Weston College was a polishing-up establishment. Boys were not admitted under the age of fourteen, or unless they showed a certain proficiency¹ in Greek and Latin, in the first book of Euclid, in arithmetic and algebra² up to simple equations. And the entrance examination, mind you, was no farce³. If a candidate was not well grounded they would not have him; and it was necessary to be particular, because the first or lowest form assumed a certain amount of knowledge in the commencement of that course which proposed to land the neophyte⁵ in the Indian Civil Service, the army, or a good scholarship at one of the universities.  
Though fourteen was the age of possible admission, very few boys were qualified⁶ until they were at least a year older, and consequently there was no organised system of fagging, and flogging was a very rare and extreme measure; but otherwise the system somewhat resembled that of the large public schools. The head-master and three other masters each had a house full of boarders, whose preparation of lessons on certain subjects he superintended; and every boy had a separate apartment, which was his study and bedroom.
 
It was an expensive school, and the discipline of Dr Jolliffe was more lax than many parents and guardians⁷ quite liked; and yet few of the boys who went there were rich. It was very rarely, that is, that one of them had not to make his own way in the world. And the number, which was limited, was always complete. For results speak for themselves, and the examination lists showed triumphant⁸ successes for Weston. It is true that if they only took boys of considerable proficiency, and got rid of all who made no progress, they might be expected to show a good average; but then, on the other hand, there was no cramming⁹, and every encouragement was given to healthy athletic¹⁰ exercise. Three or four years were taken to do the work which is too often jammed into a few months. That was the secret; and, though of course there were failures, it answered well on the whole.
 
This is an explanatory digression, just to let you know what sort of stage our characters are acting¹¹ upon.
 
It was Saturday afternoon, and a half-holiday, and there was only one boy left in Dr Jolliffe’s house. His name was Buller, and he was neither sick nor under punishment. His window was wide open, for it was very hot and stuffy¹² in his little room, into which the sun poured, and on the other side of a lane which ran underneath¹³ was the cricket-field, from which the thud of balls struck by the bat, voices, and laughter resounded¹⁴ in a way to tempt¹⁵ any fellow out of his hole. But there he stuck with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands, forcing himself to concentrate his attention upon a book which lay open before him.
 
“Because a divided by b equals c divided by d,” he murmured, “the first quotients m m are equal. Yes, I see that; again, since a divided by b equals m plus x divided by b, and c divided by d equals m plus r divided by d, hum, hum, why, in the name of all that’s blue—oh, yes! I see. But then—oh, a thousand blisters¹⁶ on the idiot who invented this rot! But I won’t be licked.”
 
And he began again and again, sticking to it for another half-hour, when he suddenly cried out, “I have it! What a double-distilled ass⁴ I am! Of course it is simple enough. If a divided by b equals c divided by d, and a and b be prime to each other, c and d are equimultiples of a and b. Of course they are; how could they be anything else? The other fellows saw it at once, no doubt. What a lot of trouble it gives one to be a fool! Now, I’ll go and practise bowling¹⁷.”
 
Buller was no fool; indeed he would not have thought himself one if he had been; but he was slow at everything—learning, games, accomplishments—though he had this compensation, no slight one either, that when he had once mastered a thing he had got it for ever. His school-fellows called him a duffer, but it did not vex¹⁸ him in the least, for he considered it a mere¹⁹ statement of a patent fact, and was no more offended than if they had said that he had two legs. But he had a strong belief that perseverance²⁰, sticking, he called it, could make up in a great measure for want of natural ability. The fable²¹ of the hare and tortoise had given him great encouragement, and, finding in practice that he passed boys who had far more brilliant parts than himself, he never gave way to despair, however hopeless the task before him might seem.
 
His ambition—never expressed, however, to anyone—was to get into the eleven. Had it been known it would have been thought the very height of absurdity²², and have become such a standing²³ joke that its realisation would have been rendered well nigh impossible. It proved that Buller had sound sense that he was able to see this. He did not much expect to succeed, but he meant to try all he knew ever since the day he was called “old butter-fingers” in a game in which he showed especial incapacity to catch the ball. He began by mastering that; whenever he could he got fellows to give him catches. He practised throwing the ball up in the air and catching²⁴ it again. When he went home for the holidays he would carry a tennis-ball in his pocket, and take every opportunity of throwing it against a wall and taking it at the rebound²⁵ with both hands, with the right hand, and with the left. At last he got quite dexterous—and sinistrous, too, for that matter.
 
But the mere fact of being able to manipulate the ball smartly, though it is of supreme²⁶ importance in cricket, would never gain him admission into the eleven of his house, let alone that of the school. For that, as he well knew, he must cultivate a speciality, and he decided²⁷ upon bowling. Wicket-keeping could only be practised in a regular game, and no side would agree to let him fill the post—it was not likely. Batting everyone wanted to practise, and it would be very rarely that he would be able to get a good bowler²⁸ to bowl for him. There was a professional, indeed, who was always in the cricket-fields during the season, but his services were generally in request, and, besides, they were expensive, and Tom Buller had not much pocket-money. But there was almost always some fellow who was glad to get balls given to him, and, if not, you can set a stump²⁹ up in front of a net and bowl at that.
 
To have worked all this out in his mind did not look like lack of intelligence or observation, and to act upon it steadily³⁰, without saying a word about it to anybody, showed considerable steadfastness³¹ and resolution. He now put his algebra and papers into his bureau, took out his cricket-ball and ran down-stairs and round to the fields. At first it seemed as if he would be obliged to have recourse to his solitary³² stump, for, it being the Saturday half-holiday, there were two matches going on, and those present not taking part in them were playing lawn-tennis. But presently he espied³³ Robarts, who had been in and out again in the game he was engaged in, and was now waiting for the innings of his side to be over, standing in front of a net, bat in hand, with two boys bowling to him.
 
“May I give you a ball, Robarts?” he asked.
 
“Of course you may, Buller; the more the merrier,” was the reply; “only, if you are so wide as to miss the net, you must go after the ball yourself.” And Robarts raised his bat, prepared for a good swipe if the ball came within reach, which he did not much expect.
 
Buller measured his distance, took a short run, and sent the ball in with the energy begotten³⁴ of long mugging at algebra on a fine afternoon. Every muscle in his body seemed to long for violent exertion³⁵; the pent-up strength in him, like steam, demanded an outlet³⁶, and, with his hand rather higher than the shoulder, he sent the ball in with a will.
 
“By Jove! that was straight enough, and a hot one too!” exclaimed Robarts, who had only just managed to block it. “It made my hands tingle³⁷.”
 
The two others delivered their balls, which were hit away right and left, and then Buller came again with another which had to be blocked. The other bowlers³⁸ who had been playing, and were going in again presently, were glad to stop and leave Buller to work away alone, which he did in a deliberate, determined³⁹ manner, proving that his first attempts were not chance shots. Twice he sent the wickets down, and once, when the ball was driven back to him, he caught it with the left hand, high up.
 
“Well,” said Robarts when he was called away to go and field, “and you are the fellow they called a duffer! Why, it is like magic! Were you playing dark last year, or what?”
 
“No; but I have been practising.”
 
“You have practised to some purpose, then. If you could only vary your bowling a little more you would be very dangerous. You see, if you always send the same sort of ball, a fellow knows how to meet it after a bit.”
 
Robarts as an all-round player was only reckoned inferior to Crawley, and his words of approval were very gratifying to Buller, who felt himself a step nearer one particular goal. He did not indulge in daydreams⁴⁰, however, not being of an imaginative disposition⁴¹. The actual difficulty which he had to master at the time took up all his thoughts and energies, and the distant object to be attained⁴², though never absolutely lost sight of, was never dwelt upon or brooded over.
 
He at once looked about for someone else to bowl for, and found his particular chum, Penryhn, who, after fagging out through the heat of the day, had gone to the wicket with the sun in his eyes, and been clean bowled the first ball.
 
“Will you really bowl for me?” he said eagerly in reply to Buller’s offer. “What a good fellow you are!”
 
“Why? for doing what I want? That is laying in a stock of good works cheap. You won’t mind a few wides, I hope; Robarts says there is too great a sameness about my bowling, so I want to practise twisters and shooters. You won’t mind if I bowl at your legs?”
 
“Not a bit; ignis via—fire away.”
 
The necessity for violent exertion had been taken out of Buller, indeed it was now oozing⁴³ away from every pore of his skin. So he did not try fast bowling, except now and then when he attempted to put in a shooter, but concentrated his attention principally upon placing his ball, or on pitching it to leg with an inward twist towards the wicket. He constantly failed; sent easy ones which were hit about to the peril⁴⁴ of neighbouring players; cut Penryhn over once on the knee-cap and once on the ankle. But he never once delivered the ball carelessly, or without a definite object. And when his arm got so tired that his mind could no longer direct it, he left off and Penryhn bowled in turn to him, his great object then being to keep an upright bat rather than to hit.
 
“I’ll tell you what, Tom, you have improved in your cricket awfully,” said Penryhn as they strolled back in the dusk. “Why, you took Robarts’ wickets twice.”
 
“Yes, but I should not have done it in a game; fellows step out and hit recklessly in practice.”
 
“No matter for that; you are quite a different bowler from what you were.”
 
“The fact is it takes me all my time to learn to do what comes to other fellows naturally.”
 
“That’s a bit too deep for me; some fellows can do one thing easily and others another, and every fellow has to work hard to learn those things which belong, as it were, to the other fellows. There are chaps, I suppose, like the Admirable Crichton, who are born good all round, and can play the fiddle⁴⁵, polish off Euclid, ride, shoot, lick anyone at any game, all without the slightest trouble, but one does not come across them often, thank goodness. I say, do you know what genius is?”
 
“Not exactly; that is, I could not define it.”
 
“Well, I have heard my father say that some very clever chap has said that it is ‘an infinite capacity for taking pains,’ and if that’s true, by Jove, you must be a genius, Tom!”
 
And they both burst out laughing at the notion, and went in and changed their flannels⁴⁶. And Buller lit his candle and mugged at a German exercise till the supper-bell rang.
 
Half-holidays did not necessarily preclude⁴⁷ work in the tutor’s pupil-rooms, which was preparatory to that in school, though practically the hours of recreation were never
 
interfered⁴⁸ with in fine weather. But after the hour of “All In,” as the local phrase went, when the roll was called, and  every boy had to be in for the night, an hour which varied⁴⁹ with the time of the year, it was different. And on this Saturday evening Mr Cookson had some arrears⁵⁰ of Historical Theme correction to make up. For since history plays a considerable part in modern competitive examinations, every boy had to read up a certain portion of some standard work every week, and write a theme upon it, without the book, in the pupil-room. This theme was looked over with him by his tutor before being sent in to the head-master, and if it did not reach a certain standard it was torn up, and he had to read the subject again and write another one. Edwards was one of the essayists whose paper had not yet been examined, and he stood at this tutor’s elbow while he read it over. “‘After he had been some years in England Sir Elijah Impey was tried by Doctors’ Commons.’” “House of Commons, boy,” said Mr Cookson, “people are not impeached⁵¹ at Doctors’ Commons, that’s where wills are proved,” and he made a correction,—“‘and proved he hadn’t murdered the rajah. And so Sir Philip Francis, the author of a book called Junius, the writer of which was never discovered,’”—“why, that’s a bull;” Mr Cookson could not help chuckling⁵² as he made a dash and a correction,—“‘and deaf Burke,’”—“‘I never heard that he was deaf—oh, that was another man, a prize-fighter, ho, ho, ho, ahem!’”—“‘and Burke were very much ashamed of themselves, and were hissed⁵³, and never alluded⁵⁴ to the subject, from which originated the phrase of “burking the question,”’”—“Pooh, pooh, never make shots like that:”—“‘and Sir Elijah Impey was found Not Guilty, and all his property was taken from him to pay the lawyers with.’” “Well, well, it’s not so bad,” said Mr Cookson, signing his name at the bottom of the last page. “And now, Edwards,” he added, turning and looking the boy straight in the eyes, “I have a good mind to have you flogged.”
 
“Me, sir!” exclaimed Edwards, turning pale; “what for, sir?”
 
“Doctor Jolliffe does not flog for many things, but there are certain offences he never fails to visit with the utmost severity. Smoking is one of them.”
 
“I assure you, sir, I have not—”
 
“Lying is another, so do not finish your sentence. I can smell the stale tobacco.”
 
And indeed Edwards was wearing the jacket in which he had indulged in that emetical luxury, his first cigar, two evenings previously⁵⁵.
 
“But really, sir, it is no lie,” he urged; “I have not been smoking, and I cannot tell where the smell comes from, unless it is my jacket, which I wore in the holidays, when I sat in the room with my father when he was having his cigar sometimes, and which has been in my box till the other day. I am certain it cannot be my breath or anything else.”
 
“Come nearer; no, your breath and hair are free from the taint⁵⁶. Well, it may be as you say, and I am loth to suspect you of falsehood. But listen to me, my boy; I am not assuming that you have been smoking, mind, but only, as we are on the subject, that you might do so. It may seem very arbitrary that the rules against it are so very severe, considering how general the practice is, but they are wise for all that. However harmless it may be for those who have come to their full growth, smoking tobacco is certainly very injurious to lads who are not matured. And indeed until the habit is acquired—it affects the digestion⁵⁷ and the memory of every one. Now, in these days of competitive examinations, when every young fellow on entering life has to struggle to get his foot on the first rung of the ladder, and all his future prospects⁵⁸ depend on his doing better than others, how inexpressibly silly it is for him to handicap himself needlessly by taking a narcotic⁵⁹ which confuses his brain and impairs⁶⁰ his memory, and which affords him no pleasure whatever. I treat you as a rational being, and appeal to your common sense, and speak as your friend. Now, go.”
 
Edwards was not such a ready liar⁶¹ as you may think him, though he certainly prevaricated⁶². He had worn that jacket in his father’s smoking-room, and it had lain in his box during the early part of the term. He had not smoked again since the occasion commemorated⁶³, and that was two days previously, and he persuaded himself that his tutor’s question applied⁶⁴ to that day. But he knew in his heart that it didn’t, and with the kind tones of his tutor’s voice ringing in his ears he felt as if he ought to be kicked.
 
But when he went up to his room he found Saurin there, and any feelings of self-reproach he had had soon melted away.
 
“What’s up, now?” asked his friend. “You look as if you had seen a ghost.”
 
“I nearly got into an awful row, I can tell you!” replied Edwards. “My tutor smelt⁶⁵ my jacket of smoke while he was correcting my theme.”
 
“By Jove! And how did you get out of it?”
 
“I told him I had worn the jacket in my father’s smoking-room.”
 
“Ha, ha, ha! that was a good un. Well done, old fellow! I did not think you had so much presence of mind. You will make your way yet.”
 
Edwards was on the point of protesting that what he said was the fact, but his guide, philosopher, and friend seemed so much pleased with the ingenuity⁶⁶ of his plea that he could not bear to rob himself of the credit of it, and so he looked as knowing as he conveniently could, and chuckled⁶⁷, taking a pride in what five minutes before he was ashamed of.
 
“That’s the worst of cigar-smoking, the smell clings so to the clothes and hair. Now, a pipe is much easier to get sweet again after, unless, of course, you carry it about in your pocket. Wore the jacket in your father’s smoking-room about a month ago! and old Cookson was soft enough to swallow that. How old Slam would chuckle⁶⁸! I must tell him.”
 
“Do you know, I am not quite certain that my tutor did altogether believe that I had not been smoking,” said Edwards, his conscience stirring again a little bit now that he saw the man who had spoken so kindly⁶⁹ to him incurring⁷⁰ the terrible risk of forfeiting⁷¹ Saurin’s esteem⁷² through a false imputation⁷³ of too great credulity. “You see, he’s a good-natured chap, and I think he wanted to believe if he could, and as my hair and breath did not smell, he gave me the benefit of the doubt.”
 
“Thought it would bring discredit⁷⁴ on his house if it were known to contain a monster who smoked tobacco,” said Saurin, “and so was glad to pretend to believe the papa-smoking-room story. Well, it is possible; old Cookson may not be so great a fool as he looks. Anyhow, I am glad for your sake that he did not report you; old Jolliffe would not have been humbugged. He would have said, ‘Your jacket stinks⁷⁵ of tobacco, and jackets don’t smoke of themselves.’ And you would have got it hot, old fellow, for Jolliffe is mad against smoking.”