nd complete
my education. But it's not me I'm anxious about, Pen. As long as people
drink beer I don't care,--it's about you I'm doubtful, my boy. You're
going too fast, and can't keep up the pace, I tell you. It's not the
fifty you owe me,--pay it or not when you like,--but it's the every-day
pace, and I tell you it will kill you. You're livin' as if there was no
end to the money in the stockin' at home. You oughtn't to give dinners,
you ought to eat 'em. Fellows are glad to have you. You oughtn't to owe
horse bills, you ought to ride other chaps' nags. You know no more about
betting than I do about Algebra: the chaps will win your money as sure
as you sport it. Hang me if you are not trying everything. I saw you sit
down to ecarte last week at Trumpington's, and taking your turn with the
bones after Ringwood's supper. They'll beat you at it, Pen, my boy, even
if they play on the square, which. I don't say they don't, nor which I
don't say they do, mind. But I won't play with 'em. You're no match for
'em. You ain't up to their weight. It's like little Black Strap standing
up to Tom Spring,--the Black's a pretty fighter but, Law bless you, his
arm ain't long enough to touch Tom,--and I tell you, you're going it
with fellers beyond your weight. Look here--If you'll promise me never
to bet nor touch a box nor a card, I'll let you off the two ponies."

But Pen, laughingly, said, "that though it wasn't convenient to him to
pay the two ponies at that moment, he by no means wished to be let off
any just debts he owed;" and he and Foker parted, not without many dark
forebodings on the latter's part with regard to his friend, who Harry
thought was travelling speedily on the road to ruin.

"One must do at Rome as Rome does," Pen said, in a dandified manner,
jingling some sovereigns in his waistcoat-pocket. "A little quiet play
at ecarte can't hurt a man who plays pretty well--I came away fourteen
sovereigns richer from Ringwood's supper, and, gad! I wanted the
money."--And he walked off, after having taken leave of poor Foker, who
went away without any beat of drum, or offer to drive the coach out of
Oxbridge, to superintend a little dinner which he was going to give at
his own rooms in Boniface, about which dinners, the cook of the college,
who had a great respect for Mr. Pendennis, always took especial pains
for his young favourite.

CHAPTER XX. Rake's Progress

Some short time before Mr. Foker's departure from Oxbr