“So am I, I’m sure,” said Tom, “and more and more sorry that I’ve got to leave.”

“Every place and thing one sees here reminds one of some wise act of his,” went on the master.  “This island now—­you remember the time, Brown, when it was laid out in small gardens, and cultivated by frost-bitten fags in February and March?”

“Of course I do,” said Tom; “didn’t I hate spending two hours in the afternoon grubbing in the tough dirt with the stump of a fives bat?  But turf-cart was good fun enough.”

“I dare say it was, but it was always leading to fights with the townspeople; and then the stealing flowers out of all the gardens in Rugby for the Easter show was abominable.”

“Well, so it was,” said Tom, looking down, “but we fags couldn’t help ourselves.  But what has that to do with the Doctor’s ruling?”

“A great deal, I think,” said the master; “what brought island-fagging to an end?”

“Why, the Easter speeches were put off till midsummer,” said Tom, “and the sixth had the gymnastic poles put up here.”

“Well, and who changed the time of the speeches, and put the idea of gymnastic poles into the heads of their worships the sixth form?” said the master.

“The Doctor, I suppose,” said Tom.  “I never thought of that.”

“Of course you didn’t,” said the master, “or else, fag as you were, you would have shouted with the whole school against putting down old customs.  And that’s the way that all the Doctor’s reforms have been carried out when he has been left to himself—­quietly and naturally, putting a good thing in the place of a bad, and letting the bad die out; no wavering, and no hurry—­the best thing that could be done for the time being, and patience for the rest.”

“Just Tom’s own way,” chimed in Arthur, nudging Tom with his elbow—­“driving a nail where it will go;” to which allusion Tom answered by a sly kick.

“Exactly so,” said the master, innocent of the allusion and by-play.

Meantime Jack Raggles, with his sleeves tucked up above his great brown elbows, scorning pads and gloves, has presented himself at the wicket; and having run one for a forward drive of Johnson’s, is about to receive his first ball.  There are only twenty-four runs to make, and four wickets to go down—­a winning match if they play decently steady.  The ball is a very swift one, and rises fast, catching Jack on the outside of the thigh, and bounding away as if from india-rubber, while they run two for a leg-bye amidst great applause and shouts from Jack’s many admirers.  The next ball is a beautifully-pitched ball for the outer stump, which the reckless and unfeeling Jack catches hold of, and hits right round to leg for five, while the applause becomes deafening.  Only seventeen runs to get with four wickets!  The game is all but ours!

It is over now, and Jack walks swaggering about his wicket, with his bat over his shoulder, while Mr. Aislabie holds a short parley with his men.  Then the cover-point hitter, that cunning man, goes on to bowl slow twisters.  Jack waves his hand triumphantly towards the tent, as much as to say, “See if I don’t finish it all off now in three hits.”