that Pledge, by any direct influence, incited him to evil-doing.
On the contrary, he always corrected him when he prevaricated, and
scolded him when he idled.

But the boy had begun a course of indirect training far more dangerous
to his morals and happiness than any direct training could have been.

He discovered, very gradually, that Pledge's notions of persons and
things were unlike any he had hitherto entertained. In the innocence of
his heart he had always given every one credit for being honest, and
virtuous, until he had good cause to see otherwise. When any one told
him a thing, he usually believed it straight off. If any one professed
to be anything, he usually assumed it was so. The small knot of boys at
Templeton who called themselves religious, who said their prayers
steadily, who refused to do what their conscience would not allow, who
tried to do good in some way or other to their fellows, these Heathcote
had readily believed were Christians, and more than once he had wished
he belonged to their set.

But, somehow, Pledge's influence gave him altogether different ideas on
these points. For instance, he would one evening hear a conversation
somewhat as follows, between his senior and some friend--generally
Wrangham of the Fifth, who usually associated with Pledge:

"I hear Holden is not going to try for the Bishop's scholarship, after
all," says Wrangham, who, by the way, is aesthetic, and adopts an air of
general weariness of the world which hardly becomes a boy of seventeen.

"Did he tell you so himself?" asked Pledge.

"Yes."

"Then, of course, we don't believe it. He'd like us to think so, I
daresay."

"He knows what he is about, though. He got confirmed last week, you
know, and that's bound to go down with Winter."

"Winter's pretty well bound to favour Morris, I fancy, though he's not
pious," says Pledge. "There are three young Morrises growing up, you
know."

Wrangham laughs languidly.

"Nice rotten state the school's in," says he. "Thank goodness, it
doesn't matter much to me; but I've once or twice thought of joining the
saints, just to save trouble."

"Ha, ha! I'd come and look at you, old man. Fancy you and Mansfield
looking over the same hymn-book, and turning up your eyes."

"But," says Heathcote, who has been drinking in all the talk in a
bewildered way, and venturing now, as he sometimes does, to join in it.
"But I always thought Mansfield was really good."

His t