hat allowance five
years ago: if I had made away with myself a little time before, it would
have been better. I have played off my own bat, ever since. I don't want
much money. When my purse is out, I go to work and fill it, and then lie
idle like a serpent or an Indian, until I have digested the mass. Look,
I begin to feel empty," Warrington said, and showed Pen a long lean
purse, with but a few sovereigns at one end of it.

"But how do you fill it?" said Pen.

"I write," said Warrington. "I don't tell the world that I do so," he
added, with a blush. "I do not choose that questions should be asked:
or, perhaps, I am an ass, and don't wish it to be said that George
Warrington writes for bread. But I write in the Law Reviews: look here,
these articles are mine." And he turned over some sheets. "I write in
a newspaper now and then, of which a friend of mine is editor." And
Warrington, going with Pendennis to the club one day, called for a
file of the Dawn, and pointed with his finger silently to one or
two articles, which Pen read with delight. He had no difficulty in
recognising the style afterwards--the strong thoughts and curt periods,
the sense, the satire, and the scholarship.

"I am not up to this," said Pen, with a genuine admiration of his
friend's powers. "I know very little about politics or history,
Warrington; and have but a smattering of letters. I can't fly upon such
a wing as yours."

"But you can on your own, my boy, which is lighter, and soars higher,
perhaps," the other said, good-naturedly. "Those little scraps and
verses which I have seen of yours show me, what is rare in these days,
a natural gift, sir. You needn't blush, you conceited young jackanapes.
You have thought so yourself any time these ten years. You have got the
sacred flame--a little of the real poetical fire, sir, I think; and all
our oil-lamps are nothing compared to that, though ever so well trimmed.
You are a poet, Pen, my boy," and so speaking, Warrington stretched out
his broad hand, and clapped Pen on the shoulder.

Arthur was so delighted that the tears came into his eyes. "How kind you
are to me, Warrington!" he said.

"I like you, old boy," said the other. "I was dev'lish lonely in
chambers, and wanted somebody, and the sight of your honest face somehow
pleased me. I liked the way you laughed at Lowton--that poor good little
snob. And, in fine, the reason why I cannot tell--but so it is, young
'un. I'm alone in the world,