What a rush that used to be up the old stairs; in an instant the half-doors of the hatches were closed up with a throng of excited breakfast fags, clambering on each other’s backs, and shouting, “Robinson, Jones, my own,” which being interpreted means a demand for trenchers and knives for his masters (some Præfect and Candlekeeper) and for the applicant himself; he being expected to provide two for each of the former, (if he only produced one, it would probably be used to test his descent from the founder,) “his own” were generally ethereal. The crowd and excitement were much greater at this than at either of the other hatches, inasmuch as the supply of trenchers and knives was limited, the latter especially, as they were found (and still oftener lost) by the boys themselves; whereas at the others, the supply of eatables was always certain. Having secured his master’s trenchers, knife and fork, and bread and butter, the fag had to run down to Conduit to clean the butter, which was done by battering it against the trencher with a knife under a stream of water. This was easy enough in warm weather; but when cold it was a rather heart-breaking operation, as the butter then persisted in breaking up into crumbs, and rolling about the pavement. The butter washed, then came the toasting; the grates were spacious, but still not large enough for the crowd of toasters, especially as the four corners were occupied each by a boy engaged in frying or grilling potatoes, kidneys, bacon, or some other viands. [Illustration: BREAKFAST IN HALL.] What acres of toast I have made at that fire! We had not proper toasting forks, but pieces of stick, called “Long Forks,” on which it was difficult to keep the toast, especially as it was always necessary to have at least one eye fixed on the batch already done, or awaiting the operation,—in either case generally placed against the edge of the fender; if your eye wandered for a minute, a dexterous lunge from some predacious long-fork transfixed the fruit of all your toil. “Sic vos non vobis,” &c. But I must not moralise too much on this iniquity, my own house being built somewhat after the fashion of the Crystal Palace. Besides the toasting, there was cooking to be done; this was generally confined to frying and grilling, at which we used to be tolerable proficients; and I have often found this and other little accomplishments that I picked up in my Fagging experiences, useful in a somewhat varied after-life. We had a particular way of frying potatoes, which, to my taste, is superior to any other mode of dressing that invaluable vegetable.