"That's right, Pet!" said the Honourable Flexible Shanks, condescendingly, as the prizefighter scientifically filled the bowl of his pipe; "I'm glad to see you join us in a bit of smoke. We're all _Baccy_-nalians now!" "Shanks, you're incorrigible!" said Charles Larkyns; "and don't you remember what _the Oxford Parodies_ say?" and, in his clear, rich voice, Mr. Larkyns sang the two following verses to the air of "Love not:"-- Smoke not, smoke not, your weeds nor pipes of clay! Cigars they are made from leaves of cauliflowers;-- Things that are doomed no duty e'er to pay;-- Grown, made, and smoked in a few short hours. Smoke not--smoke not! Smoke not, smoke not, the weed you smoke may change The healthfulness of your stomachic tone; Things to the eye grow queer and passing strange; All thoughts seem undefined--save one--to be alone! Smoke not--smoke not! "I know what you're thinking about, Giglamps," said Mr. Bouncer, as Charles Larkyns ceased his parody amid an approving clatter of glasses; "you were thinking of your first weed on the night of Small's quiet party: wer'nt you now, old feller? Ah, you've learnt to poke a smipe, beautiful, since then. Pet, here's your health. I'll give you a toast and sentiment, gentlemen. May the Gown give the Town a jolly good hiding!" The sentiment was received with great applause, and the toast was drunk with all the honours, and followed by the customary but inappropriate chorus, "For he's a jolly good fellow!" without the singing of which Mr. Bouncer could not allow any toast to pass. "How many cads could you lick at once, one off and the other on?" asked Mr. Fosbrooke of the Pet, with the air of Boswell when he wanted to draw out the Doctor. "Well, sir," said the Pet, with the modesty of true genius, "I wouldn't be pertickler to a score or so, as long as I'd got my back well up agin some'ut, and could hit out." "What an effective tableau it would be!" observed Mr. Foote, who had always an eye to dramatic situations. "Enter the Pet, followed by twenty townspeople. First T.P.--Yield, traitor! Pet--Never! the man who would yield when ordered to do so, is unworthy the name of a Pet and an Englishman! Floors the twenty T.P.'s one after the other. Tableau, blue fire. Why, it would surpass the British sailor's broadsword combat for six, and bring down the house." "Talking of bringing down," said Mr. Blades, "did you remember to bring down a cap and gown for the Pet, as I told you?" "Well, I believe those _were_ the stage directions," answered Mr. Foote; "but, really, the wardrobe was so ill provided that it would only supply a cap. But perhaps that will do for a super." "If by a super you mean a supernumerary, Footelights," said Mr. Cheke, the gentleman Commoner of Corpus, "then the Pet isn't one. He's the leading character of what you would call the _dramatis personæ_."