“And I tumbled on my face, trying to get up behind,” went on East.

“You’re not hurt, I hope?” said the Doctor.

“Oh no, sir.”

“Well now, run upstairs, all three of you, and get clean things on, and then tell the housekeeper to give you some tea.  You’re too young to try such long runs.  Let Warner know I’ve seen you.  Good-night.”

“Good-night, sir.”  And away scuttled the three boys in high glee.

“What a brick, not to give us even twenty lines to learn!” said the Tadpole, as they reached their bedroom; and in half an hour afterwards they were sitting by the fire in the housekeeper’s room at a sumptuous tea, with cold meat—­“Twice as good a grub as we should have got in the hall,” as the Tadpole remarked with a grin, his mouth full of buttered toast.  All their grievances were forgotten, and they were resolving to go out the first big-side next half, and thinking hare-and-hounds the most delightful of games.

A day or two afterwards the great passage outside the bedrooms was cleared of the boxes and portmanteaus, which went down to be packed by the matron, and great games of chariot-racing, and cock-fighting, and bolstering went on in the vacant space, the sure sign of a closing half-year.

Then came the making up of parties for the journey home, and Tom joined a party who were to hire a coach, and post with four horses to Oxford.

Then the last Saturday, on which the Doctor came round to each form to give out the prizes, and hear the master’s last reports of how they and their charges had been conducting themselves; and Tom, to his huge delight, was praised, and got his remove into the lower fourth, in which all his School-house friends were.

On the next Tuesday morning at four o’clock hot coffee was going on in the housekeeper’s and matron’s rooms; boys wrapped in great-coats and mufflers were swallowing hasty mouthfuls, rushing about, tumbling over luggage, and asking questions all at once of the matron; outside the School-gates were drawn up several chaises and the four-horse coach which Tom’s party had chartered, the postboys in their best jackets and breeches, and a cornopean player, hired for the occasion, blowing away “A southerly wind and a cloudy sky,” waking all peaceful inhabitants half-way down the High Street.

Every minute the bustle and hubbub increased:  porters staggered about with boxes and bags, the cornopean played louder.  Old Thomas sat in his den with a great yellow bag by his side, out of which he was paying journey-money to each boy, comparing by the light of a solitary dip the dirty, crabbed little list in his own handwriting with the Doctor’s list and the amount of his cash; his head was on one side, his mouth screwed up, and his spectacles dim from early toil.  He had prudently locked the door, and carried on his operations solely through the window, or he would have been driven wild and lost all his money.