“I wish you wouldn’t joke about it, Harry; it’s hard enough to see one’s way—­a precious sight harder than I thought last night.  But I suppose there’s a use and an abuse of both, and one’ll get straight enough somehow.  But you can’t make out, anyhow, that one has a right to use old vulgus-books and copy-books.”

“Hullo, more heresy!  How fast a fellow goes downhill when he once gets his head before his legs.  Listen to me, Tom.  Not use old vulgus-books!  Why, you Goth, ain’t we to take the benefit of the wisdom and admire and use the work of past generations?  Not use old copy-books!  Why, you might as well say we ought to pull down Westminster Abbey, and put up a go-to-meeting shop with churchwarden windows; or never read Shakespeare, but only Sheridan Knowles.  Think of all the work and labour that our predecessors have bestowed on these very books; and are we to make their work of no value?”

“I say, Harry, please don’t chaff; I’m really serious.”

“And then, is it not our duty to consult the pleasure of others rather than our own, and above all, that of our masters?  Fancy, then, the difference to them in looking over a vulgus which has been carefully touched and retouched by themselves and others, and which must bring them a sort of dreamy pleasure, as if they’d met the thought or expression of it somewhere or another—­before they were born perhaps—­and that of cutting up, and making picture-frames round all your and my false quantities, and other monstrosities.  Why, Tom, you wouldn’t be so cruel as never to let old Momus hum over the ’O genus humanum’ again, and then look up doubtingly through his spectacles, and end by smiling and giving three extra marks for it—­just for old sake’s sake, I suppose.”

“Well,” said Tom, getting up in something as like a huff as he was capable of, “it’s deuced hard that when a fellow’s really trying to do what he ought, his best friends’ll do nothing but chaff him and try to put him down.”  And he stuck his books under his arm and his hat on his head, preparatory to rushing out into the quadrangle, to testify with his own soul of the faithlessness of friendships.

“Now don’t be an ass, Tom,” said East, catching hold of him; “you know me well enough by this time; my bark’s worse than my bite.  You can’t expect to ride your new crotchet without anybody’s trying to stick a nettle under his tail and make him kick you off—­especially as we shall all have to go on foot still.  But now sit down, and let’s go over it again.  I’ll be as serious as a judge.”

Then Tom sat himself down on the table, and waxed eloquent about all the righteousnesses and advantages of the new plan, as was his wont whenever he took up anything, going into it as if his life depended upon it, and sparing no abuse which he could think of, of the opposite method, which he denounced as ungentlemanly, cowardly, mean, lying, and no one knows what besides.  “Very cool of Tom,” as East thought, but didn’t say, “seeing as how he only came out of Egypt himself last night at bedtime.”