He felt every day, too, the value of having an
object in his life--something that drew him out of himself; and it being
the dull time of the year, and no games going about for which he much
cared, was happier than he had ever yet been at school, which was saying
a great deal.
The time which Tom allowed himself away from his charge was from
locking-up till supper-time. During this hour or hour and a half he used
to take his fling, going round to the studies of all his acquaintance,
sparring or gossiping in the hall, now jumping the old iron-bound
tables, or carving a bit of his name on them, then joining in some
chorus of merry voices--in fact, blowing off his steam, as we should now
call it.
This process was so congenial to his temper, and Arthur showed himself
so pleased at the arrangement, that it was several weeks before Tom was
ever in their study before supper. One evening, however, he rushed in to
look for an old chisel, or some corks, or other article essential to his
pursuit for the time being, and while rummaging about in the cupboards,
looked up for a moment, and was caught at once by the figure of poor
little Arthur. The boy was sitting with his elbows on the table, and
his head leaning on his hands, and before him an open book, on which his
tears were falling fast. Tom shut the door at once, and sat down on the
sofa by Arthur, putting his arm round his neck.
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