The whole form are taken aback; most of them
stare stupidly at him, while those who are gifted with presence of mind
find their places and look steadily at their books, in hopes of not
catching the master's eye and getting called up in Arthur's place.
The master looks puzzled for a moment, and then seeing, as the fact is,
that the boy is really affected to tears by the most touching thing in
Homer, perhaps in all profane poetry put together, steps up to him and
lays his hand kindly on his shoulder, saying, "Never mind, my little
man, you've construed very well. Stop a minute; there's no hurry."
Now, as luck would have it, there sat next above Tom on that day, in
the middle bench of the form, a big boy, by name Williams, generally
supposed to be the cock of the shell, therefore of all the school below
the fifths. The small boys, who are great speculators on the prowess of
their elders, used to hold forth to one another about Williams's great
strength, and to discuss whether East or Brown would take a licking from
him. He was called Slogger Williams, from the force with which it was
supposed he could hit. In the main, he was a rough, goodnatured fellow
enough, but very much alive to his own dignity. He reckoned himself
the king of the form, and kept up his position with the strong hand,
especially in the matter of forcing boys not to construe more than the
legitimate forty lines.
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