The students of Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital were not on the whole a bad set. On Tom’s arrival in London, however, he had the firm impression in his mind that all medical students were bad characters, and this foolish notion did him much harm. If two or three of them were to go off for a spree, his imagination would at once picture them in scenes and places such as no respectable man would like to frequent, whereas, if the truth were known, these misjudged young men had committed no greater crime than that of taking a boat up the river, or a drive in a dog-cart. If a group of them should be seen by him laughing and talking, he instinctively concluded their topic must be ribaldry, whereas they would perhaps be only joking at the expense of some eccentric professor, or else chaffing one of their own number. And so it happened that Tom failed in time to distinguish between the really bad and such as he only imagined to be bad; and from his habit of looking on at them and their doings from a studied distance, their presence began gradually and insensibly to exercise a very considerable influence over his mind.
“After all,” he would sometimes say to himself, “these fellows get on. They pass their exams, they pay their bills, they gain the confidence of their professors, and at the same time they manage to enjoy themselves. Perhaps I am a fool to take so much pains about the first three of these things, and to deny myself the fourth. Perhaps, after all, these fellows are not so bad as I have fancied, or perhaps I am prudish.”
And then the silly fellow, having once inclined to admit there was something to be said for medical students, and having before considered all bad alike, became tolerant all round, more particularly of the really bad set, who appeared to him to enjoy themselves the most.
As his companions became more attractive to him, his work became less interesting.
“Why should I grind and plod here,” he said, “while every one else is enjoying himself? If young Charlie were here, I’m pretty sure he’d be in for some of their sprees, and laugh at me for wearing my eyes out as I’m doing.”
And then he leaned back in his chair and took to wondering what the six fellows who started that afternoon for Richmond were doing. Smashing the windows of the “Star and Garter,” perhaps, or fighting the bargees on the river, or capturing a four-in-hand drag, or disporting themselves in some such genial and truly English manner. And as Tom conjured up the picture he half envied them their sport.
So he gradually became restless and discontented. The days were weary and the evenings intolerably dull. The visits to Mr Newcome were of course pleasant enough, but it was slow being cooped up an entire Sunday with two old people. On the whole, life in London was becoming stupid.
One of the first symptoms of his altered frame of mind was the occasional neglect of his regular letter to Charlie. That ever-faithful young man wrote as punctually as clockwork. Every Thursday morning a letter lay on Tom’s plate at breakfast-time, addressed in the well-known hand, and bearing the Randlebury post-mark. And jolly lively letters they were.
I remembered one of them well. It came after two weeks’ omission on Tom’s part, and ran thus:—
“Dear Tom,
“A pretty fellow you are to correspond with! Here am I, piping to you with all my might, but I can’t get you to dance. I know what you’ll tell me, you old humbug—‘awfully hard grind’—‘exam coming on’—‘lectures day and night,’ and rubbish like that. All very well, but look here, Thomas, don’t fancy that your diligence in cutting off legs and arms can be an excuse for cutting yours truly in this heartless manner. Not having a letter of yours to answer, I don’t know how I shall scrape up material enough for a yarn. There was a big football-match on Saturday, and Jim and I were in it. You should have seen me turning somersaults, and butting my head into the fellows’ stomachs. Jim and I got shoulder to shoulder once in the game. You know old Howe? Well, he was running with the ball to wards our goal, and Jim and I were in front of him.
I was nearest, and charged, and over I went like a ninepin; then Jim was on him, and over he went too. However, I was up again in time to jump on Howe’s back; but he shook me off on to the ground on my nose. Then Jim, having recovered, took his fling, and a rare fling it was, for Howe dodged him just as he was at the top of a kangaroo leap, and left him looking very foolish in a sitting posture on the ground. However, in dodging, Howe had allowed me time to extricate my nose from the earth and make my third attempt. This time was more successful, for I got my hands round the ball; but I shouldn’t have kept them there if Jim hadn’t taken the opportunity of executing another astounding buck-jump, which landed him safe on his man’s shoulders, where he stuck like a scared cat on the back of a somnambulist. So between us we brought our quarry to earth and gained no end of applause. Wasn’t it prime?
That’s about all the news here, except that Willoughby is going to Trinity at Midsummer, and that Salter is laid up from the effects of an explosion of crackers in his trousers pockets.
“I’ve taken a turn at reading hard, which may astonish you. The doctor told me, if I really thought of some day arraying my manly form in a scarlet jacket and wearing a sword, I ought to put it on with my mathematics, which are not my forte, you know. So now I’m drawing circles and triangles at every available moment, and my logarithm tables are thumbed almost to death. Don’t imagine you’re the only burner of midnight oil.
“I had a letter from home to-day. They were saying they hadn’t seen you lately. I hope you’ll go up when you can; it would be a charity to the dear old folk; besides, they are very fond of you—queer taste! How’s the ticker? Give it a cuff from me for not reminding you to write the last two weeks.
The repeater goes on all serene. It has already gained some notoriety, as I was publicly requested, before the whole Fifth, the other day, to abstain from evoking its musical talents in the course of the Latin prose lesson. Now I must shut up. Seriously, old man, don’t overwork yourself, and don’t bother to write unless you’ve time; but you know how welcome your letters are to
“Your affectionate chum,
“C.N.”