a brook, with stiff clay banks, from which they can hardly
drag their legs, and they hear faint cries for help from the wretched
Tadpole, who has fairly stuck fast. But they have too little run left
in themselves to pull up for their own brothers. Three fields more, and
another check, and then "Forward" called away to the extreme right.
The two boys' souls die within them; they can never do it.
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