‘Oh!’ was his answer, ‘it is only what all fellows have to bear if there’s no pluck in them. They tried it on upon me, you know, but I soon showed them it would not do’—with the cock of the nose, the flash of the eyes, the clench of the fist, that were peculiarly Griff’s own; and when I pleaded that he might have protected Clarence, he laughed scornfully. ‘As to Slow, wretched being, a fellow can’t help bullying him. It comes as natural as to a cat with a mouse.’ On further and reiterated pleadings, Griff declared, first, that it was the only thing to do Slow any good, or make a man of him; and next, that he heartily wished that Winslow junior had been Miss Clara at once, as the fellows called him—it was really hard on him (Griff) to have such a sneaking little coward tied to him for a junior! I particularly resented the term Slow, for Clarence had lately been the foremost of us in his studies; but the idea that learning had anything to do with the matter was derided, and as time went on, there was vexation and displeasure at his progress not being commensurate with his abilities. It would have been treason to schoolboy honour to let the elders know that though a strong, high-spirited popular boy like ‘Win’ might venture to excel big bullying dunces, such fair game as poor ‘Slow’ could be terrified into not only keeping below them, but into doing their work for them. To him Cowper’s ‘Tirocinium’ had only too much sad truth. As to his old failing, there were no special complaints, but in those pre-Arnoldian times no lofty code of honour was even ideal among schoolboys, or expected of them by masters; shuffling was thought natural, and allowances made for faults in indolent despair.