Bobby was no poet; but he had a good idea of this every-day strife with the foes of error and sin that crossed his path. It was a practical conception, but it was truly expressed under the similitude of a battle. There was to be resistance, and he could comprehend that, for his bump of combativeness took cognizance of the suggestion. He was to fight; and that was an idea that stood him in better stead than a whole library of ethical subtleties.
Judging Tom by his own standard, he was afraid he would run—that he wouldn't "stand fire." He had not been drilled. Heretofore, when temptation beset him, he had yielded without even a struggle, and fled from the field without firing a gun. To go out into the great world was a trying event for the raw recruit. He lacked, too, that prestige of success which is worth more than numbers, on the field of battle.
Tom had chosen for himself, and he could not send him back. He had taken up the line of march, let it lead him where it might.
"March on! in legions death and sin
Impatient wait thy conquering hand;
The foe without, the foe within—
Thy youthful arm must both withstand."
Bobby had great hopes of him. He felt that he could not well get rid of him, and he saw that it was policy for him to make the best of it.
"Well, Tom, where are you going?" asked Bobby, after he had made up his mind not to object to the companionship of the other.
"I don't know. You have been a good friend to me lately, and I had an idea that you would give me a lift in this business."
"I should be very willing to do so: but what can I do for you?"
"Just show me how the business is done; that's all I want."
"Your father and mother were willing you should come—were they not?"