joking at the expense of some eccentric professor, or
else chaffing one of their own number. And so it happened that Tom
failed in time to distinguish between the really bad and such as he only
imagined to be bad; and from his habit of looking on at them and their
doings from a studied distance, their presence began gradually and
insensibly to exercise a very considerable influence over his mind.

"After all," he would sometimes say to himself, "these fellows get on.
They pass their exams, they pay their bills, they gain the confidence of
their professors, and at the same time they manage to enjoy themselves.
Perhaps I am a fool to take so much pains about the first three of these
things, and to deny myself the fourth. Perhaps, after all, these
fellows are not so bad as I have fancied, or perhaps I am prudish."

And then the silly fellow, having once inclined to admit there was
something to be said for medical students, and having before considered
all bad alike, became tolerant all round, more particularly of the
really bad set, who appeared to him to enjoy themselves the most.

As his companions became more attractive to him, his work became less
interesting.

"Why should I grind and plod here," he said, "while every one else is
enjoying himself? If young Charlie were here, I'm pretty sure _he'd_ be
in for some of their sprees, and laugh at me for wearing my eyes out as
I'm doing."

And then he leaned back in his chair and took to wondering what the six
fellows who started that afternoon for Richmond were doing. Smashing
the windows of the "Star and Garter," perhaps, or fighting the bargees
on the river, or capturing a four-in-hand drag, or disporting themselves
in some such genial and truly English manner. And as Tom conjured up
the picture he half envied them their sport.

So he gradually became restless and discontented. The days were weary
and the evenings intolerably dull. The visits to Mr Newcome were of
course pleasant enough, but it was slow being cooped up an entire Sunday
with two old people. On the whole, life in London was becoming stupid.

One of the first symptoms of his altered frame of mind was the
occasional neglect of his regular letter to Charlie. That ever-faithful
young man wrote as punctually as clockwork. Every Thursday morning a
letter lay on Tom's plate at breakfast-time, addressed in the well-known
hand, and bearing the Randlebury post-mark. And jolly lively letters
they we