That's all thanks to you, and the games you've made me fond
of."
"More thanks to old Martin," said Tom; "he's been your real friend."
"Nonsense, Tom; he never could have done for me what you have."
"Well, I don't know; I did little enough. Did they tell you--you won't
mind hearing it now, I know--that poor Thompson died last week? The
other three boys are getting quite round, like you."
"Oh yes, I heard of it."
Then Tom, who was quite full of it, told Arthur of the burial-service
in the chapel, and how it had impressed him, and, he believed, all the
other boys. "And though the Doctor never said a word about it," said he,
"and it was a half-holiday and match-day, there wasn't a game played in
the close all the afternoon, and the boys all went about as if it were
Sunday."
"I'm very glad of it," said Arthur. "But, Tom, I've had such strange
thoughts about death lately. I've never told a soul of them, not even my
mother. Sometimes I think they're wrong, but, do you know, I don't think
in my heart I could be sorry at the death of any of my friends."
Tom was taken quite aback. "What in the world is the young un after
now?" thought he; "I've swallowed a good many of his crotchets, but this
altogether beats me. He can't be quite right in his head." He didn't
want to say a word, and shifted about uneasily in the dark; however,
Arthur seemed to be waiting for an answer, so at last he said, "I don't
think I quite see what you mean, Geordie.
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