l; upon my word of honor,
without so much as a half-crown! It is all very well, my dear sir, to
say that boys contract habits of expecting tips from their parents'
friends, that they become avaricious, and so forth. Avaricious! fudge!
Boys contract habits of tart and toffee eating, which they do not carry
into after life. On the contrary, I wish I DID like 'em. What raptures
of pleasure one could have now for five shillings, if one could but pick
it off the pastry-cook's tray! No. If you have any little friends at
school, out with your half-crowns, my friend, and impart to those little
ones the little fleeting joys of their age.

Well, then. At the beginning of August, 1823, Bartlemy-tide holidays
came, and I was to go to my parents, who were at Tunbridge Wells. My
place in the coach was taken by my tutor's servants--"Bolt-in-Tun,"
Fleet Street, seven o'clock in the morning, was the word. My Tutor, the
Rev. Edward P----, to whom I hereby present my best compliments, had a
parting interview with me: gave me my little account for my governor:
the remaining part of the coach-hire; five shillings for my own
expenses; and some five-and-twenty shillings on an old account which had
been overpaid, and was to be restored to my family.

Away I ran and paid Hawker his three-and-six. Ouf! what a weight it
was off my mind! (He was a Norfolk boy, and used to go home from Mrs.
Nelson's "Bell Inn," Aldgate--but that is not to the point.) The next
morning, of course, we were an hour before the time. I and another
boy shared a hackney-coach; two-and-six: porter for putting luggage on
coach, threepence. I had no more money of my own left. Rasherwell,
my companion, went into the "Bolt-in-Tun" coffee-room, and had a good
breakfast. I couldn't; because, though I had five-and-twenty shillings
of my parents' money, I had none of my own, you see.

I certainly intended to go without breakfast, and still remember how
strongly I had that resolution in my mind. But there was that hour to
wait. A beautiful August morning--I am very hungry. There is Rasherwell
"tucking" away in the coffee-room. I pace the street, as sadly almost as
if I had been coming to school, not going thence. I turn into a court by
mere chance--I vow it was by mere chance--and there I see a coffee-shop
with a placard in the window, Coffee, Twopence. Round of buttered
toast, Twopence. And here am I, hungry, penniless, with five-and-twenty
shillings of my parents' money in my po