Part 3 (2/2)

After that day's school, I met my little protege in the neighbourhood of the pastrycook's, regaling himself with raspberry-tarts. ”You must not spend all that money, sir, which your uncle gave you,” said I (having perhaps even at that early age a slightly satirical turn), ”in tarts and ginger-beer.”

The urchin rubbed the raspberry-jam off his mouth, and said, ”It don't matter, sir, for I've got lots more.”

”How much?” says the Grand Inquisitor: for the formula of interrogation used to be, when a new boy came to the school, ”What's your name? Who's your father? and how much money have you got?”

The little fellow pulled such a handful of sovereigns out of his pocket as might have made the tallest scholar feel a pang of envy. ”Uncle Hobson,” says he, ”gave me two; Aunt Hobson gave me one--no, Aunt Hobson gave me thirty s.h.i.+llings; Uncle Newcome gave me three pound; and Aunt Anne gave me one pound five; and Aunt Honeyman sent me ten s.h.i.+llings in a letter. And Ethel wanted to give me a pound, only I wouldn't have it, you know; because Ethel's younger than me, and I have plenty.”

”And who is Ethel?” asks the senior boy, smiling at the artless youth's confessions.

”Ethel is my cousin,” replies little Newcome; ”Aunt Anne's daughter.

There's Ethel and Alice, and Aunt Anne wanted the baby to be called Boadicea, only uncle wouldn't; and there's Barnes and Egbert and little Alfred; only he don't count, he's quite a baby you know. Egbert and me was at school at Timpany's; he's going to Eton next half. He's older than me, but I can lick him.”

”And how old is Egbert?” asks the smiling senior.

”Egbert's ten, and I'm nine, and Ethel's seven,” replies the little chubby-faced hero, digging his hands deep into his trousers' pockets, and jingling all the sovereigns there. I advised him to let me be his banker; and, keeping one out of his many gold pieces, he handed over the others, on which he drew with great liberality till his whole stock was expended. The school hours of the upper and under boys were different at that time; the little fellows coming out of their hall half an hour before the Fifth and Sixth Forms; and many a time I used to find my little blue jacket in waiting, with his honest square face, and white hair, and bright blue eyes, and I knew that he was come to draw on his bank. Ere long one of the pretty blue eyes was shut up, and a fine black one subst.i.tuted in its place. He had been engaged, it appeared, in a pugilistic encounter with a giant of his own Form, whom he had worsted in the combat. ”Didn't I pitch into him, that's all?” says he in the elation of victory; and when I asked whence the quarrel arose, he stoutly informed me that ”Wolf minor, his opponent, had been bullying a little boy, and that he (the gigantic Newcome) wouldn't stand it.”

So, being called away from the school, I said farewell and G.o.d bless you to the brave little man, who remained a while at the Grey Friars, where his career and troubles had only just begun.

Nor did we meet again until I was myself a young man occupying chambers in the Temple, when our rencontre took place in the manner already described.

Poor Costigan's outrageous behaviour had caused my meeting with my schoolfellow of early days to terminate so abruptly and unpleasantly, that I scarce expected to see Clive again, or at any rate to renew my acquaintance with the indignant East Indian warrior who had quitted our company in such a huff. Breakfast, however, was scarcely over in my chambers the next morning, when there came a knock at the outer door, and my clerk introduced ”Colonel Newcome and Mr. Newcome.”

Perhaps the (joint) occupant of the chambers in Lamb Court, Temple, felt a little pang of shame at hearing the name of the visitors; for, if the truth must be told, I was engaged pretty much as I had been occupied on the night previous, and was smoking a cigar over the Times newspaper.

How many young men in the Temple smoke a cigar after breakfast as they read the Times? My friend and companion of those days, and all days, Mr.

George Warrington, was employed with his short pipe, and was not in the least disconcerted at the appearance of the visitors, as he would not have been had the Archbishop of Canterbury stepped in.

Little Clive looked curiously about our queer premises, while the Colonel shook me cordially by the hand. No traces of yesterday's wrath were visible on his face, but a friendly smile lighted his bronzed countenance, as he too looked round the old room with its dingy curtains and prints and bookcases, its litter of proof-sheets, blotted ma.n.u.scripts, and books for review, empty soda-water bottles, cigar-boxes, and what not.

”I went off in a flame of fire last night,” says the Colonel, ”and being cooled this morning, thought it but my duty to call on Mr. Pendennis and apologise for my abrupt behaviour. The conduct of that tipsy old Captain--what is his name?--was so abominable, that I could not bear that Clive should be any longer in the same room with him, and I went off without saying a word of thanks or good-night to my son's old friend. I owe you a shake of the hand for last night, Mr. Pendennis.”

And, so saying, he was kind enough to give me his hand a second time.

”And this is the abode of the Muses, is it, sir?” our guest went on. ”I know your writings very well. Clive here used to send me the Pall Mall Gazette every month.”

”We took it at Smiffle, regular,” says Clive. ”Always patronise Grey Friars men.” ”Smiffle,” it must be explained, is a fond abbreviation for Smithfield, near to which great mart of mutton and oxen our school is situated, and old Cistercians often playfully designate their place of education by the name of the neighbouring market.

”Clive sent me the Gazette every month; and I read your romance of Walter Lorraine in my boat as I was coming down the river to Calcutta.”

”Have Pen's immortal productions made their appearance on board Bengalee budgerows; and are their leaves floating on the yellow banks of Jumna?”

asks Warrington, that sceptic, who respects no work of modern genius.

”I gave your book to Mrs. Timmins, at Calcutta,” says the Colonel simply. ”I daresay you have heard of her. She is one of the most das.h.i.+ng women in all India. She was delighted with your work; and I can tell you it is not with every man's writing that Mrs. Timmins is pleased,” he added, with a knowing air.

”It's capital,” broke in Clive. ”I say, that part, you know, where Walter runs away with Neaera, and the General can't pursue them, though he has got the postchaise at the door, because Tim O'Toole has hidden his wooden leg! By Jove, it's capital!--All the funny part--I don't like the sentimental stuff, and suicide, and that; and as for poetry, I hate poetry.”

”Pen's is not first chop,” says Warrington. ”I am obliged to take the young man down from time to time, Colonel Newcome. Otherwise he would grow so conceited there would be no bearing him.”

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