But to the old man.  Time rolled on, and at length old Puffington paid the debt of nature—­the only debt, by the way, that he was slow in discharging—­and our friend found himself in possession, not only of the starch manufactory, but of a very great accumulation of consols—­so great that, though starch is as inoffensive a thing as a man can well deal in, a thing that never obtrudes itself, or, indeed appears in a shop unless it is asked for—­notwithstanding all this, and though it was bringing him in lots of money, our friend determined to ‘cut the shop’ and be done with trade altogether.

Accordingly, he sold the premises and good-will, with all the stock of potatoes and wheat, to the foreman, old Soapsuds, at something below what they were really worth, rather than make any row in the way of advertising; and the name of ‘Soapsuds, Brothers & Co.’ reigns on the blue-and-whitey-brown parcel-ends, where formerly that of Puffington stood supreme.

It is a melancholy fact, which those best acquainted with London society can vouch for, that her ‘swells’ are a very ephemeral race.  Take the last five-and-twenty years—­say from the days of the Golden Ball and Pea-green Hayne down to those of Molly C——­l and Mr. D-l-f-ld—­and see what a succession of joyous—­no, not joyous, but rattling, careless, dashing, sixty-percenting youths we have had.

And where are they all now?  Some dead, some at Boulogne-sur-Mer, some in Denman Lodge, some perhaps undergoing the polite attentions of Mr. Commissioner Phillips, or figuring in Mr. Hemp’s periodical publication of gentlemen ‘who are wanted.’

In speaking of ‘swells,’ of course we are not alluding to men with reference to their clothes alone, but to men whose dashing, and perhaps eccentric, exteriors are but indicative of their general system of extravagance.  The man who rests his claims to distinction solely on his clothes will very soon find himself in want of society.  Many things contribute to thin the ranks of our swells.  Many, as we said before, outrun the constable.  Some get fat, some get married, some get tired, and a few get wiser.  There is, however, always a fine pushing crop coming on.  A man like Puffington, who starts a dandy (in contradistinction to a swell), and adheres steadily to clothes—­talking eternally of the cuts of coats or the ties of cravats—­up to the sober age of forty, must be always falling back on the rising generation for society.

Puffington was not what the old ladies call a profligate young man.  On the contrary, he was naturally a nice, steady young man; and only indulged in the vagaries we have described because they were indulged in by the high-born and gay.

Tom and Jerry had a great deal to answer for in the way of leading soft-headed young men astray; and old Puffington having had the misfortune to christen our friend ‘Thomas,’ of course his companions dubbed him ‘Corinthian Tom’; by which name he has been known ever since.