“Well.  I maintain it’s easier to say a raw than all that,” observes Mr. Muff.

“Pray, silence.  Mr. Manhug, have you ever been sent for to a bad incised wound?”

“Yes, sir, when I was an apprentice:  a man using a chopper cut off his hand.”

“And what did you do?”

“Cut off myself for the governor, like a two-year old.”

“But now you have no governor, what plan would you pursue in a similar case?”

“Send for the nearest doctor—­call him in.”

“Yes, yes, but suppose he wouldn’t come?”

“Call him out, sir.”

“Pshaw! you are all quite children,” exclaims the teacher.  “Mr. Simpson, of what is bone chemically composed?”

“Of earthy matter, or phosphate of lime, and animal matter, or gelatine.”

“Very good, Mr. Simpson.  I suppose you don’t know a great deal a bout bones, Mr. Rapp?”

“Not much, sir.  I haven’t been a great deal in that line.  They give a penny for three pounds in Clare Market.  That’s what I call popular osteology.”

“Gelatine enters largely into the animal fibres,” says the leader, gravely.  “Parchment, or skin, contains an important quantity, and is used by cheap pastry-cooks to make jellies.”

“Well, I’ve heard of eating your words,” says Mr. Rapp, “but never your deeds.”

“Oh! oh! oh!” groan the pupils at this gross appropriation, and the class getting very unruly is broken up.

The examination at the College is altogether a more respectable ordeal than the jalap and rhubarb botheration at Apothecaries’ Hall, and par consequence, Mr. Muff goes up one evening with little misgivings as to his success.  After undergoing four different sets of examiners, he is told he may retire, and is conducted by Mr Belfour into “Paradise,” the room appropriated to the fortunate ones, which the curious stranger may see lighted up every Friday evening as he passes through Lincoln’s-inn Fields.  The inquisitors are altogether a gentlemanly set of men, who are willing to help a student out of a scrape, rather than “catch question” him into one:  nay, more than once the candidate has attributed his success to a whisper prompted by the kind heart of the venerable and highly-gifted individual—­now, alas! no more—­who until last year assisted at the examinations.

Of course, the same kind of scene takes place that was enacted after going up to the Hall, and with the same results, except the police-office, which they manage to avoid.  The next day, as usual, they are again at the school, standing innumerable pots, telling incalculable lies, and singing uncounted choruses, until the Scotch pupil who is still grinding in the museum, is forced to give over study, after having been squirted at through the keyhole five distinct times, with a reversed stomach-pump full of beer, and finally unkennelled.  The lecturer upon chemistry, who has a private pupil in his laboratory learning