Mr. Crayshaw’s conscience was not a tender one, and very little light came into his out-of-the-way establishment, and no check whatever upon his cruelty.  It had various effects on the different boys.  It killed one in my day, and the doctor (who had been “in a difficulty” some years back, over a matter through which Mr. Crayshaw helped him with bail and testimony) certified to heart disease, and we all had our pocket-handkerchiefs washed, and went to the funeral.  And Snuffy had cards printed with a black edge, and several angels and a broken lily, and the hymn—­

     “Death has been here and borne away
        A brother from our side;
      Just in the morning of his day,
        As young as we he died.”

—­and sent them to all the parents.  But the pupils had to pay for the stamps.  And my dear mother cried dreadfully, first because she was so sorry for the boy, and secondly because she ever had felt uncharitably towards Mr. Crayshaw.

Crayshaw’s cruelty crushed others, it made liars and sneaks of boys naturally honest, and it produced in Lorraine an unchildlike despair that was almost grand, so far was the spirit above the flesh in him.  But I think its commonest and strangest result was to make the boys bully each other.

One of the least cruel of the tyrannies the big boys put upon the little ones, sometimes bore very hardly on those who were not strong.  They used to ride races on our backs and have desperate mounted battles and tournaments.  In many a playground and home since then I have seen boys tilt and race, and steeplechase, with smaller boys upon their backs, and plenty of wholesome rough-and-tumble in the game; and it has given me a twinge of heartache to think how, even when we were at play, Crayshaw’s baneful spirit cursed us with its example, so that the big and strong could not be happy except at the expense of the little and weak.

For it was the big ones who rode the little ones, with neatly-cut ash-sticks and clumsy spurs.  I can see them now, with the thin legs of the small boys tottering under them, like a young donkey overridden by a coal-heaver.

I was a favourite horse, for I was active and nimble, and (which was more to the point) well made.  It was the shambling, ill-proportioned lads who suffered most.  The biggest boy in school rode me, as a rule, but he was not at all a bad bully, so I was lucky.  He never spurred me, and he boasted of my willingness and good paces.  I am sure he did not know, I don’t suppose he ever stopped to think, how bad it was for me, or what an aching lump of prostration I felt when it was over.  The day I fainted after winning a steeplechase, he turned a bucket of cold water over me, and as this roused me into a tingling vitality of pain, he was quite proud of his treatment, and told me nothing brought a really good horse round after a hard day like a bucket of clean water.  And (so much are we the creatures of our conditions!) I remember feeling something approaching to satisfaction at the reflection that I had “gone till I dropped,” and had been brought round after the manner of the best-conducted stables.