It was just with such boys as Drift that his influence was most telling; for Tom was a boy not without aptitude to note and emulate a powerful example, whether it were good or bad, while his vanity rendered him as pliant as wax to the hand of the flatterer.
Such was the party which assembled surreptitiously in Tom’s study that evening and partook of the smuggled supper.
Tom had had hard work to provide for his guests, and had succeeded only at the risk of grave penalties if detected.
“I say, Tom, old horse, this is a prime spread!” said Gus; “where did you get it?”
“Oh!” said Tom, “I had a new hat coming from Tiler’s, so I got old Tripes (the butcher) to make a neat brown-paper parcel of the kidneys, and got them up in my gossamer. The old donkey might have done the thing better though, for the juice squeezed through, and the inside of my hat looks as if I had lately been scalped.”
“Hard lines! But never mind, perhaps they’ll put it down to the crack you got on your forehead.”
Tom flushed scarlet; any reference to his inglorious scuffle with Charlie Newcome was odious to him, as Gus and the others knew well enough. He said nothing, however, only scowled angrily.
“What!” said Gus, “does it hurt you still then? Never mind, it was a good shot, and I wouldn’t be ashamed of having floored you myself.”
“He didn’t floor me; I fell!” cried Tom indignantly.
“Did you? Rather a way fellows have when they get knocked down!”