“Well, perhaps it does,” said Tom; “and I don’t believe it does a fellow a bit of good to be thinking about himself and his own doings.”
“Only he can’t help himself,” said Hardy. “Let him throw himself as he will into all that is going on up here, after all he must be alone for a great part of his time—all night at any rate—and when he gets his oak sported, it’s all up with him. He must be looking more or less into his own inside as you call it.”
“Then I hope he won’t find it as ugly a business as I do. If he does, I’m sure he can’t be worse employed.”
“I don’t know that,” said Hardy; “he can’t learn anything worth learning in any other way.”
“Oh, I like that!” said Tom; “it’s worth learning how to play tennis, and how to speak the truth. You can’t learn either by thinking about yourself ever so much.”
“You must know the truth before you can speak it,” said Hardy.
“So you always do in plenty of time.”
“How?” said Hardy.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Tom; “by a sort of instinct, I suppose. I never in my life felt any doubt about what I ought to say or do; did you?”
“Well, yours is a good, comfortable, working belief, at any rate,” said Hardy, smiling; “and I should advise you to hold on to it as long as you can.”