"The name of this pupil appears to be Thomas Upmore," began Mr. Crankhead, "the son of Bucephalus Upmore, a gentleman residing in a place called Maiden Lane. Instead of expressing his preference for sixteen of the subjects proposed for his study, he has stated very briefly, that his father declines to pay for what he calls _extras_. He does not appear to have realized that these are the essential parts of all true education. Boy, what do you come here for?" "If you please, sir, to be taught," I said, with a courage which surprised me, "to learn 'whatever is necessary for a liberal education,' according to what Dr. Rumbelow says to parents and guardians, in this paper." I pulled an old circular of the _Partheneion_ from my pocket, and spread it on the table. "But father gave out, from the first, that he never would pay a shilling for extras; unless they agreed to take it out in soap." "Take out science in soap, indeed!" muttered Professor Brachipod, forgetting how much he had done in that way; though certainly without intending it. "Well, Upmore, tell us, if you can remember," Principal Crankhead went on, without deigning to notice old Rum's _prospectus_, "what are the _extras_, as you call them, which your father has refused to pay for?" "Drilling, and drawing, and dancing, sir, and washing, and French, and bacon for breakfast, sixpence a time for the delicate boys; and I think there was something about new-laid eggs." "Zere is no sooch ting, I vill not allow it pass"--broke in Professor Chocolous, "vat you call ze new-laid egg have no right to be so called, because----" "Because it is generally stale, Professor. Well, Upmore, we seem to have ascertained what your father considered objectionable. But none of them belong to the domain of science. Your mind is a little confused, perhaps, as is only natural, at your age, after giving so much of it to Greek and Latin. Now take a fresh paper, and put your initials--we shall understand them--in the sixteen columns of your selection. Sit down, my lad; we shall teach you something yet." Certainly my mind was now confused, neither by Latin nor Greek, but by the proximity of such a mass of learning, and its manner of foreclosing me. With a fog of big words spreading over my eyes, and pouring in at my ears, as I tried to sound them, I took up the pen which had been thrown to me; then I put it in my mouth, and said to myself--"it can't matter much what I sign; I'll go in for the biggest of the lot, to brag of them. Father likes something that he can't pronounce."