I come to an Understanding with my Father.
I believe I lay in bed that night with my eyes wide open, seeing, as if in a waking dream, the whole of the eventful life I had pictured out for myself—a glorious career of adventure in a land of imaginary beauties—a land built up out of recollections of Robinson Crusoe’s island, Sir Edward Seaward’s narrative, The Conquest of Peru, and The Lives of the Buccaneers, with a little Arabian Nights’ Entertainments dashed in by way of pickles or spice. All these formed themselves into a glowing series of scenes—a sort of panorama of the future, and I lay and watched in imagination the glorious prospect of river and forest, mountain and plain, where I was going to win fame and fortune, in a series of wonderful adventures, such as had never before fallen to the lot of man.
You will not be surprised to hear that I got up the next morning feverish and unrefreshed, and I felt quite envious of Tom when I saw him holding his shortly-cropped bullet head under the spout of the pump in the back yard, waggling the handle awkwardly as he had what he called “a sloosh.”
For he looked so hale and hearty and fresh, as he looked up on hearing my step, and cried out to me—
“Lay hold o’ the pump-handle, Mas’r Harry, and work it up and down a bit, it’s awkward to do all by yourself.”
I felt quite spiteful as I took hold of the polished old handle and worked at it, meaning to give Tom a regular ducking; and I sent the pure cold well-water gushing out as he held his head under, letting the stream come first upon his poll, then upon one ear, then upon the other, and backing away at last to where he had hung his rough towel upon a hook in the wall, to seize it and begin to scrub.
“Oh, I say, Mas’r Harry, it’s ’evinly,” he panted, as he rubbed away. “Just you try it. Seems to make the strength go rattling through you like. Have a go: I’ll pump.”
I hesitated for a moment, and then, feeling that the cold shock would perhaps clear my heated brain, I threw off my cap and necktie, stripped my jacket from my shoulders, and, rolling up my sleeves, thrust my head under the spout, and the next moment was panting and gasping, and feeling half drowned and confused, as Tom sent the water streaming out with liberal hand.
“Now then, what Tom-fool’s game’s this?” said a voice, as I withdrew my head and held out my hand for the towel; “washing the folly out of your head, Harry?”