heads of the firm of Hobson Brothers and Newcome,
Hobson Newcome, Esquire, Bryanstone Square, and Marblehead, Sussex, and
Sir Brian Newcome, of Newcome and Park Lane, "whom to name," says
Mr. Honeyman, with the fluent eloquence with which he decorated the
commonest circumstances of life, "is to designate two of the merchant
princes of the wealthiest city the world has ever known; and one, if not
two, of the leaders of that aristocracy which rallies round the throne
of the most elegant and refined of European sovereigns." I promised Mr.
Honeyman to do what I could for the boy; and he proceeded to take leave
of his little nephew in my presence in terms equally eloquent, pulling
out a long and very slender green purse, from which he extracted the sum
of two-and-sixpence, which he presented to the child, who received the
money with rather a queer twinkle in his blue eyes.

After that day's school, I met my little protege in the neighbourhood of
the pastrycook's, regaling himself with raspberry-tarts. "You must not
spend all that money, sir, which your uncle gave you," said I (having
perhaps even at that early age a slightly satirical turn), "in tarts and
ginger-beer."

The urchin rubbed the raspberry-jam off his mouth, and said, "It don't
matter, sir, for I've got lots more."

"How much?" says the Grand Inquisitor: for the formula of interrogation
used to be, when a new boy came to the school, "What's your name? Who's
your father? and how much money have you got?"

The little fellow pulled such a handful of sovereigns out of his pocket
as might have made the tallest scholar feel a pang of envy. "Uncle
Hobson," says he, "gave me two; Aunt Hobson gave me one--no, Aunt Hobson
gave me thirty shillings; Uncle Newcome gave me three pound; and Aunt
Anne gave me one pound five; and Aunt Honeyman sent me ten shillings in
a letter. And Ethel wanted to give me a pound, only I wouldn't have it,
you know; because Ethel's younger than me, and I have plenty."

"And who is Ethel?" asks the senior boy, smiling at the artless youth's
confessions.

"Ethel is my cousin," replies little Newcome; "Aunt Anne's daughter.
There's Ethel and Alice, and Aunt Anne wanted the baby to be called
Boadicea, only uncle wouldn't; and there's Barnes and Egbert and little
Alfred; only he don't count, he's quite a baby you know. Egbert and me
was at school at Timpany's; he's going to Eton next half. He's older
than me, but I can lick him."

"And how old