's good news in the paper. Sugar
is ris', my boy."

Another would set a sum--"If a pound of mutton-candles cost
sevenpence-halfpenny, how much must Dobbin cost?" and a roar would follow
from all the circle of young knaves, usher and all, who rightly
considered that the selling of goods by retail is a shameful and infamous
practice, meriting the contempt and scorn of all real gentlemen.

"Your father's only a merchant, Osborne," Dobbin said in private to the
little boy who had brought down the storm upon him. At which the latter
replied haughtily, "My father's a gentleman, and keeps his carriage;" and
Mr. William Dobbin retreated to a remote out-house in the playground,
where he passed a half-holiday in the bitterest sadness and woe.

Now, William Dobbin, from an incapacity to acquire the rudiments of the
Latin language, as they are propounded in that wonderful book, the Eton
Latin Grammar, was compelled to remain among the very last of Dr.
Swishtail's scholars, and was "taken down" continually by little fellows
with pink faces and pinafores when he marched up with the lower form, a
giant amongst them, with his downcast, stupefied look, his dog's-eared
primer, and his tight corduroys. High and low, all made fun of him. They
sewed up those corduroys, tight as they were. They cut his bed-springs.
They upset buckets and benches, so that he might break his shins over
them, which he never failed to do. They sent him parcels, which, when
opened, were found to contain the paternal soap and candles. There was
no little fellow but had his jeer and joke at Dobbin; and he bore
everything quite patiently, and was entirely dumb and miserable.

Cuff, on the contrary, was the great chief and dandy of the Swishtail
Seminary. He smuggled wine in. He fought the town-boys. Ponies used to
come for him to ride home on Saturdays. He had his top-boots in his room
in which he used to hunt in the holidays. He had a gold repeater, and
took snuff like the Doctor. He had been to the Opera, and knew the merits
of the principal actors, preferring Mr. Kean to Mr. Kemble. He could
knock you off forty Latin verses in an hour. He could make French poetry.
What else didn't he know, or couldn't he do? They said even the Doctor
himself was afraid of him.

Cuff, the unquestioned king of the school, ruled over his subjects, and
bullied them, with splendid superiority. This one blacked his shoes, that
toasted his bread, others would fag out, and give him b