"Oh," said I, "they've got a parlour at Mrs Nash's, and books--"

Once more Doubleday laughed loud, "What! a parlour and books included for three-and-six a week! My eye! young 'un, you're in luck; and you mean to say you--oh, I say, what a treat!--do you hear, Crow?"

"Please!" I exclaimed, "what's the use of telling any one?"

"Eh--oh, all right, I won't tell any one; but think of you and Bull's- eye sitting in a three-and-six parlour without carpets or wall-papers reading _Tim Goodyboy's Sunday Picture-book_, and all that."

I smiled faintly, vexed though I was. "They've novels there," I said, grandly.

"No! and all for three-and-six too! No wonder you're snug. Well, no accounting for tastes. I wonder you don't ask me to come and spend an evening with you. It _would_ be a treat!"

The result of this conversation and a good many of a similar character was to make me thoroughly discontented with, and more than half ashamed of, my lot. And the more I mixed with Doubleday and his set, the more I felt this. They all had the appearance of such well-to-do fellows, to whom expense seemed no object. They talked in such a scoffing way of the "poor beggars" who couldn't "stand" the luxuries they indulged in, or dress in the fashionable style they affected.

After six months, the clothes with which I had come to London were beginning to look the worse for wear, and this afflicted me greatly just at a time when I found myself constantly in the society of these grandees. I remember one entire evening at Doubleday's sitting with my left arm close in to my side because of a hole under the armpit; and on another occasion borrowing Mrs Nash's scissors to trim the ends of my trousers before going to spend the evening at Daly's.

That occasion, by the way, was the Tuesday when, according to invitation, I was to go up to the lodgings of Daly and the Field- Marshal, there to meet my old schoolfellow Flanagan.

I had looked forward not a little to this meeting, and was secretly glad that he would find me one of a set represented by such respectable and flourishing persons as Doubleday and Daly. When, a fortnight before, Smith and I had hunted up and down his street to find him, I knew nothing of "what was what" compared with what I did now. I was determined to make an impression on my old schoolfellow; and therefore, as I have said, trimmed up the ends of my trousers with Mrs Nash's scissors, invested in a new (cheap), necktie, and carefully doctored the seam under my armpit with ink and blacking.

Thus decorated I hurried off to my host's lodgings. The first thing I saw as I entered the door filled me with mortification. It was Flanagan, dressed in a loud check suit, with a stick-up collar and a horseshoe scarf-pin--with cloth "spats" over his boots, and cuffs that projected at least two inches from the ends of his coat sleeves.

I felt so shabby and disreputable that I was tempted to turn tail and escape. I had all along hoped that Flanagan would be got up in a style which would keep me in countenance, and make me feel rather more at home than I did among the other stylish fellows of the set. But so far from that being the case, here he was the most howling swell of them all.

Before I could recover from the surprise and disappointment I felt he had seen me, and advanced with all his old noisy frankness.

"Hullo! here he is. How are you, Batchelor? Here we are again, eh?

Rather better than the Henniker's parlour, eh?"

I forgot all my disappointment for a moment in the pleasure of meeting him. In voice and manner at least he was the Flanagan of old days. Why couldn't he dress rather more quietly?

Daly was there in all his glory, and the Field-Marshal as lank and cadaverous as ever; and besides ourselves there was Whipcord with the straw in his mouth, and one or two other fellows belonging to our host's particular set. The supper was quite as elaborate and a good deal more noisy than that at Doubleday's. I sat next to Flanagan, and hoped to be able to get some talk with him about old days; but I found he was far too much taken up with the fun that was going on to be a very attentive listener. And so I felt more than ever extinguished and out of it, and all my fond hopes of making an impression on my old schoolfellow speedily vanished.

"What are you going to do?" said Whipcord, when the meal was over.

"I don't care," said Daly; "cards if you like."

"Oh, bother cards," was the reply; "let's have a ramble out of doors for a change."

"Hullo! Whip, how is it you're down on cards?" said the Field-Marshal.

"I thought you always won."

There was something not very nice in the tone of the cadaverous man of war which roused the ire of the virtuous Whipcord.

"What do you mean, you--who says I always win at cards?"

"You generally win when I'm playing against you," said the Field- Marshal.

"Look here," said Whipcord, very red in the face, and chewing his straw in an agitated manner, "do you mean to insinuate I cheat at cards, eh, you--?"

"I never said anything of the kind," replied the Field-marshal; "I said you generally won, that's all. What's the use of making an a.s.s of yourself?"

I began to perceive by this time that Mr Whipcord was excited by something more than the Field-Marshal's talk. The fact was, he had drunk too much, and that being so, it was worse than useless to reason with him.

"Who says I generally win at cards?" shouted he. "I'll fight any one that says so: if you like, I'll take the lot of you."

The laugh which greeted this valiant challenge only enraged the excited youth the more.

He broke out into language which seemed to be only too ready to his lips, and again shouted, "I'll teach you to call me a cheat, I will!

I'll teach you to call me a blackleg, so I will! I'll teach you to call me--"

"A howling jacka.s.s," put in the Field-Marshal, whose chief vocation it seemed to be to goad on his irate guest.

"Yes, I'll teach you to call me a howling jacka.s.s!" cried Whipcord, turning short round on me, and catching me by the throat.

"Me! I never called you a howling jacka.s.s!" cried I, in astonishment and alarm.

"Yes, you did, you young liar; I heard you. Wasn't it him?" he cried, appealing to the company in general.

"Sounded precious like his voice," said one of the fellows, who, as I had scarcely opened my mouth the whole evening, must have had a rather vivid imagination.

"Yes, I know it was you. I knew it all along," said Whipcord, shifting his straw from side to side of his mouth, and glaring at me, half- stupidly, half-ferociously.

"It wasn't, indeed," said I, feeling very uncomfortable. "I never said a word."

Whipcord laughed as he let go my throat and began to take off his coat.

I watched him in amazement. Surely he was not going to make me fight!

I looked round beseechingly on the company, but could get no comfort out of their laughter and merriment.

Whipcord divested himself of his coat, then of his waistcoat, then he took off his necktie and collar, then he let down his braces and tied his handkerchief round his waist in the manner of a belt, and finally proceeded to roll up his shirt-sleeves above the elbows.

"Now then," said he, advancing towards me in a boxing att.i.tude, "I'll teach you to call me a thief!"

I was so utterly taken aback by all this, that I could scarcely believe I was not dreaming.

"I really didn't call you a thief," I said.

"You mean to say you won't fight?" cried my adversary, sparring up at me.

"Hold hard!" cried Daly, before I could answer. "Of course he's going to fight; but give him time to peel, man. Look alive, Batchelor, off with your coat."

"I'm not going to fight, indeed," said I, in utter bewilderment.

"Yes you are," said Flanagan, "and it won't be your first go in either, old man. I'll back you!"

One or two of the fellows pulled off my coat--my poor seedy coat. I remember even then feeling ashamed of the worn flannel shirt, out at elbows, that was below it, and which I had little expected any one that evening to see.

"Will you have your waistcoat off?" said Daly.