“Are you glad or sorry to be going back to-morrow, Tom?”
“Sorry for some things—glad for others. I fooled a bit last term, you know, mother.”
“Ah, well, sonny, it’s part of the lessons of school to find out our mistakes now and then. It was all new to you at first. I expect you tried to do too much, you know.”
“I know—you mean I’d best lie low a bit, mother.”
“Yes. I know what you mean,” said she.
“There you are!” exclaimed I, staggered by this new coincidence, “that’s what every chap has said. I’ll do my best, really, mother; only it’s jolly hard. Don’t be awfully sorry if I don’t get right all at once; I’ll try, you know.”
“You can’t do more than your best, sonny dear.”
“Redwood says,” continued I, “that I shall probably tool about more or less to the end of my time. It’s in my line, he says; but he rather backs me to pull myself together for all that.”
“So do I, Tom. And the best friend you have does so too.”
My journey next day was very different from the strange journey of a term ago. I had neither tan boots nor square-topped hat nor lavender gloves; and I could afford to smile with Langrish (who joined me en route) at some of the poor little greenhorns on their way to make their entry into Low Heath.