ronicles, O House of Caxton?

And now, since much of the success of my experiment must depend on the
friendly terms I could establish with my intended partner, I wrote to
Trevanion, begging him to get the young gentleman who was to join me,
and whose capital I was to administer, to come and visit us. Trevanion
complied; and there arrived a tall fellow, somewhat more than six feet
high, answering to the name of Guy Bolding, in a cut-away sporting-coat,
with a dog whistle tied to the button-hole, drab shorts and gaiters, and
a waistcoat with all manner of strange furtive pockets. Guy Bolding had
lived a year and a half at Oxford as a "fast man,"--so "fast" had he
lived that there was scarcely a tradesman at Oxford into whose books he
had not contrived to run.

His father was compelled to withdraw him from the University, at which
he had already had the honor of being plucked for "the little-go;" and
the young gentleman, on being asked for what profession he was fit, had
replied, with conscious pride, that he could "tool a coach!" In despair,
the sire, who owed his living to Trevanion, had asked the states man's
advice; and the advice had fixed me with a partner in expatriation.

My first feeling in greeting the "fast" man was certainly that of deep
disappointment and strong repugnance. But I was determined not to be too
fastidious; and, having a lucky knack of suiting myself pretty well to
all tempers (without which a man had better not think of loadstones in
the Great Australasian Bight), I contrived before the first week was out
to establish so many points of connection between us that we became the
best friends in the world. Indeed, it would have been my fault if we had
not; for Guy Bolding, with all his faults, was one of those excellent
creatures who are nobody's enemies but their own. His good-humor was
inexhaustible. Not a hardship or privation came amiss to him. He had
a phrase, "Such fun!" that always rushed laughingly to his lips when
another man would have cursed and groaned. If we lost our way in the
great trackless moors, missed our dinner, and were half-famished, Guy
rubbed hands that would have felled an ox, and chuckled out, "Such fun!"
If we stuck in a bog, if we were caught in a thunder-storm, if we were
pitched head-over-heels by the wild colts we undertook to break in, Guy
Bolding's sole elegy was "Such fun!" That grand shibboleth of philosophy
only forsook him at the sight of an open book. I don't th