There’s more stuff torked about fagging at school than anything else in the world, as far as I can see; and being the smalest boy but two at Dunston’s, and a fag myself, I ought to know. Of corse, fags do get it pretty hot sometimes if they happen to fag for a beast, but big fellows aren’t beasts to small ones as a general thing. I’m sure Bradwell was the best chap that ever came to Dunston’s, and when he was expelled over the seege in the Wing Dormatery--him and Trelawny--I felt frightful. I’m Watson minor myself, my brother being Watson major, one of the reserves for the second eleven and captain of the third. The thing I’m going to write out happened just before the seege, and was all over before that; and it shows what a fag can do. It also shows what a jolly good thing it is for big fellows to treat fags well, and give them odds and ends so as to get their affecksun. If I hadn’t felt what I did to Bradwell, I shouldn’t have run the awful risks I did for him. What I did certinly ruined a great project of Bradwell’s, and upsett him a good bit at the time. But he said afterwards, when the blow had fallen, and when he could look back and think of it without smacking my head, that I had ment well. I remember his very words, for that matter. He said, “Your intenshuns were all right--I will say that--but you’ve ruined my life.” No chap could say farer than that; and, mind you, I did ruin his life in a way. I’ve heard many fellows say Bradwell was a bounder by birth; but he never was to me.