"Lympy ain't a bad style of dog," said little Mr. Bouncer, as he puffed away at the Black Doctor. "He'd be perfect, if he hadn't one fault." "And what's his fault, pray?" asked his anxious owner. "There's rather too much of him!" observed Mr. Bouncer, gravely. "Robert!" shouted the little gentleman to his scout; "Robert! doose take the feller, he's always out of the way when he's wanted." And, when the performance of a variety of octaves on the post-horn, combined with the free use of the speaking-trumpet, had brought Mr. Robert Filcher to his presence, Mr. Bouncer received him with objurgations, and ordered another tankard of beer from the buttery. In the meantime, the conversation had taken a sporting turn. "Do you meet Drake's to-morrow?" asked Mr. Blades of Mr. Four-in-hand Fosbrooke. "No! the old Berkshire," was the reply. "Where's the meet?" "At Buscot Park. I send my horse to Thompson's, at the Farringdon-Road station, and go to meet him by rail." "And, what about the Grind?" asked Mr. Smalls of the company generally.' "Oh yes!" said Mr. Bouncer, "let us talk over the Grind. Giglamps, old feller, you must join." "Certainly, if you wish it," said Mr. Verdant Green, who, [AN OXFORD FRESHMAN 301] however, had as little idea as the man in the moon what they were talking about. But, as he was no longer a Freshman, he was unwilling to betray his ignorance on any matter pertaining to college life; so he looked much wiser than he felt, and saved himself from saying more on the subject, by sipping a hot spiced draught from a silver cup that was pushed round to him. <VG301.JPG> "That's the very cup that Four-in-hand Fosbrooke won at the last Grind," said Mr. Bouncer.