profane poetry put together, steps up to him and
lays his hand kindly on his shoulder, saying, "Never mind, my little
man, you've construed very well. Stop a minute; there's no hurry."

Now, as luck would have it, there sat next above Tom on that day, in
the middle bench of the form, a big boy, by name Williams, generally
supposed to be the cock of the shell, therefore of all the school below
the fifths. The small boys, who are great speculators on the prowess of
their elders, used to hold forth to one another about Williams's great
strength, and to discuss whether East or Brown would take a licking from
him. He was called Slogger Williams, from the force with which it was
supposed he could hit. In the main, he was a rough, goodnatured fellow
enough, but very much alive to his own dignity. He reckoned himself
the king of the form, and kept up his position with the strong hand,
especially in the matter of forcing boys not to construe more than the
legitimate forty lines. He had already grunted and grumbled to himself
when Arthur went on reading beyond the forty lines; but now that he
had broken down just in the middle of all the long words, the Slogger's
wrath was fairly roused.

"Sneaking little brute," muttered he, regardless of prudence--"clapping
on the water-works just in the hardest place; see if I don't punch his
head after fourth lesson."

"Whose?" said Tom, to whom the remark seemed to be addressed.

"Why, that little sneak, Arthur's," replied Williams.

"No, you shan't," said Tom.

"Hullo!" exclaimed Williams, looking at Tom with great surprise for a
moment, and then giving him a sudden dig in the ribs with his elbow,
which sent Tom's books flying on to the floor, and called the attention
of the master, who turned suddenly round, and seeing the state of
things, said,--

"Williams, go down three places, and then go on."

The Slogger found his legs very slowly, and proceeded to go below Tom
and two other boys with great disgust; and then, turning round and
facing the master, said, "I haven't learnt any more, sir; our lesson is
only forty lines."

"Is that so?" said the master, appealing generally to the top bench. No
answer.

"Who is the head boy of the form?" said he, waxing wroth.

"Arthur, sir," answered three or four boys, indicating our friend.

"Oh, your name's Arthur. Well, now, what is the length of your regular
lesson?"

Arthur hesitated a moment, and then said, "We call it only forty lin