Poor little Arthur looked ready to cry.
“ But, please,” said he, “mayn't I talk about—about home to you?”
“ Oh yes; I like it. But don't talk to boys you don't know, or they'll call you home-sick, or mamma's darling, or some such stuff. What a jolly desk! Is that yours? And what stunning binding! Why, your school-books look like novels.”
And Tom was soon deep in Arthur's goods and chattels, all new, and good enough for a fifth-form boy, and hardly thought of his friends outside till the prayer-bell rang.
I have already described the School-house prayers. They were the same on the first night as on the other nights, save for the gaps caused by the absence of those boys who came late, and the line of new boys who stood all together at the farther table—of all sorts and sizes, like yo
