“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 is Egbert?” asks the smiling senior. “Egbert’s ten, and I’m nine, and Ethel’s seven,” replies the little chubby-faced hero, digging his hands deep into his trousers’ pockets, and jingling all the sovereigns there. I advised him to let me be his banker; and, keeping one out of his many gold pieces, he handed over the others, on which he drew with great liberality till his whole stock was expended. The school hours of the upper and under boys were different at that time; the little fellows coming out of their hall half an hour before the Fifth and Sixth Forms; and many a time I used to find my little blue jacket in waiting, with his honest square face, and white hair, and bright blue eyes, and I knew that he was come to draw on his bank. Ere long one of the pretty blue eyes was shut up, and a fine black one substituted in its place. He had been engaged, it appeared, in a pugilistic encounter with a giant of his own Form, whom he had worsted in the combat. “Didn’t I pitch into him, that’s all?” says he in the elation of victory; and when I asked whence the quarrel arose, he stoutly informed me that “Wolf minor, his opponent, had been bullying a little boy, and that he (the gigantic Newcome) wouldn’t stand it.” So, being called away from the school, I said farewell and God bless you to the brave little man, who remained a while at the Grey Friars, where his career and troubles had only just begun. Nor did we meet again until I was myself a young man occupying chambers in the Temple, when our rencontre took place in the manner already described.