“It's all right, old fellow,” he cried, as soon as he could catch his breath; “it's all right. Four firsts; you're one of them; well done!”
“And Grey, where's he; is he all right?”
“Bless me, I forgot to look,” said Tom; “I only read the firsts, and then came off as hard as I could.”
“Then he is not a first.”
“No; I'm sure of that.”
“I must go and see him; he deserved it far more than I.”
“No, by Jove, old boy,” said Tom, seizing him again by the hand, “that he didn't; nor any man that ever went into the schools.”
“Thank you, Brown,” said Hardy, returning his warm grip. “You do one good. Now to see poor Grey, and to write to my dear old father before hall. Fancy him opening the letter at breakfast the day after to-morrow! I hope it won't hurt him.”
“Never, fear. I don't believe in people dying of joy, and anything short of sudden death he won't mind at the price.”
Hardy hurried off, and Tom went to his own rooms, and smoked a cigar to allay his excitement, and thought about his friend, and all they had felt together, and laughed and mourned over in the short months of their friendship. A pleasant, dreamy half-hour he spent thus, till the hall bell roused him, and he made his toilette and went to his dinner.