For these reasons Bobby had come to regard Tom with a feeling of deep interest.  He considered him as, in some measure, his disciple, and he felt a personal responsibility in encouraging him to persevere in his good work.  Nevertheless Bobby was not exactly pleased to have his fine air castle upset, and to be tipped out of the clouds upon the cold, uncompromising earth again; so the first greeting he gave Tom was not as cordial as it might have been.

“Hallo, Tom!” he replied, rather coolly.

“Been waiting for you this half hour.”

“Have you?”

“Yes; ain’t you rather late?”

“No; I have plenty of time, though none to spare,” answered Bobby; and this was a hint that he must not detain him too long.

“Come along then.”

“Where are you going, Tom?” asked Bobby, a little surprised at these words.

“To Boston.”

“Are you?”

“I am; that’s a fact.  You know I spoke to you about going into the book business.”

“Not lately.”

“But I have been thinking about it all the time.”

“What do your father and mother say?”

“O, they are all right.”

“Have you asked them?”

“Certainly I have; they are willing I should go with you.”

“Why didn’t you speak of it then?”

“I thought I wouldn’t say any thing till the time came.  You know you fought shy when I spoke about it before.”

And Bobby, notwithstanding the interest he felt in his companion, was a little disposed to “fight shy” now.  Tom had reformed, or had pretended to do so; but he was still a raw recruit, and our hero was somewhat fearful that he would run at the first fire.

To the good and true man life is a constant battle.  Temptation assails him at almost every point; perils and snares beset him at every step of his mortal pilgrimage, so that every day he is called upon to gird on his armor and fight the good fight.

Bobby was no poet; but he had a good idea of this every-day strife with the foes of error and sin that crossed his path.  It was a practical conception, but it was truly expressed under the similitude of a battle.  There was to be resistance, and he could comprehend that, for his bump of combativeness took cognizance of the suggestion.  He was to fight; and that was an idea that stood him in better stead than a whole library of ethical subtleties.

Judging Tom by his own standard, he was afraid he would run—­that he wouldn’t “stand fire.”  He had not been drilled.  Heretofore, when temptation beset him, he had yielded without even a struggle, and fled from the field without firing a gun.  To go out into the great world was a trying event for the raw recruit.  He lacked, too, that prestige of success which is worth more than numbers, on the field of battle.

Tom had chosen for himself, and he could not send him back.  He had taken up the line of march, let it lead him where it might.