Nothing would tempt me to abate my attention in the preparation of my lessons; no seductions of cricket or fishing would keep me late for "call over." I had already gained the approval of my masters, I had made my mark in my class, and I had written glowing letters home, telling of my kept resolutions, and wondering why they should ever before have seemed difficult to adhere to.
But as I got better acquainted with some of my new schoolfellows it became less easy to stick steadily to work.

I happened to find myself in hall one evening, where we were preparing our tasks for next day, seated next to a lively young scapegrace, whose tongue rattled incessantly, and who, not content to be idle himself, must needs make every one idle too.
"What a muff you are, Charlie," he said to me once, as I was poring over my _Caesar_ and struggling desperately to make out the meaning of a phrase--"what a muff you are, to be grinding away like that! Why don't you use a crib ?" "What's a crib ?" I inquired.
"What, don't you know what a crib is?
It's a translation.

I've got one.

I'll lend it to you, and you will be able to do your _Caesar_ with it like winking." I didn't like the notion at first, and went on hunting up the words in the dictionary till my head ached.

But next evening he pulled the "crib" out of his pocket and showed it to me.