"Don't call me 'sir' you young muff. How old are you?"
"Thirteen."
"Can you sing?"
The poor boy was trembling and hesitating. Tom struck in—" you be hange'd, Tadpole. He'll have to sing, whether he can or not, Saturday twelve weeks, and that's long enough off yet."
"Do you know him at home, Brown?"
"No; but he's my chum in Gray's old study, and it's near prayer time, and I haven't had a look at it yet. Come along, Arthur."
Away went the two, Tom longing to get his charge safe under cover, where he might advise him on his deportment.
"What a queer chum for Tom Brown," was the comment at the fire; and it must be confessed so thought Tom himself, as he lighted his candle, and surveyed the new green-baize curtains and the carpet and sofa with much satisfaction.
"I say, Arthur, what a brick your mother is to make us so cosy. But look here now, you must answer straight up when the fellows speak to you, and don't be afraid. If you're afraid, you'll get bullied. And don't you say you can sing; and don't you ever talk about home, or your mother and sisters."
Poor little Arthur looked ready to cry.
"But please," said he, "mayn't I talk about—about home to you? "
"O 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."
