“I say, can't you throw lighter over there? We ain't fishing for grampuses,” shouted Tom across the stream.
“Hullo, Brown! here's something for you,” called out the reading man next moment. “Why, your old master, Arnold of Rugby, is dead.”
[Original]
Tom's hand stopped half-way in his cast, and his line and flies went all tangling round and round his rod; you might have knocked him over with a feather. Neither of his companions took any notice of him, luckily; and with a violent effort he set to work mechanically to disentangle his line. He felt completely carried off his moral and intellectual legs, as if he had lost his standing-point in the invisible world. Besides which, the deep, loving loyalty which he felt for his old leader made the shock intensely painful. It was the first great wrench of his life, the first gap which the angel Death had made in his circle, and he felt numbed, and beaten down, and spiritless. Well, well! I believe it was good for him and for many others in like case, who had to learn by that loss that the soul of man cannot stand or lean upon any human prop, however strong, and wise, and good; but that He upon whom alone it can stand and lean will knock away all such props in His own wise and merciful way, until there is no ground or stay left but Himself, the Rock of Ages, upon whom alone a sure foundation for every soul of man is laid.
As he wearily laboured at his line, the thought struck him, “It may be all false—a mere newspaper lie.” And he strode up to the recumbent smoker.
“Let me look at the paper,” said he.
“Nothing else in it,” answered the other, handing it up to him listlessly. “Hullo, Brown! what's the matter, old fellow? Ain't you well?”
“Where is it?” said Tom, turning over the leaves, his hands trembling, and his eyes swimming, so that he could not read.
“What? What are you looking for?” said his friend, jumping up and looking over his shoulder.