end of friends, a
crony of cronies, to whom he writes immense letters in vacation, whom he
cherishes in his heart of hearts; whose sister he proposes to marry in
after life; whose purse he shares; for whom he will take a thrashing if
need be: who is his hero. Clive was John James's youthful divinity: when
he wanted to draw Thaddeus of Warsaw, a Prince, Ivanhoe, or some one
splendid and egregious, it was Clive he took for a model. His heart
leapt when he saw the young fellow. He would walk cheerfully to Grey
Friars, with a letter or message for Clive, on the chance of seeing him,
and getting a kind word from him, or a shake of the hand. An ex-butler
of Lord Todmorden was a pensioner in the Grey Friars Hospital (it has
been said that at that ancient establishment is a college for old men
as well as for boys), and this old man would come sometimes to his
successor's Sunday dinner, and grumble from the hour of that meal until
nine o'clock, when he was forced to depart, so as to be within Grey
Friars' gates before ten; grumble about his dinner--grumble about his
beer--grumble about the number of chapels he had to attend, about the
gown he wore, about the master's treatment of him, about the want
of plums in the pudding, as old men and schoolboys grumble. It was
wonderful what a liking John James took to this odious, querulous,
graceless, stupid, and snuffy old man, and how he would find pretexts
for visiting him at his lodging in the old hospital. He actually took
that journey that he might have a chance of seeing Clive. He sent Clive
notes and packets of drawings; thanked him for books lent, asked advice
about future reading--anything, so that he might have a sight of his
pride, his patron, his paragon.

I am afraid Clive Newcome employed him to smuggle rum-shrub and cigars
into the premises; giving him appointments in the school precincts,
where young Clive would come and stealthily receive the forbidden goods.
The poor lad was known by the boys, and called Newcome's Punch. He was
all but hunchbacked; long and lean in the arm; sallow, with a great
forehead, and waving black hair, and large melancholy eyes.

"What, is it you, J. J.?" cries Clive gaily, when his humble friend
appears at the door. "Father, this is my friend Ridley. This is the
fellow what can draw."

"I know who I will back against any young man of his size at that," says
the Colonel, looking at Clive fondly. He considered there was not such
a genius in th