Resting his hand lightly on the
shoulder of the head-master, who shuddered and collapsed under his
touch, he strode toward me.
His walk was peculiar. You could not call it a stride. It was
like the "crest-tossing Bellerophon,"--a kind of prancing gait.
Guy Heavystone pranced toward me.
CHAPTER II.
"Lord Lovel he stood at the garden gate,
A-combing his milk-white steed."
It was the winter of 186- when I next met Guy Heavystone. He had
left the University and had entered the 76th "Heavies." "I have
exchanged the gown for the sword, you see," he said, grasping my
hand, and fracturing the bones of my little finger, as he shook it.
I gazed at him with unmixed admiration. He was squarer, sterner,
and in every way smarter and more remarkable than ever. I began to
feel toward this man as Phalaster felt towards Phyrgino, as
somebody must have felt toward Archididasculus, as Boswell felt
toward Johnson.
"Come into my den," he said, and lifting me gently by the seat of
my pantaloons he carried me up stairs and deposited me, before I
could apologize, on the sofa. I looked around the room. It was a
bachelor's apartment, characteristically furnished in the taste of
the proprietor.
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