"What a queer chum for Tom Brown," was the comment at the fire; and it
must be confessed so thought Tom himself, as he lighted his candle, and
surveyed the new green-baize curtains and the carpet and sofa with much
satisfaction.
"I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is to make us so cozy! But look
here now; you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you, and
don't be afraid. If you're afraid, you'll get bullied. And don't you
say you can sing; and don't you ever talk about home, or your mother and
sisters."
Poor little Arthur looked ready to cry.
"But, please," said he, "mayn't I talk about--about home to you?"
"Oh yes; I like it. But don't talk to boys you don't know, or they'll
call you home-sick, or mamma's darling, or some such stuff. What a jolly
desk! Is that yours? And what stunning binding! Why, your school-books
look like novels."
And Tom was soon deep in Arthur's goods and chattels, all new, and good
enough for a fifth-form boy, and hardly thought of his friends outside
till the prayer-bell rang.
I have already described the School-house prayers. They were the same on
the first night as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused by the
absence of those boys who came late, and the line of new boys who stood
all together at the farther table--of all sorts and sizes, like young
bears with all their troubles to come, as Tom's father had said to him
when he was in the same position.
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