nobleman at Eton, and over the face too (which is not fair swishing
as all brave boys will agree); and the lawyers tripped him up, and
tore his shins as if they had sharks' teeth--which lawyers are
likely enough to have.

"I must get out of this," thought Tom, "or I shall stay here till
somebody comes to help me--which is just what I don't want."

But how to get out was the difficult matter. And indeed I don't
think he would ever have got out at all, but have stayed there till
the cock-robins covered him with leaves, if he had not suddenly run
his head against a wall.

Now running your head against a wall is not pleasant, especially if
it is a loose wall, with the stones all set on edge, and a sharp
cornered one hits you between the eyes and makes you see all manner
of beautiful stars. The stars are very beautiful, certainly; but
unfortunately they go in the twenty-thousandth part of a split
second, and the pain which comes after them does not. And so Tom
hurt his head; but he was a brave boy, and did not mind that a
penny. He guessed that over the wall the cover would end; and up
it he went, and over like a squirrel.

And there he was, out on the great grouse-moors, which the country
folk called Harthover Fell--heather and bog and rock, stretching
away and up, up to the very sky.

Now, Tom was a cunning little fellow--as cunning as an old Exmoor
stag. Why not? Though he was but ten years old, he had lived
longer than most stags, and had more wits to start with into the