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The thing was so clear, that I thought it my duty to speak to old Zoe about it. The wicked old catamaran told me she wished that some people would mind their own business, and hold their tongues–that some persons were paid to teach writing, and not to tell tales and make mischief: and I have since been thinking whether I ought to communicate with the Doctor.

THE OLD PUPIL.

As I came into the playgrounds this morning, I saw a dashing young fellow, with a tanned face and a blond moustache, who was walking up and down the green arm-in-arm with Champion Major, and followed by a little crowd of boys.

They were talking of old times evidently. “What had become of Irvine and Smith?”–“Where was Bill Harris and Jones: not Squinny Jones, but Cocky Jones?”–and so forth. The gentleman was no stranger; he was an old pupil evidently, come to see if any of his old comrades remained, and revisit the cari luoghi of his youth.

Champion was evidently proud of his arm-fellow, he espied his brother, young Champion, and introduced him. “Come here, sir,” he called. “The young ‘un wasn’t here in your time, Davison.” “Pat, sir,” said he, “this is Captain Davison, one of Birch’s boys. Ask him who was among the first in the lines at Sobraon?”

Pat’s face kindled up as he looked Davison full in the face, and held out his hand. Old Champion and Davison both blushed. The infantry set up a “Hurray, hurray, hurray,” Champion leading, and waving his wide-awake. I protest that the scene did one good to witness. Here was the hero and cock of the school come back to see his old haunts and cronies. He had always remembered them. Since he had seen them last, he had faced death and achieved honor. But for my dignity I would have shied up my hat too.

With a resolute step, and his arm still linked in Champion’s, Captain Davison now advanced, followed by a wake of little boys, to that corner of the green where Mrs. Ruggles has her tart stand.

“Hullo, Mother Ruggles! don’t you remember me?” he said, and shook her by the hand.

“Lor, if it ain’t Davison Major!” she said. “Well, Davison Major, you owe me fourpence for two sausage-rolls from when you went away.”

Davison laughed, and all the little crew of boys set up a similar chorus.

“I buy the whole shop,” he said. “Now, young ‘uns–eat away!”

Then there was such a “Hurray! hurray!” as surpassed the former cheer in loudness. Everybody engaged in it except Piggy Duff, who made an instant dash at the three-cornered puffs, but was stopped by Champion, who said there should be a fair distribution. And so there was, and no one lacked, neither of raspberry, open tarts, nor of mellifluous bulls’-eyes, nor of polonies, beautiful to the sight and taste.

The hurraying brought out the old Doctor himself, who put his hand up to his spectacles and started when he saw the old pupil. Each blushed when he recognized the other; for seven years ago they had parted not good friends.

“What–Davison?” the Doctor said, with a tremulous voice. “God bless you, my dear fellow!”–and they shook hands. “A half holiday, of course, boys,” he added, and there was another hurray: there was to be no end to the cheering that day.

“How’s–how’s the family, sir?” Captain Davison asked.

“Come in and see. Rosa’s grown quite a lady. Dine with us, of course. Champion Major, come to dinner at five. Mr. Titmarsh, the pleasure of your company?” The Doctor swung open the garden gate: the old master and pupil entered the house reconciled.

I thought I would first peep into Miss Raby’s room, and tell her of this event. She was working away at her linen there, as usual quiet and cheerful.

“You should put up,” I said with a smile; “the Doctor has given us a half-holiday.”

“I never have holidays,” Miss Raby replied.