As he wearily laboured at his line, the thought struck him, "It may
be all false--a mere newspaper lie." And he strode up to the recumbent
smoker.
"Let me look at the paper," said he.
"Nothing else in it," answered the other, handing it up to him
listlessly. "Hullo, Brown! what's the matter, old fellow? Ain't you
well?"
"Where is it?" said Tom, turning over the leaves, his hands trembling,
and his eyes swimming, so that he could not read.
"What? What are you looking for?" said his friend, jumping up and
looking over his shoulder.
"That--about Arnold," said Tom.
"Oh, here," said the other, putting his finger on the paragraph. Tom
read it over and over again. There could be no mistake of identity,
though the account was short enough.
"Thank you," said he at last, dropping the paper. "I shall go for a
walk. Don't you and Herbert wait supper for me." And away he strode,
up over the moor at the back of the house, to be alone, and master his
grief if possible.
His friend looked after him, sympathizing and wondering, and, knocking
the ashes out of his pipe, walked over to Herbert. After a short parley
they walked together up to the house.
"I'm afraid that confounded newspaper has spoiled Brown's fun for this
trip."
"How odd that he should be so fond of his old master," said Herbert. Yet
they also were both public-school men.
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