august.—we are back at school once more, and i am going to begin grinding in real earnest for this prize. the mater has half consented, or at least half promised, to give her consent if i get this prize. mrs. chandos talked her into this, i fancy, while we were staying at the court. what a jolly time we had there, in spite of its being awfully grand! everybody calls chandos the "young baronet" about there, and people touch their caps to him as though he were a great swell, as i suppose he is. i never thought there was so much fun in him as i know there is now. he seems to love fun as much as any of us, only he is very careful that his pleasure does not give any one else pain, which makes all the difference in our way of getting fun; and i fancy his enjoyment of it is deeper after all.
september 1st.—there is to be an extra prize given for latin this year, and the examination is to take place early in december. chandos wants me to go in for this, but i am half afraid. it will want such lots of grind. he says learning would not be so much trouble to me if i would only make up my mind to like it; but i don't think i shall ever do this. but still i must get one prize at christmas somehow; and having done my lessons so long on the square, without even touching a crib, i think i may manage it without quite killing myself.
september 14th.—i wish prizes had never been invented—never been thought of. i believe it's done just to plague boys. here we are working like galley slaves; and if i don't go on grind, grind, chandos whispers, "you forget the prize—you are going to sea." no, i don't forget it; i have been thinking of it more than ever lately, and so has tom. he means to run away and get to liverpool before the winter sets in, and of course he wants me to go with him, and calls me "rat" and "coward" because i will not promise. of course i don't mean to split on him, for i can't help wishing i could go too; but somehow, now that it seems possible i may get my mother's consent to go in a proper manner—go as a midshipman in the navy—i would rather wait, although i do hate the grind.
chandos says i shall have to grind harder still if i go to the naval college at greenwich; but i won't mind that so much, for the grind will be about ships and navigation, and not the stupid things we have to learn here.
october 12th.—tom means to go. everything is so miserable here, he says. the fellows have been rather hard upon him, i think, considering they all backed him up to keep chandos out of trying for the watch last year. well, he don't want a watch now, but he's going in for as much grind as though he did, or as though he was still poor, and going to mount his uncle's office stool, instead of living in all the glory of chandos court. but i began about tom. he means to be missing some fine morning, and to make his way to liverpool. he thinks he shall be sure to get a ship there, and is to write to me and his father just before he sails. he don't mean to write to the governor at all, because he was so mean about the watch. we always talked about selling that to pay our expenses on the road, for of course tom don't want to beg; and to save him from this i have given him all the pocket-money i had left, which was only half-a-crown and twopence, for i never can keep money long, now that old woman with the bulls'-eyes comes to the playground gate so often. poor tom! i wish i had more i could give him, for things have been pretty hard for him here lately, though i dare say he deserved it for the mean trick he served chandos. what a scare it will be when they first find out that tom has gone! i shall have to keep quiet, though—hear, see, and say nothing, as they tell the youngsters, for i cannot pretend to be anxious when i know all about it, and i don't mean to split on tom. sometimes i fancy that chandos minor is in the secret. tom is stupid if he lets too many know what he is up to. i should have kept my own counsel, and not let chandos know this.
october 14th.—the house is all in commotion. nothing has gone on in its proper order, and everybody seems to be wondering what will happen next. tom has gone—run away to sea, as the boys are whispering to each other; but that is not the worst. i knew he meant going when he said "good night" to me last night, and so i risked the imposition i might get, and stayed in my room this morning until chandos came rushing in, looking white and scared.
"is frank here, stewart?" he said.
"frank?—no, i haven't seen him," i said.
"then he's gone—gone with haslitt," he said, dropping into a chair. "did you know anything about this, stewart?" he asked.
"i knew that tom meant to go some time. i've told you the same."
"but about frank—what have you heard about him? tell me instantly, stewart. think of my poor mother."
"i don't believe your brother has gone with tom. he isn't such a muff as to do that."
"you forget the sea fever that we used to tease him about in the holidays."
"yes, i know we teased him, but nobody could ever think frank would be fit for sea. tom didn't, i know."
"but he's taken him—they're gone away together, i'm certain."
"oh, nonsense, chandos. look here, now, you mustn't split on tom, or say a word to the governor that i know anything about it; but i've talked to tom lots of times about this, but he never said a word about anybody else going with him. he wanted me to go, of course, but, failing me, he should have to go alone, he said."
"but where can frank be? nobody has seen him this morning, and most of his clothes and all his money have gone—i have been to look."
"well, if i thought—" and then i stopped. "look here, i can't split on tom unless i am quite sure that young muff has really gone. don't tell what i have said, chandos; but if they are together, tom is the greatest stupid i ever heard of, for he might be sure i should tell all i knew then, and i will too. fancy that poor little muff frank handling tarred ropes—he'd want to put his gloves on first!" and i burst out laughing at the thought of chandos minor going to sea. chandos court would do for him nicely, but on board a ship he would be in misery.
chandos left me laughing, but soon came back.
"stewart, you must go to the governor and tell him all you know about this affair. there is no time to be lost, you see, for somebody must go after them. a carriage has been ordered, and swain is to go with a policeman; but if they find out before starting which road they have probably taken, perhaps it may save hours, perhaps days, of delay."
"well, i know tom meant to go to liverpool; he told me so over and over again."
"well, come and tell the doctor before he sends off the telegram to haslitt's father."
"is he going to send to your mother too?" i asked.
"not just yet. i want to spare my mother this anxiety if i can. it was for this—to look after frank a little longer, because he is inclined to get into mischief, that i decided to stay here for the rest of the year, but it seems i am of little use in preventing the mischief. but come now, stewart, every moment is precious."
so we tore off to the doctor's study, where he was closeted with a policeman.
"if you please, sir, stewart has come to tell you something about haslitt," said chandos, pushing me forward.
"i don't know much, sir, only he said he was going to liverpool. i shouldn't have split about it only for little chandos, and he—"
"when did he tell you this, stewart? you came to school together, i remember."
"yes, sir, we are old chums, and he had talked about going to liverpool lots of times."
"you meant to go together, then, young gentleman?" said the policeman.
"yes; i mean to go to sea, but i'll wait till i get my mother's consent now. young chandos, though, isn't fit for the sea, and he mustn't go."
"and you think they have taken the road to liverpool, young gentleman?"
"i am sure they have."
"and how do you think they meant to travel?" asked the policeman again.
"oh, they'd walk, unless chandos junior had lots of tin, and that ain't likely; for mother brown makes us shell out for her bulls'-eyes."
"do you know how much money your brother had, chandos?" asked the governor.
"not much, sir, i should think. he came to borrow some of me yesterday, but i only gave him a shilling."
"then we may conclude they are walking," said the policeman; and a few minutes afterwards he and swain drove away, and we have been wondering ever since whether they would catch the runaways."
october 20th.—nobody heard anything about tom and chandos until yesterday, for they didn't go to liverpool after all, and so swain and the policeman had their journey for nothing. mr. haslitt got here a few hours after the telegram was sent, and asked me all about tom; but he was too impatient to wait until swain got back at night, as everybody expected he would do, but went off to london to set people to work at once, in case they were not heard of. it was just as well he did, too, for tom must have changed his mind at the last minute, and started for plymouth instead of liverpool, for that was where he was found—he and chandos—wandering about the docks asking everybody if they wanted a boy to go to sea. fancy anybody taking that poor little muff chandos! and it seems tom might have got a berth for himself, but he wouldn't go without chandos, so they were both caught, and i'm glad of it—glad at least that they found chandos minor, though i can't help feeling sorry for tom, for he'll have a harder time of it than ever now, i fancy.
"do you want a boy to go to sea?"
his father is very angry with him, not only for this last scrape, but about pretty well everything that's happened since he's been here; for of course it all came out in talking to the governor and the boys, and that watch affair he is mad about, and thinks it began all the mischief. but i think the beginning of it was when he let chandos into that scrape about the farm-yard—that was the first mean thing i ever knew tom to do; and now if it wasn't actual stealing it was next to it, for he put chandos minor up to taking his brother's studs and a locket that was with them. the police found that out; i don't know what those london fellows could not find out if they tried. nobody had missed the things until we heard they had been found, and then chandos went to the drawer where he had put them and found they were gone, and some money too; but he won't say a word about the money, it seems. he is dreadfully upset, i know, although he is very quiet about it; but i have come in rather suddenly once or twice in the middle of the day, and found him kneeling down, and though he has tried to hide it, i know he was crying too. he need not be afraid of me now, though, for i'd—well i'd rather kick up a row and laugh in church than tell the other fellows of it. i'm in the secret a little. i know he feels it awfully about frank, and i suppose it helps him a bit to go and tell god all about it. that's just what it is, i know. he prays as though god was as much his friend as i am and just as ready to help him as i should be if i could; and i know if i'd only got the chance i'd do it.
october 24th.—frank chandos is back in his place once more, but tom has gone home with his father. i don't think anybody is likely to try running away again in a hurry, for to see tom and chandos minor when the policeman brought them in was enough to make anybody think twice before they tried that game. that poor little muff chandos cried like a girl, but tom tried to brave it out until he saw his father. he gave it up then, and i almost wished for his sake that we were all on the alder pond again, for a more miserable look i never saw on any face than that on tom's. his head drooped, and he never raised his eyes from the floor again while we were there.
poor old tom! if he could only have been brave enough to speak out the truth last year about that farm-yard business, all the rest might not have followed.
but this fuss about him and chandos minor has put everything else out of my head, and i have forgotten all about the prize and the grind too. what a bother prizes are! i'm afraid i shall stand a poor chance of getting this one now, for the other fellows who mean to go in for it have been working like galley slaves all the time this row was going on, but i couldn't, and chandos seemed to forget everything but that little muff, and so i am all behind, i know.
chandos says i shall be able to make up for lost time now if i only work steadily every day, but there's the rub. how can i be sure that i can work steadily for more than a month? fancy grinding without a lazy spell for a whole month! i'm sure i couldn't do it, and so i may as well give up at once. i think i will, for what is the use of trying now? it will be so much grind thrown away. and we are having such splendid weather now, that won't last much longer, that it seems a pity to be boring over a book a single minute longer than i am obliged. i shall tell chandos to-morrow that i mean to give up the whole thing, for i can't do it.
november 1st.—i am grinding still, for chandos won't hear of my giving up. he says the things i learn—the grind—will be more useful than the prize by-and-by; and then he reminded me of my mother, and how very pleased she would be if i gained this prize. i know that, and i should like to please her for once, independent of the sea scheme. this is the prize to me, for i don't care much about the watch for itself; it will remind me too much of poor tom and his watch. as to the grind, what do i care about julius cæsar and hannibal and rome and carthage? if it was about nelson and howe, and abercrombie and cook, and a few more like them, i'd grind away, never fear. why can't they let us know what the questions are going to be—a few of them at least? and then we might manage; but to be expected to know all about everything, and the fellows that lived hundreds of years ago, is rather too stiff, and if it wasn't for chandos i should give it up, i know, much as i want to please my mother.
november 7th.—i've had a letter from tom. fancy tom writing a letter! he says everything is just as miserable at home as it was here, and he has to do no end of grind shut up in his father's room. he saw my mother last week, and his father told her she need not be afraid i should run away to sea now, for i had learned a few things at school i was not likely to forget in a hurry. well, that's true enough; but i don't think tom's father knows what it is i have learned that prevented me going with tom, and i am not sure myself that i have learned all the secret that makes such a difference between chandos and two or three others and the rest of us at school, that makes everybody take their word for anything, and be sure they would not do a mean, sneakish trick. i feel as though i was stopping just outside this secret, for god is not my friend—at least i cannot feel that he is, as chandos does. sometimes i wish i could, for i know this is more to him a great deal than being sir eustace chandos; but somehow i don't seem able to get hold of it, although i do believe it's true—all that chandos says about god being his friend.
