How my master and I went out to breakfast, and whom we met.
Jim Halliday—now a strapping youth of nineteen—was a good representative of the “steady set” at Saint George’s College. Indeed, as he was intending to become a clergyman in due time, it would have been a deplorable thing if this had not been the case. He worked hard, and though not a clever fellow, had already taken a good position in the examination lists of his college. He was also an ardent superintendent at a certain ragged-school in the town conducted by University men; and was further becoming a well-known figure in the debates at the Union—on all which accounts his friends were not a little satisfied. But on one point Jim and his friends did not hit it. Ever since his Randlebury days he had kept up his passion for athletic sports, and if he had now been famous for nothing else at his college, he would at least have been noted as a good bat, a famous boxer, a desperate man in a football scrimmage, and a splendid oar. It was on this subject that Jim and his relations were at variance. When I speak of “relations” I refer, by the way, to a certain old-fashioned uncle and aunt in Cornwall, who since Jim’s father’s death had assumed the guardianship of that youth and his brothers and sisters. This good uncle and aunt were horribly shocked that one destined for so solemn a sphere in life as the ministry should profane himself with athletic sports. The matter formed the theme for many serious remonstrances, and long letters addressed to the depraved Jim, who, on his part, maintained his side of the argument with characteristic vehemence. He actually spent a whole day in the college library, making out a list of all the athletic divines in history since the creation of the world, the which he hurled triumphantly at his good relations’ heads as an unanswerable challenge. But, however satisfactory it may have been to Jim, it failed to convince them, and neither party being disposed to give in, the feud in this particular had become chronic.
All this Jim contrived to impart to George (for lack of better conversation) in the course of a short walk previous to the breakfast in his rooms, to which he was leading his new acquaintance a captive.
“I suppose we shall have it all opened again now,” he remarked, “for you may have seen that my name is down to play in the football-match against Sandhurst.”
“I never read the athletic intelligence in the papers,” said George.
“Well, my uncle and aunt do. The names were actually printed in the Times, and I shall be greatly surprised if I don’t find a letter or telegram when I get back to my rooms. We may as well beat to quarters, though, or the fellows will be waiting.”
“You didn’t tell me anyone else was to be there,” said George reproachfully, suddenly stopping short, “I can’t come!”
“Stuff and nonsense,” said Jim; “they won’t eat you!”
“Halliday,” said George, hurriedly, “I’m much obliged to you for asking me, but I have made a rule, as I tell you, never to go out, and I’ve told you the reason.”
“An utterly rubbishing reason!” put in Jim.