East had given him the desired opening. After a serio-comic grumble,
"that life wasn't worth having, now they were tied to a young beggar
who was always 'raising his standard;' and that he, East, was like a
prophet's donkey, who was obliged to struggle on after the donkey-man
who went after the prophet; that he had none of the pleasure of starting
the new crotchets, and didn't half understand them, but had to take the
kicks and carry the luggage as if he had all the fun," he threw his legs
up on to the sofa, and put his hands behind his head, and said,--
"Well, after all, he's the most wonderful little fellow I ever came
across. There ain't such a meek, humble boy in the school. Hanged if
I don't think now, really, Tom, that he believes himself a much worse
fellow than you or I, and that he don't think he has more influence in
the house than Dot Bowles, who came last quarter, and isn't ten yet. But
he turns you and me round his little finger, old boy--there's no mistake
about that." And East nodded at Tom sagaciously.
"Now or never!" thought Tom; so, shutting his eyes and hardening his
heart, he went straight at it, repeating all that Arthur had said, as
near as he could remember it, in the very words, and all he had himself
thought. The life seemed to ooze out of it as he went on, and several
times he felt inclined to stop, give it all up, and change the subject.
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